Free Hero by Paul Butler Page B

gown, and it occurs to me that the next time the pattern will merely repeat itself afresh. He will be angry or drunk. I will walk the same tightrope to bring him painstakingly back to this moment, and we will part on good terms. Until the next late-night chime of the doorbell or the next pre-dawn scattering of pebbles at my window.
    An urge comes from somewhere deep in my gut, a movement like spiralling mosquitoes, rising, circling, forming thoughts and words, dispersing, rejoining anew. I am surprised when these words spill from me, when they sound upon the cool air. “Let’s do what we planned,” I say. “Let’s get married. Soon.”
    He looks at me, blinks, shows less surprise than I imagined he would, less than I feel myself. Furrows appear upon his brow, and I think I’ve made a terrible blunder. But then the lines pass away. His mouth and eyes form a sad but crooked smile.
    â€œYes,” he replies. I watch the pale funnel of his breath. “Let’s do that.”

CHAPTER 10
    Simon
    I t was inevitable. The unspeakable fact would either come to the surface, rending us forever in one merciless stroke, or it would remain hidden and we would marry. The only surprise was how quickly the decision was made. Had not the mockery of admiration rained down upon me like arrows at the tannery, things might have been different. But hour after hour the blows came:
    â€œExcuse me, Mr. Simon, the agent from the army is here to congratulate you on your Distinguished Service Medal…”
    â€œMr. Coombs has assembled the workers, sir, and would like to say a few words welcoming you home…”
    â€œMay I say what an honour it is, Mr. Simon, to have you among us, a privilege if I may say so…”
    I was tied to a post. Some long-dormant part of my spirit smarted at each piercing blow. Deadened nerves were becoming sensitized once more. Prick by prick, I was awaking to a world of pain.
    Only Sarah could soothe me; she at least understood the gravity of my turmoil, if not its specific cause. Where others saw only heroism, she perceived pain. She had opened her arms on that first night and I had fallen into them. From that moment, perhaps, there was only one course we would take. The justifications of the previous night came back to me as I stood in her garden watching the mists rise above us. My blade had pierced her brother, it was true. But he was one among the multitudes of the dead, and I was one among many with blood on my hands. If my bayonet had pierced another, if Charles had fallen to another’s blow, it surely wouldn’t have made the least difference, except to free me from the guilt that had held me so far from Sarah.
    When death is this general and widespread, why think too hard about the details?

CHAPTER 11
    Simon
    L ucy has been tying and untying my laces beneath the desk for a while, but it’s only when I feel her warm fingertips touch my shin that I feel a burst of irritation.
    â€œStop that, Lucy,” I snap, dropping my pen and wheeling back my chair. I squint at her. Even in the shadow of the desk, Lucy’s eyes are so blue they evoke darting swallows and the canvas of billowing sails. I am aware that many fathers would feel a surge of wonder, not discomfort. I focus instead on the ugly, orange-haired rag doll she grips between her forearm and her chest. “Go and play by the window,” I mutter, colouring, ashamed that something as natural as the touch of my daughter’s fingertips makes me recoil.
    â€œI just wanted to see if your legs were real.”
    She frowns at me from the dim light of her cave, the rag doll bent double as she wriggles backwards.
    â€œWhat do you mean if my legs are real?”
    I’m vexed with myself for engaging with her fancy, but the question is necessary. Several times recently I have believed Lucy to be teetering upon the edge of some nightmarish abyss only to find that it is merely my own