Harry Parker - Anatomy of a Soldier

*

When he took me out again he was in a kitchen and he placed me on a lime-green tablecloth next to his wallet. He was sad and he dropped his trousers down so the carbon and silicone of his legs was revealed, then he pulled them off with a sigh of relief so the two legs stood absurdly against the table still in the trousers. His mother was there. She gave him a nice cup of tea.

He peeled away the socks from his stumps and saw the cost of being upright for so long and not showing weakness to those around him, for not accepting a chair when one was offered. And he was relieved to be back at home, where he was safe and she would do anything for him, where there was no one to impress and he could allow himself to be weak.

I was mounted next to another medal, like me but awarded for a different operation in another country. And then I was put in a drawer and forgotten.

We were pressed together in a row and light distorted through us in greys and blues and bright refractions. The room below me bulged around my surface as it was reflected through me.

It was quiet and the man behind the U-shaped bar was bent over a newspaper. He looked up as the door opened and they came in and the traffic hissed through the rain outside. Tom was wearing shorts and he rocked sideways and hitched a leg up to step into the room. The other man pulled out a chair in the corner near the window and Tom lowered himself into it.

The barman folded up the newspaper. ‘What can I get you, mate?’ he said.

‘I’ll have a pint of lager, please,’ the man said, and rested an elbow on the bar. He turned back to Tom, who was adjusting his legs. ‘What do you want, lager?’

‘Thanks, mate.’

The barman reached up and took me off the shelf as he had a hundred times before. I was held below the nozzle, he flicked the handle and liquid poured down my side, curling up bubbles that collected in a foam.

I was placed on a mat and the liquid in me turned the room’s light iodine-yellow. Another glass was filled and the man carried us over to the table and put me in front of Tom.

‘There you go, mate,’ he said, sitting down opposite and taking a sip from his glass.

‘Thanks, James,’ Tom said and looked down at me. ‘It’s good to see you. Cheers.’ He lifted me up and they clinked us together in the middle of the table. And then Tom’s lips were against me and he sipped through the foam.

‘I’ll have to be careful. This is the first full pint I’ve had in months,’ he said and grinned over me. ‘It’ll be interesting to see how it mixes with the drugs.’

‘Well, it’s good to see you up in town, Tom,’ the man said. ‘Hey, listen, I’m sorry I didn’t come and see you in hospital, mate. You know how it is, I just didn’t want to be a nuisance and everyone—’

‘It’s all right, I wasn’t much fun in hospital anyway. It’s probably best you stayed away.’ He dragged his fingers down me through the condensation and I reflected his blue jumper and the dark window and rain-flecked streetlight outside.

‘And rehab’s going well? You seem to be smashing it.’

‘It’s hard work but I’m into the swing of it now. I’m spending four weeks there and then a few at home.’

He nodded to below. ‘The legs look good.’

‘This leg’s new,’ Tom said and twisted a grey robotic knee from under the table.

‘And that’s helping?’

‘It makes a massive difference. I haven’t used a stick since I’ve been on it.’

‘How does it work — and why’s the other one different?’ he said, staring at the two prosthetics under the table.

‘Do you mind if we talk about something else, James?’ Tom said. ‘I’m just a bit sick of all the leg stuff. How are you? How’s Vicky?’

‘Of course, mate, I’m sorry.’ He lifted his glass and drank and they talked.

Tom watched the bubbles grow and then pop off my sides as they discussed their friends and work and girls. He used his damaged left hand to lift me once and the man opposite glanced at it before looking away.

*

The room filled with people and the hymn of voices grew. His friend finished first and went for another pint after joking that Tom needed to work on his drinking strength.

While he was at the bar, a man walked towards us across the room. I reflected his jeans. He nudged the table as he sidestepped past and I tipped but Tom caught me.

‘Sorry, mate,’ Tom said.

‘Oh, sorry,’ the man said and looked down. ‘Didn’t see you there, fella. Hey, cool leg, mate.’ He smiled. ‘Blimey, you’ve been in the wars, haven’t you?’

Tom smiled up at him.

‘Bomb, was it?’ the man said. ‘Looks like it.’

‘Afraid so,’ Tom said. ‘Explosively assisted high jump.’ He picked me up and took a long gulp, staring out the window.

‘My mate’s friend has the same thing. Car crash, mind.’ He peered under the table. ‘Shit, you lost both. Sorry, mate.’

‘Yup,’ Tom said.

‘Good bits of kit now though. Must be expensive?’ the man said. ‘You heroes deserve it. Can’t think what it’s like. I’ve got a sixteen-year-old. He wanted to join up. Wouldn’t let him go near it. I’ll tell him about you.’

The man perched on the next table and crossed his arms. He smiled at Tom and whistled and shook his head. ‘Does it hurt?’ he said. ‘Must do.’ He held out a hand. ‘I’m Graham.’

‘Tom.’

They shook.

‘Let me buy you a pint, Tom,’ the man said.

‘No thanks, I’m fine.’

‘Go on, it’d be my pleasure.’

‘Honestly, I’m fine. Just catching up with a mate.’ Tom pointed at his friend pushing back between the tables with his drink.

‘Oh, sorry, I’ll leave you to it then,’ he said and stood out of the way. ‘You lads are so brave.’

‘Not brave,’ Tom said. ‘Just trod on the wrong piece of ground.’

‘Well, good to meet you, Tom,’ he said and walked off to the bar.

‘What was that about?’

‘Just another of my adoring public,’ Tom said. ‘Can’t be too ungrateful — he meant well — but I hate that sort of thing.’

‘Must be grim.’ He looked over his pint at Tom. ‘I’m not sure I could do it, mate. I’d probably have committed suicide if it happened to me.’

‘What’s that meant to mean?’ Tom put me down sharply on the table.

‘What? I just think it’s amazing how you’re dealing with it. I’m not sure I could, that’s all, you know, running and stuff’s so important to me.’

‘Well, that’s a bloody stupid thing to say, James. My life’s not over and it’s a bit insulting to be told it should be,’ Tom said, watching the rain stream down the window. He tipped me up and drained the dregs through the last of the foam.

They were silent and then the man shook his head. ‘Sorry, Tom. I didn’t mean it like that.’

‘I know, mate,’ he said and smiled sadly. ‘Just remember, I was quite into running too.’

‘Want another?’

‘In a second.’ Tom rocked me on my base and watched the remainder of the foam slide around inside me.

‘I suppose I’m just angry for you,’ the man said and lifted his pint again.

‘Don’t be, mate. I’m not.’

‘I mean, what would you do if the people who’d made the bomb walked into the pub? Fuck — I’d fill them in with that stool.’

Tom stared back at him. ‘I don’t think you get it, James,’ he said and started to get up.

‘Where are you going?’

Tom pushed himself up off the chair and levered forward over his legs to stand, slid the chair back under the table and looked down at his friend.

‘If the men who did this to me walked in here right now,’ he said, ‘I’d offer them a drink.’ He knocked me as he turned and I tipped over and rolled across the table. His friend caught me before I dropped and stood me upright.