"Where did you two meet?"

I'm not sure why I had never actually asked that question before. We had spent many nights together, Terry, Dino and I, when they talked about old times and I had lolled across Terry's knee and listened to their crazy stories or the more serious stuff from their days together in Luthan. But tonight was the first time that I had actually ever asked that question. Immediately I felt the chill. Terry sat up and eased away from me, his face closed and set. Dino looked across at him with a glance that said, "How much does she know?" I saw the slight shake of his head in reply. Nothing.

I knew nothing or else I would probably not have asked the question. It was evident from the very first moment that I had stumbled unknowingly into some minefield - but it didn't stop my curiosity. It was a perfectly innocuous question to ask and required some measure of response.

"We were in the Gulf. Ninety one."

"That's the year you joined Luthan."

"Yeah."

End of story. I looked from one to the other. Dino was finding the contents of his glass of malt so fascinating that he didn't take his eyes off it. Terry lit a cigarette and stood up. "Refill, mate?"

That was it. He sat back down and they started to talk about the latest case in Paraguay as though I wasn't even there. There are times when you interfere and there are times when you don't- and I knew that this was one of the latter. No matter how much I love him and how open he is with me, I had always known that there were things inside of Terry that he had never shared with me or anyone. But Dino knew. That hurt. Why did Dino know things that I didn't? Was it classified information? This all happened twelve years ago- what could be so secret now that he couldn't even explain how he met his best mate? Did he consider me too naïve or innocent to understand the murky intrigue he might have been involved in? Or was he just being Terry, evading the question if he thought I had no need to know?

I wandered over to the open fire, glad again, despite the nuisance of clearing out the grate, that I had this warm centre to our main lounge, the heart of our house, my hearth. It was a very cold night, stormy November weather, gale howling outside. I could feel the draw up the chimney as I stoked the coals and thought on how many women must have knelt at that fireplace over the years and stared at the dancing flames just as I did that night. Behind me the sound of their voices, lowered now that they were talking business, rumbled on, excluding me again. A plaintive song played out from the CD. My mind dwelt on what I didn't know. Did it matter? Did I need to know? Did he know all there was to know about me? Were there things I wouldn't tell him? You bet your boots there were.

 

*

 

I slipped beneath the cool sheets and rubbed my feet together to seek warmth. Terry pulled back the covers and rolled in opposite me. Instinctively we came together, partly the cold, partly the need we have to touch. It is always there, that primal urge to affirm the presence of the other in our lives- to cleave to the one who is so different and yet so much part of ourselves.

He held me and I placed my cold feet on his legs. Terry is always warm and he complained about the icy touch, pushing me away playfully. Then he pulled me back in again to his warm embrace and I folded into his body. He buried his head in towards my neck, breath tickling, and then his sensuous kiss, his hands pressing me against me, one hand gently caressing my breast while the other slipped beneath the silky fabric and massaged my naked belly softly.

"How did you meet Dino?" I whispered. He rolled back and sighed, threw his hands above his head and stared at the ceiling.

"It's difficult to talk about. A bad scene. One I don't care to remember." 

"But you do remember, don't you?" I leant on his chest and caressed his face. I could see it now. Pain, leaking from him like water through a sieve. Every muscle of his face, every pore of his body seemed infused with it.

"Yes, I remember." He paused, closed his eyes and then began to talk in a monotone. It sounded like he was giving a report to a senior officer.

 

October 1990. CCB2alpha. Operation Humming Bird aborted due to enemy detection of position. Decision taken to break troop and embark on two separate withdrawals in the hope of some reaching border. Radio destroyed, all communications down. Maps doubtful, teams to rely on compass readings. Food low but sustainable for several days, water same. My team was surrounded at day break by a large party of Iraqis with clear intelligence. I feigned lack of Arabic and managed to pick up enough to know we were the target and they were aware of Humming Bird.

Taken to Kabari High security prison. Fate of other members of team unknown. Three months' isolation and interrogation. Rescued by Marines, January 1991 and evacuated to US Military Hospital in Riyadh. February 1991.

 

"What is that supposed to mean, Terry? You were a prisoner of war?" I struggled with the story that must lie between those lines.

"No. There was no war. That didn't begin until January 1991."

"What were you doing in Iraq?"

"Classified."

"What happened to you in the prison?"

He did not answer. I did not ask him again. "Terry, look at me....please, look at me..." I forced his face down until his eyes met mine. "When you're ready...I'll be here, you know?"

He nodded and rolled over to clutch my body. His head buried in my breast and he lay there, saying nothing, his breath in gasps, fighting the urge to cry. My arms circled him and gathered him in while he struggled with the demon my innocent question had awoken in him. If I needed confirmation that I had stumbled on the pivotal moment of his life- I had it then. And I knew that I would not rest easy until I understood the cause of this deep, dark pool of horror that was inside him.

 

*

 

I am an historian. I have research skills. The next morning, after the men had breakfasted and left to attend to the business of the day, I went online and began my search. By the afternoon, I was at the War Library and using my credentials to access fairly confidential material. I found no record of Humming Bird. It was evident that there was no Allied command presence on Iraqi soil until February 1991 despite Terry's implication that he had been there with an SAS force as long ago as four months before that. US Marines should have had no place there until much later. But I was hardly surprised. CCB are covert ops and those outfits are often in deep cover long before hostilities break out. Or they are sent to carry out preventative missions to preempt a military engagement. I sensed something very secret and very dirty here.

That night, Terry was involved with a corporate client for dinner and Dino was home with me alone. We ate in the kitchen, informal and friendly, a simple casserole and a bottle of hearty red. When we had finished, he sat back and poured himself another glass of wine, taking a swig, and then observing me silently, assessing me, working out if I was strong enough to take the strain. I know that K and R man face. I live with it.

"Something is bugging you, Mac. Spit it out."

I ran my hands through my hair and pulled it off my face. "I spent the day reading up on the run up to the Gulf War."

He laughed mirthlessly. "Now why am I not surprised about that?"

"I know a few things I didn't know last night."

"Oh yeah?" His poker face betrayed nothing; if I didn't know him better I would imagine that he was being sarcastic.

"I know that Terry was in Iraq four months before the war started and that he was on a mission so secret that even now it is not acknowledged anywhere. I know that it went wrong and that he was captured and spent three months in an Iraqi prison being 'interrogated' which suggests torture to me. You were part of the Marine Corps that rescued him. All this happened before either the Brits or the US forces were supposed to be anywhere near Iraq."

"Clever girl." Dino took another sip of wine and then swirled the remnants around thoughtfully in his glass. "Then you know it all."

"I do not. I know hardly anything. Something really bad happened to him and he won't face it. He just hides it away." I asked Dino and wondered if he would be led by my comment into revealing more. I was naïve in the extreme if I think I can trick him into saying anything he didn't want to.

"He has faced it. Believe me. Every day of his life. Leave it where it is. I met him, we left the forces. We joined Luthan. That is all you need to know."

And I knew then that nothing I said would ever change his mind. Dino would not betray Terry's secret.

 

*

 

One afternoon, a few days later, I was unpacking a box of Terry's army stuff that had been pushed to the back of the store in the move. The study was fully furnished now and I thought I ought to display some of his decorations and memorabilia on the book case. He is quite absurdly attached to some of the insignia of his former life and he has some great old photographs that would make a super collage. So I rooted around in the box and giggled at some of the rubbish he had saved. In the corner of the box, there was an envelope with an official seal on it. Of course I was onto that in a flash. There were several documents inside. One was his discharge from hospital- pronounced fit on March 21st 1991. The other was his discharge papers.

 

 

It was signed by some general and undersigned by the Ministry, dated June 18th 1991. That was two months after a hospital had certified him fit for duty. It reeked of pass the buck and cover up, even to me, an ignorant outsider. Terry had been badly hurt and dumped by the Regiment? I had always thought he left of his own accord when his period of service came up.  He had also told me that he was a Captain, not a Major- that was another fact that didn't gel. Furthermore this document showed that he had been given the old heave ho. Invalided out? Whatever had been wrong with him, he had recovered and there was no reason for him to be discharged in the long term. The army had been his life. What had happened for him to be ejected from his career and vocation in that way?

I thought about what I knew about his past. Terry and his wife had separated shortly before he joined Luthan. He spoke of irreconcilable differences. The divorce had come through about a year or so later- there had been some attempt at patching things up, mostly for Henry's sake, but it had failed miserably, especially as he had spent most of that year in the field learning the trade.  What did I know of Penny? Not much. She was a cold hearted bitch but a good mother. She was a young woman who had married a selfish bastard for the wrong reasons. His career had made him an absent husband and poor father. It depended on his mood exactly what he had said about her but, frankly, not much. The chapter on his life had been long closed and with the loss of his son when he had been drawn into PW, the remaining connecting links had been severed. I know it hurt him never to see Henry but, like most things, he pushed that down and rationalized that even had he still been back there, it was unlikely that his relationship with the boy who called him "Sir" would ever have amounted to much.

1991-quite a year for Major Thorne. Injuries sustained in the line of duty. Left the army. Ended his marriage. Embarked on a new career. There was a linking factor here. Of that I was sure.

 

*

 

It occurred to me that I might never know the mystery behind this incident in his former life. Perhaps to truly find out more, I would have to cross his portal and might be able to find the missing pieces of the puzzle there somewhere. I thought about going to see Penny - a crazy idea, one I dismissed out of hand - but the notion of hearing her side of the story fascinated me. As did the idea of meeting Henry as he was now- seventeen, I think, almost a man. What a sight he must be now as he begins to fill out and grow into his father's son, leaving the blond, curly-haired gawky schoolboy behind! But I couldn't do it- it is impossible to traverse a portal without the presence of its owner- and also he would never want me to do such a thing. As inclined as I am to break the rules, there are some things that even I would never tamper with.

And then the next night, he sat down after dinner with a glass of brandy and asked me to join him. It was an oddly formal request and I sensed that he was ready to tell me something of great significance. And he did. Quietly and softly he told me the story as far as he knew it and then indicated that if I cared to know the rest, then I should ask Dino. I did. He filled in the parts that Terry did not remember. And now I know. Oh God, I wish I didn't.

 

CCB ( Close Combat Battalion)  is a small tactical unit that was formed in the 1960s to combat terrorism in Africa and the Middle East. There are twenty men involved at any one time; it is a highly select and secret operation. The rank held within the battalion is at odds with that of the Army as a whole and is regarded as higher when officially rated. So, a CCB Captain equals army Major in authority.

The battalion is divided into two parallel squads CCB1, CCB2. I was the senior office of CCB2. There were nine men in my command, some of the most highly trained military experts in the world. They had been selected from a wide variety of fields- artillery, explosives, intelligence, communications - you name it, we had it all.

"What was your field?"

A pause. "I was a sniper. The best."

CCB is so secret that even the commanders never know exactly which squad is given the operation. We worked in tandem- one group would be the decoy force for the other but until we were well established it was not always clear even to us which team was which. There were reasons for that. Often we were engaged in activity that the government could not acknowledge, even if the PM had actually sanctioned it. As such the need to know basis had to be strictly limited for every person who has access to information is a potential source of betrayal. There are so many ways to leak information, even accidentally to someone who is listening carefully enough.

Humming Bird was a mission that was literally a shot in the dark. Had it worked it would have changed the face of modern history. It failed. I failed. You have no idea how many lives have been sacrificed because of my failure.

The squad was divided into two groups: Alpha and Beta. My second in command, Lt. Peters, took Beta and the backup role. They were to provide our evacuation and escape while covering the route in case we were followed. Amongst them were our explosives experts- roads and bridges en route were primed. It might sound brutal to suggest that to save the lives of five soldiers, we would have been prepared to detonate major supply routes and risk high civilian casualties but the reality of it is this. We were valuable commodity and a command decision to place our survival above that of innocent locals is army-think. I don't defend it. I just accept it.

We were at the peak of fitness and ready for the task. A soldier's life in peacetime is anomalous. Trained for combat at the highest level and we play games to keep us match- fit. You get the call for real action, you are on it like a fly on shit. It's all you ever wanted. I can't expect a civilian to understand that. Not sure I do myself now. But to be that kind of soldier, you are stripped down and rebuilt. It has to be like that or you could not function in the situation you are placed. That's the truth of it, Tink, as unpalatable as that truth might sound. I wanted this action so bad that I would have walked over my own mother to get it.

OK...so we parachuted in and began our trek. The details are immaterial. I can navigate my way with my eyes closed and we had high tech equipment. Nothing could go wrong. Our aim was Basra and we knew exactly where we were going and what we would do when we got there. Conditions were fair. This was desert terrain, always a bitch, and we had limited supplies. Five men, carrying heavy equipment and crossing a great distance quickly have to be realistic about what they need. Food and water is a necessity, weaponry and communications- goes without saying. Not much else. No soap, no razors, no mementoes of wives and girlfriends, no books of meaningful poetry. You dig a hole and shit. Eat with the same hands that wiped your arse. After a few days you stink, but so do the others. You get used to it.

"What were you planning to do, Terry? What was your objective?"

He looked at me and dragged deeply on the cigarette he was holding.  "Classified."

I sighed but accepted his comment.

Five days out, we realized we were fucked. First off, we were lost. I mean completely fucking lost. Imagine how that feels? I had managed to get the whole fucking team lost, like a boy scout on his first camping trip. I couldn't understand it. I had followed the maps, the compass, everything. It didn't make sense. But we should have been in Basra and we were in the fucking middle of fucking nowhere, holding our dicks. Christ, I was completely fucking floored. Went over the calculations again and again. Then the penny dropped. Someone had shafted us. The maps were fucked.

We had little choice but to abort. Withdraw, contact control to bring us in. It was a disaster and I knew I would be made to look like a fool, even if it wasn't my fault, but I wouldn't risk the men in the circumstances. Then we were hit. They knew where we were all the fucking time. Jesus Christ, we were sitting ducks.

"What do you mean? Who hit?"

"Tank unit. Appeared out of fucking nowhere, launched heavy artillery. Everyone scattered. Radio destroyed, two men down. Still don't know how I got out of there alive but I told the boys who were left - retreat. Can't take these fuckers. Get the hell out and one of you take the story back. Serious intelligence leak. We've been set up. I drew their fire and let the others go.

"So how did you escape?"

I didn't. They surrounded me and I surrendered. I was surprised - expected a bullet in the head. Technically we were breaking every rule in the book. No one would claim us. Therefore we would be treated like spies or terrorists. We are talking Iraq, Tink. What would you imagine?

"You surrendered knowing they would kill you?"

Wanted to tie them up to give the others a chance. There would be some discussion before they did it and it would delay them. I'd lost two of my men already; I was damned if I was losing the other two. It's funny when it comes to it. You'd don't really think 'This is it, mate.' You just think what you have to do and do it. Anyway, you're never dead until they pull the trigger.

They roughed me up a bit, ransacked my pockets, usual stuff, and then they made me kneel down. I weighed up my chances. I hadn't got any- but I wasn't going without a fight. I'd take a few out with me. For one second a thought flashed through my mind- but I forced it away. I'd never been much of a father anyway. He wouldn't miss me.

So I went for it; reckon I broke the neck of the first guy and busted the balls of the second and then - nothing. They must have hit me with a rifle butt. That's all I remember, except that I thought I was dead. I remember thinking that. 'I'm dead. It doesn't feel so bad.'

My next memory is the dark. Just dark and pain. Thirst. Cold. Hunger. Hours of that. Then my head began to clear and I started to think about where I was. Not dead, that was for sure. Prison cell, must be. I moved but my body screamed out. Wasn't sure if I had broken bones, wasn't even able to tell if I was bleeding. It felt like every part of me hurt at once; I could taste blood in my mouth.

It was day before I had a clearer idea of my condition. As the sun came up I saw my cell. It was a small concrete space about five feet square and I was lying face down, naked, with my arms bound behind my back. There was blood on the floor and on my body but not much, considering. I flexed my cramping, aching limbs and there was mobility, if limited. No bones broken. I rolled onto my back and took a few deep breaths. Ribs seemed OK. I'd been worked over, probably given a good kicking, but I'd live.

Wriggling to a sit, I leaned against the wall and stared out at the bleak grey cell, illuminated only by a small shaft of light. There was no shit pot, no food or water, no source of heat, other than the sun, and nights would be freezing cold in the desert. I was naked and constrained, already weak and possibly injured. It would have been easy to simply give up at that point.

Something in you takes over. Something deep down. They will not make me fear them. They cannot break my spirit. Actually they can. Mostly they do. But inside your head, you begin to search for the mechanisms that will protect you. For if you are to survive, then that is the only place where you will find your salvation.

So, I set to work. I found a little stone and used it to make a mark on the wall. DAY 1.Then I divided the small space into 4 by dragging an uneven line against the flags, holding the stone in my bound hands and wriggling forward. Four sectors. My living space. One for sleeping. One for shitting, the other two, along the wall where the light was, for exercise. I couldn't lie flat or stand up straight but I could devise a programme to stretch and limber up, enough to stop my muscles from atrophying. It would give me something to think about.

And so I lived there for three months of my life in filth and squalor and deep in my own head. They fed me at intervals, food not fit for pigs but you'd eat anything...anything, Uma, when you are that hungry- even if it crawls with insects or stinks of urine. They gave me water but not enough- I drank my own piss. I didn't waste anything. And I spent the endless days preparing my mind for what they would want from me.

It came on the thirteenth day of my captivity. They had left me until they thought my spirit would be broken and my condition weak. Then the door opened and two guards dragged me out along a corridor to an interview room. I beg pardon. A torture chamber. My legs wouldn't work fast enough so they simply pulled me between them and I let them. You don't fight what you can't win; it is a useless waste of energy.

I'm not going to take you through the many sessions that I spent in that room. I don't remember much really. I went inside myself until it felt like I was watching from a great height- some poor bugger, naked and filthy, hair and beard long and matted, fingernails caked in dirt. Don't know who he was.

"Did they hurt you really badly?"

I lived. There was a lot of physical intimidation and I was constantly beaten. Ribs took a battering, broke a few bones, lost a few teeth. Nothing much. They wanted me alive. A man can only take so much brutality, whatever they say in the films. Mostly they used electric shock and water. Hurts like fuck, but you last longer. Humiliation. They like that best. Christ, what man can do to man!

"Humiliation?"

It's degrading to be given electric shocks until you piss yourself and have to sit in your own crap and then they feed it to you. I wondered if my genitals would survive. Got beyond even caring. They also liked sexual stuff. Touching me. Jerking me. Fucking me with sticks. In my mouth... Christ...I don't want to talk about this to you...

"Why? What did they want to know?"

I don't remember. I made myself forget. Until I forgot everything and I wouldn't speak. Couldn't speak. Just functioned. Did what they said. They must have decided that I'd lost my mind. Maybe I had. I don't remember. Most of it is blank. I don't know what I said, Uma. I don't know if I told them what they wanted or not. I think I said nothing but I'm not sure. Do you know how that feels?

"You were being brutalized! How can you blame yourself for that?"

That's all I can say. My next clear memory is a hospital bed and that fucking red hair. He wouldn't fucking shut up. Just talking, talking, talking and I was sick of talking so I told him to "Shut the fuck up!" and he started to laugh and jig about and say some shit.

"He's a fucking Oz! Jesus fucking Christ- what's a fucking Oz doing here? Hey, you turned the wrong way at Bombay?

 

 

DINO

Once Terry had given him the nod, Dino was more than willing to talk to me. We sat down one evening not long before he left and he filled me in; Terry sat on an armchair and stared at the wall. I didn't try to reach him then, I knew he needed the space. Dino sat back, joined his fingers at the tips and rested them against his lips, thinking awhile. Then he began.

 

We were on the midnight watch- last run into war. Not much doubt that the bombers would be in shortly. I was in a small Marine special force, trained in rescue operations. We were on hand to pull out special forces, diplomats, important personnel that might just get stuck in the crossfire. One of our guys- can't say too much about that...

"Classified?"

Well...yeah. One of our guys was in an Iraqi prison- a notorious stronghold in the desert. He was in possession of some important information and we had to get him out before they broke him. So, I led a team in, got the cargo, getting the fuck out when...still not sure quite why I stopped. I hear a noise. Babbling. Thought I recognized a few words of English. It was against orders to extract anyone else but, you wouldn't leave a fucking dog in that place...I took out the lock and went in.

It was dark and I couldn't see anything at first. Just the smell. Place reeked. Something moved. I pulled down my night sights and saw him. Jesus Christ...looked like a dead body. Guess I didn't really think. I just grabbed him, threw him over my shoulder and ran.

"Threw Terry over your shoulder and ran?"

He was skin and bone. The dirt weighed more than he did. I got him out and threw him in the chopper. The other guys said I was insane. They said he was dead. But he wasn't. I gave him a quick look- reckoned most of his injuries were superficial, fed him some water and ORS, tried to clean him up and wrapped him in a blanket. He didn't say anything, but he was awake. I saw his eyes. They were light. He was definitely Caucasian.

When we got in, that's the last I saw of him. Took a measure of shit from my CO but they packed him off to Riyadh anyway. He stayed on my mind. We hadn't got a word out of him but I still knew he could speak. I'd heard him talking in that fucking cell. His eyes had watched and listened and I knew they understood - he didn't show fear but he didn't show recognition either. There was something like a wild animal about him, cowed but watching, waiting for the moment when he could strike. That's the impression I got and it was that image that stayed with me for so long.

After debriefing, I was on R and R. Took myself to Riyadh and looked up our mystery man. He was easy to find. The Europeans nurses there had nicknamed him "Clint" The Man With No Name- get it? I was told that he was healing well but refused or was unable to speak, although he appeared to understand English.

Terry was lying in a bed staring at the ceiling when I came in. I wouldn't have recognized him. I had found a bearded, filthy bag of bones and here was a handsome young man, years younger than I had expected. I sat down and introduced myself. That afternoon I talked about the rescue and myself until I almost sent myself to sleep but he didn't even look at me. Just kept on staring at that ceiling until a nurse came and told me she needed to change his dressings and I had to go.

He drew me back. Every day I went there and sat and talked about every shit under the sun. I read newspapers, novels, played popular music but nothing. He showed no sign that I was even there. The hospital authorities had tried everything to discover his identity, sending pictures and data to every European embassy about him but there was no response. No one seemed to know who he was. It was hard to believe that a man could wind up in an Iraqi prison and yet not be accounted for anywhere. So while he slowly recovered, we were all no closer to finding his identity.

Until one afternoon while we sitting on the veranda in the spring sunshine. Terry was in a wheelchair but much stronger physically- he had put weight on and filled out, and had even accepted cigarettes. I was rambling on about some girl I'd picked up in a bar the night before. Real cutie. Reporter for a French paper over here to cover the war. Had a real fine time and I thought - if this doesn't get the bastard hard at least- so I gave him the spiel, lovingly described, blow by blow. Thought I'd get the usual cold shoulder but then he suddenly opened his mouth and said "Shut the fuck up." Just like that. He was an Australian and he could talk and he didn't want to hear that I'd scored and he fucking hadn't. Thorne can't take that even at death's door.

"It was your fucking voice, Red. And I knew it was a bag of shite as well."

Whatever. It was a breakthrough. From then on he improved slowly but steadily, talking a little and responding to stimuli. His nurse remarked he was already showing some interest when she bathed him...

"She did not say that!"

Actually she did- we had got quite friendly over the past two weeks...

"Then she was after me, not you..."

He was getting better. I asked him his name and he thought about it for a while. 'I think it's Terry' he muttered- he was so hoarse from lack of using his voice box that you could hardly hear him. And then he stopped and looked up. Suddenly he started to speak:

'My name is Terrence Andrew Thorne. I am a Captain in the SAS. Please inform my commanding officers that I am alive and have information regarding the aborted Operation Humming Bird.' He seemed to have surprised himself at his revelation; he sure as shit surprised me. So we had an ID and the hospital was on to the British High Command in minutes. Before I had even left, they swooped on the hospital and he was airlifted to parts unknown. I just had time to hand him a piece of paper with my name, rank and serial on it. That was it. Never expected to see him again.

 

 

TERRY

They looked at each other at that point and Terry stood up to refill drinks and then he walked to the window and looked out onto the garden. The rain hadn't let up all week and it was bleak and windswept, a downpour hammering against the pane and sending sheets of drops skittering down. It was a night to be indoors, safe and warm. He drank his Scotch whilst staring out onto the night; we both sat and waited to see if he would go on.

 

They descended on me like a plague of locusts. Bombarded me with questions to ascertain my identity, hounded me aggressively, tried to break my story. Like a few embassy dickheads and military attaches could make me say what I didn't want to? Upshot was, I was choppered out that afternoon to a military installation in Saudi where the big boys were. At least they'd thought to get someone who might actually know me. I was positively ID'd and then they eased up a bit. First I was checked out by doctors- there were still some bones healing and my surgery scars were raw and needed care.

"Surgery?"

"Some orthopedic work on my leg- you know I have a scar below my left knee? A ruptured spleen (I would have bled to death from that if Dino hadn't found me. Those things are slowish but fatal if not dealt with) and the rectal damage. I was shitting bricks for a while there, I can tell you." He laughed and this time we all smiled. Even in horror there is sometimes a moment of relief. You have to see the funny side of it or you go mad.

Then they brought in some Psych Couns. to assess me see how nuts I was. Seems I passed muster. I was not in tip top shape but I was functioning well and in time I would get over the worst. Nightmares were going to be a regular occurrence, flashbacks, night sweats, sexual dysfunction, irrational fears, violent outbursts...they warned me to expect those but apart from that I was apples." He laughed and groaned. "I was fucked up good and proper but apparently in a very good shape considering. Final decision was give me a couple of months and I'd report fit. I'd need a while longer before I was ready for active command but they saw no reason to feel that I would not make it back to full health.

Once they thought I was mentally strong enough, they started on the debrief. Jesus, those fuckers wanted their pound of flesh. Every fucking second was analysed, no stone unturned, my command decision scrutinized, attacked, thrown in my face to see if I would incriminate myself or be shaken from my story. The others had never been found. If they were alive, I couldn't see them lasting much longer if they gone through what I had. They never even stopped to wonder how I might react to the news that I'd let them all down. Then the period of incarceration. What had I said? Had I talked? Was I responsible for revealing any positions? How much could I remember? Go over it again. Go over it again. Go over it again. Leave me the fuck alone! I don't fucking know! I don't fucking remember. I am not lying...none of you know what you have to do to hold on... Christ they tied me up and let spiders crawl all over me. In my face, my hair, over my genitals. Big hairy fuckers-tarantulas, poisonous...they laughed. They fucking laughed when I said that. Spiders? You're a highly trained army officer not a big girl. Spiders? How do they fucking know what it feels like? You know...it was like they made me live it again. As bad as the first time. What had I done wrong? And they punished me for being a victim.

I didn't understand then- there was so much I didn't understand. I only worked it out later. Finally they let me be and I was allowed to return to the land of the living. My wounds healed, the physical ones anyway, and I was released and sent home. Few weeks later I was back at base and given a desk job - senior but out of the running. Take it easy, Terry, you've had a rough deal, nine to five and spend some quality time with the family. Regiment speak...your career's fucked, mate. We don't think you make the cut any more. I knew the signs.

I was angry and bitter. Had to visit those four families and try and explain. Tell wives and mothers and girlfriends that I didn't know how their men had died but I was sure that they died bravely and it was for a noble cause. Failed to mention that someone somewhere had fucked up real bad and it sure to God wasn't me. One mother said, "Why are you here? Why aren't you dead?" What do you say to that?

I drove back that night and pulled off the motorway. I had the shakes...used to get them a lot. Had some tablets for them. Went to a pub and downed a few pints with the medicine- hardly wise- but I sat there and thought. What the fuck happened? Did I do something wrong? Suddenly the mist cleared. There was something on the TV. About politicians and war. Mrs. Thatcher and the Falklands. Army pressure for war...need for country support to win an election. I started to think. Why were the maps wrong? Was it an accident or done on purpose? John Major had sanctioned our mission - were there others who didn't want a simple and speedy solution? The army wanted the war- I had wanted war- the chance to get stuck in on a real mission had been better than sex. Were we shafted from the inside?

I knew it. As soon as the thought crossed my mind, I knew it. That's why they never tried to find me. That's why no one even claimed me when I turned up. They didn't want me back- I was an embarrassment who might just have worked it out. A last ditch attempt to stop a war had been launched and the powers that be- whoever they were- had conspired to make sure it failed. So they lost a couple of soldiers- might have lost them anyway. Casualties of war...friendly fucking fire.

Next morning, I took my opinions to my senior officers and insisted that I be allowed to make a formal complaint and that an inquiry be held. Next day, I was discharged as unfit for duty and pensioned off.

"You should have gone to the press! Others did. Written a book. Why did you keep it a secret?" I couldn't help but ask the question. Terry drew himself up and squared his shoulders.

"I was a soldier. I signed The Official Secrets' Act. I helped to uphold the system that brought me down. I was as eager for combat as any of them. They had stripped me down and rebuilt me in their own image. I was guilty of collusion with that. I would not break my word or reveal what I had sworn that I would not. But...I had to start again. Strip myself down and rebuild a new man from the dregs of the old. I took my punishment like a soldier and turned my back on them all.

 

Dino looked down at the floor and said nothing but I sensed he was not in agreement with Terry on that one. They are different men. Dino has an unconventional outlook to authority, surprising in an ex-soldier of his experience. Terry is much more bound by honour codes and perceived loyalties. It is harder to break him but easier to take advantage. An interesting difference.

"What happened at home? How did this affect your marriage?" He smiled over at me at my question.

A woman's question- and I don't mean that as an insult. A woman would straight away see that my behaviour at home would be difficult in those circumstances. It was. Our marriage was rocky before this, held together by my absences even though they had probably caused the initial rifts. Penny had been told nothing when I was away. She knew I had been injured but I did not enlighten her; it wasn't really her fault that she didn't understand. I was moody, prone to outbursts of violent temper, I drank a lot, Henry got on my nerves if he cried or made a racket, then I lost my job. She was at me all the time. Thought I was a failure. You can imagine how that helped. Then there were the sexual problems...what can I say?

"Sexual problems?" He looked across at Dino who stood up to leave. "I'll call it a day, I think... you two need to talk. Tomorrow, Terry. Uma..." He left the room and I wondered again at his sensitivity. He knew it all but he wouldn't put Terry through this again.

We decided to turn in, locked up and went upstairs arm in arm, neither saying much. It was as we brushed our teeth and carried out the nightly rituals that we began to speak again.

"Was this too much, Uma? Did I say too much?" He sat on the edge of the bath and looked at me, his concern evident in the limpid pools of his eyes.

"Too much for anyone, Terry. But I want to know. I need to know. It is only in sharing these things that I can truly be your woman. You know that, don't you? You're not alone anymore. You don't have to bury things deep and put on the game face for me."

I knelt at his feet and buried my head in his lap; he stroked my hair and composed himself. It had taken a lot of emotional effort to draw this from himself and I could sense that the story was not finished; some of the hardest parts might still be to come. But he was opening up and everything was rushing to the surface in a cathartic outpouring.

Rising, I pulled him to his feet and led him to bed. We lay together; he with his back against the headrest and me lying in his arms. For a long time he did not speak and then he began:

 

"My wife thought I was a joke. She laughed in my face because I couldn't sustain an erection. There is no way I can explain what that feels like for a man. Even if you tell yourself it is bound to be the case after what happened, it is still a hideous experience. It isn't about sex. It's about being a man. Your sense of self and your empowerment. Since I was a little boy, my dick and I have been best friends. He made me into a boy, then made me into a man, made me strong and virile, gave me entrée to the Boy's club of life and allowed me to pleasure women, the creatures that I most longed to touch and impress. Now it was a useless organ between my legs, fit only for piss. Like me- worth nothing anymore.

I was at rock bottom when I moved out and she filed for divorce. No job, no wife, a son who was frightened of me, no mates - well, I had no desire to see my army mates, couldn't face them, although several contacted me. Just brushed them off. Lived in a hotel in London and drank round the clock. After I woke up one day and I realized I had lost four whole days, I knew I had to sort myself out. Sat down and made a list of what I had to do. A list. You wouldn't have believed it.

 

 

That sort of crap. But I ended up laughing at myself and the banality of existence. 

I had enough money to give me some space although I had no idea what I wanted to do for a living. I bummed around for a few weeks, cruised bars and clubs at night, chatted up women and then tried and failed to lay them. One night I went to a girlie bar off Soho. Pretty decent place, smart girls...some claimed to be university students putting themselves through college. Maybe...

"What was it called?"

Can't remember. Yeah...Purple Rain...after the song...paid a girl to lap dance. She offered me more. I had a hard on. Said how much. She said hundred quid. I took her out back. Pushed her face against the dressing room wall and fucked her. I was rough. She said...that'll cost more...I gave her two hundred. She was more than happy.

"What was her name?"

No idea. Don't even know what she looked like. (Catherine Morant. Imperial College, reading for her PhD in Theoretical Physics. Blonde, tall, great legs. Paid off her computer loan with that night's work.) But I had done it. Got it up, kept it up, came. From then on that was how I played it. Off and on for months I would pick up a hooker, drive somewhere quiet and bang her against a wall. Always pay more than she asked. Never go back. Then, celibacy for the next couple of weeks until I needed it again.

"How did you get over it?"

In time, normal function was restored...there were a few misfires but I got it right eventually. But something had changed in me. Before that I had been a pretty gregarious kind of bloke. Everyone's mate, within the restrictions of my rank, well liked, a joker. I liked a pint and I liked women...was a bit of a ladies' man. Fucking lousy husband. I never gave it a thought. Sex was just what you do.  I was good at it and the girls liked it. But after that, I became more introverted and kept myself apart. I didn't bond much with men, apart from the obvious times when I had to have a drink for business or with colleagues, and I never made meaningful relationships with women. There were some I saw when I was in London- dinner, night out and sex- but it was superficial and if I felt that they were getting too close, I backed off. A couple of flings when I was working, but again I knew that I would be gone soon and would never have to commit myself.

"You took the veil. Is that what you meant?"

Yes. I was never going to put my life in the hands of anyone else ever again, nor was I going to let another woman undermine my confidence; it had taken a bashing, although few would have realized it from my outward behaviour. The cool operator who was slick at his job and smooth with the ladies was a bag of self doubt and neuroses inside. As long as I kept moving, I never had to face that.

 

It was late and he was drained. I made him stop. We made love. It was a desperate kind of love as he buried himself in me to drive from his brain the nightmares that had resurfaced. It wasn't his finest hour but I would be a very selfish woman indeed if I had expected anything more from him that night than the emptying of his soul. As I held him and rocked him to sleep, I let my tears come and allowed myself the shocking release of memory. Imagine...how close I came...I wonder what he would think if he knew that?

 

*

 

The next morning, I awoke to find him gone from the bed. I got up, put on a wrap and ran downstairs but couldn't find him. The back door was unlocked and I peered out onto the dark morning; I saw some movement at the bottom of the garden. Flinging on some clothes and wrapping up warmly, I made my way to the fence at the limit of our land; it divides us from the woodland beyond. Terry was sitting on the fence, his feet on the lower rail and smoking. It was bitterly cold and he had no coat on, his hands were frozen and his face must have been numb.

"Come inside, Terry. I'll make a cuppa. It's too cold to sit out here."

"I just needed fresh air. I felt claustrophobic inside the house. You go back in, you shouldn't be out here, it's freezing. I'll be back soon..."

"Not unless you come back. I won't leave you."

His head slowly turned round and he smiled sadly at me. "If I'd known you then...who could say? Might have been different. Come on, make me a cup of tea. I haven't the strength to argue with you this morning..."

Back inside, clutching a mug of tea, I watched him drink and think. We always say it is better to get it off your chest if you have a problem but I began to wonder if that was true. Perhaps that was not always the case with every personality? Should I check with a psychiatrist? No, I can't divulge this to anyone. I must keep my own counsel for now. Resting my mug down on the table, I went and put my arms around his neck and leaned against his back. He sighed deeply.

 

I'm alright, Uma. Just thinking. I need to think. This has been resurging for a while now and I realize that I am at a place where I can look at it for what it was. But I do need to talk. I have this burning need to say the words. Yet, I don't want to hurt you or burden you now. But who else can I tell?

I shrugged. "Maybe one of the other Brothers? Lachlan? It doesn't have to be me if you're not comfortable about it. I would understand..."

Understand? That I should turn to someone else rather than you? That would hurt you more. And some part of me wants you to be the one. I need to feel that when you look at me, there is no pretence- that you know the man I really am. I have been hiding too long.

I nodded and slipped onto his lap, he rested his forehead against mine and began to speak.

I decided to take a few months off and travel before I made some plans for the future. I went to America first. The plan was to travel down to South America, my Spanish is good, and just bum about. But first I decided to look up somebody. The Marine who found me. Somewhere in my head, the last person who had treated me with any dignity had been him. I had this notion that I should start my recovery with him. Go back and rebuild myself from where I had been when he found me.

I used contacts to trace him and found that he was back in California at 29 Palms. It's a training camp- much used at that time because it was the last port of call for advanced manoeuvres before shipping out to the Gulf. I was surprised he was there. I had supposed that he was a highly trained bloke on one of their special teams and didn't expect him to be playing nursemaid to the babies. But he was there. Senior consultant. Bored off his skull and at a crossroads himself.

I turned up at the main gate and asked for him. The guys on the gate were very unhelpful. 'Go fuck yourself, there's a war on...' I handed them something and asked them quietly to find him and surprisingly they did. About a half hour later, the door to the waiting area opened and there was O'Leary, as ugly as ever, grinning at me.

 

Terry stopped and laughed. So did I. I could picture them both so clearly. He shook his head and continued.

"He walks in and says "What the fuck is this crap?" I had handed over a small wooden animal, something I had whittled in some mindless occupational therapy class when I was in hospital. I had scratched the word 'Chienne' on it.

"What the fuck is this supposed to be?" Dino had laughed holding it out.

"She had to be a dog. French one at that. The journo you said you fucked. That night in Riyadh."

We both laughed. I hadn't laughed like that for months. You know- two blokes being crude about women? Pretty crass, but it made me feel like I could make contact with the world again.

He was pretty surprised to see me but he took me to the Officers' Mess and we spent the rest of the day drinking and we talked some shit, I can tell you. I didn't speak of what had happened or anything classified and he didn't ask me. All I said was I was no longer a soldier; he accepted that with no comment. That night we hit the city and did some damage. Ended in a brothel. We were naughty boys. I hadn't felt that good in so long.

Woke up in a hotel, naked in a bed with him and two hookers. We were stoned and hung over; we scrabbled about looking for cash to pay these women off. Christ, we must have spent a fucking fortune the night before. Eventually we got rid of them and then we simply crashed. It was late afternoon before we woke again. Guess sleeping with a bloke on the first date breaks the ice. That evening we talked over a beer and a steak and I told him briefly what I could. He wasn't surprised. Dino was pissed with the army for his own reasons and had resigned his commission. They had sent him there to work off his last few months. He was as disillusioned as I was but at least he had some notion of what he wanted to do in the future. Told me about K and R. Reckoned it would made him mega bucks and be better than some nine to five shit that he knew he'd never hack. He talked me into applying with him and so we did. Both were interviewed in New York and taken on. I was based in London, he in the States. We saw each other from time to time.

"That it? End of story? You told me all that and it just peters out like a damp squib?"

Terry grinned- the first time he had relaxed since he had started to talk. 

No, that isn't all. It was longer and more arduous than that but that is another story, Tink. My career at Luthan isn't really the point of this little narrative, is it? But I began to see that I had been fundamentally shattered by a loss of faith in those whom I most respected. As a result, I became a loner and Dino was one of the few people whom I allowed in. I was a K and R man because it seemed to me to be the answer to my nightmares. I was now able to free people who had become innocent victims as I had once been. However, I was a risk taker who refused to accept defeat and I regularly went over and above what should have been the required level of involvement. I was on a crusade, love, and my superiors knew that I was way beyond safe. But I got results, earned them big bucks and somehow managed to keep bouncing back.

The only one who could talk to me was Dino. He gave me a ration of shit for the things I took on but I still carried on. I had these rules in my head of what I could and could not do. Things began to unravel about the time I got Lenoir out of Chechenya. I had been in the field nonstop for eight months and a girl I had been seeing had given me the heave-ho - can't say I blamed her. She hardly ever saw me and I wasn't much fun when she did. I was so uptight that I couldn't relax. I was like a coiled spring.

People don't realize that what was really behind my decision to go back to Tecala was when I realized that for years I had been labouring under the misapprehension that I was doing what I believed in-thwarting the corrupt from playing God with innocents. And then I realized that I was just being used again as I had been used before. I was a lackey of big business and the name of the game was money. It was not about saving those caught in the cross fire but profiteering from them and I had allowed myself to be their pawn again.

That is why I went back and that is why I saved Peter Bowman. To win back my self respect. What happened with Alice was a part of my reawakening. I needed a home and a family. I suddenly understood that without that to root myself I was dysfunctional and probably always had been. It was time to stop running and face the future. The only real self respect I could gain was if I began to slow down and live for me and not use the tragedies of others to mask my own failures.

I'm still learning, Tink, and you are now the end result. I can hold down a relationship with a woman, build a future and still do a useful job. I have friends and family; women I love and men I admire. I am beginning to bond and move more easily with others. I'm getting better but it is an ongoing process and I am at the stage when I have to open up and confront what happened and help you understand that I may have some problems still to face.

He stopped and I clung to him for a while, turning the revelations over in my mind. There was something here that he had glossed over and I knew it was for us the most important aspect, but he did not want to raise it. I would have to do so.

"Terry...you were raped. Have you ever really acknowledged that to yourself?"

I'm not sure I see it like that. I was trained to expect interrogation if I was captured. Violence is violence, torture is torture. All forms are much the same as another in the end. What happened to me wasn't about sex or homosexuality, it was about humiliation and fear. I understood what was happening in a way that other men might not have...

"You were raped. Rape is always about violence, humiliation and fear. A woman might rationalize it too but she wouldn't be any less marked by the experience. Terry, you are a straight guy who has been violently abused by men. As a result you suffered sexual problems and relationship dysfunctions. Your personality changed. You are still unable to let your inner demons out when you have sex with me or other women - unless you pay for it. Are you afraid of being violent towards a woman? Do you ever think sexually about men?"

He cleared his throat and exhaled slowly.

I think about what happened sometimes and remember that I came when they wanked me. I came when they fucked me. I came when I blew them. And I don't know why. Somehow it still aroused me amidst the pain and fear.

"Perhaps because it was human contact and you needed that. Like the Stockholm Syndrome but in a sexual sense. You craved some contact with the world outside even if it was to prostitute yourself when they abused you. And men are mechanical in their responses. Ejaculation does not necessarily mean desire. It just means the right buttons were pressed. Do you desire anal sex with a woman?"

No. I have no interest in it. Not after what I have been through. Nor do I wish to have violent sex games with you or any woman. You're wrong about that, love. If you want to play, Uma, you know I will, but it isn't really what turns me on. I can't stop feeling that when a man and woman pretend to violence that is because they have never experienced it for real. They play at what they will never know and it excites them. For me and you, we have tasted the degradation and it sours our palate. But sometimes I think about it, dream about it and there is a level of response. It is there somewhere. I don't want to do it but I think I need to do it. That's why I sometimes use whores, even now. Safety mechanism. They know the score; I won't cross the line but I have to release the demon that life has awoken or I fear it might one day run away with me.

"It wouldn't. You're too rational for that and you understand yourself too well. But I love that you have taken such pains to protect women that you care about- although we would never, ever fear you. Terry, I adore the ground you walk on and I don't actually think you have a clue about the extent of what you are to me. But you are right about some things. I don't really play the game quite like others do either, for I have my own demons, too and they eat at my soul. I don't need to invent them just for sport."

Tell me. Now. Let there be nothing that either of us hides away from each other. I can heal you while you heal me. Please, Uma, no more running and hiding?

But I shook my head and held him close, blinking away the prickle of bitter salt tears. 

"No, my love. For your demons uplift you to nobility and mine lower me to the dregs of life. I have to keep the myth before those I love that I am someone worthy of their love. The truth is, Terry, I am not. And if you knew then you would recoil in horror at the trap in which I had caught you. Leave me my fictions and my fantasies and keep your own illusions about me a while longer. Please."

He said nothing and did nothing but hold me. But his touch spoke volumes. He would wait and watch and one day he would make me tell him. Somehow I knew that day would come and then I would find the courage to stand before him in the stark light of truth.

"I will keep your secret, Terry Thorne - I won't write about this except in my secret diaries, those I share with no one. If you wish others to know, then tell them yourself."

No. Write it. Get it out in the open for all to see. Catharsis. I have cleansed my soul and you are my healing waters. I don't wish to go over it again but I wish for them to know. It is your story now and it belongs in our family. Do your worst, Tink...and make it the best thing you ever wrote. For me.

 

Back  |  Site Map  |  Fiction  |  Updates  |  Links  |  Submissions  |  Contact  |  Message Board

 

  Site Meter