Free The Ice Wolves by Mark Chadbourn Page B

floor below, the dark was a little grayer, thanks to slivers of light making their way through the snow-caked windows, but there was still barely enough to see.
    A familiar smell reached him at the top of the next flight of stairs, triggering a rush of memories that sent a convulsion through him. It went as quickly as it came, but he was already drawn by the lure of the desperate past, and he gripped the railing tightly and unsteadily made his way down.
    On the first floor, the door to the nursery shone a spectral white in the soft glow of the street lamp leaking through the nearby window. It was ajar. Through the gap, he glimpsed faint movement, the fleeting sight of Lisa’s shirt. He caught the hint of her perfume. She was investigating where they had found the opera glasses, or she was hiding, retreating to childhood both literally and metaphorically.
    â€œHey,” he called gently.
    When there was no reply, he pushed the door open and stepped inside. Instantly, he was engulfed in the sensory sweep triggered by the same smell, spice and sweat and hot canvas. He didn’t hear the door close behind him, nor was he aware of the dark sweeping in. Lisa too was forgotten. He was walking through the souk, the heat heavy on his face. It was crowded, people shouting in the local dialect, arguing over goods, laughing. Someone offered him a bolt of scarlet silk, urging him to feel the quality. He could smell meat cooking on a charcoal barbecue.
    Ahead of him was the boy, ten years old, an open, smiling face, familiar, so familiar. His eyes locked on Brad’s, and their whole existences were laid out side by side. From a stall came the boy’s father, also smiling, his new purchase, an iron pan, clutched happily. He bent down to show it to his son.
    Not now , Brad thought. Not now . Tears stung his eyes.
    The blast happened soundlessly, or that was how he remembered it, and was living it. The boy and his father were torn apart by the shock wave, torn apart by the shrapnel. It was raining all around Brad, and he recalled thinking how strange that was, that he could get wet from a shower in the middle of a hot, dry country, and then he was turning over, still remembering the boy’s smile, remembering the past, tears burning his cheeks, then and now, turning over and over.
    He must have called out, for Lisa’s arms wrapped around him and she laid her head on his back, as she had done so many times in the months since, whenever the image had come back to him of the boy and his father, of death striking in the heart of the mundane, and every time she had saved him. He would never forget how much she had saved him. His life was hers, for there was many a time when he would have ended it, many a time when he would have gone to join the boy and his father, to escape all the pain and the heartache; finally to find some peace.
    She held him tight.
    â€œThank you,” he whispered. His cheeks burned from the tears.
    As the familiar aromas faded, so did the potent, affecting images, and he was back in the dark nursery. His chest heaved, and slowly the emotions ebbed and he returned to himself.
    â€œDon’t say anything,” he began quietly. “Just listen. I’ve never told you how much you’ve done for me. I know, I know. Shut up, Brad! You’re a friend doing what friends do. I’ve heard it all so many times. But what you do is more than friends, Lisa. You give so selflessly, and I just take, and take, and I never spare a thought for how you must feel, and what you need. I’m an idiot, like you say. But that’s going to change. I’m going to be better, and I’m going to be good for you. I’m going to be there for you, for once. And . . . and . . . ”
    He struggled to put his sweeping feelings into words.
    â€œAnd it’s ridiculous it’s taken a place like this, and awful things like this, to get me to see how much you mean to me. I’d never get the chance