Coming Home
By
Chris Gallagher
Copyright 2011
Chris Gallagher
Published by Mesen at Smashwords
Smashwords Edition, License Notes
Thank you for downloading this free ebook. Although this is a free book, it remains the copyrighted property of the author, and may not be reproduced, copied and distributed for commercial or non-commercial purposes. If you enjoyed this book, please encourage your friends to download their own copy at Smashwords.com, where they can also discover other works by this author. Thank you for your support
All characters appearing in this work are fictitious. Any resemblance to real persons, living or dead is purely coincidental.
Warning - Coming Home
contains: references to
Christian themes, occasional swearing,
and some sexual imagery.
Coming
Home
Chapter 1
Wednesday 23rd December 2009
Aidan Pennock walked slowly and carefully towards the overturned Mazda pick-up, silently singing his own version of the old Clapton song, "Running guns in the hot sun, I fought the law, and the law won".
'Careful Sarge,' He heard the warning from young Brody who had him covered and lifted his hand in acknowledgment.
He looked around carefully as he picked his way through the scattered debris thrown out of the vehicle when it flipped over. He could hear the groaning of the injured man before he saw him and wondered for a brief moment whether it was a ruse but discarded the thought; he sounded in real and serious pain. All the same he carefully made his way round the front of the Mazda and when he saw the driver clearly for the first time his heart sank even lower than it had been lately. He was only young, fourteen, maybe fifteen at a push.
The young Arab boy watched him through scared eyes, as Aidan approached warily, all the while checking him out for any sign of a weapon. Judging him safe he got out a pack of cigarettes and not smelling any petrol fumes lit one. Squatting by the youngster he placed it gently between his lips.
The boy didn't speak but gratefully drew on the cigarette. His face was pale and his breathing laboured. Aidan quickly and expertly checked him out. Multiple fractures, a head wound that was bleeding profusely, a foot that was hanging on by a thread, and no doubt a shed load of internal injuries; it didn't look good. He quickly prepared a pain relieving shot and stuck it in the boy's thigh.
The boy looked grateful, 'Is it bad?' He asked, his English was just fluent enough to be understood.
Aidan wondered whether to lie, but all along his philosophy had been: if you're old enough to fight, you're old enough to die, and hear the truth.
He nodded.
The boy drew on the cigarette and pulled the nicotine down into lungs that would soon have no need of it. 'What happens now?'
This was the part of the job that Aidan hated the most. 'I can leave you here with some water and cigarettes and maybe someone will be along and get you to hospital,' he paused, 'but to be honest, we're miles from anywhere and it's very unlikely that you'll be found.'
'You can't take me with you?'
Aidan wished he could but his mission was too important to jeopardise for the sake of a young Arab boy; he had a gun runner to find. He doubted the lad would survive anyway even with expert medical attention.
He gently shook his head.
'How long will I last?'
Aidan considered. 'Two hours maybe.' If you're unlucky he thought but didn't voice it.
'Is it allowed for you to....' The boy's voice tailed away.
He didn't need to finish because Aidan knew exactly what he meant: is it allowed for Aidan to put a round through his head and finish him off. Of course it's not bloody allowed he wanted to scream but looked the boy right in the eye and said, 'Don't worry lad, I'll sort it out.'
Friday 21st May 2010
Ort Murdoch eased himself into the armchair in his office and tried to get comfortable, although his height of 6'2" wasn't particularly compatible with the chair. It had been provided for a far smaller incumbent of his office and he hadn't got round to changing it. But it wouldn't have mattered how comfortable his surroundings were as his discomfort owed more to the spiritual rather than the physical realm.
Murdoch was the pastor of Slaithstone Evangelical Church in the South West corner of God's own county: Yorkshire. Slaithstone - the locals pronounced it Slattern - was a pleasant, some went as far as to say picturesque, market town bordered to the north by Huddersfield, to the east by Barnsley, to the south by Sheffield, and to the west, albeit buffered by the Peak District National Park, by the heathen of Lancashire. It had at one stage been considered as the location for the long running popular BBC T.V. series, "Last Of The Summer Wine," but had lost out to Holmfirth. Some said money had changed hands but Murdoch didn't know anything about that and didn't really care anyway. It was a long time ago and his troubles were far more immediate.
It was hard for Murdoch to admit but something was wrong in the lifeblood of the church. He could feel it as a tangible living organism, and as a caring pastor, he wanted to help. Murdoch closed his eyes and asked the Lord to reveal the problem to him, for as he told Him, if he didn't know about it he couldn't do anything about it.
The Lord was silent.
Murdoch sighed and thought back over his five year tenure at Slaithstone. He had been a less than popular choice. He readily admitted he'd been a controversial character back then and there had been some opposition to his appointment. He knew that his racial background had been a consideration for some people. He'd overhead a couple talking one day, not knowing he was within earshot, where the over riding concern had been the fact that: "they'd nivver had a blackie before."
For other folks it had been his criminal record; Murdoch had served time in Strangeways and Armley Jails for drug dealing. He had been on a downward spiral of crime and was in the gutter. The only problem being, he didn't know how low he was, and he wasn't even looking at the stars. There had even been, Murdoch recalled with a wry smile, a splinter group who weren't concerned by either his colour or his criminality. For them his greatest disadvantage in life was having had the misfortune to have been born on the wrong side of the Pennines. For some Yorkshire folk greater sin hath no man than that he be born in Lancashire.
But for most it had been his criminal background. Murdoch was completely open about, citing it as a great example of God's love, that He, the Lord of all had scooped him from the gutter.
He had come from a poor Catholic background, his father in and out of work as a council labourer, while his mother cleaned the muck of rich people in grand houses. Murdoch had showed promise at school and had been marked down by the parish priest as a possible candidate for the priesthood. He'd fought against it for a long time on the basic principle that he liked girls too much and boys not at all. When it looked likely that he would, by a mixture of family pressure and emotional blackmail, be forced into a seminary, something snapped. He ran away from his home in Mosside, Manchester and found himself in London where, like countless runaways before, he quickly found that Dick Whittington was a liar.
He was lucky in that he was found and returned home but not before he cultivated a taste for class A drugs. He lived a dissolute lifestyle for a number of years, frequently spending time as a guest of Her Majesty. His salvation came one night, when at an all night rave, high on ecstasy, God spoke to him.
Murdoch remembered quite clearly how, as he was dancing to the pulsating rhythm, time seemed to stop. He heard a voice say, "Stop now. You are mine. Go home and sin no more."
God had spoken.
Murdoch had been so shaken by the experience that he'd gone home immediately and tried his best not to sin anymore.
In that he'd failed miserably.
He'd received a phone call from his sister the next day, who told him all the way from Australia that at the time he'd heard the voice telling him to sin no more, two hundred people were praying for his salvation at her church in Sydney.
After his encounter with God in the disused carpet warehouse he enrolled at a Bible college and gained a degree in theology. Thereafter by a series of moves he found himself the pastor at Slaithstone Evangelical Church.
He was happy and content for the most part with the way his life was now going. He was the pastor of a thriving church where the members for the most part accepted him. He was married to the gorgeous Tia, who many said, looked like a young Elizabeth Taylor. True, they didn't have any children but they were both happy to leave that in the capable hands of the Almighty.
Murdoch looked out of his first floor office window at the crowded Market Square below. He watched as the market vendors enticed prospective purchasers ever closer with the calls and spiel that had been used for centuries on the same spot: "Cabbages, cauliflower, pound a bowl; come and get your lovely strawberries."
It was a beautiful spring day in the middle of May, everything should be well with his world but he couldn't quite shake off the feeling that something was desperately wrong with one of his flock.
He pushed back his chair and headed for the door, perhaps a walk would clear his head.
* * *
Brax Bollen was enjoying his day off. He'd done the few chores that his wife, Jazz, had left for him, including unblocking the sink which he didn't mind and mowing the lawn which he hated. Now he was free to do as he pleased for the rest of the day and he knew exactly how he was going to spend it, but first a little trip. He drove the short distance into Slaithstone and having parked in the multi-storey walked through the ginnel into Market Square whereupon he realised he'd forgotten it was market day. Faced by a sea of people and gaily coloured market stalls - a barrier to his destination - he nearly turned back but his need being too great carried on. He skirted the edge of the crowd for a while, drifting past WH Smith, and the swathe of charity shops, looking carefully at faces, anxious not to catch the eye of anyone he knew as he didn't want to be delayed.
Brax hated shopping but this was a special trip he'd been promising himself for the last month and he was determined to enjoy it despite the nervousness he felt. The shop he was heading for was on the far side of the Market Square and after edging round the throng for a while, turned, and plunging straight in was quickly absorbed. Moving swiftly but carefully, a little jink here, a sidestep there; he was doing quite well until he came to an abrupt halt as he bounced off a large black man.
They stood and looked at each other critically, the black man spoke first. 'Braxton, you seem to be in a tearing hurry. Is everything okay?'
Out of all the large black men in the whole of Slaithstone Brax thought, I have to bump into this one. 'Sorry Ort, miles away.'
'So much is obvious Brax, that's why you bumped into me.' Ort Murdoch replied with a smile.
Brax was beginning to wish he'd gone to Barnsley or Sheffield for greater anonymity.
'Sorry Ort, I was in bit of a rush.'
'Too busy to have a coffee with your pastor?'
'Well...'
'If you really are too busy that's fine, but I could do with some company for a while.'
'Never too busy for you Ort.'
'Good, let's pop into Peggy's shall we?'
Peggy's was by far the best and therefore the most popular coffee shop in Slaithstone. The eponymous Peggy was long gone but the business was in the same family that founded it back in the dark days of 1926 during the general strike. Originally created in the front room of a terraced house to provide sustenance for striking miners, it had evolved over the years. The customers were no longer striking miners - or miners of any description as the pit had long since gone - thanks to Maggie Thatcher, whose effigy was far more popular than Guy Fawkes on bonfire night. The fourth generation Peggy - real name Susan - was behind the counter today and served Brax and Ort their drinks with a smile.
It was always busy in Peggy's, it was said that everyone in Slaithstone had been there at one time or another, but they soon found a table in an alcove near the toilets.
Murdoch lifted his Latte and took a sip. 'Ahh, that's what I needed.'
Brax didn't want to be rude but could have done without this distraction. He smiled at his pastor as he spooned sugar in his coffee.
'How are you Brax, everything okay in the Bollen world?'
'Yeah, fine.'
'But?'
'Oh you know, always busy.'
'But today's your day off, you should be relaxing, not charging round bumping into people.'
Brax shrugged. 'You know how it is.'
'Tell me.'
Brax didn't need this and wondered why Ort was so interested in him. 'It's Jazz's birthday soon and I thought I'd look for something for her.'
Murdoch nodded. 'And how is the lovely Jazz?'
'Yeah, she's good' Brax sipped his coffee and looked out of the window.
'Are you two okay? No problems?'
Brax looked at Ort. 'No, why?'
'Forgive me Brax but I've got this feeling that there's a major problem brewing for someone in the church and so I'm asking everyone I meet if they're okay. And so far everyone is fine,' he smiled, displaying a row of gleaming white teeth, 'which is good, but I'm still left with a feeling that I can't explain.'
Brax nodded and said without thinking, 'Happen it's Ron.'
'Ron Counden?' Murdoch asked, interested. 'Why him?'
Brax shrugged, 'Dunno, he just came to mind.'
'I spoke to Ron at an elder's meeting on Tuesday, and everything was okay in his world then.'
'Nothing you can do then.' Brax said, which he knew was less than helpful but he had to get on.
'That's right. Only wait, and I've never been much good at waiting.' Murdoch frowned and was about to say something else when Brax putting his half finished coffee on the table said, 'Ort, I don't want to be rude but...'
'That's okay, you get on. I think I'll have another coffee and wait on the Lord.
* * *
Aidan Pennock walked slowly round the parade ground.
He paused at the edge of the square and watched as Sergeant Major Crossland put new recruits through their paces. 'By the leeeeft, quiiiiick march.' His voice echoed off the buildings at the edge of the square to where Aidan stood watching, recalling his own initiation into the mysteries of drill. The squad set off at a brisk pace but as Aidan continued to watch one of the squad stumbled and dropped his rifle. The rest of the squad came to a shambolic halt.
Aidan snorted. Tosser. He waited for the inevitable.
'Not you again, Atkins.' Crossland screamed. 'My old granny could march better than you... and she's been dead for twenty years.'
Aidan smiled as he carried on, nothing changed. Behind him he could hear the rest of the squad laughing at their colleague's misfortune, no doubt thinking: "there but for the grace of God go I."
Crossland raised his hand in greeting as he noticed Aidan walk past and mimed a drinking action by raising his right hand to his mouth and tipping it backwards and forwards.
Aidan looked at his watch, although he knew to the second what time it was.
Why not?
He gave Crossland the thumbs up followed by the outspread fingers of both his hands to indicate ten minutes. In two hours he would leave this place for the last time, the taxi booked, final railway warrant issued, his twenty five years of service for Queen and country would be over, so why not have a last beer with an old pal. The Stones song came to mind and he sang quietly as he walked, "This will be the last time."
What a way to finish though, bumming around the training depot while his fate was decided by higher authority. He'd been in the Army for the greater part of his life and tomorrow for the first time in twenty five years he wouldn't have to answer to anybody.
Shouldn't have left it so long he told himself, should have gone at a time of his own choosing, should have jumped and not waited to be pushed. That bastard Reynolds, remembering the interview, although, thinking about it objectively, he'd just fired the bullet that someone higher up the chain had made.
Thursday 1st April 2010
He'd stood to attention before the C.O., waiting as Major Reynolds skimmed through the medical officer's report. So much of his time in the Army had been spent waiting. "If I could turn back time," he sang in his head while he dispassionately watched the turning of the pages.
Reynolds looked up after a moment and said, 'Sit down Sergeant Pennock.'
Aidan sat down and waited; more waiting. Just get on with it man, stop farting around. We both know what you're gonna say. It wasn't going to be good news, that much he knew. What he didn't know was how bad the bad news was going to be. He idly looked about the office while he waited for the blade to fall. There was the Major shuffling the papers pretending to read them, all the while sharpening the blade. The only sound in the room was the turning of pages and the ticking of the clock. The windows were closed, the heating turned up full, it was too hot and stuffy in the room. But not as hot as the desert. He looked at the clock; 15:25.
Nowhere was as hot as the desert, well maybe hell. He closed his eyes and was back there in the heat and the dust, the overturned Mazda, the boy, a cigarette, and the gun, always the bloody gun. "I fought the law and the law won."
'Are you okay Sergeant Pennock?'
Aidan opened his eyes and the desert receded, he wondered idly if he was losing it again. 'Yes, thank you sir.'
He looked at the clock; 15:28, and thought who was it who sang that song about the toy soldier?
Reynolds pushed back in his chair and put his glasses on the desk, 'I won't pretend it's good news Sergeant. It's not.'
The blade was being hauled to the top of the Guillotine.
Reynolds picked up the sheaf of papers and riffled through them before tossing them back on the desk. 'The M.O. reckons you've had some kind of mini breakdown.' He laughed sympathetically. 'Bloody quacks, eh? What do they know?'
Aidan wasn't sure if a response was required, Reynolds hadn't been the C.O. for long and as such was an unknown quantity, so just nodded. "I'm just a little toy soldier..."
'He believes something must have happened on your last tour, but you've said nothing about it.' Reynolds paused to give Aidan the chance to rectify this omission.
Aidan remained silent.
'Anyway,' Reynolds continued, pushing on, 'Word's come down from upstairs that your time is up Sergeant Pennock.'
The lever was pushed and gravity took over, the crones around the Guillotine cackling as the head rolled gently into the basket.
'You've got twenty five in, you could have had your pension three years ago. Time to retire gracefully with the grateful thanks of Queen and country.'
Still Aidan said nothing; a memory had been stirred though, he must have been, what, fifteen, sixteen, and clearing out a load o' junk his dad had been nagging him about. At the bottom of a pile of old school uniform he'd found his first ever Action Man. To this day he didn't know why he'd done it - perhaps as a definite line in the sand between boyhood and becoming a man - but anyway he clearly remembered taking the Action Man out into the garden and standing it to attention against the wall. He'd wrapped a blindfold round it's eyes and then shot it with his dad's air rifle. Trouble was it didn't look dead so he'd got the axe from the shed, and bending it over a block of wood, had chopped its flaming head off. That had done the job alright, only trouble was, because of the way the doll - as his dad called it - had been held together, all the arms and legs had dropped off as well.
The dead quadriplegic Action Man had been buried in a shoebox in the garden with full military honours. He smiled at the memory, and remembered that it was Cliff Richard who'd sung about the toy soldier.
'Anything you want to say, Sergeant?' Reynolds prompted.
'Can I appeal the decision Sir?'
Major Reynolds frowned. 'Why would you want to?'
'Only thing I know sir, being a soldier.'
Reynolds leaned back in his chair, 'It won't be easy Sergeant, but I'm sure a man of your calibre will soon adjust to civilian life.'
He paused and pushed the report across the desk.
'In all honesty Sergeant I don't think there's any point in appealing. Taking all things into consideration, your age, length of service, the medical report, etc., etc...' He tailed off and looked at Aidan.
'I see sir.'
'Good, good. We'll get things moving for you, eh? No point in hanging about.'
'No sir, thank you sir.'
Aidan stood and snapped to attention. He saluted Reynolds and was halfway through the door when the C.O. said, 'Oh by the way Sergeant.'
'Sir?'
'The padre would like a word with you.'
'Now sir?'
'No time like the present,' a faint smile, 'you know what these God botherers are like.'
"So wind me up and let me go."
* * *
Aidan had been tempted to ignore the request from the padre but in the end thought it would be easier all round if he got it over and done with. Otherwise he'd be dodging about the barracks for days trying to avoid him and he was a persistent sod who got you eventually.
He’d been please by the absence of paperwork on the padre's desk just a Bible opened to somewhere in the middle.
The padre, a thin man who always looked in need of a good feed, looked at Aidan and smiled. 'How are you feeling?'
'Numb.'
'You must have had an inkling that it wasn't going to be good news.'
'Live in hope, that's my motto, well, one of them.'
The padre nodded, 'And now?'
'How do you mean?'
'Well, you were living in hope that somehow, against all the available evidence, you were going to be staying in the Army. That hope's been taken away. What are you placing your hope in now?'
'Nothing.'
'Nothing at all?'
Aidan wondered if that was strictly true. Was there a greater power? A celestial Commander in Chief ruling the great barracks in the sky. Mebbe there was but he doubted it. He shook his head and confirmed, 'Nothing.'
'You don't have a faith?'
'In what?'
'God.' The padre suggested softly.
'God?' Aidan replied as though seriously considering the idea. He'd often thought about God. He'd known many soldiers over the years who'd called on the name of God in his many forms, and not all at the point of death.
The padre, perhaps sensing a breakthrough, asked, 'Have you heard of the Alpha course?'
'Yeah, I've seen the posters.' Aidan said, disinterested, wanting the interview to be over before communion was offered.
'Do you know what it is?'
'Explains the basics of Christianity.'
'I think it might do you good to go on one. I'm sure they'll be one running near you.'
Aidan had said that he'd think about it. The padre had said they'd speak again before he left but it hadn't happened. He'd been posted to Afghanistan where, Aidan heard later, he'd been shot up the jacksey by the Taliban. Aidan never thought of the padre again without smiling.
Friday 21st May 2010
And that had been that, a few weeks of winding down, clinging to the wreckage of a life that was over. Even the bureaucracy was against him, the paperwork being processed in record time.
Aidan arrived at the accommodation block and climbed the stairs to his room on the first floor. Everything was neat and tidy, that's how he is. Neat and tidy, no loose ends. Partly this was the Army way, Aidan reflected, but he'd always been the same, even as a young lad. He looked at the half packed suitcase and decided now would be a good time to finish it.
He picked up a photo album from the table and idly flicked through the pages, stopping for a closer look at various pictures; his dad in the forces, his mum holding him as a baby. He eventually reached the photo where he always stopped. It's a wedding day picture; his old mate Brax Bollen, getting married to Jazz Hoarth. They stand on either side of her, both immaculate in their dress uniforms, and although his is that bit swankier, it's hard to tell who is the bridegroom and who is the best man.
The best man but not the better man.
It could have been him if he'd been interested enough. He had enough signals; he would have had to have been blind, deaf, and dumb to have missed them all. He hadn't wanted her though, not enough anyway, not then.
He looked at other photos; more faces, names forgotten, smiled back, reminding him that he was going back to a world that would be very different from the one he'd left. He looked at one photo with interest; him and Callie framed by the whale bones at Whitby just a month or so before he joined up.
A good weekend that.
Callie Sunter. She was the one for him. It had always been Callie. He wondered if she was married with children or still footloose and fancy free. It's funny how things work out he decided; he could have had Jazz but didn't want her, wanting Callie instead who didn't want him. He came to a photo of bride and groom, best man and bridesmaid; Jazz and Brax, him and Callie. They all looked so young and happy. He looked intently at Jazz's face to see if he can see any indication of what happened later that day but of course he couldn't.
He closed the album and put it at the bottom of his case and then with a deep sigh lowered the lid before leaving the room.
* * *
Brax felt a bit put out by his encounter with Ort Murdoch and his questions. Plus he couldn't help wondering if he'd been altogether wise mentioning Counden's name as someone who might be having problems, and was still slightly puzzled why Counden's name had suddenly come to mind.
Anyway, concentrate. He glanced at his watch and confirmed the time with the Market Square clock, a fine piece of Victorian engineering that still kept good time. He'd lost twenty minutes having coffee and while normally it wouldn't have concerned him unduly, today was different. Even so he forced himself to take his time and not rush for his ultimate destination. One good thing though, he thought coming out of Peggy's, the crowds had thinned out.
Ten minutes later after wandering aimlessly, he had a careful look around, and when he didn't see anyone he knew, quickly turned into the doorway of Aphrodite's. He had never been in this shop before, not even on business, and only knew of its existence when Jazz came home with some lingerie a few months ago. He stopped just inside the doorway and looked around waiting for the panic to subside.
The whole shop was covered in lingerie from floor to ceiling and Brax wondered how on earth he'd find what he was looking for. Thankfully the shop was empty apart from an attractive middle aged woman looking at matching sets of underwear. She glanced at him and then, perhaps sensing his embarrassment, quickly looked away.
Bored housewife, not bad looking though, Brax thought as the young sales girl looked up from hanging clothes on a rail and asked. 'Can I help?'
Not really thought Brax but didn't say it. 'I'm looking for a present for my wife.'
'What did you have in my mind?'
What I had mind is not to shout it out across the flaming shop.
He moved towards the girl, lowering his voice. 'I was looking for a matching bra and pants but I'm...' He floundered and almost wished he was at home watching Midsomer Murders on T.V.
The girl stopped what she was doing and made a movement towards him. 'Do you have her sizes?'
Brax was ready for this and fished a scrap of paper from his pocket.
She looked at the paper and back at Brax. 'We've got some things over there that might be of interest.' She pointed towards a rail at the back of the shop. Brax wandered over and looked at the bra's and pants hanging there. Brax looked at the garments hanging on rails, not wanting to touch. This was more difficult than he thought it would be. There's too much choice he decided. Eventually he picked some things that he liked, subtly sexy but not overly raunchy, and took them to the counter where the girl was waiting for him. She took off the security tags and put the prices through the till, all the while keeping up a ceaseless chatter about nothing in particular.
Brax paid with cash and left without looking back.
Chapter 2
Callie Sunter put the handset down after telling yet another caller that Mister Counden was unavailable and went back to inspecting her nails. The phone rang again, internal this time, Jazz Bollen no less.
Callie sighed and answered, 'Yeah?'
'That's no way to answer the phone Miss Sunter.'
Callie laughed, 'That's 'cos I knew it was you Mrs Bollen.'
'Is he back yet? Have you heard from him?'
'Sorry Jazz, no, and no. I've told you he won't be back this afternoon.'
'Bugger.'
'Now now Mrs Bollen, that's no way to speak in front of one of the junior employees.'
'Are you sure he didn't say anything before he went?'
'He said, and I quote, "I'm going out Miss Sunter, and I may be some time".'
Callie could feel Jazz's frustration down the line, 'Anything I can help with?'
'Not really, but thanks for asking. I wonder where he's gone?'
'Golf?'
'Possibly.'
Callie chuckled, 'Perhaps he's got a mistress?'
Jazz laughed out loud, 'I doubt it.'
'Anyway Mrs Bollen, I have to go, there are very important tasks that await me. But I shall visit you shortly and sample some of your delicious coffee.'
After her brief conversation with Jazz, Callie went back to inspecting her nails for a short while but, as important as this was, it couldn't hold her attention for long. She logged on the internet and looked at holiday destinations; she rather fancied the Canaries.
'Caught you.' The sudden voice from behind made her jump. It was Stephen Barnes, the latest and youngest addition to the sales force.
'You haven't caught me at all Mister Barnes. I'm doing research for Mister Counden.'
'Oh yeah?'
'That's right Mister Barnes, golfing holidays in the Canaries.'
He smiled in recognition of her ad lib answer.
She smiled in return. He really was a very attractive young man. Twenty seven, twenty right maybe. Such a shame she wasn't going to be around to get to know him better. Still they'd be lots of attractive young men in Tenerife.
'What can I do for you Mister Barnes?'
'There's lots you could do for me Miss Sunter.'
'What a cheeky young man you are Mister Barnes,' she said getting up from behind the reception desk. She picked some imaginary fluff from his suit collar, and moving closer straightened his tie. 'There, now you look like a proper salesman.'
Barnes responded by moving slightly closer and Callie could tell he was waiting for their lips to meet. She was very tempted but chuckled and pushed him gently away.
'Not at work you naughty boy.'
* * *
Aidan mooched listlessly round the Sergeant's Mess. He should have gone before now, where was the sense in dragging it out? He had thought about pretending to go but hiding in the camp, living off the goodwill of his mates. He smiled at the thought, wondering how long he would have lasted. Months probably.
He didn't want to go but knew it couldn't be avoided any longer. The Army had been his life and his family for the last twenty five years, he loved it still, but it no longer wanted him. Leaving was painful, a bit like a divorce or a bereavement.
The Mess orderly asked again if he would like anything and yet again Aidan declined.
He waited in silence for a while, casually glancing at the pages of the Daily Mail, until the door opened and Crossland entered.
'You off then?' He asked.
Aidan nodded, not trusting himself to speak.
'What time's your train?'
'Thirteen oh five.'
'Time for a beer?'
The mess orderly raised his hand to acknowledge the order and Aidan tossed the paper to one side as Crossland joined him.
'How's that new squad shaping up?' Aidan enquired, trying to deflect the conversation from himself.
Crossland took a sip of the beer handed to him by the orderly before replying. He shrugged. 'They'll be fine, given time.'
'Even Atkins?'
Crossland laughed. 'He'll need a bit more time but I'm sure we'll make a soldier out of Atkins eventually.'
Aidan took a long pull on his beer and waited.
'But what about you ex Sergeant Pennock. Got any plans, any work lined up?'
Aidan put his glass down, 'No work, no plans really. I'm going to stay with the old man for a while, he's on his own, a widower, and could use some company. After that a holiday maybe, but beyond that,' he shrugged slightly, 'nothing.'
'Where's home again? Somewhere in Yorkshire?
'Yeah, Slaithstone.'
'What's that, town, village?'
Aidan wondered how best to describe his home town. 'It's either a large village or a small town. No one can make up their mind which.'
'Where in Yorkshire?'
'South Yorkshire. Go up the M1 past Sheffield, turn left, middle of bloody nowhere.'
'Sheffield, eh? What are you, Blades or Owls?'
'Neither, I've always been a Leeds supporter. Granddad was.' He said by way of explanation.
Crossland nodded. 'Go much?'
Aidan smiled broadly. 'Practically lived there before I joined up. I've not been much over the last twenty five years but now, once the new season starts I'll be there a lot more.'
'Season ticket then?'
'Mebbe.'
Crossland nodded and Aidan wondered what he was thinking.
'Listen mate, there's no shame in what happened.' Crossland took another pull on his beer.
Like you'd know.
'It could have been anyone of us.'
Aidan didn't say anything, just nodded in turn.
'But you're okay now?' Crossland probed.
'I'm fine mate, absolutely fine. Looking forward to a well earned rest.'
'No rush is there? You'll have a bloody good pension, probably no need to work at all. Life of leisure mate. Life of bloody leisure.'
Aidan shook his head. 'Nah, I'll have to do something. I'll get addled otherwise.'
'Security guard then'
They both laughed at the thought.
'Nah, don't think so.' Aidan said emphatically.
'There's plenty of opportunities for ex military, especially with your experience.'
'What, back to the desert?'
'There's other places.'
'Nah. That's it for me.' "I'm coming home, I've done my time," he sang in his head. 'Perhaps I will just settle for a quiet life. The old man's got an allotment so maybe I'll pass my time tending the chickens and the rabbits.'
Crossland laughs. 'Yeah right. Knowing you I'm sure you'll be up to something once that novelty wears off.'
Aidan remembered a conversation he had with Brax Bollen years ago just after he'd joined up. 'A lad I was at school with told me I'd probably end up face down in a ditch'
Crossland looked amused. 'Never happened though mate. It never happened.'
'Nah, not yet.'
'Could have happened in hundreds of places all over the world but you're one of the lucky ones.' He took a drink from his beer, 'A survivor.' Crossland insisted.
'Let's hope so.'
'Listen, you've got my number. If you need anything at any time just give me a bell, ok?'
'Ok, thanks.'
All of our agents are busy at the moment, but your call is important to us, please hold the line.
* * *
Jazz Bollen was bored and restless.
She can't quite put her finger on why she felt the way she did but it's there; a definite feeling of boredom. It might be the weather of course, it's been hot and muggy for days, with no sign of any change. Holding her blouse away from her skin she wafted it to create a brief respite from the heat. The office windows are open and she can hear faint traffic sounds from the road but apart from that it is still and lifeless.
She mentally totted up the things for which she should be grateful. Her two daughters, Charlotte, and Rachel, her job; she's the chief accountant at Counden and Company, a successful plumbing suppliers. She has good health, she is slim and attractive; still capable of drawing admiring glances, and propositions from time to time. She knows as a married woman she should be immune to such things but can't help feeling a tingle of excitement when a man looks at her in a certain way.
Her thoughts turned to her husband, Brax. He's a good man, a good provider, and that's important to Jazz even though she earned a good salary herself. The problem wasn't Brax. It's not as if he's boring; he's not, but Jazz is bored with him.
They were childhood sweethearts from the age of sixteen, courting for three years before marrying twenty two years ago and that, she didn't need reminding, made her forty one next month. The trouble is she told herself, she felt sixty one.
He was her first serious boyfriend, the only other one worthy of the name had been a brief relationship with Aidan Pennock who'd made it abundantly clear he was only interested if they slept together. She'd said no and he'd taken up with Callie instead. Jazz had thought him shallow and hoped he'd come back once he'd drunk his fill at Callie's well. She'd set her sights on him from an early age and didn't like to be thwarted; but thwarted she had been. She hadn't of course known the Army would have a stronger pull than either of them.
And there'd always been Brax, safe reliable Brax. She'd never quite given up on Aidan though, and if at any time he'd have accepted her conditions for a relationship, she would have ditched safe reliable second choice Brax without a second thought. He hadn't and as she wasn't prepared to go back on her Christian principles they had remained apart.
It was only on her wedding day that Aidan had acknowledged that it was his loss, but that was in the past and best left unvisited.
Jazz sighed and turned her attention once again to the open spreadsheet on the computer. She wished she could make sense of the figures before her, they were telling her one thing when she knew quite well that the opposite was true. And where was bloody Counden, he must know something about this. She'd tried calling his mobile again but it was still switched off.
There was a light tap at the door and after a second it swung open. Callie stepped inside and waited.
Jazz was well aware of the door opening and equally well aware that Callie was waiting for her attention, but she was determined to find the answer to the problem that had been vexing her on and off for most of the day.
'You look just like the good girls did at school.' Callie said eventually.
Despite herself Jazz felt the need to respond, besides a brief chat with Callie might help her focus. 'I was a good girl at school,' she retorted, taking off her glasses and rubbing her eyes. 'Unlike some.'
'I bet I had a lot more fun!'
'How many abortions by the age of seventeen, two, three?'
'Just the one.'
Jazz snorted. 'Right. And how many boys did you have sex with?'
Callie was silent.
Jazz poured them both a coffee from the pot bubbling at the side of her desk.
'Well, how many?'
'Hang on darling, I'm still counting,' Callie said, taking the offered cup. 'Five.'
Jazz burst out laughing. 'And the rest, what about Mister Miller, the geography teacher?'
'He definitely wasn't a boy.' Callie responded sipping her coffee.
'He was a pervert.' Jazz laughed. 'Mucky Miller.' She said, drawing out the syllables.
'He was a good teacher old Mucky, very good at his subject.'
'I think erogenous zones are more biology than geography.'
‘Anyway,’ Callie declared, ‘nothing happened with Mister Miller until I left school.’
'Really?' Jazz hadn't known that.
'Yeah. Admittedly, there was lots of flirting before that, but nothing physical till I left. He didn’t want to take any chances. Anyway,' sudden indignation, ‘he wasn’t a pervert, he wasn’t much older than we were.’
Jazz sighed, ‘No, I suppose he wasn’t.’
Callie smiled, remembering, ‘Mister Miller.' She said dreamily. 'Did he have you as well?'
'No he didn't! I've only ever slept with one man in my life.'
Callie just smirked.
'And you can take that look off your face lady.' Jazz paused. ‘I’m proud to say I was a virgin on my wedding day.’ This brief interlude was supposed to make her feel better. 'Anyway, enough of nostalgia lane, what do you want?'
'Just wondered if you fancied a drink tonight?'
Jazz thought for a moment. 'Can we make it another time?'
'We can, but then you'd miss out on my exciting news.'
'Callie Sunter, you're such a tease.'
'One of my best attributes.'
'Go on then, but I don't want a late night.'
Callie finished her coffee. 'Great, I'll meet you in the Cross Keys at eight.'
After Callie’s departure Jazz had another coffee and craved nicotine which was odd because, apart from a brief flirtation with cigarettes in her early teens, she had never smoked. Perhaps chocolate would help but her office was a chocolate free zone. She had another fruitless trawl through the figures; where was bloody Counden? She smiled at Callie's suggestion that he might have a mistress.
It had been nice of her though, to suggest a drink that evening, and wondered what her exciting news was. They didn't see a lot of each other these days, ever since Jazz had been promoted and they no longer shared an office, so it would be good to catch up.
Coffee, chocolate, cigarettes, Callie, they were all distractions that would have only delayed the inevitable. She waited until she could bear it no longer and then did what she knew she was going to do all along. She opened her desk drawer and from under a thick pile of old stationary retrieved a brown envelope from its hiding place, and looked at the photo inside; it was of younger versions of herself and Aidan Pennock on The Tops above Slaithstone, taken in the summer of 1992. Standing next to each other they smiled for the camera sending out a message to the future that Jazz, unaware of at the time, could now see quite clearly.
Staring at it intently she could feel the old aching feeling and knew it was a mistake to have given in. She should burn the photo and leave the past where it belonged; in the past.
Instead she did what she always did; she put the photo back in the envelope and then carefully placed it back at the bottom of the drawer. Going back to her column of figures she wondered yet again where Counden was.
* * *
Ron Counden was what used to be called a pillar of society. A self made man he owned the largest plumbing suppliers in the north of England. He was an elder of Slaithstone Evangelical Church where he was a regular lay preacher; his regular theme being the sanctity of marriage. A conservative by nature as well as political inclination, he had been a mayor of the town some years ago and while not taking an active part in day to day politics still had his finger in many pies, including that of his sister in law, Margaret.
Ron Counden was in love and it was a completely new experience for him. He was sixty one years old and felt like a teenager. Well, he felt like what he thought a teenager probably felt like. Being born in 1949 meant his teenage years spanned 1962 - 1970, the era of flower power, and The Beatles. This good fortune was more than offset by being born into a strict Brethren family, who sincerely believed that anything that remotely smacked of pleasure was the work of the devil.
He'd been married to Beatrice for forty long boring years, and at idle moments, of which he had more than his share, reckoned he could have told Moses a thing or two about wandering in the wilderness.
They'd had four children who were all married and settled, and he often prayed that his offspring weren't as bored as he was. He had many business interests but few hobbies apart from the mainstay of the Slaithstoneian business classes; the occasional round of golf.
He'd been settling into a life of quiet mediocrity, in the early stages of fossilisation, until the stroke, of luck for him, that despatched his brother in law Geoffrey.
As is often the case Ronald hadn't realised how boring his marriage and life were until something illuminated the fact. The spotlight that shone its way into his life and brightened his existence with its brilliance was his sister in law Margaret. A short while after Geoffrey had passed he'd been asked by Beatrice if he'd help her widowed sister with the loose ends of his brother in law's estate. He'd gone round to Margaret's house one evening, Beatrice being too tired to go along, for which he was profoundly grateful later, and within the hour he and Margaret were rutting like stags on her living room floor.
He smiled as he remembered the moment afterwards when they were lying side by side on the rug in front of the fire.
She'd looked at him and chuckled. 'Well Ronald, here's a turn up. I bet you weren't expecting this when you came round tonight.'
And he hadn't, such a thought would have been completely alien. He'd never looked at Margaret in that way before, he'd never looked at any woman in that way before, his wife included, always believing in, and preaching on, the Bible's teaching on marriage.
He knew one thing though; if this was love, then he'd never been in love before. He felt as though the blinkers he'd been wearing for decades had been removed. He'd first felt a stirring when he'd seen the way Margaret had been at her husband's funeral. Dressed completely in black - although she had confessed to him later that she'd been wearing red underwear - she'd conducted herself with a quiet dignity he'd found strangely moving. He'd always thought women looked good in black but never as good as Margaret, who was a particularly handsome woman.
And a wealthy one to boot. Geoffrey, the sly dog had left her with more than a bob or two. Not that that mattered a great deal to Counden who wasn't badly off himself but was a fervent believer that you could never have enough.
He parked the Mercedes neatly at the kerb and looked around before setting off down the path. All clear. It wouldn't do for Beatrice to find out what was going on at this stage. He could just imagine her reaction and shuddered.
Nor would it be good for word of his sin to come to the ears of anyone at church. He knew he was taking a risk, Slaithstone wasn't that big a place and he was known by lots of people, but he couldn't give her up now. It wouldn't be long anyway before they were clear and away.
There was just the one fly in the honey pot but he'd soon have that sorted. No need to worry Margaret about it. In the meantime there was nothing more delicious he'd found than getting your leg over in the middle of the day especially when you should be at work.
Today though, Counden realised after a few minutes, wasn't going to be one of those days. Although he rang the bell and pounded on the door it was quite clear that Margaret was out. He scratched his head feeling distinctly put out. He'd been really looking forward to a pleasant few hours in bed with Margaret and now she'd spoilt it by being out. He knew she'd got herself a part time job doing charity work, but didn't think she did it on a Friday.
Shopping then, that'd be it. She'd flaming well gone shopping. He could have called her mobile of course but didn't want her thinking she should be just hanging about waiting for him.
* * *
The taxi arrived right on time and Aidan let the driver take his case and put it in the boot while he got in the passenger side. The case loaded, the driver got behind the wheel and confirmed. 'Station?'
'Yeah.'
They set off from the accommodation block, passed the admin offices and headed for the gate. Whenever he'd thought of this moment over the past few months Aidan had conjured up a host of well wishers standing around waving him off into civilian life. As it was there was a couple of young squaddies who paid him no attention at all.
'Leave?' Asked the driver as he negotiated a security chicane.
'Nah. Retired.'
'Last day eh?'
'Yeah.'
'How long ya done?'
Aidan thought it was just his luck to have an inquisitive taxi driver. 'Twenty five.'
The driver whistled, 'End of an era then.'
'Yeah.'
'Glad to be out then, eh?'
'Mixed feelings really. I've had some good times, bad times,' "happy or sad," he sang in his head. 'I've seen some right shit over the years. Do you know, it's just good to be out in one piece.’
They arrived at the barrier and came to a halt. They think it's all over. The civilian security guard gave the taxi a casual glance and pressed the button and the barrier lifted. Aidan is about to lift his hand in farewell but the bored guard isn't even looking.
Whatever happened to soldiers guarding soldiers?'
The driver slipped into first and they drive though into civvy street.
It is now. Thank you Kenneth Wolstenholme.
Aidan shifted in his seat.
'Don't look back mate.' The driver's advice.
Good advice Aidan thought but he can't resist one last look.
It seemed different already.
The concourse at the railway station was busy as usual and Aidan reflected that he'd never known it quiet. He wondered how many times he'd made similar journeys during his time in the Army. Hundreds probably. The taxi stopped at the main entrance and Aidan jumped out and waited for the driver to get his bag from the boot.
Aidan wasn't a natural tipper; too much Yorkshire blood in his veins, so surprised himself when he told the driver to keep the change from the twenty pound note; have to watch that tendency in future lad.
The money quickly found its way into the driver's pocket, 'Cheers matey, that's very generous. All the best now, take care.'
Aidan paused for a moment, as the driver pulled away without a further glance, and then turned and walked into the station. He joined the queue for tickets and wondered for a split second whether to go First but his Yorkshire breeding asserted itself and he settled for cattle class.
* * *
Norman Pennock didn't ask for much from life. He was happiest on his allotment growing vegetables, and tending his chickens and rabbits. He enjoyed the occasional visit to his local pub, the Nelson, where he had a couple of pints of the locally brewed Piddle from the Wacky Witch Brewing Company, and chewed the fat with a few friends and acquaintances. The height of excitement for Norman was a game of dominoes with the Major; an ex Army type who'd never been in the Army.
He ran his expert eye over the crops growing on his small allotment and liked what he saw. The chickens scattered before him as he pottered about, removing the odd errant weed, checking things, and just generally whiling away his time.
Glancing at his watch he wondered what time Aidan would be back. He'd always had a good relationship with his eldest child but didn't pretend to understand him for an instant. What father he reasoned ever knew his own son?
He was delighted that Aidan had packed in the soldiering. Norman had spent three years in the Army, a big mistake that; he'd hated every minute. He blamed himself for Aidan getting the bug, and marvelled that he'd been in for twenty five years. Blowing smoke from his cigarette he relaxed in the old chair permanently placed in the door of his shed from where he watched the world go by. He took a long drink from a can of beer. It was a beautiful day, the sun was shining, and Norman for the most part was content.
There was a small cloud on the horizon though, Norman acknowledged as he surveyed his empire. What to do about Jean? That was the big question.
Recently, Norman, after years of being a widower, had met up with a girl he'd known at school. He hadn't seen her for fifty years but had known her instantly when they'd bumped into each other outside the local Co-op. Apparently she'd left Slaithstone at the time of leaving school, and after working in a department store in Manchester for a few years had married one of the managers and settled down to raise a family. But now, a widow with her children scattered around the country, she'd come home to Slaithstone to spend her retirement.
They had started seeing a bit of each other. Not exactly courting, Norman reasoned but you never knew where these things could end up. "At the bloody altar old boy," was his friend, the Major's considered opinion.
Norman hadn't realised that he'd been lonely and missing female company until he met Jean. Having been a widower for thirty years he'd long since resigned himself to a life of solitude. Jean however, had awakened thoughts and feelings, that if not dead were lying quite dormant. She was a firm believer that there was a many a good tune to be played on an old fiddle; and it had to be said thought Norman, Jean was pretty good with the bow.
Drawing deeply on the cigarette Norman wondered how long the allotment, visits to the pub, the smoking, and his beloved Jack Russell, Coco, would last if Jean became a permanent fixture. He drained the can of beer, and after tickling Coco's ear who stirred lazily, went outside.
Standing by the rabbit pen he took a final pull on the cigarette before crushing it underfoot. He watched the rabbits munching on greens for a while before he eventually bent down and scooped one up. He cradled it close to his chest and stroked it softly. 'Ah Jessie. My lovely Jessie.' He murmured to the rabbit who snuggled contentedly next to him. 'Not a care in the world have you my beauty.' With a sudden movement that would have surprised anyone watching, he swiftly, almost casually, broke the rabbit's neck.
'Not a care in the bloody world.' He continued to stroke the dead rabbit, softly whispering as if it could still hear him.
* * *
The station coffee shop was crowded as usual and Aidan struggled to find a seat. He paused at the counter, drink in hand, and scanned the room. There was the usual mix of business men, students, folks heading off for holidays and squaddies; always squaddies. A seat became available at a table towards the far end of the room and Aidan quickly picked his way between the tables, pushchairs, and outstretched legs, and after making sure with the elderly couple that it was a free seat sat down.
'Going somewhere nice?' The old lady, fed up with trying to get conversation out of her husband who was deep in the Racing Post, tried her luck with Aidan.
He gave her a tight smile but didn't speak.
'Only we're going to visit our son and his wife. She's just had a baby and we're going to lend a hand.'
Aidan had the impression that her daughter in law was a useless slattern who didn't deserve her luck in landing such a fantastic husband. Aidan nodded, a movement caught between indifference and outright hostility.
'Only it's their first.'
And she's got nothing else to do the lazy cow.
Another nod.
'Isn't it Jim?' she nudged her husband.
'S'right.' Jim's contribution.
The woman continued, 'She had a c section.'
Aidan too bored to nod, blinked instead, and wondered what a c section was.
'We never had them in my day, you pushed it out, and then you got on with it.'
Aidan surprised himself by asking, 'What if you didn't, push it out?'
The woman looked at Aidan as though he were stupid. 'You died of course, both of you.'
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