Joe frowned.
‘What did happen to your face?’
Joe touched the scraped, sore skin. ‘Fell over.’ He could tell Conor knew it was a lie. Joe crossed the length of the kitchen to the window that looked out to the front. Their car was the only sign of human life that he could see. For some reason, that made him relax. ‘You remember learning to ride your bike out there?’ he asked.
Conor was standing next to him now, looking out too. He wormed his little hand into Joe’s, and they stood there in silence for a moment.
‘You don’t ride your bike much now, huh?’
‘I prefer my computer,’ Conor said. ‘And I don’t like it when Mum cries.’
‘Nor do I, champ,’ Joe said. And he meant it. ‘Let’s make sure she’s got nothing to cry about, hey?’
For the first time since Joe got back, he saw a smile spread across his son’s face. ‘Do you want to see my new DS game?’ Conor asked.
‘Sure,’ Joe said, and Conor scampered off to find it.
Joe looked out the window again. He felt a million miles from anywhere. A million miles from danger. It was a feeling he hadn’t had for a very long time. The Regiment would be wondering where he was. The adjutant was probably banging on his door at home right now. He didn’t give a shit. Tomorrow he’d get a message to JJ. Let him know he was here. He was sure his mate wouldn’t mind if they stayed here for a bit. Long enough for Joe to get a few things straight in his head.
God knows he needed to.
‘I thought I’d see if Charlie was around.’
It was the following morning, and Joe felt refreshed. His sleep had been far from dreamless, but it had at least been uninterrupted. Now he was sitting in the kitchen with Caitlin, drinking coffee and watching Conor through the window. Their son was tramping out a pattern in the long, dewy grass.
‘Charlie?’
‘His friend. From last year.’
Joe vaguely remembered. There was a kid about Conor’s age living in the nearest village. They’d met on the beach last summer. The mother was blonde, overweight and bubbly. The father was a twat. Dressed head to foot in army surplus gear that covered his paunch, he thought he was David fucking Stirling, not some shitkicker from Berwick with a beer belly and a shelf full of Bear Grylls DVDs. It was true that Conor and Charlie had hit it off, but now something made Joe reluctant to be in contact with anyone else.
‘It’s better if he stays with us,’ he said.
‘He can’t stomp around the house by himself all day, Joe. He needs someone his own age.’
‘It’s safer if—’
‘What are you
Joe nodded. ‘Right,’ he said.
Conor had other ideas. At midday, once Caitlin had spoken to Charlie’s mum and arranged for Conor to spend the night with them, he looked crestfallen. ‘What if we can’t think of anything to say?’ he asked.
‘You’ll be fine, sweetheart. He’ll be fine, won’t he?’
Joe nodded. He’d be fine.
At 4 p.m. he was packing Conor into the car. ‘You take him,’ Caitlin had whispered in his ear. ‘But hurry back.’
Conor hugged his mum tight, clearly holding back some tears. Joe looked away. He didn’t want anyone to see his frown. Why couldn’t his son be a bit tougher?
It was a short, silent journey to Charlie’s. Joe felt himself growing tense as soon as JJ’s house disappeared from the rear-view mirror. And as he rounded the base of the hill that hid the house from sight, he found his senses were as alert as if he was driving out on ops. He scanned the fields on either side. A tractor trundled over the horizon two klicks to the south-west. A silver Clio sped up behind him and overtook dangerously just before a hairpin bend – female driver, two kids in the back. A white Transit van passed from the other direction, registration number VS02 RTD. Driver bearded, baseball cap shading his face. Rear doors, Joe saw when it was behind him, blacked out…
Ten minutes later he was entering the small village of Lymeford. A road sign announced that it welcomed careful drivers, but Joe was tipping eighty: the Mondeo’s brakes screeched as he slowed down and passed the Crown and Sceptre, where he and JJ had sunk more than a few pints in years gone by. There was a quaint little pond where a couple of kids were feeding the ducks. Here he turned left, into a close of modern red-brick houses, then pulled up outside one that had a black Cherokee Jeep parked outside, with a Help for Heroes sticker on the rear window.
‘OK, champ?’ he asked.
Conor nodded mutely.
Charlie’s mum – Caitlin had reminded him that her name was Elaine – greeted them at the front door with a wide, bubbly smile and a hug for Conor that wasn’t really reciprocated. ‘It’s so lovely to see you again… Charlie’s been dying to have you round…’
Charlie, who was waiting for them in the front room, didn’t look like that was true. He’d grown in the last year, both upwards and outwards. Conor looked tiny next to him, and when Elaine encouraged them to go upstairs to play, neither boy looked very enthusiastic.
‘Bless,’ Elaine observed. ‘Would you like a cup of tea, Joe?’
‘The man doesn’t want tea,’ came a voice from the next room. Two seconds later Charlie’s dad, Reg, appeared carrying two cans of Carling. He wore camouflage trousers that were several sizes too small for his considerable waist, and a Parachute Regiment T-shirt. ‘How do, mate.’ He nodded gruffly and handed Joe the warm beer. ‘What happened to your face, eh? Bit of bother with Terry Taliban?’
Joe had a vague memory of telling Reg that he was off to the Stan, though of course he hadn’t mentioned the Regiment.
‘Something like that, Reg,’ he said, taking a sip of beer.
‘Sit down, then.’ Reg plonked himself in an armchair that was already indented with the shape of his arse. Next to it there was an occasional table on which lay a copy of
‘I should go…’
‘So we’ve given those fuckin’ Al-Wotsit bastards a good seeing-to, eh?’ Reg spoke proudly, as if he’d nailed the Pacer himself. Then he belched.
‘Right,’ Joe muttered. Elaine had already rolled her eyes and left the room.
Reg leaned forward. ‘You want to know what I think, though?’ Joe didn’t, but knew he was about to find out. ‘That bin Laden – something fishy about him. Our Charlie, always on the fuckin’ computer, he is. Always on that fuckin’…’ He clicked his fingers three times and shouted, ?‘Elaine! What’s that You-Wotsit he’s always on?’
‘YouTube,’ came the reply.
‘Always on it, lookin’ at dancing cats and shit like that.’ He lowered his voice. ‘Probably lookin’ at all sorts of mucky stuff an’ all. Anyhow…’ he tapped himself proudly on the chest ?‘… I’ve been looking on it myself. Wouldn’t believe the stuff I’ve found, you wouldn’t.’
‘Right.’
Reg leaned forward. ‘You know 9/11?’
‘Yeah,’ said Joe. ‘I know.’
‘Well, did you know that there was a third building went down that day? Just near the Twin Towers, it was. And did you know it was reported on the news
Reg sat back and took a triumphant swig of his beer.
Joe put his down on the mantelpiece. ‘Look, mate,’ he said. ‘Really, I’ve got to—’
‘So if it were on the news
