Chris Ryan - Osama

JJ’s house stood alone at the foot of a hill that was covered with grazing sheep. When he was younger, Conor always used to say that it looked as though it had a face, and he was right. The narrow windows and cracked pebbledash render made it look mournful. It wasn’t helped by the rain that had started the moment they had caught sight of it. An old iron fence, about a metre high, marked the boundary of the property, but it was so covered with bindweed that the metal was barely visible. The grass to the front of the house was a couple of feet high. Their vehicle made a clear track through it as Joe pulled up by the front door, whose green paint was peeling to reveal the white undercoat beneath. The house looked a little shabbier every time they came here.

There was an old coal shed along the right-hand side of the house and it was here, hidden behind a loose brick, that JJ always kept a key. Joe found it immediately and let them in.

‘I’m freezing,’ Conor complained as the door swung shut behind them and they stood in a hallway that was somehow darker than it should have been given it was still light outside. The terracotta tiles on the floor seemed to leach any warmth out of the air, and the woodchip walls had yellow patches of damp rising up from the skirting. Against the right-hand wall stood an old mahogany grandfather clock, its hands stuck at seventeen minutes past twelve. The air was thick with the musty smell of neglect.

Caitlin flicked a light switch. Nothing happened. A minute later Joe had his head stuck inside a corner cupboard in the kitchen, poking around at the fuse board. He flicked a trip switch and heard the beep of the microwave as the kitchen lights turned on.

‘I’ll sort the beds out,’ Caitlin said as Joe emerged. ‘Come on, Conor, you can help me…’

‘I want to stay with Dad.’

Conor was lingering in the doorway. His face was still pale, but the rings around his eyes had faded. Caitlin looked askance at Joe, who nodded. ‘Come on, champ,’ he said. ‘Let’s make a brew.’

Caitlin left them alone while Joe wiped the dust off an old kettle with his sleeve and filled it with water, before turning to look at his son. Conor had moved into the centre of the room, next to the long pine table. He looked troubled.

‘How’s your mum been, champ?’ Joe asked. ‘You been looking after her like I told you to?’

Conor nodded gravely. ‘But sometimes I hear her crying. I don’t think she likes you being a soldier any more.’

There was an awkward silence. Why was it that Joe could hold his own in the testosterone-fuelled hangars of Bagram, but when he was alone with his own son, he could never find the right words to say?

‘Your mum’s fine,’ he muttered.

‘She’s not fine.’ Conor spoke so forcefully, and in such an adult tone, that Joe was taken aback. A memory flashed before his eyes. He saw himself as a kid, standing up to his own dickhead of a father, pretending not to be scared of his strong, tattooed arm. Whenever Joe’s dad came back from a stretch away, he’d been at Her Majesty’s pleasure, not at Her service. But that meant nothing to Conor. Joe wondered if he was pretending not to be scared now.

‘Are you always going to be a soldier, Dad?’

Joe frowned.

‘What did happen to your face?’

Joe touched the scraped, sore skin. ‘Fell over.’ He could tell Conor knew it was a lie. Joe crossed the length of the kitchen to the window that looked out to the front. Their car was the only sign of human life that he could see. For some reason, that made him relax. ‘You remember learning to ride your bike out there?’ he asked.

Conor was standing next to him now, looking out too. He wormed his little hand into Joe’s, and they stood there in silence for a moment.

‘You don’t ride your bike much now, huh?’

‘I prefer my computer,’ Conor said. ‘And I don’t like it when Mum cries.’

‘Nor do I, champ,’ Joe said. And he meant it. ‘Let’s make sure she’s got nothing to cry about, hey?’

For the first time since Joe got back, he saw a smile spread across his son’s face. ‘Do you want to see my new DS game?’ Conor asked.

‘Sure,’ Joe said, and Conor scampered off to find it.

Joe looked out the window again. He felt a million miles from anywhere. A million miles from danger. It was a feeling he hadn’t had for a very long time. The Regiment would be wondering where he was. The adjutant was probably banging on his door at home right now. He didn’t give a shit. Tomorrow he’d get a message to JJ. Let him know he was here. He was sure his mate wouldn’t mind if they stayed here for a bit. Long enough for Joe to get a few things straight in his head.

God knows he needed to.

‘I thought I’d see if Charlie was around.’

It was the following morning, and Joe felt refreshed. His sleep had been far from dreamless, but it had at least been uninterrupted. Now he was sitting in the kitchen with Caitlin, drinking coffee and watching Conor through the window. Their son was tramping out a pattern in the long, dewy grass.

‘Charlie?’

‘His friend. From last year.’

Joe vaguely remembered. There was a kid about Conor’s age living in the nearest village. They’d met on the beach last summer. The mother was blonde, overweight and bubbly. The father was a twat. Dressed head to foot in army surplus gear that covered his paunch, he thought he was David fucking Stirling, not some shitkicker from Berwick with a beer belly and a shelf full of Bear Grylls DVDs. It was true that Conor and Charlie had hit it off, but now something made Joe reluctant to be in contact with anyone else.

‘It’s better if he stays with us,’ he said.

‘He can’t stomp around the house by himself all day, Joe. He needs someone his own age.’

‘It’s safer if—’

‘What are you talking about, safer ?’ Caitlin took a deep breath, as though calming herself down. ‘Nobody knows we’re here, sweetheart. Even JJ doesn’t know we’re here. And anyway…’ She glanced down sheepishly. ‘It would be nice for you and me to spend a bit of time together.’

Joe nodded. ‘Right,’ he said.

Conor had other ideas. At midday, once Caitlin had spoken to Charlie’s mum and arranged for Conor to spend the night with them, he looked crestfallen. ‘What if we can’t think of anything to say?’ he asked.

‘You’ll be fine, sweetheart. He’ll be fine, won’t he?’

Joe nodded. He’d be fine.

At 4 p.m. he was packing Conor into the car. ‘You take him,’ Caitlin had whispered in his ear. ‘But hurry back.’

Conor hugged his mum tight, clearly holding back some tears. Joe looked away. He didn’t want anyone to see his frown. Why couldn’t his son be a bit tougher?

It was a short, silent journey to Charlie’s. Joe felt himself growing tense as soon as JJ’s house disappeared from the rear-view mirror. And as he rounded the base of the hill that hid the house from sight, he found his senses were as alert as if he was driving out on ops. He scanned the fields on either side. A tractor trundled over the horizon two klicks to the south-west. A silver Clio sped up behind him and overtook dangerously just before a hairpin bend – female driver, two kids in the back. A white Transit van passed from the other direction, registration number VS02 RTD. Driver bearded, baseball cap shading his face. Rear doors, Joe saw when it was behind him, blacked out…

Ten minutes later he was entering the small village of Lymeford. A road sign announced that it welcomed careful drivers, but Joe was tipping eighty: the Mondeo’s brakes screeched as he slowed down and passed the Crown and Sceptre, where he and JJ had sunk more than a few pints in years gone by. There was a quaint little pond where a couple of kids were feeding the ducks. Here he turned left, into a close of modern red-brick houses, then pulled up outside one that had a black Cherokee Jeep parked outside, with a Help for Heroes sticker on the rear window.