Free A Soldier's Story by Iona Blair Page B

exhausted, totally spent. Christ, he was arguing with himself.
           Watching Darren leave was purgatory. The feeling of being left behind, scary as witches. He dressed quickly, and got out of there. He needed a drink so bad he could taste it. Scotch on the rocks and then another and another…He stopped by a bar and drank himself into oblivion.
           He woke up in a police holding cell.
    ~ * ~
            "What happened to you, Jay, you look terrible?" Kerry greeted him at the door. "I thought you'd never get home. I've been trying to contact you all night."
           "Sorry, I forgot to charge my phone," he lied and sank down wearily on the couch with a cigarette. "A friend of mine just got killed in Afghanistan." Another lie. It was becoming a habit. "When I heard, I went to pieces."
           "Oh you poor darling." She cradled him in her arms. "Let me get you something to eat. It'll make you feel better."
           You skunk, the little voice sounded disgusted. You're worth less than a wooden nickel.
           Jay covered his ears with his hands. Save your self-righteous recriminations for someone who gives a fuck and leave me the fuck alone.
           "What was that you said, honey?"
           It caught him by surprise. He hadn't realised that he'd spoken aloud. He was losing it more and more, it seemed. "Nothing…" He poured himself a whiskey to calm his nerves. Changed his mind, and with every ounce of willpower he possessed––not something you have a surplus of––the little voice taunted, poured it down the sink. Oh God, how could he go on without Darren?
           Your sins will find you out.
           The fuck they will, Jay retorted. He'd walk away from this brief flirtation with debauchery, relatively unscathed. It had not caught him out, at all. Nothing, except the torch he still carried for Darren, had jumped up to bite him on the ass.
           There had been a time though, he admitted, when he imagined he saw Cindy, the lap dancing whore from Razor's, following him. Just a fleeting impression born out of booze-shattered nerves, he supposed, and his old nemesis, guilt. He recalled how she'd attacked and tried to stab him in the parking lot. Crazy bitch! She needed a dose of his belt across her bare ass. Or better still a razor strop. Ouch! The idea sparked an unexpected reaction in his crotch. He grinned.
           But how could Cindy find out who you are––where you work and where you live? Never had the little voice sounded so innocent.
           You know bloody well how. Jay grabbed the whiskey bottle and poured what remained in the toilet. She had seen his vehicle and could have jotted down the license number. He'd also been foolish enough to tell her he was an army officer.
           You dumb bastard! Why not just hand her your resume? Stupidity like that should be a criminal offence.
    ~ * ~
           Stanley Park in spring. On impulse, Jay stopped on his way home from the base, watched ducks sailing in circles and an osprey poised in a sycamore tree. He remembered coming here as a child on family picnics, serene Sundays full of laughter, ball games, and blind man's buff. He sat down on a bench and lit a cigarette. Ah, the innocence of childhood…if they only knew what lay ahead.
           The withdrawal from alcohol left him shaky. He hadn't had a drink in days. But sanity, of a sort had been restored. The night spent in the cells had been the wake up call that scared him sober.
           His cell buzzed. Kerry! She'd be wondering where he'd got to. As soon as he answered he knew something was wrong. Her voice spoke volumes while saying very little. "You need to come home right away," she said, and abruptly hung up.
           As soon as he stepped inside the door, she handed him a letter. "This was waiting for me when I came home from work," she said.
           Printed in large letters on