blocks all memory of the incident in order to cope.’ He paused. ‘Nothing that I’ve seen suggests your amnesia has an emotional basis . . . but perhaps there’s something you haven’t told me?’
‘Like what?’
‘Did anything happen before you left for Iraq?’
Acland stared at him for a moment. ‘Nothing important.’
It was his favourite answer, thought Willis. ‘Perhaps not,’ he murmured, ‘but I suspect most people would say that being ditched by their fiance?e on the day of their departure was –’ he sought for a word – ‘
Anger flared briefly in the younger man’s face. ‘Who told you that?’
‘Your parents. They couldn’t understand why you never mentioned Jen or why she hadn’t phoned or sent a card . . . so your mother called her. Jen told her she couldn’t go through with it and felt it was fairer to let you know before you left. Is that what happened?’
‘Pretty much.’ Acland produced a tissue ball and tossed it idly from hand to hand. ‘It must have pissed my mother off something chronic to hear it was Jen who ditched
‘Why?’
‘She spent months trying to make it happen the other way round.’
‘You were supposed to ditch Jen? Didn’t your mother like her?’
‘Of course not. She hates competition.’
Willis could believe that. He’d admired Mrs Acland’s fine-boned looks but he hadn’t liked her. He’d seen no more sincerity in her showy displays of grief than her son had done. ‘Were you upset by Jen’s letter?’
‘I never read it.’
‘She told your mother she sent it by registered post to your base.’
‘I didn’t bother to open it . . . just chucked it in the bin.’
Willis tapped the end of his pen against the notes on his lap. ‘You must have known what was in it. You had Jen’s name deleted from your records as someone to be informed in the event of your death.’
‘When?’
‘Presumably on your arrival in Iraq.’
‘I don’t remember.’
‘Do you remember feeling any grief? Do you feel grief now?’
‘No.’
Willis was sceptical. ‘Most of us do when relationships end, Charles. Novelists don’t write about broken hearts for no reason. Sometimes the pain can go on for months.’
‘I don’t feel anything for her at all.’
Willis tried a different tack. ‘What did you think of your CO? Would you describe
‘Sure. He lost his rag from time to time but he never held grudges.’
‘What about the job you were doing? You talked about loss of morale earlier. Was morale low while you were out there?’
‘Not where I was . . . but we didn’t have much contact with the locals. It was the guys on the ground in Basra who took the brunt of the resentment, and they all said that was hard to deal with.’
‘Were you afraid at any point?’
‘Yes.’
‘When?’
‘Every time a car came towards us with a solitary driver. We held our breath until he passed in case he was a suicide bomber.’
‘So you remember some feelings – you liked the people you worked with, you empathized with low morale, and you were afraid – but you’ve suppressed your feelings for your fiance?e. What do you think that means?’
Acland gave an ironic shrug. ‘That I had to forget her to function properly?’
‘Except you haven’t forgotten her, you just don’t like her any more.’ Willis watched him pump his hands together, monotonously squeezing air from between his palms. ‘What emotion do you think you’d have felt if you had read her letter?’
‘I didn’t read it.’
He was lying, Willis thought. ‘Would you have been hurt?’
The lieutenant shook his head. ‘I’d have been angry.’
‘Then you must have been angry whether you read it or not, since you obviously knew it was a “Dear John” letter.’ He took off his glasses and rubbed them on his cuff. ‘Why does anger worry you?’
‘Who says it does?’
‘You implied your amnesia had an emotional basis, and you’ve been struggling with anger since you arrived here. It’s a strong emotion. I’m wondering if you think it caused you to fail your command in some way.’
