Berserk

"Ear-wigging, were you?" Long-Hair asked.

"No," Tom said. "But I heard you mention Porton Down. My son was killed on Salisbury Plain ten years ago, and I was just wondering …" I won't mention their "monster" comment, Tom thought. That's what drove them out, the thought someone might have heard that word. Monster.

"Sorry to hear that," Beer-Gut said, though he sounded indifferent.

"I was just wondering, if you were at Porton Down maybe—"

"We weren't there," Long-Hair said. "You must have misheard us."

"How long ago did you say he was killed?" Beer-Gut asked.

"Leave it!" his friend cut in, but Tom was quick with his answer.

"Ten years next month."

Beer-Gut's eyes widened slightly, he took his hands from his pockets, stood taller.

Long-Hair looked from his friend to Tom, then back again. "I said leave it!" he said, and he went for Tom. He grabbed his jacket and shoved him against the wall, not hard, but there was certainly nothing friendly in the gesture. His breath stank of fear. Tom had never smelled anything like it before, but he knew exactly what it was. This man was terrified. "We just came for a drink," he said. "We don't like people listening in on our conversation, and we don't want to be bothered by stuff we know nothing about."

"So you weren't there?" Tom asked, keeping his eye on Beer-Gut. The big man frowned and refused to meet his gaze.

"Where?" Long-Hair said. "And even if we were, didn't your son tell you anything about the Official Secrets Act? Now fuck off before I get angry." He let go of Tom and retreated, wringing his hands as if embarrassed at his show of aggression.

"If that wasn't you angry, I'd hate to piss you off," Tom said. But Long-Hair did not avert his gaze or apologise. He simply stared, and soon Tom was u

Beer-Gut turned and started walking away. Long-Hair smiled, shook his head. "Too much ale, old man," he said. Then he too turned away, and the two men left Tom standing alone. Neither of them looked back.

Too much ale, old man. And for every minute of his walk home, Tom wondered how true that statement could be.

"It's almost ten years, now," Jo said the following Monday morning at breakfast.

Tom nodded. He had just finished his cereal, and his thoughts kept returning to the two men from the pub. One of them aggressive, one of them quiet, but both uncomfortably aware of what he had been asking them. He had not been hearing things, and he had not imagined their comments in the pub. The palpable fear in their reaction made a mockery of their denial.

"You think we should mark the occasion somehow?" she said.

"How?"

She shrugged, twirling a strand of hair. She had always done this when thinking deeply, and Tom loved it. It gave him a glimpse of the vivacious woman he had known before their lives had been blown apart. "Maybe we could visit the Plain again."

They had gone to Salisbury Plain once since Steven's death, on its first a

"We could," Tom said, "if you really want to." Jo shrugged. "I'm not sure what I want." "I'd like to go," Tom said. He nodded. The men's talk in the pub had reignited a deep-felt skepticism about what he and Jo had been told concerning their son's death. Much as Tom realised how ridiculous it was to link the two—the men's strange conversation could have nothing to do with Steven, not after so long–there was always that doubt in his mind to play on. Any small mention of military accidents, mistaken identity, friendly fire, always set his mind ru

The inquest had been long. The media had covered it intensively, and following the "misadventure" verdict, newspapers had run interviews with relatives and pressure groups. There had been several TV programmes about the incident, and two investigative journalists had spent a year trying to discover the "real truth." They had come away smug and victorious with what they had found: a few obscure facts about live weapons training policy, and a closet full of skeletons co

Tom had no faith in the inquest's findings, and even less in the papers and TV programmes that used it to promote their own sales and ratings. He had no doubt whatsoever that the story they were told was nowhere near the truth, but the glare in which the inquiry took place had swayed many people into believing that the real story was being fully uncovered. What was actually revealed at the end of that long, painful year was yet another skewed version of the same account. More names to blame, rules to change, heads to roll, many apologies made to hungry TV cameras and a public so used to being deceived that they no longer recognised the self-satisfied smiles of their deceivers.

Cover-up, Tom's father had whispered at the funeral.

Tom had always been angry, but the anger was tempered by a grief so all-consuming that he had barely known it himself. For that year he was a stranger living in his own body, existing purely to suffer the memories of his only son. He recalled many occasions that he had not thought about for years, random moments in time, as if his mind were searching for remnants of Steven. Everywhere he looked he saw his son riding a tricycle, kicking a football, leaving home at seventeen to join the army. It came to a point when Tom wished he could go a day without memories, but those were the times when loss hit him hardest. His anger, though rich and deep, was also useless. It would gain him nothing. And he knew that through it all, the most important thing was that he and Jo were there for each other.

He had never forgotten, nor forgiven, but in a way he supposed he had given in. And eventually life moved on.

They kept monsters.

"Yes," he said again, "I'd like to go. I think it would do us some good."

Jo lowered her head and looked down into her mug.

"Jo? You all right?"

She nodded, looked up at him with sad eyes. She rarely cried anymore. Somehow this look of wretchedness was worse. "I'm fine," she said. "It's only an a

"No, no different."

"I think about him every day anyway. It's just …" She trailed off, shook her head.

"We should mark the day," Tom said.

"Yes." Jo looked at him and smiled. "It's like a birthday, except this is Steven's deathday. Is that sick, Tom? You think people will think we're weird?"

Tom grasped her hand across the table and felt the stickiness of butter and jam between her fingers. "You think I give a flying fuck what people think?" he said.

Jo laughed. He liked that sound. It reminded him that they still had a life together, and sometimes he needed reminding.

"I'm going to work," he said. "I'll check out the Internet at lunchtime and see if I can find us a nice cottage somewhere nearby."