Free The Game by Amanda Prowse

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    How far would you go to bring home the one you love?
    A gripping story of loss and courage from army wife Amanda Prowse.

1
    The major yanked first at one cuff and then the other, ensuring three-eighths of an inch was visible beneath his tunic sleeves. With his thumb and forefinger he circled his lips, finishing with a small cough, designed to clear the throat. He nodded in the direction of the door, indicating to the accompanying sergeant that he could proceed. He was ready.
    ‘Coming!’ Poppy cast the sing-song word over her shoulder in the direction of the hallway, once again making a mental note to fix the front door bell as the internal mechanism grated against the loose, metal cover. The intensely irritating sound had become part of the rhythm of the flat. She co-habited with an orchestra of architectural ailments, the stars of which were the creaking hinge of the bedroom door, the dripping bathroom tap and the whirring extractor fan that now extracted very little.
    Poppy smiled and looped her hair behind her ears. It was probably Jenna, who would often nip over during her lunch break. Theirs was a comfortable camaraderie, arrived at after many years of friendship; no need to wash up cups, hide laundry or even get dressed, they interacted without inhibition or pretence . Poppy prepped the bread and counted the fish fingers under the grill, working out how to make two sandwiches instead of one, an easy calculation. She felt a swell of happiness.
    The front door bell droned again, ‘All right! All right!’ Poppy licked stray blobs of tomato ketchup from the pads of herthumbs and laughed at the impatient digit that jabbed once more at the plastic circle on the outside wall.
    Tossing the checked tea towel onto the work surface, she stepped into the hallway and looked through the safety glass at the top of the door, opaque through design and a lack of domesticity . Poppy slowed down until almost stationary, squinting at the scene in front of her, as though by altering her viewpoint, she could change the sight that greeted her. Her heart fluttered in an irregular beat. Placing a flattened palm against her breastbone , she tried to bring calm to her flustered pulse. The surge of happiness disappeared, forming a ball of ice that sank down into the base of her stomach, filling her bowels with a cold dread. Poppy wasn’t looking at the silhouette of her friend; not a ponytail in sight. Instead, there were two shapes, two men, two soldiers.
    She couldn’t decide whether to turn and switch off the grill or continue to the front door and let them in. The indecision rendered her useless. She concentrated on staying present, feeling at any point she might succumb to the maelstrom within her mind. The whirling confusion threatened to make her faint. She shook her head, trying to order her thoughts. It worked.
    She wondered how long they would be, how long it would all take. There were fish fingers to eat and she was due back at the salon in half an hour with a shampoo and set arriving in forty minutes. Poppy thought it strange how an ordinary day could be made so very extraordinary. She knew the small details of every action, usually forgotten after one sleep, would stay with her forever; each minute aspect indelibly etching itself on her memory. The way her toes flexed and stiffened inside her soft, red socks, the pop and sizzle of her lunch under the grill and the way the TV was suddenly far too loud.
    She considered the hazy outlines of her as yet unseen visitors and her thoughts turned to the fact that her home wasn’t tidy.She wished she wasn’t cooking fish. It would only become curious in hindsight that she had been worried about minutiae when the reason for their visit was so much more important than a cooking aroma and a concern that some cushions might have been improperly plumped.
    Columbo was on TV. She hadn’t been watching; it was instead a comforting background noise. She had done that a lot since Martin