Hurt Runs Within, page 6
Cross watched and let him think on it for five seconds. She then watched Mackay remove the cushion, pull the seat inwards from its collapsing handle and place it in the back seat. Job done. Ten minutes later, they pulled into the café parking lot which was huddled between a small car dealer and an independent computer repair store. Cross pulled a disabled card from her inside pocket and slid it onto the dashboard.
‘We’re good,’ she said. ‘We can be as close as we like.’
Mackay scouted the parking lot for the disabled spaces, of which there were two: one occupied with a sporty Mini Cooper, and one other which was free. Both up close to the café’s front entrance. Mackay had been there once before. A hidden spot just out of town overlooking a small lake, or maybe it was a large pond, littered with moored boats mostly of the dinghy variety.
Mackay swung his legs out onto the blacktop then leaned over Cross’s stubs to pull his Viking cane from the passenger well. He noted the altered fabric of the pinned denim cut short to fold neatly over her limbs. He walked around, removed the wheelchair from the back, then set it up alongside the passenger side.
‘Do I help you get in?’ said Mackay.
‘No. Just watch and look interested.’
Mackay stood off to the side feeling like a moron. Helpless and special – and not in the neurotically brilliant sense. Cross moved fast. On autopilot, having done the in-and-out process a few hundred times at least. She grabbed the Jesus-bar near the roof lining, swung into the assembled chair, closed the door and rolled herself towards Mackay. Done and dusted in ten seconds. Bish bash bosh.
Inside, the café was stained wood all around. Maintaining an antique vibe that went with the lakeside location. It was busy but not crowded, or excessively loud. Mostly older folk in retirement age, aside from one table of four teens: two girls, two guys. Mackay took a long hard look. Judging. Making assumptions. They all wore various jackets matching the low temperature. No puffer styles though. The girls wore beanies, the guys wore caps turned backwards, but at least they were quiet. An overly friendly waitress, a frumpy girl somewhere in her late twenties, came out from the front reception and found them a table. She laid a couple of menus on the table and asked whether they’d like to order coffee straight away. Good customer service, thought Mackay. He was keen for the caffeine and needed something to help rejuvenate his conversation skills. Cross ordered a large double shot latte, Mackay a large double shot flat white. Neither requested sugar.
‘How are they going for you?’ asked Cross.
‘Pardon?’
‘The teens over there. Your attention was lost to them for the last ten seconds.’
‘Yes. Sorry. I’m just settling into my surrounds. Predicting whether we’ll have to deal with any obnoxious ferals.’
‘Don’t let them spoil our time, Tin Man, we’re off to a good start.’
‘I had nothing else to do. And you gave me no other choice really.’
‘Good point.’
Mackay said, ‘We haven’t introduced ourselves properly. We should do the obligatory thing and shake hands.’ Mackay stretched his hand across the table. ‘Mackay Connolly.’
Cross clasped down on Mackay’s hand like a vice. ‘Renee Cross,’ she said. ‘So, you from the North or the South? Belfast or Dublin?’
‘Born in Dublin. Moved over when I was fourteen.’
‘I’m an Essex girl originally, though I grew up in Manchester. Then twelve years in the engineer corps. And now I’m here.’ Cross looked down at her legs and smiled. Her first. Her eternally stern exterior completely vanished as her teeth, eyes, and cheeks all opened up to reveal someone warm, trusting and friendly. In the hazy daylight bouncing off the water from the lake, Mackay took her in entirely: a natural redhead highlighted to a deep ginger, scattered freckles over a fair complexion, and green oval eyes above that sharp jawline. She had perfect teeth on the top row, and slightly crooked ones on the bottom. She was older than Mackay by a few years, and overall, he pegged her as athletically sexy, rather than pretty or cute.
‘Always happy to meet a fellow battle survivor,’ Cross said. ‘I do know who you are by the way.’
‘I’m guessing there was a write-up in the Defence newspaper?’
‘Everyone with a major surgery ends up knowing everyone with a major surgery. Defence news spreads like teen gossip. An IED explosion in the Badlands with three killed. One in the first blast, two in the second. Corporal Connolly pinned in his seat by two metal shafts from the blown suspension.’
‘Good work. If I wore a hat, I’d take it off.’
‘Shit. I’m sorry.’
‘For what?’
‘My comment before, when you picked me up.’
‘I remember. About not knowing how good a driver I am?’
‘Totally slipped my mind. I didn’t mean it.’
‘Under the bridge.’
Silence passed between them. Cross spoke first, relieving the tension.
‘Captain Andersen did your work at Kandahar,’ she said. ‘Did mine as well. He’s a good surgeon.’
‘A better surgeon wouldn’t have left me looking like a mauled wine barrel.’
‘You’re alive, aren’t you?’
Mackay didn’t reply.
‘A better surgeon doesn’t exist,’ said Cross. ‘Any other surgeon with half the quid of Andersen would still shit bricks if they came across a real combat surgery.’
‘I’ll take it back,’ said Mackay. ‘Andersen did a good job. My skin is still itchy, and looking at the scarring in the mirror makes me feel sick, but my ribs do feel pretty good. It’s like there’s a cool patch all around my torso. Colder than the rest of me, which I’m assuming is the thermo-compound.’
‘Holy shit, you received the thermoplastic?’
‘It replaced the old ribs along the attachment points damaged in the blast.’
‘Lucky man. That’s a whole new level, Mackay, some real fandangle shit. You really are a modern-day Tin Man, now let’s order.’
Cross didn’t bother waiting to catch the eye of the waitress, she simply yelled her name across the café. Numerous patron heads turned. Mackay’s eyed widened, impressed at the display. Whether Cross actually knew her name because she was a regular or if she caught a glimpse of her name tag, Mackay wasn’t sure. Either way, Katie came pronto. Cross ordered eggs benedict with a side of sourdough. Mackay went with avocado-smash with poached eggs. Katie wrote it all down, left, and then returned with their coffees.
Mackay turned to Cross. ‘So, we’re doing this, are we? The deep and meaningful?’
‘That’s what we’re here for,’ said Cross. ‘I’ll go first. Question and answer. My question, your answer.’
Mackay’s cognition switches flickered. He needed more caffeine to engage in what was to come. He took a long sip of coffee, allowing the warm antioxidants to flood his cells and attune his brain to his mouth.
0915hrs
Tuesday December 11, 2012
International Airport, Perth, Western Australia
At the same time Mackay and Cross drank, ate, and unloaded war stories, Mackay’s older brother Malvin and his family touched down at Perth’s International Airport. They hit the tarmac a little after nine in the morning in one of the most isolated cities in the world – there for a family holiday where smoky orange sunsets fanned the Indian ocean. Malvin’s wife, Neve, and their two sons, Lincoln and Angus, were glad to finally be on the ground. Twenty hours in the air is one long innings for any young family. As international guests with an appreciation for wine, Malvin and Neve booked their travels three hours’ drive south of Perth city in Margaret River, the wine capital of the west. It was all about sampling and indulging. Aside from world-class wines, there were other assortments on offer, including cheese, chocolate, and wild game. But that was only half the menu. The other half involved surfing pristine beaches, fishing, snorkelling, and reading a good book or two.
They collected their luggage from the carousel and moved to the Hertz vehicle hire booth – the classic yellow-over-black font unmissable inside the terminal. They’d selected a late model Toyota Camry back in Bracknell, so they just needed their passport and credit card details to sign it out. The receptionist, a younger girl with straight blonde hair cut in a bob, confirmed their details then directed them outside, past the taxi rank and passenger drop-off points to the Hertz car yard.
With Perth being seven hours ahead of England, Malvin knew they’d need a day of recovery to freshen up before heading south to their main holiday retreat in the wine region. Namely to recover from the jet lag. Once the vehicle handover was complete with an exchange of paperwork for keys, the Connollys piled inside the Camry and drove to their pre-booked hotel. A ten-minute drive from the airport. A three-star, so nothing fancy considering it was only for one night. The next morning they’d drive the three hours south to Margaret River where they’d hired a beach house for a whole week.
When booking the holiday, Malvin calculated he would need at least two weeks off from duties as head pastor of Somerville Baptist Church. Three days prior to departure to pack and get the house in order, and another three days post-holiday to unpack and settle back into the Connolly routine. Six days either side was as good as a week, so Malvin indulged and took the full two weeks off – delegating his responsibilities to the elders.
Malvin’s wife, Neve, worked alongside Malvin at the church, helping out with the worship and music teams, but for the last six years since the birth of their youngest, Lincoln, she was mostly a stay-at-home mother. Lincoln was diagnosed with autism – somewhere in the middle range of the spectrum – and had numerous requirements that needed to be met for his support. Lincoln’s autism, however, didn’t make him entirely different or polarised from most children his age. Most other six-year-olds would never even know he was different. It was the social interaction, nonverbal communication, and repetitive behaviours which Neve needed to monitor and care for. She had opted to remain his full-time carer and homeschool teacher, as well as undertake every other mothering duty over the past six years. But this year was Neve’s last with Lincoln in a full-time capacity. He was due to make the big leap to a special needs school in the new year, which also meant this overseas trip would be the family’s last big holiday for a while. Lincoln was about to find out what the world was like on his own.
0930hrs
Tuesday December 11, 2012
The Madam’s Apprentice café, Aldershot
‘Here we go,’ Katie said. ‘Avocado-smash for you, sir, and eggs benedict with your usual side of sourdough, Renee. Can I get you two anything else?’
‘No thanks, cheers, Katie,’ said Cross.
Mackay watched Cross nod and smile with familiarity, confirming she was a regular. For the next twenty seconds, Cross watched Mackay hook into his food with amused awe. At it like a medieval butcher.
‘Slow down, Tin Man, you won’t shit for a week at that rate. Nothing will get digested.’
‘Bad habits,’ said Mackay. ‘We always ate as fast as possible to get the better part of the desserts at the mess. What’s your excuse?’
‘I like tasting my food. It’s not going anywhere, and even if it was, I can’t chase eggs.’ Cross dabbed the sourdough into some spilt yolk. ‘So how is it you came to find me in particular?’
A loud burst of laughter erupted from the group of teens three tables over, wedging a pause between their conversation. Heads turned. The laughter died.
‘Friends of mine want me to… get better,’ said Mackay. ‘I was recommended to meet with you, considering we were both hit with an IED. Aside from finishing your service at Sergeant, I don’t know your story, I never really read the news.’
‘If you don’t read the news, then what? You must be a gamer? Xbox? PlayStation?’
‘Neither.’
‘Atari?’
‘It was all rugby for me. Both for the Army and the Inter-service teams. Played wing. Number eleven, on the left.’
‘Good fucking on you. Almost as tough as boxing. I like those shorts they wear, those beefcake rumps get me juicy.’
‘Christ on a bike!’ Mackay called out, almost choking on some hash brown. A few heads turned.
‘Bloody hell, Tin Man, get your hand off it. Like you’ve never heard a female grunt talk dirt.’
‘Sure, it’s just… been a while. You’ve got some proper gobshite about you, no offence and all.’
‘None taken. Calm your tits and get used to it. Yes, I’ve got a mouth. I’m a talker. I’ve heard it all. Look, I was an engineer, a Sapper. One of the first with a vagina sent on deployment for counter-IED. Checking for unexploded ordnance.’
Mackay listened intently, waiting for it all to be laid out. He picked up his coffee and drained it, as did Cross.
‘In 2010, my team was working with the Americans,’ Cross continued. ‘They had upgraded equipment that we didn’t, and we had the numbers, rank and morale they didn’t. They wanted us to use and run their shit, which neither side was happy with, but whatever. Long story short, some official said we were going to work together, so we met, trained, and moved into the desert to clear mines. On a routine patrol the Yanks had us working with the upgraded Bobcat minotaur which they thought was the bee’s fucking knees, but the wiring malfunctioned. The imaging systems weren’t scanning. Fixing the fucker would have taken over an hour, so two of us volunteered to head out and do the last kilometre manually. Me and one other Yank.’
Mackay said, ‘I heard the odds of a combat engineer being launched into the sky by a mine was one in six.’
‘Shitty odds, right?’ said Cross.
‘That’s World War One infantry odds. And was the American hit with the blast?’
‘He was, but he didn’t die immediately. The charge fragments fanned out left and right, not upwards, and the American was hit with a whole bunch of rusty nuts and screws. But it was the shock that killed him. Sent his heart rhythm into a meltdown. He died five minutes after our medevac chopper landed at the trauma hospital. His heart just stopped. The discharge fizzled it like the wires on the minotaur. I have to live with that too.’
‘You felt responsible,’ said Mackay.
‘For a long time. Blamed myself for months.’
‘There’s no way you could have known he had a bad heart. Or that it’d fry out.’
‘Didn’t matter. Either way my action contributed to his death. And that’s how I saw it. Which I’m sure is how you’ve been looking at your own incident as well.’
‘I guess. That’s been hard to shake. Hard to see any different viewpoint.’
‘Trust me, it was an accident. Call it the shithousery of life. By fate, or God, or the tree spirits, it’s all an accident. It’s not murder or manslaughter. It just occurred.’
Cross looked at Mackay with sincerity. She’d only known him for a few minutes but felt like she wanted to reach and touch his hand. Hold it, just for a moment. Like it was the natural thing to do. She knew how he felt. She’d been there. Instead, she let the thought go. No hand. She kept it at her side. Another loud burst of laughter erupted from the table of teens. This time from the two girls: one high pitch, the other long and warbled like a braying donkey.
‘Noisy little fuckers,’ Cross said, releasing a loud burp in protest. The two boys turned around and looked over. Cross looked right back.
‘Suck my dick,’ she said, audible enough for at least half the café to hear.
Cross raised her head and made eye contact with Katie, giving her the what’s up with this mob expression. Katie sighed, rolled her eyes, and countered with a suggestive shrug: teens these days, what can you do.
Cross took a forkful of egg and ham.
‘I was antsy and pissed off, so I moved quicker than normal. Hurried and unsafe. What threw me the most was the glare of the sun bouncing off chunks of scattered glass around my feet. Blown windscreens from trucks and cars. It was everywhere, like flickering beams inside my skull.’
‘I know those routes,’ said Mackay. ‘Did plenty of kilometres on them myself.’
‘The moment before the blast,’ Cross continued, ‘holding that fucking detector, I was so irritated from the glare I took a step in an uncleared direction and boom. Small mistake, big change. I forgot all about my training. I was in direct contact with the IED and got thrown into the air. Time completely slowed down in the moment. I distinctly remember looking up into the clearest blue sky you’ve ever seen. Still one of my clearest memories.’
‘I know that blast sensation,’ said Mackay. ‘That first sound, the discharge so close to your body, I can still hear it. Petrifies me. Everything is silent afterwards.’
Cross nodded in agreeance. Neither spoke for ten long seconds.
‘It took time, but I got through the toughest part of my PTSD,’ said Cross. ‘Not that I’m completely through all of it, I never will be. We want to point the finger at someone, and most of the time it’s at ourselves.’
Mackay nodded. ‘Guilt hurts,’ he said. ‘And there’s no light at the end of the tunnel.’
Cross said, ‘Blaming yourself, or finding someone to pin it on, is a total waste of mental energy. You need to let it go. Group therapy will help with that.’
‘I get it, but it’s…’
‘Easier said than done,’ said Cross. ‘I know.’
Another ten long seconds of silence. Mackay changed course. ‘So, your limbs. Did it hurt?’
‘Some vets I’ve spoken to say they can’t remember losing their limbs,’ said Cross. ‘I can still remember the rush of warmth in my legs. The heat. It wasn’t instantly painful, but I felt lighter as I was thrown into the air, then I hit the ground ten metres up the road. Some days it’s as if I can still feel my legs dangling in this chair. Warm, invisible.’
