Carrion Virus (Book 1): Carrion City (8 page)

‘I’m sure my husband will make a statement when he is ready.’

Jacqui double checked the door lock, and checked it again. The house was painfully quiet. Perhaps Eric was asleep. She could only hope. Jacqui had been dreading their first moment alone. What did he expect? Did he want sympathy? Should she play the relieved wife? Her role in this debacle had yet to be decided.

‘Eric?’

Nothing.

The house was as she left it except for the second crushed can on the kitchen bench and the open cupboard. A bottle of vodka was gone. Again, she called her husband’s name before climbing the stairs. The master bedroom door was open and the room was untouched. A noise brought Jacqui to the spare bedroom.

‘Oh, Eric.’

He sat on the floor, propped against the single bed, a large box between his legs. He sucked on the vodka bottle like his life depended on it.

‘What are you doing?’

He did not look up. ‘Getting my memories back.’

‘And the vodka?’

‘It helps.’ Pictures were scattered on the floor. A few of Martin and Eric were removed from plastic sleeves.

She sat on the bed. ‘Do you want to talk?’

Nothing.

‘Eric, I want to help you?’

‘Do you?’

‘Yes, but I don’t know how.’

Eric stared at a photo of Martin and him at the Black Aquila training facility. Both were standing in front of an extensive assault course in full combat gear. ‘If you want to help, fetch me another bottle.’ The now empty bottle slipped from his hand to the floor with a dull thud.

‘So, instead of celebrating your survival, you just to crawl into a bottle. Go fetch your own bloody drink.’

***

The day and night had passed without Eric and Jacqui crossing paths. A few cans of beer kept him company in the spare room, and were crushed when past their use, and there he slept. Jacqui did … well, he didn’t know, nor did he care. The drunken oblivion did not allow for concern for others.

Now, Eric sat in the bath feeling vaguely human. The steaming water did little to soothe his aches. He slid down until the water touched his chin. Time slipped away. He took a deep breath and sank all the way. He could inhale and stay there, never to return. It seemed an eternal task, fighting these dark thoughts. They crept over him at times of solitude. They crept over him at times of thought. They crept over him when he ate, walked, sat, scratched. They crept into his sleep. He pulled the plug, and let the water drain away, remaining in the tub until the last drop gurgled down the drain. A knock at the door followed.

‘Eric. Jason’s coming round to see you tonight.’

He didn’t reply. Jacqui padded away. Hoisting himself out, he found his right leg had regained slightly more mobility with the long soak. Eric brushed his teeth for the first time in weeks. The mint taste was tainted by the blood seeping from his gums.

In a flash, Eric was back in Iraq. The blood he could taste was from the dying Kelly. Closing his eyes and breathing heavily, he worked hard to banish the memory made flesh. He was back in the bathroom, staring at the mirror. That was enough teeth cleaning for now.

***

None of the conversation was directed at Eric. He pushed a piece of broccoli around his plate, creating patterns in the cheese sauce while his brother and Jacqui spoke of fuel prices, and TV shows, and new ideas for the garden. Eric and Jason shared too few physical similarities. Stand them next to each other and you would be hard pressed to judge them as related. While Eric could be described as sombre, thoughtful with a hint of danger, Jason was outgoing and vocal, the joker in the pack, shorter than Eric by a foot, and with a shaved head. As children, the older Jason often teased Eric, falsely claiming they had different fathers. They fought. They fought often.

‘How’s the chicken?’ Jacqui was the first to invite him to speak.

‘Fine.’

‘A culinary success,’ Jason quipped. ‘If I eat anymore, I may pop.’

‘Well, I hope you saved room for pudding. Can I tempt you, Jay?’

‘You bet.’ Jason patted his considerable girth.

Jacqui turned to Eric. Her smile dulled slightly. ‘Do you want some?’

‘No,’ he answered flatly, still pushing at the broccoli.

Jacqui began to gather the dirty dishes with the efficiency of an experienced waitress.

Jason announced he’d help clear the table.

‘You just do that, Jay.’ Eric’s hands found something else to play with. His fingers twirled the stem of his glass, and he watched the wine swirl as he grew lost in his own contemplation.

***

Jacqui leaned over the kitchen bench, both hands planted firmly on the work surface. Jason crossed over and placed a hand on her shoulder.

‘I’m sorry, Jac.’

Jacqui looked up into Jason’s face. ‘He’s hardly said two words to me since getting back. I’ve tried speaking to him. He just lashes out.’

‘It’s not like this is a new problem. It’s not been right between you two for so long.’

‘Not now. Don’t put this on me now.’

‘We need to discuss this.’

‘No,’ she said forcefully. ‘It was a silly kiss. Nothing more. He’s just returned home. We discuss nothing.’

‘Okay. Okay.’ Jason glanced behind to ensure they were still alone. ‘Would you like me to talk to him?’

‘Not sure that’s the right thing to do.’

‘I’ll do my best.’

Eric was in the process of pouring more wine when Jason stepped back into the dining room. The door all but closed on Jacqui’s view. She moved up a step. Through the inch crack, she could see Eric’s back.

‘So,’ said Jason with a clap of his hands.

Eric slammed the bottle down on the table. The gesture didn’t deter Jason.

‘We were all worried about you.’

Eric gulped his wine.

‘Mum … well you know how she gets agitated. I confess to a few tears when Jacqui told me you were safe and coming home.’

‘I bet you did.’

‘So, you speak?’

‘Don’t push it.’

‘Look, it must have been horrible for you out there.’

‘You don’t know anything about what it was like out there.’

‘No. You’re right, but if you’d speak to Jacqui or me, we might learn, and then we could help. You being like this is tearing her up inside.’

Eric said nothing.

‘Do you care that the way you’re acting is hurting her?’

‘If I am making her life unbearable, I’m sure you will be there to comfort her.’

‘What’s that supposed to mean?’

‘I think we both understand what’s going on here.’

Jason stepped towards the table. ‘Don’t be ridiculous.’

‘You deny it?’

‘Jesus, Eric. Being out there has screwed with your mind.’

Eric was out of his seat. The glass left his hand, flew through the air like a missile, and smashed against the wall.

‘You know nothing.’ Eric snatched at the wine bottle. ‘Good vintage.’ He was gone.

‘It didn’t go well,’ said Jacqui.

‘You heard?’

‘How could I not.’

‘What about staying at your mum’s for the next few days? I’ll look in on Eric.’

‘It’s Martin’s funeral tomorrow.’

‘Damn, I didn’t know.’

***

It was a bitterly cold night. The moon outside bathed the world in a pale light. Jacqui needed the bathroom. Her room was equipped with an en suite, but of late, she had been using the bathroom across from the spare room. A lingering notion of duty compelled her to make a nightly check on Eric. Last night, all was silent, but this night, as she left her bedroom, wrapping herself in a dressing gown, Eric’s voice caught her attention. At first mistaking it for one side of a phone call, it soon became clear Eric was talking to himself, dreaming. Just mumbles, random words. They grew and became an anxious jumble. Jacqui pushed an ear to the door. Out of the maelstrom came a frantic scream, a sound she’d never heard before, nor ever wished to hear again. It rocked her. She took a few steps back. The scream was replaced by weeping. Jacqui readied to bang on the door, but hesitated as the weeping mixed with mournful howls. It was raw fear and pain. The sounds abated. It seemed a peaceful sleep gradually visited her husband.

She crept away and decided the ensuite was a better option. Outside, a dog barked twice and the rain started up again, and the moon became swallowed up by dark clouds. She threw herself into bed.

***

Eric splashed another handful of water onto his face, the biting cold making him feel half-human. A newly shaved face looked back. Thanks to the previous night’s abundance of wine and the aftermath of the dream, his eyes were puffy and sore. Even blinking was painful, as if a layer of grit crawled under his eyelids, just as the sand had done in the desert. The red lines, the scars from the RPG sat stark against his pale skin. The dream had been horrendous. Eric had returned to the compound. Back to Iraq.

There was a light knock at the door. Jacqui opened it but didn’t enter. ‘Eric, we’re leaving soon. Do you need a hand with anything?’

‘No.’ He twisted the tap. A burst of water washed away the waste from the sink. ‘Thank you,’ he said, remembering the drunken words he spoke last night.

Eric took his trousers from the hanger and ran his hand down the crease. He put them on and reached for the matching coat, a sombre black reserved for funerals. The last funeral he wore it to was his father’s. He despised any day he had to wear that outfit.

Eric dressed as fast as his weak body allowed, hands shaking due to his recent ordeal and his new-found dependency on alcohol. ‘Not now,’ he cursed quietly. ‘Not today.’ Today was about saying farewell to his friend. He owed Martin that much.

Jacqui waited in the hallway wearing a simple knee-length black dress, her hair tied into a neat bun. Their eyes met for a moment before Jacqui, without a word, opened the front door. Slinging a long coat over her shoulders, she stepped into the rain and opened a black umbrella. Eric refused her silent offer and edged outside the umbrella, letting the rain pour down on his black suit and newly shaved face.

The street was relatively empty. The weather drove the reporters away. That, or some bigger story.
Eric Mann of Black Aquila
was old news. He let his head roll back. The rain bounced on his skin.

‘We’d better get going.’ Jacqui slipped the house keys into her clutch.

The Black Aquila vehicle waited in the drive. The wipers danced furiously. The sky was as dark as Jacqui’s umbrella.

‘Yes, we’d better.’

***

Eric and Jacqui sat in the third row. Lisa Callahan, Martin’s wife, sat in the first row with her children. Lisa held a tissue to her eyes. The children watched the crowd with great interest, too young to understand the day.

Floral tributes covered the coffin. Two large photographs peeped above the display. The first, Martin and his wife and children in a scenic setting, possibly Wales. They holidayed often in rural Wales. The second, Martin smiling, dressed in full desert combat gear, a M4 carbine held at the ready. Eric had taken that photo. On that day, the two men escorted building materials to a backwater village outside Mosul. While the war brought democracy to Iraq, the security firms built the foundations of democracy.

The two pictures showed the contrast of Martin’s life. A dedicated family man in one, and a steadfast, disciplined companion in the other. Eric was one of the few who knew Martin as both. Eric had celebrated his children’s birthdays with Martin, been the best man at his wedding, spent hours relaxing over a beer, and fought next to him in Iraq. Martin, in his personal and private life, was a calibre of man that Eric wouldn’t see again.

Background music ceased, exposing murmured conversations that lowered to hushed whispers. A stoic-looking man, greying beard, and in a suit not dissimilar to Eric’s, moved to stand on the raised stage.

‘Welcome. If you are able, I ask that you please stand.’

Eric struggled to his feet, waving away Jacqui’s attempt to help.

‘We gather here today to celebrate the life of Martin Christopher Callahan. Lisa, his wife, and family, request this service be a fitting farewell with no religious content. There shall be time at the end for reflection, or opportunity to pray if any so wish.’ A few more instructions were followed by welcomes to far-travelled family members. ‘Now, please be seated.’ He shuffled through a small collection of card prompts. ‘I spent several hours with the family and they shared their thoughts and memories of a remarkable man. Martin was born to …’

Hearing Martin’s life narrated a novel, and by a stranger, seemed wrong. Eric knew where he was born, who his parents were, what he did for a living. This felt all wrong, a stranger recounting a life, a life for which he possessed only an ephemeral understanding.