‘What about men?’
Acland thumped one fist into the other and squeezed down until his knuckles turned white. ‘She played herself. Your average bloke doesn’t have the nerve to chat up a superstar. With men she got her buzz out of persuading them she
‘Were you jealous?’
‘I’m sure Jen’s told you I was. How long was this email? Did she say I was so possessive she didn’t have room to breathe?’
‘Were you?’
He made a noise in his throat that sounded like a laugh. ‘The opposite, Doc. I wasn’t possessive enough. Every time she went through her sad little pantomime, it bored me stiff. I didn’t sign up to be the adoring boyfriend of Uma Thurman’s stand-in.’
‘What did you sign up for, Charles?’
‘Not what I got.’ He exhaled a breath on to the pane and watched the water droplets evaporate almost immediately. ‘I fell for a fantasy.’
‘Meaning what? That you wanted Uma Thurman and the lookalike was a disappointment?’
Acland didn’t answer.
‘Was that Jen’s fault?’
‘You tell me.’ He turned round, massaging his knuckles. ‘I’m sure it’s all in her email.’
Willis gathered his papers together. ‘You don’t trust me much, do you, Charles?’
‘I don’t know, Doc. I haven’t come to a decision yet. When you’re not here, I never think about you at all . . . and when you are, I’m thinking about my answers.’
*
During March, as if prompted by the early spring that had people congregating in T-shirts in the sunshine, Willis talked about the dangers of alienation and social withdrawal. He tried various ways to spark a response from Acland, but a blunt appraisal of how isolation could lead an individual to obsess about single issues – usually people or topics that made him angry – was the only one that worked.
‘You’re making me nervous, Doc. I get the feeling you’re trying to tell me something you know I won’t enjoy.’
‘You’re right,’ said Willis. ‘I want you to socialize more.’
‘Why?’
‘You spend too much time on your own and it’s not good for you. Society hasn’t gone away while you’ve been recuperating. The pressure to interact remains . . . as do the conventions that govern behaviour . . . and both those imperatives are particularly true of the army.’
They were sitting in the psychiatrist’s office and Acland half-turned so that the light from the window struck the injured side of his face. Willis assumed the shift was deliberate, because in that profile it was impossible to believe the other side of the face was untouched. The observer saw only the slack, nerveless flesh, empty eye socket and hideous, discoloured gash that destroyed any beauty the man had ever had.
‘Do you want to talk about why you’re so reluctant to have visitors or mix with the other patients?’ he went on.
‘You mean apart from looking like a freak?’ Acland turned back so that he could watch the doctor’s reaction. ‘That’s what you’re gagging to know, isn’t it? Do I see myself as a freak?’
Willis arched an amused eyebrow. ‘
‘Sure. The two halves of my face don’t match . . . and I don’t recognize either.’
‘Is that what keeps you in your room?’
‘No. It’s everyone else’s injuries I can’t take. There’s a squaddie on the ward who got barbecued when his petrol tank exploded. If he survives he’ll look like a tortoise – move like one, too.
Willis watched him for a moment. ‘How did you deal with injured men before, Charles? Did you wash your hands of them . . . leave the responsibility to someone else?’
‘It’s different in the field. All you have to say to a bloke who’s down is that a chopper’s on its way. He’s probably out of it anyway, so he won’t even know what’s happened to him till he reaches the hospital.’
‘Mm. So it’s the long-term effects of injury that you have a problem with? Do you think the squaddie would be better off dead?’
Acland spotted a trap. ‘I’ve no idea, Doc,’ he answered lightly. ‘I’ve never spoken to him. If he has the guts to see the ops through, then he’s strong enough to live. That’s the only answer I can give you.’
‘And his quality of life?’
‘Whatever he can make it.’
‘Are you applying the same philosophy to yourself?’
‘I’m hardly likely to say no, am I?’
‘Why not?’
‘You’ll give me a black mark for depression.’
Willis sighed. ‘I’m not interrogating you, Charles, I’m trying to help you. This isn’t an exam . . . you don’t get
