Berserk

So he continued. It was the first time in years he had spoken in such depth about his son's death.

"They said he was in a training exercise on Salisbury Plain, involving the army and RAF. It was Steven's first major exercise since joining up, and he told us how much he was looking forward to it. Who wouldn't? He was still a kid really, and playing war games for real was exciting as hell for him. He didn't know what it would involve other than having to spend three weeks on the Plain, though he did say he'd be out of contact for that time. He told us not to worry. Of course he did. He was young, indestructible, and it was us that had become more aware of death as time crept on. Having children does that to you. He was dreaming of the parachute drop, the march across the moors, the camaraderie, the triumph of achieving their objective for the day, the smoke and noise and the excitement of knowing that there was nothing really there to do them harm. We were thinking about failed chutes, tanks sinking in the marshes, live rounds when blanks should be used … we were doing our parenting bit, for every day of those three weeks. But I was still thrilled for Steven. He was achieving an ambition he'd had since before he was a teenager. Making a life for himself. I've never really done that, though I've tried, and the fact that my son was doing it… I think I was living vicariously through him. Relishing his success, reveling in the joy he felt, because it was something I rarely experienced myself." Tom took a swig of beer, looked around the bar at the people who all meant nothing to him, and space closed in. He and King could have been sitting anywhere. "You see what I'm trying to say, Nathan? About how much I loved my son? I loved him so much I could live through him, and there wasn't an ounce of jealousy in me. I really, really loved him." He broke off, swallowed hard, waiting for his stinging eyes to clear.

"My parents were never bothered what I did, so long as I left home," King said. "You must have been a good dad."

"I hope Steven thought that way," Tom said, nodding. "I hope he did. Anyway … the exercise. It was a long three weeks for my wife and me. We knew he said he'd be out of contact, but still we waited for the phone to ring, or someone to knock on the door. It's crazy, but you never stop worrying about your children, even when they're adults. There's always something of the child to them in your eyes. Do you know what I mean? Do you have children?" Tom knew the answer even as he asked, and Nathan shook his head.

"Haven't found the right woman yet," King said.

"Good luck to you. Steven left his girlfriend when he joined up, and as far as I know, there was nothing serious for the last years of his life. I guess he was living it up, a man in uniform enjoying the attention. Something else I never did … never played the field. Sounds mad, but that's another thing I'm glad he did. Had fun."

"So what happened?" King asked, a note of impatience creeping in.

"The accident." Tom drained his beer. Through the bottom of his glass the bar seemed even farther away, as if he could close his eyes and wish himself home. "They waited until the end of the exercise to tell us. It happened during the second week apparently, but they waited another week until they called, and by then … by then his body was already being shipped to us. How fucking cold, you know? Icy cold. Even the officer's voice on the phone was hard, however much he tried to project sympathy."

"He was probably scared," King said.

"Scared of telling us?"

King glanced away, shrugged. "Go on."

"They said Steven had been in an armoured troop carrier, out on its own, traveling across the Plain. There were fifteen men in there, including the driver, and they'd just stopped beside a copse of trees when a Tornado fired a missile at them. The pilot thought they were one of the targets set up across the Plain for the RAF to practise bombing. They killed everyone, all fifteen men. And that's it, that's all they said. Apart from sorry. As if sorry is ever any good!" Tom grabbed his glass, realised it was empty, and when he looked across at King he squeezed hard, feeling the click of a crack beneath his fingers. "What is it?"

King had turned pale, and was staring down at his hands in his lap. There was sweat on his upper lip. When he looked up, Tom thought he was going to leave.

"What?" Tom asked again.

"Tom, I'm going to get another drink," he said, and when he picked up his glass his hand was shaking.

For the couple of minutes King was away Tom's mind ran riot, trying to imagine who he may be and what secrets he had to reveal. Was he a survivor? Did he know that lies had been told, and if so what they were? Was he the pilot that had fired the missile? Who, what, when, where … ?

Tom closed his eyes to try and calm himself, prepare for whatever revelation may come. I won't tell Jo, he thought, surprising himself with his own conviction. If it doesn't change anything, I won't tell her. She's suffered enough.

King placed another pint in front of him, sat down and leaned forward, elbows on his knees. He rushed his words, as if afraid that they would dry up. "Tom, your son wasn't killed in that accident. That never happened. Fifteen men died, but they died at Porton Down, not on Salisbury Plain."

"Porton Down," Tom said, guts clenching, skin ru

"No," King said, sighing and looking down at his feet. "He was there on a trial period as a guard, that's all. But wasn't involved in that exercise on the Plain." He stayed that way for several seconds, tensed with some i

"Don't you fucking dare!" Tom hissed, leaning in so that their faces were a head apart. "Don't you even think about starting this and not finishing it! Do you know what I've been through since it happened? The doubt, the suspicion? And now you've told me everything we thought is wrong, you can't just fuck off without telling me how wrong!"

"I could be shot for this," King said, and Tom thought there was little exaggeration in his comment.

"Then why are you here now?"

The big man shrugged and leaned back in his chair. "Maybe sharing my nightmares will lessen them."

"You think I don't have nightmares?" Tom asked.

"No," King said, "you don't…" And the look in his eyes was cold and terrified.

"So… ?" Tom asked, and he thought, maybe he should leave, maybe he shouldn't tell me.

"So … there was an accident at Porton Down. Your son and those others were there, and they were killed. And the army whitewashed it. Made it into something it wasn't. Hushed it up. Believe me, they're good at that kind of thing."

"What sort of accident?"

King looked into his beer. "Something escaped."

"So what did I bury?" Tom asked, suddenly certain that the coffin he and Jo had wept over had been filled with nothing to do with them.

"Sod from the marshes. They buried the dead on the Plain. They didn't want the infection to spread."

"What sort of infection? Plague? What?"

"A plague of sorts," King said. He finished his drink in two gulps, looked around, twitchy. Tom realised that he would be leaving soon, and there was nothing Tom could do to stop him. King already knew he had said too much. But this was still a story without an ending, and Tom could not live with this mystery anymore.

"How do you know all this?" Tom asked.

"I was at Porton Down too," King said. "I had to bury the bodies."

Bury the bodies. Tom closed his eyes and tried not to imagine his son's rotten body, flopping around in the bucket of a JCB with a younger Nathan King at the controls.

"Where's my son's grave?" he asked, eyes still closed.