Free Fever (Flu) by Wayne Simmons

different. But that was the wonder of his mam.
    “Mam, listen...” he said, “I’ll not be home for dinner. I’m going to grab a pint to celebrate.”
    “Who with?”
    “Jamsey. Maybe John.”
    “John who? You’ve never mentioned a John!”
    Jesus. He was eighteen years old. When did this ever stop? “John Ford.”
    “Ford? I’ve—”
    Ciaran held the phone away, shaking it in the air as if to kill it. He took a deep breath, returned it to his ear. “Look, Mam. Gotta go.” He flicked the phone off before she had a chance to say anything else, pocketing it in his joggers.
    He clenched both hands. She’d really pissed him off this time.
    He stood near a lamppost. It was early evening and still bright, but the stupid thing was already lit up.
    Ciaran slammed his fist into the rough metal. The pain was barely registering. He slammed again. A bloody mark showed up on the bleached grey hide of the lamppost. He went to swing again then stopped himself, turning his hand and looking at it. His skin was raw. It looked like mincemeat.
    He turned to see if anyone else was around.
    An old man pulled his dog across the road, the dog straining against its lead to glare at Ciaran. He’d scared them. He hadn’t meant to, but Ciaran had scared them nonetheless.
    He took a deep breath. There was no way he could get on like that in the army. He needed to cool himself down.
    A drink would help.
    He looked at his watch. Only seven o’clock. He’d get a taxi into town and grab a drink somewhere.
    Half an hour later and Ciaran was sitting in the Garrick bar with a pint.
    The TV in the corner broadcast some football match that he feigned interest in—United against someone. There was a good crowd in to watch the football, most of the seats filled.
    Ciaran sat by the door, a constant to-and-fro as people poured in and out. Neither Jamsey nor John sat with him. He didn’t expect to see them. John he’d made up, just as his mam guessed. Jamsey he hadn’t seen for a couple of years, since a major falling out over something he couldn’t remember (they had both been drinking). It was just going to be Ciaran tonight, and that was fine. He wasn’t afraid of his own company.
    His hand was sore from punching the lamppost. He took another swig from his half-empty pint glass to try to numb the pain.
    His mind wandered, finding the rugged desert terrain of Afghanistan. Ciaran was dressed in pale, desert khakis. He carried a rifle, probably an SA80. The rattle of gunfire was all around him. The enemy was everywhere, and his unit was hemmed in. He lay flat in the sand, looking down the scope of his weapon. There was an enemy combatant in his sights—a sniper on a mound to his left. He squeezed the trigger, and the barrel of the rifle shook briefly before—
    “Not watching the football?”
    Ciaran looked up, pulled from his daydream. A girl stood by his table. She was a little older than him, probably early twenties. She held a glass in one hand, sucking her drink with a straw. She was on her own.
    “Not big into football,” he said.
    “I thought every fella liked football.”
    She smiled, and he caught a glimpse of her teeth. Thick metal braces ran across the top row like train tracks. She saw him looking and closed her mouth. Ciaran looked away, embarrassed.
    There was silence for a moment, both of them drawn to the football on the screen. The ball came flying towards the United goalmouth, only to be knocked wide by the keeper’s fist. A low moan ran throughout the bar, followed by excited voices.
    “I’m just waiting on a few mates,” Ciaran said over the noise.
    “Oh. Alright...” she said, looking disappointed. She stood glued to the spot, one thumb hanging on the belt loop of her jeans. She looked around, as if wondering what to do with herself.
    “You can sit for a bit,” Ciaran offered.
    “You sure?”
    “Yeah, why not.”
    She sat down in the seat opposite him. In the light coming through the window, she looked a