Private London

Chapter 27

I folded my other hand over Alison’s and gave it a squeeze. ‘Kirsty didn’t want you there, you know that.’

‘Of course I knew that. I’d told her plenty of times that there was no reason to be jealous.’

I grimaced slightly. ‘Yeah. That probably didn’t help.’

‘I know.’

‘My best man at the wedding was Captain Smith. Her father.’ I nodded at Chloe. ‘The man who saved my life.’

‘The war,’ she said.

‘Yes.’

I had never spoken to Alison about the war. Never spoken to anyone about it. They tried to get me to have counselling. But Dan Carter is strictly old school.

As I said, I’d come home invalided out. Eventually I was out of the wheelchair. But I swapped my baton for a bottle and tried to chase the demons away with that. I wasn’t the first and I sure as hell wouldn’t be the last.

All I managed to do, however, was chase away my wife, my family, my friends.

Like I say, it’s a familiar story, not one I’m proud of. Not one I beat myself up over, either.

Look closely at who most of the homeless in London are, or at those who are languishing in prisons when they should be in hospitals. Military men and women who had given more than they were asked in service to their country and got short shrift for change.

I was one of the lucky ones. I didn’t end up freezing to death on a West End backstreet while the civilians walked by with their gazes averted. Eventually I came to terms with things. I realised I was carrying the guilt like a lame man who’d been cured hanging on to a walking stick that he no longer needed. But it wasn’t my guilt to carry and so I tossed it down and started living again. I went back into work. I turned my life around.

But not in time to save my marriage.

On cue, like the devil you speak of, my ex-wife turned the corner of the corridor at that moment and walked towards us.

My hand flew guiltily away from Alison’s. Stupid, I know, but it was a knee-jerk reaction and I could see that Kirsty had noticed it. Some emotion was playing in her eyes – was it a frown or was it a smile? I couldn’t tell. Maybe that was the problem. I never could tell with Kirsty. Never sure whether she was going to slap me or kiss me. Or both.

But I had a notion of what the look in her eye was that Friday evening. It looked a lot like sympathy.

‘Alison,’ she said simply.

‘Kirsty.’

Kirsty looked at me, hesitating for a moment, and I felt a chill dancing over my heart. Someone walking on my grave.

‘I’ve got some bad news, Dan,’ she said.