Chapter One, ‘I Told You There Would Be Consequences’
They never tell you what it’s like to fight for your country—and it was never my country, really—but in the long, drawling, sweat-sodden weeks that dragged us into it, I knew it was a stupid fucking idea.
Don’t ever let them tell you that it comes out of nowhere.
I was there, about a decade ago now, watching my parents dozing off over the dinner table debates, desperate for a belly-laugh off the TV.
They were all, true to their nature, distracted over other things when the real news came in.
“Don’t look too badly on what’s coming,” my father suggested to me one evening, dragging his finger across the screen. “You young ones could do with a laugh.”
It’s the last real time I talk to him.
***
There’s not much that scares me, and you can laugh at me for saying that, but it’s mostly true. The only time I remember really being afraid was when my best friend stayed back with me when it all started, and we’d decided to fight together that afternoon. That was before we realised how few of us there were to defend the place, but we would have continued no matter what because neither of us could imagine leaving; Emily snuck me into an empty room in one of the abandoned flats and we were all shadow and she kissed me slowly into the corner, and we were waiting, waiting, waiting…
“I don’t think they’re coming,” she jokes, and her nose bumps into mine. “Don’t get scared.”
We go way back, her and I—is that a stupid thing to say? It’s only now that I start to think about all the times she’d be waiting for me outside the shop, or my hanging around on her doorstep while she explained to her mum—again—that, no, she was not ‘seeing any boys lately’. It was always, only ever, us, and I got such a thrill from the two of us chasing down to the town park and clambering onto the wrought iron roof of the bandstand, swatting at the ducks if they wandered too close for my liking, that I forgot to ever think about what might come next. All that’s done now, of course, and the bandstand is gone, but I’ll tell you everything as if it was happening right now, and I can write away from my own little corner into a story that no one will ever see.
“I’m not,” I tell her, and I sort of believe myself, and we waste away a few moments more against the wall.
I think I’m ready for what’s coming, and if not, then I’ll just have to deal with it when it does. I’d be lying if I said I hadn’t dreamt of this moment, that quiet silence of the ‘before’, the strength of her hand in mine as she works her way down my cheek, that we’d both be gearing up to do our best and see what comes out of it: we’re the ones that stayed behind. This is real honour, and I know it.
I’m not as much of a dreamer as you’d think, though: like I said, I know what happens in a war. We’ll get separated, most likely, and if either of us is lucky—or unlucky—enough to make it to the end, I’m hoping it’s her—or am I? I don’t think either way will ever make a good story. It certainly won’t make a life worth living, and I think I speak for both of us there.
But let’s say for now that I’m the one who goes first—I know what the likelihood is: that she won’t get to know where I am, or even that I’m gone at all, and she won’t be likely to get my body back and that’ll just be that; and it’s always safer to imagine that it’ll be over something small and insignificant, stupid, humiliating, the way my whole life has gone before this. Isn’t that how wars always go? I’ve read enough of the books from the people who came back, but I still feel like there’s something I’m missing. I think that’s what I fear the most. It’ll be just my luck to get shot in the arse, or end up dying in the least cool way. I just hope it happens quick enough that I won’t know I’ve embarrassed her, going down like that. She might be able to forgive me, but I never could.
Yeah, alright, no one wants to know how they die, or when, but I fucking do. At least it would make matters easier.
I’m thinking all of this through (you can tell that I’m a fun person to be around…) as I touch her.
“We should get going,” I say, and I keep my voice gentle. Emily’s right up against me, her head is buried into my neck; my lips brush against her hair and I press them hard, and she’s so warm—I hate the fact that I’ve said anything at all.
She doesn’t move at my words: she even swears at me to stop talking. I’m thrilled at the obstinance. This is exactly what I needed. Just tell me I’m wrong and that the whole thing is an awful joke, and then we can stay here forever; I’ll make sure we get home.
But I know we’ll have to arm ourselves. It feels stupid to even think that. We’re not supposed to be doing any of this, we’re supposed to be off for a drive around the country at this point, roaring up the hills and telling our jobs to have at it while we fuck off for a week and take in the blank heat of the sun as it chases us up the coast. I give it one good thought, like I’m forcing all my effort onto this one moment, then I begin to release my grip. “Emily,” I say, and she knows what I mean—because she pulls me in so tight that her shoulder jams into my throat; I squawk at the contact, and we have to laugh it off and come apart for a stupid, wasteful second to readjust.
“Just a little bit longer.”
“Mm—”
“We won’t—have much time after this…”
Oh my God, she’s going to kill me: her hands are everywhere, I can’t tear myself away, we’re going to end up fucking and there’s a fucking war coming, she’s touching the front of my jeans and holy shit—
“Emily!”
“What?” She’s endearingly rude about it, but her hand withdraws to my waist, and she slips back into the same old pout that she usually does.
I admonish her with a look, breathing somewhat heavier than before, but I’m not so sure that I want to continue with this war business. I think we’d be just fine on our own, if the world would let us do exactly what we want.
And what I want, what I want… “I know.” I say it too forcefully, and repeat myself, deliberately make my voice soft, warm, low, so she doesn’t suspect that I’m actually scared as hell. Damn you, I think, and I feel the sick of panic at the back of my throat as she pulls me in again. You’re not getting any tears out of me, not for this, not while I have a say in it. “For God’s sake, I know.”
It seems to work, because she’s murmuring something about staying, or running away altogether, and the hard edge in her own voice shakes me into giving her what she really needs; what both of us do.
“I’m not going to leave you,” I swear—I have to say it, in case she doesn’t know—and I grab her hand to make sure she hears me. For a moment, I’m furious: I jerk our clasped hands to my chest, and I kiss her hard again, and it’s the only real word of honour I can give. When we pull apart, I can see the shifting light through the window from the corner of my eye, and it almost distracts me. “I’ll make sure we stay together, alright? I’ll look after you.”
The words march out of my mouth and I cringe: it’s so easy to say things like that, and now I wish I never had—it’s so easy to make yourself look like the good guy when you’re the only one left to tell the tale of what happened. All you do is tweak the details, explain your intentions, and mix it all up with the truth—enough that no one can ever tell what you actually did.
***