Mia Darien - Good Things

The very profitable drug trade, however you look at it.

Not like he hadn’t seen a heroin addict before in his own country. Nights out in town were filled with strung-out lost souls, wasting away in the shadows. Outside of the cozy pubs and stylish wine bars. On the cold, wet streets of a relatively wealthy country.

England.

Don’t give them any money. They will only spend it on more drugs. That’s what everybody says.

One night, near Piccadilly station in Manchester, Scott leaned over a homeless man and gave him a bottle of water, a cup of coffee, and a cheese and onion pasty. He dropped a couple of pound coins into the bloke’s little plastic cup.

Least he could have something to eat. A hot drink. He’s not all alone.

The scrawny lad stirred and his dirty fingers grasped the crinkly white paper around the pasty.

“There you go, mate, look after yourself. You’re too young to be wasting away like this.”

Scott smiled and carried on to the train station. It broke his heart. He’d always had a soft spot for troubled kids.

The young men and boys trying to kill me are deeply disturbed, easily manipulated, troubled kids.

Now, walking past an opium field, he thought of that scraggly teenager and hoped he’d eaten the pasty. Drank the coffee. Pocketed the water, and realised how much more precious it was than the drugs. How the world should value things like water and love above profit and power.

But that wasn’t something he could dwell on once the sounds of impending doom arrived. For now, things were quiet.

His boots trod the dirt path, his gaze scanning for any sign of IEDs. Perspiration dripped down his face and stung his eyes. Scott thought of the morphine auto-injector he carried in his pocket. He squinted, unable to escape the intensity of the air around him.

While his shock-proof glasses shielded his eyes and his helmet technically provided shade, his head still cooked inside it. It was like the burning sun had ways of slipping into every nook and cranny.

He couldn’t wait for sunset, and night’s descent. Freedom from the scorching sun. Scott was beginning to understand the simple pleasure of sitting in the shade.

He’d begun to crave it.

This would be his last tour. His dad had died a couple of years ago, and Mum long before that. He’d decided to go into teaching at a local school.

When his folks were alive, he would have lunch with them, sitting on a bench in St. Ann’s Square. He remembered walking past St. Ann’s Church, with its reddish brown stone structure and the stained glass windows. How different the ground was there in town. Scattered rain puddles would collect in the random depressions of the grey slates.

In front of the church, there were a couple of curved wood and metal benches where it was possible to sit and have a sandwich.

“I will meet my future wife here. This is it where I’ll meet her.” The romantic fantasy of a little boy.

And just before he passed, his dad had patted his hand and said, “You go on, lad. You go to St. Ann’s Square and meet your lady. I know you will… I know you will…”

At the time, it was too painful to consider. Scott just wanted to escape into his call to be a warrior. To prove to himself he had what it took. To make the spirits of his parents proud. He’d almost forgotten his romantic side in the pain of his unbearable loss.

The day he’d walked away from the hospital after his father died, he’d felt some foreign touch on his arm. Like someone had firmly stroked him with the tip of their finger. Written on him. Yet Scott was too distracted by grief to pay attention or remember.

His platoon was nearly finished with their patrol. As they set about heading in the other direction, all Scott could think of was how those benches in front of St. Ann’s church seemed like heaven.

He absently rubbed the top of his arm and looked to the side, bemused by the sensation. It felt like powdery dust had been smeared on his flesh.

Something he hadn’t noticed before. What the hell is that? he thought, still trying to rub the side of his arm.

Then a shrill noise made him look at the sky. The pitch of it struck him like a blow. It was more of a living shriek.

Like an animal.

Then there was a pounding sound. The ferocity of his heartbeat competed with the pulsating noise.

A helicopter?

But it was wings.

Some sort of eagle, owl or falcon? he thought.

The mad scream hit the air again and he started looking around.

“Did you hear that?’

Scott couldn’t catch his breath. The other members of his platoon didn’t appear to be reacting. They continued in their quiet progress while he was captured by a menace only he could sense. Scott was being singled out.

Trapped.

Scott feared he was going to be one of those who cracked. One who lost it under all the pressure and heat, crumbled under the weight of fear. That he was now a liability to the others.

I’ll get through this. I’ll get through. I’ll make it through to another night. I’ll get to St. Ann’s Square, clear-headed and intact. I will. I. Will.

The wings made a deep whooshing sound followed by the barbaric wail. The plumes of smoke got far too close. Then everyone else reacted. They threw themselves to the ground.

Someone or something was pulling him. It was like he was being split. Something was trying to rip him from himself. An agonizing tearing savaged his core.

The demon clawed at him. Scott screamed and roared back.

He didn’t manage to get to his morphine injector.

He hated the sound of the helicopter blades. It was too similar to the beating wings, those awful expanses of doom.

Dozing in and out, the cooking heat turned to air conditioning. Air conditioning turned to cool, outdoor air. He couldn’t move, couldn’t speak. Could neither see nor feel his limbs.

There was the beep-beep-beep of medical machines.

The white and grey air in front of him had hazy moving shapes. There was pressure in his veins. Morphine? The world before him kept flickering. Scott wasn’t sure what part of it he was in.

The light from whatever window beside him was getting dimmer.

It’s nighttime. Finally. I’ve got to get to St. Ann’s Square…if I can just get in front of the church.

And then, he could see it. The rain-wet stones, moon-cast shadows, street lights…

And the great night sky above the church in the very centre of the city.

It was getting closer and closer to Summer Solstice, and the evening’s late sunsets were bewitching. Like the darkest, most dangerous night masquerading with the innocence of day.

The dingy corners and alleys in Manchester never bothered Amanda. Her heart held an unwavering faith in the power of love. Kindness and love always took precedence inside her. Wherever she went, even in the rougher parts of town, Amanda could envision love taking place there.

But romantic love was her favorite.

Romance, kisses, binding ceremonies that signified a gateway to a life of loving someone. Knowing them.

There was something wrong with her. A sense of loss that had stunned her five years ago, and had stuck with her since. And there was no precise reason why.

Hence why she was on her back in her therapist’s office, trying to explain it again. The voice of her counselor came through, questioning her.

“Amanda, do you ever feel you are placing too much importance on your notions and fantasies that there is no one out there for you to love in the way you feel that you need to? You work with couples, help them arrange their perfect weddings. Do you think you place romantic love up on a pedestal? Don’t you feel that the fact that you never knew your mother and that your father was a war hero who died in the service is what troubles you? Or do you feel it’s something else?’