And another…
Joe was back in his bedroom at home. 13.02. The sheets were soaked. His breath came in short gasps. But the explosions – they weren’t in his head any more. They were real.
He jumped out of bed. A pair of jeans and a fresh shirt had been laid out for him while he slept. He pulled on the jeans as the explosions continued. He stormed out of the bedroom and onto the landing. Gunfire, short bursts from an automatic weapon. And it was coming from the direction of his son’s bedroom.
Joe didn’t hesitate. He burst through the door, which swung on its hinges and bashed against the wall.
Conor’s room hadn’t changed since he’d been away. The cabin bed was still neatly made; the encyclopedias he loved were lined up on his bookcase. Conor himself was sitting on a spotty beanbag in the middle of the room. He was facing a small television, with an Xbox controller in his hand. Joe looked to the screen. His son was playing one of the war games that were so popular with the younger men back in the Stan. From the point of view of a player with an assault rifle, Joe could see a realistic desert landscape, with an animated Chinook hovering in the distance. Two Taliban fighters, their heads wrapped in keffiyehs, approached. Conor was ignoring the game now, looking up at his father with frightened eyes. The animated Taliban drew knives. Now they were at the front of the screen. An instant later there was the sickening sound of metal puncturing flesh and a rattling death groan from the device.
Joe felt an unstoppable rage. He stepped into the centre of the room, grabbed the controller from Conor’s tiny hands and yanked the cords that connected them to the console. The Xbox flew forward, but the game played on. The virtual soldier was on the ground, virtual blood spilling onto the virtual sand. Joe stormed up to the TV and before he knew it he had yanked the screen off its little stand and sent it crashing to the ground.
At last there was silence.
Joe looked down at the smashed television, and then at Conor, whose lip was wobbling as he tried to hold back his tears. He tried to think of something to say. But he couldn’t. The explosions and gunfire were still in his head, like distant echoes, distracting his attention.
Footsteps up the stairs. Caitlin appeared in the doorway, taking in the scene with a single glance. She had swapped the halterneck for an altogether less glamorous black T-shirt. The three of them remained very still, in a triangle of silence, Conor and Caitlin staring at Joe like he was a stranger.
Ten seconds passed before Joe stormed out of the room, pushing past Caitlin and heading downstairs. ‘He shouldn’t be playing that shit all day anyway,’ he muttered. ‘Can’t he play fucking football?’
He could hear their voices through the thin ceiling as he walked into the front room, though he couldn’t make out what they were saying. He was angry with himself. What the hell had he been thinking? He stood at the bay window, looking out at the street. Some kid was sitting on the front garden wall of the house opposite. Almost as a reflex action, Joe found himself recording his features: dark skin; greasy black hair; yellow, rotten teeth; late teens, early twenties. He was twirling an empty bottle of Coke in his right hand. For an instant he thought the kid was looking straight through the window at him.
‘Tell me what’s wrong?’
Caitlin had entered the room without Joe hearing.
‘You wouldn’t understand,’ he said.
‘Try me.’
Silence.
Caitlin approached him. Her face had softened, and for the first time in days he felt his defences lower. ‘I heard the noises from that fucking game,’ he said. ‘I thought they were real.’
He stared at Caitlin, as though daring her to laugh. ‘You’re home now,’ she whispered. ‘With us.’
From the corner of his eye he saw movement on the street. Another kid had approached his mate with the rotten teeth. They shared a few words and walked off down the street.
‘Go and talk to him,’ she said. ‘Properly, Joe. He’s been aching to see you.’
Conor was still in his room, but had moved from the beanbag to the raised bed, where he had wrapped himself in his duvet and had a sketch pad open in front of him, and next to that the small grey elephant that had been his since he was a baby. Joe could never work out how one minute he could be playing war games, the next running his finger over the worn fabric of a soft toy. He had his mother’s colouring: copper hair and pale freckles on his nose and cheeks. In fact, he was as unlike Joe in looks as he was in personality. Joe approached the bed and glanced down. Conor’s gaze was fixed on the drawing he was making, two figures, scrappy and childlike. He refused to look up at his dad.
‘Hey, champ,’ Joe said quietly.
‘Hey.’ Conor didn’t look up as he spoke.
‘School OK?’
Conor shrugged, treating the question with the lack of interest it deserved.
‘What you drawing?’
‘Nothing.’ He looked embarrassed.
‘Mind if I keep that?’ It sounded to Joe like the sort of thing a good dad should say.
Conor shook his head and ripped the sheet from his pad, before handing it to his father.
‘Got a bit carried away there, I guess,’ Joe said, pocketing the picture without really looking at it.
Conor looked like he was pretending it didn’t matter, but Joe could see salt marks on his cheeks where the tears had dried. He put one hand on his boy’s bony shoulder; when, after ten seconds, it became clear that neither of them knew what else to say, he turned and headed for the door.
‘Why were you sitting in the shower like that, Dad?’ He sounded frightened.
‘Don’t worry about it, champ,’ Joe replied. He winked at Conor, wanting to change the subject quickly but not knowing how. Conor smiled thinly back. ‘Hey,’ said Joe, ‘it’s great to see you.’
‘You too.’
An awkward silence. ‘I’m going to talk to your mum, OK?’
‘OK.’
Joe left the room, closed the door and stood with his back to it.
‘Don’t worry about it,’ he breathed to himself.
He went downstairs.
On the mantelpiece in the front room was a tinny little carriage clock. It chimed 4 p.m. As the fourth chime disappeared, the only sound in the room was the continued ticking of the clock. Joe shifted uncomfortably on the chintzy sofa that faced the window looking out onto the street. There was a matching armchair in the bay; sitting in the armchair, holding a red clipboard and a pencil, was a pretty young woman whose hair was tied back with a ribbon and who was patiently waiting for Joe to answer her.
Thirty seconds passed. The young woman repeated her question. Her voice dripped sympathy and it set Joe’s teeth on edge. He didn’t
‘How have you been sleeping?’
‘Like a baby.’
‘I see a lot of soldiers who have trouble with it.’
‘You ever tried sleeping in a war zone, Dr McGill?’
‘Are you telling me you haven’t been sleeping?’
‘I’m telling you I could do without the stupid questions.’
Dr McGill ticked a box on the paper clipped to her board.
‘Do you suffer from blackouts?’
‘Blackouts?’
‘Short periods when you can’t account for your movements. Temporary amnesia…’
‘I know what a blackout is.’
‘So do you?’
‘No.’
‘Your wife—’
‘Partner.’
‘Your
