Page 5 of Conflict

“No, you wouldn’t. You’d have ignored me like you are Scarlett. Or, you’d have come for the bags then not let me up here. Now, I’ll put the kettle on while you empty the bags. I’ve just bought you a few basics to keep you stocked up.”

“I can do my own shopping, Mum. You know this.” I’m too tired to argue with her, but I know she means well. “You don’t need to baby me anymore.”

The look she shoots me is one of all fire and hell. “How do you plan on doing that when you’ve decided that hiding away in here is the perfect solution to your current mood?” She doesn’t allow me time to answer that before she’s slamming two cups down on the kitchen counter and filling them with the now boiling water. “Pass the milk out of that bag,” she points towards the bag I’m still holding. “We’ll have this and then you can shower. We can clean this place up and then head out for a walk or a drive if you prefer.” She pours a drop of milk into both cups before she hands over mine. “It stinks like an old working man’s club in here. Open a damn window, Jamie.”

I do as I’m told; old habits die hard, even when you’re old enough to look after yourself. My mother makes herself comfortable at the breakfast bar, her cup cradled in her hands. She looks tired, and seems to have aged significantly in the last few days. I know that’s my fault but I can’t take care of her as well as myself right now. “Look, I know you’re only trying to lookafter me but I’m a big boy now. I need some time on my own to work through this. I don’t want you coming around here to clean up after me or do my shopping. I can order online if I need to. Please, just give me a little time to process things my way.”

My mother gives me a disdainful glance followed by the familiar eye roll that all mothers seem to have perfected. “I’ve given you time, lots of it. You’re my son, if you think I’m going to stand by and watch you self-destruct, you have another thing coming.” She takes a sip from the cup she’s holding and allows herself a moment to think. “You know nobody blames you, don’t you? Tom’s death was not your fault. He signed up knowing the risks, just like you did.”

My cup slams down on the countertop harder than I intended it to. The liquid spills over the top and pools around the base of my cup. “I blame me! I should’ve been in that truck; I was supposed to be driving the fucking thing! I should be dead too; it was supposed to be me.” I slide the chair backwards and stand up, my hands wrap around the back of my neck, and I squeeze tightly, trying to ease some of the pent-up anger I feel deep in my soul.

“Don’t you ever use that language in front of me again. I brought you up to know better than that.” She stands and gathers both of the cups then places them in the sink. “Grab all the other dishes, I’ll wash them while you shower. You stink.” I don’t miss that fact that she’s crying silently, and I know this is her way of coping. Mum thinks that by taking the hard approach, and carrying on regardless, it’ll help pull me through whatever it is that’s dragging me down. Dutifully, I gather the glasses from the bedroom and coffee table because it doesn’t matter what age you are; if your mum calls you out, you do as you’re asked.

As the steam from the shower fills the bathroom, I can hear the vacuum hum as my mother makes herself busy trying to clean up my act. Stepping under the stream of hot water feelsbetter than I imagined it would. I watch the rivulets of water run down my body and breathe deeply. The sound of my heart beating echoes through my ears and I’m reminded that Tom’s no longer beats. My clenched fist slams against the tiles so hard that I feel the vibration beneath my feet. I sink down into the bath and cradle my knees as the water continues to beat down on me, washing away yet more pain.

When the torment begins to ebb, I climb out of the bathtub and wrap a towel around my waist. My hand runs over the mirror, clearing the condensation and allowing me to see the devastation I wear so well. “Fuck.” I look like shit, but that somehow makes me feel a little better. My too long hair is beginning to curl a little, making me look more like Charlie. Fingertips scrub at my jawline as I investigate the beard that adorns my face these days. Picking up my razor, I contemplate shaving, but that’s short lived. Eyes that hide the storm inside cloud over again as I throw the razor back onto the shelf and turn to leave the bathroom.

In my bedroom, I find my mother; she’s changing the sheets on the bed and has opened the window to let in some fresh air. “There you are, I was about to come in there and make sure you hadn’t drowned.”

“I’m saving that for when you’ve gone…” It’s a joke, a bad one at that. I feel a twinge of guilt when my mother takes an audible breath. “Oh, don’t be dramatic. I didn’t mean it.” I snap as I pull open a drawer to grab clean underwear. I loosen the towel around my waist and my mother makes a hasty retreat and shuts the door behind her, affording me some privacy to get dressed. When I’ve dressed in clean sweatpants and a T-shirt, I make my way back into the living area and find my mother putting on her coat.

“I’ve put you a lasagne in the oven, it’ll need forty or so minutes. Make sure it’s hot all the way through before you eatit. I’m not going to drag you out of here today, you’ve showered at least and this place doesn’t look like a bomb site anymore…” she looks horrified at her choice of words. “Sorry, that wasn’t, I mean…well you know. Anyway, I’ll call you later.”

CHAPTER 7

JAMIE

As I step outside the apartment block, the fresh air takes my breath away a little. This is the first time I’ve ventured outside since I moved out of my mother’s home. I’m not used to the smell of outdoors; I much prefer the stagnant air of the flat. Pulling the hood of my sweater up, I shove my hands in the pockets of my joggers and begin the brisk walk to the local minimart. I’d contemplated ordering online but, in a stupid flash of guilt, grabbed my keys and ventured outdoors. A decision I now regretted as I walked past the park where the local kids played football daily. I’ve watched them from the safety of my flat window for the last couple of days, I’d forgotten how noisy kids are when playing ball. It’s noise I can do without. My pace quickens in an attempt to leave the chaos behind.

The supermarket door glides open as I stride towards it. Grabbing a basket, I make my way towards the alcohol aisle and pick up a fridge pack of beers and some crisps. It’s my new staple diet. As I walk down the aisle, my head pounds with the stress of being surrounded by people and all of the noise that comes with being in a shop. The pinging of the till, the chattering and the children’s screams as mums drag them along as they try to shop.I need to get out of here. With a swift turn, I’m heading down the medicine aisle and searching out painkillers. This headache needs to do one. After I’ve located what I need and shoved two boxes in my basket, I make my way toward the checkout, grab a carrier bag and pay for my stuff.

On my walk back home, I stop and sit on a bench in the park near where a local under thirteens team are playing a match. The coach is shouting instructions at them as the parents stand by, looking proud as punch as their offspring race around trying, to get control of the ball. One of the kids kicks the ball so high it sails across the park, headed in my direction. The rest of the team appear to be giving him hell as one of them sets off running towards me in order to retrieve the ball. As the football bounces to a halt a few feet away from me, I stand and grab it, throwing it back towards the pitch. “Thanks, mister,” the little lad who was sent to retrieve it shouts at me. I raise my hand slightly in acknowledgement, then turn to collect my shopping, and head back to the flat. That’s enough socialising for today.

The click of the front door closing behind me soothes my soul. Solitude is my best friend these days, although sometimes the silence can be deafening. After putting my beer in the fridge to cool, I flick on the TV and stand as I surf the channels, looking for something that doesn’t need my full attention. I settle on one of those afternoon gameshows where nobody actually wins anything of significance. The pain in my head increases, and a dull throb settles behind my left eye. In a brief moment of hope, I decide it could be the first sign of a self-diagnosed brain tumour. That’d put paid to my misery at least; then I could join Tom and my other mates. Pain cracks in my chest again. I head back into the kitchen, locate the painkillers I’ve just bought, and grab the bottle of vodka I’d started on earlier, downing two pills with a large glug. I toss the pack around in my hand, staring at the box intently. After a few moments of contemplation, I head backinto the lounge with the bottle of vodka, and the box of pills still clutched in my fist.

My thumb presses against the blister pack of paracetamol, and out pops one pill, closely followed by another. I line them up on the coffee table in front of me, then reach for the spirits, lifting the bottle to my lips, I take a long drink and saviour the flavour as it slides down my throat. My attention is drawn back to the telly as the weatherman announces that tomorrow is going to be a beautiful day. A laugh escapes my mouth at the irony of it as I slide the tablets from the coffee table and into the palm of my hand. The transition from my palm to mouth is smooth as I push them to the back of my mouth with my tongue. The mouthful of vodka that follows tastes even better than the first one. And now I’m on a roll. I grab the second box of painkillers, and pop out several tablets from their little blister pack, and meticulously line them up along the edge of the coffee table. I revel in their beauty for a few moments before swallowing more of the little jewels, washing them down with alcohol.

The familiar ringtone emanates from my phone as it begins to vibrate against my leg. “Shit, Scarlett…” I hiss out as I fish the phone from my pocket. My thumb swipes the screen to dismiss the call, and I throw the phone on the sofa beside me. Seconds pass before it starts again; this time, I don’t dismiss it, I just ignore it and swallow more pills as I turn up the volume on the TV. I glance at the phone when it finally stops ringing, “Thank you.” I mutter before leaning back and getting comfy on the sofa as I down the rest of the vodka. The annoying ringtone plays out again, and I ignore it yet again. Once it’s stopped making the horrendous noise, I pick it up and unlock the screen. The little icon in the corner highlights that I have several voicemail messages along with ten WhatsApp messages. All from Scarlett.

My heart twinges a little as her face smiles up at me from my phone. I took that picture of her before Tom and I left for our lasttour of duty. Little did we know it would be the last time we’d all be together. Clicking on the message icon, I begin to read through her texts.

Stop ignoring me. I won’t go away until you speak to me.

Well, she’s proved that point.

Jamie, you’re being a prick now. Answer your damn phone!

That one makes me smile because she’s right, I am a prick. I switch to voicemail and put it on speakerphone. “Jay, I’m worried about you. Please answer your phone or at least text me to let me know you’re okay. I spoke to your mum today, she said you looked like shit when she saw you the other day, but she’d straightened you out,” she laughs that gentle, soft laugh. The one I haven’t heard for months. “I bet that was fun for you! See, if you talked to me, I could stage the interventions instead of your mum. Anyway, call me back.” The hole in my chest where my heart used to be just got a little bigger. A tear escapes my eye, and I swiftly run the hem of my T-shirt across my cheek to clear it.

“Get a grip.” I chastise myself before forcing myself off the sofa to grab the beer from the fridge. I’m a little stunned to realise I’ve drunk the whole bottle of vodka. Once I’m settled back in the lounge, nursing the opened can of beer, I tap out a text in reply to Scarlett.

I’m okay, there’s no need for any interventions. I won’t be a bother to anyone. Remember the good times, Scar. Keep those close, they’re what’s important now. Love you, J x

I hit send on the message and turn my phone off. Swinging my legs up onto the couch, I shove a cushion under my head and wriggle around until I’m comfortable. There’s some shit chick flick on the telly so I allow my eyes to drift shut and wait for sleep to drag me under.

CHAPTER 8

SCARLETT

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