A deleted chapter from Topaz

Titled “In the aftermath“, this deleted chapter was written after a second bomb was detonated in Lennoxville. At this point, Jones and Richmond are just coming to terms with finding the aftermath of the first explosion in Limehall continues to evolve and your site can evolve with it. Your goal should be to make it feel right for right now. Later will take care of itself. It always does.

The unseasonal early autumn temperatures made sleeping difficult for Jones. He’d covered himself, and the still dozing Richmond, with a single white sheet and opened every one of the narrow windows in their sparse barracks lodgings. The breeze occasionally cut through the stifling humidity but his mind was too busy to rest.

He looked at his battered black plastic digital watch and saw it was nearing 5am. He could still taste lager and the pickled onion flavour Tayto crisps he’d hastily devoured en route back from the mess bar. But he wasn’t hungover. His mind was doing cartwheels. It was analysing and adjusting to his new home and the horror of what they’d witnessed over the past few days. Jones struggled with change. He could deal with troubleshooting and tiny adjustments, but this fundamental change was like driving a bus through his life.

He pulled on Richmond’s brown long-sleeved t-shirt, a pair of white Hi-Tec shorts and his tatty trainers and headed out of the door. He needed an escape. He slowly and softly closed the door and looked over to check that Jenny was still in a deep sleep before hearing the door latch slot into place. She’d not stir for a good few hours, he thought. Their togetherness had been complete over the past few days, in the aftermath, and they’d quickly become reliant on each other’s care and understanding. But Jones’ momentary escape was just a need to reset and to pull some sense of order into his shattered existence.

As he headed down the corridor leading to the YCU Briefing Rooms he saw one of the regular entrance guards heading in the opposite direction. He was an impressively mustachioed Yorkshireman who had acquired the nickname ‘Noodle’. No one had explained why, but Jones had quickly learned that army nicknames were often bizarre and occasionally triumphantly crude.

Noodle had a packet of Old Holborn in his hand and a fresh roll-up behind his left ear. He nodded at Jones and he stomped forward. The sound of his large, heavily polished boots would probably have been audible in the next county.

“You’re an early bird,” he said to Jones. “Bed on fire?”

“Couldn’t sleep, mate. I just need some air,” he replied.“Well, getting used to this life takes some time, son. Those explosions and the lives lost. We’ve all been there.” Jones didn’t know what to say to that. He assumed the investigation was confidential and didn’t know the house rules about chatting to soldiers, supremely moustachioed or not.

“Anyway,” Noodle continued. “I’m going to bed, once I’ve finished this.” He took the roll-up from behind his ear and licked his fingers to shape the end of the cigarette. He then pulled a zippo lighter from the top pocket of his green army fatigues. After a pause, he smiled and made to walk on, as Jones seemed lost for words.

“How do you deal with it? All this?” Jones finally replied, stopping the soldier in his tracks.

“Good question,” Noodle said, after a moment’s thought. “I don’t know yet. I’ve not figured it out. I tend to live in a circle of vague recollections and then push down any nasty memories with the mantra ‘Just don’t think about it’. But I’m not sure that’s a long-term plan. Who knows?”

“That’s useful,” Jones responded. As he did he saw a green-tracksuited man sprint past outside the window near the YCU entrance.

“Is it? I’m pleased. That’s my last good deed of the day,” Noodle slapped Jones hard on the back and stomped up the corridor. His boots seemingly had even greater vigour after their brief conversation.

As Jones turned the corner towards the exit to the outside world, he became aware of a large group of soldiers queueing outside. As he headed through the door, he was astounded by the length of the line of men and wondered what this was all about. Food, maybe? Chocolate rations? But no, as he strode up the path towards the NAAFI and drill fields, it was clear these were men waiting to phone home and the queue was for three telephone boxes. There, towards the back, in his green tracksuit was Armstrong who was busily fiddling with loose change. His blonde hair was soaked with sweat from a morning run, Jones guessed. Armstrong spotted him immediately and waved him over.

“Good morning. Are you missing home, Jones? I didn’t expect to see you here.”

“Neither did I. I had no idea these telephone boxes were even here. I just wanted to take the air. I didn’t sleep much.”

“I can imagine. Maybe a chat with someone at home will give you perspective. Ground you a little?

Remember, you’re in Milton College and you’re having a wonderful time in your studies. No mention of Thiepval or YCU.” Armstrong smiled and seemed genuinely concerned, maybe the black bags under the eyes were a giveaway, Jones pondered.

“Why so early? It’s only just 5am. Why are people queuing now?” Jones asked.

“They’re off on manoeuvres later, the 38th Brigade. It’s all very hush-hush. But you know they’re off somewhere when this happens. This’ll be their last opportunity to speak to loved ones.”

“Makes sense,” Jones replied. “And you?”

“My Dad’s ill. It’s a respiratory disease. The carers get him up about this time and I like to call in and check how things are. It’s difficult being the only child and having a job like this.” Armstrong suddenly looked a touch more haunted than normal. Jones felt for him.

“Christ, Armstrong. That’s awful,” Jones began. But Armstrong interrupted.“Let’s not dwell on this. Everyone has their private battles. Here, take a couple of my 50p pieces and join the queue. By the time we get to the front, one of the Joneses will be up, surely?”

“My dad will be. He takes the dog for a walk. Prepares the lunches. That kind of thing.” Jones was beginning to remember life back at home as Armstrong switched queues. Maybe the long wait was too much for some of the soldiers and the long lines slightly splintered into shorter queues.

“Nice chatting, Jones. We have a challenging day ahead, so get your head into it. But I’ll be about to chat if I can help. I’m a good listener.”

Jones didn’t have a chance to reply, as Armstrong was swept forward towards the middle telephone box and he was left with the hoards of chain-smoking soldiers who all seemed fairly jolly despite the hour and their impending manoeuvres. In fact, there was an addictive bonhomie that seemed to be lifting Jones’ spirits. He was even offered a wine gum and an extra strong mint from one of the men in the queue and that cheered him up no end.

Armstrong seemed to be chatting very seriously in the middle phone box and Jones wondered whether there was bad news from back home. It made him reflect a little on Armstrong’s persona amongst the YCU team as a bit of a Jock. Maybe there was real depth there, Jones thought, after seeing his obvious concern for his ailing father.

As the last of the telephone boxes became vacant, Jones pulled open the stiff door and pushed one of Armstrong’s 50p pieces into the slot. He dialled his home number and waited for the call to be connected. His dad always answered the phone by repeating the landline number, it was a habit picked up from his own father back in the 1960s.

“Hadleigh 2074, Hello?”

“Dad? It’s me,” Jones said, hearing the emotion in his own voice as his father answered the call. Just the sound of his voice made him want to break down and tell him everything.

“Hello, Sunny Jim, how the devil are you? Me and your mother were just talking about you. We’ve missed you.” Jones gulped back the tears again, after hearing one of his father’s little nicknames for him. Sunny Jim. Something he’d called him since he was a small child.

“Everything’s fine, Dad,” he lied. “I’m getting used to the college lifestyle. I’ve made a few friends, Tom and Carl, they’re idiots. But charming in their own way. I have a new local, The Jericho. You’d love it!”

“I’m so relieved. You wouldn’t believe how worried we’ve been. Your grandmother had some odd premonitions, so she’ll be doubly pleased you’ve been in touch. But why ring so early? I’m barely back with the dog.” Jones’ nan was well-known for her almost Nostradamus-like premonitions and predictions. He decided to swerve what his nan might have dreamt, as he had a feeling she might be too close to the truth. Instead, he moved the subject on.

“Yeah, sorry, early start. But I’ve been mad busy and this was my first chance to ring, honest. They’ve got me writing articles for a local newspaper. Just births, deaths and marriages, the occasional local controversy and local council meeting but nothing major. But it’s a start. Anyway, what’s happening at home?” Jones hated lying to his dad. His dad was a straight-up man, you’d always get unfettered access to the truth from him. This was awkward. But he could hardly tell him he’d witnessed the massacre of a clandestine SIS unit and was now investigating two major explosions in Northern Ireland.

“We’re dead proud of you, matey. You’ll be presenting Question Time next. Can you send us some copies of your newspaper stories? We’ll keep them in a scrapbook for you.”

“Yes, I’ll try. When I get some time. But I don’t think Robin Day has anything to worry about quite yet!” Jones could hear the pride in his father’s voice and how desperately he wanted his son to succeed. He wanted to paint the right picture.

“No huge news here, I won my darts match at The Wheatsheaf the other week. Your nan won the meat raffle, bloody fabulous sausages, and your mum got some extra hours from the council for being a Poll Clerk for the election. We’ll use that money to go on holiday. I’m thinking we should go back to the Costa del Sol. Maybe you’ll come too?”

Jones so desperately wanted to say yes.

Just then, there was a tap on the glass of the phone box door. A bearded soldier with a cigarette in his hand was looking impatiently at his wristwatch. It was a polite request but Jones felt this would escalate quickly. So, he mouthed ‘one minute’ back at the squaddie and returned to the conversation.

“Look, Dad, I’m doing double shifts, weekend rota and on-call overnight. I have no idea whether I’m coming or going. But I’ll get home when I can and we can discuss holidays. Alright?”

“We’ll be here. You do whatever you need to do. We’ll have a curry when you get home too, okay? From the Gurkha, they’re doing a weekend special now.”

“Absolutely, Dad. We’ll do that. But I’ve got to go now, I’m run out of 50p pieces. Give my love to everyone for me? Please?”

“Love you, son. God bless.” The beeps signalling the end of the call sounded. Jones shouted goodbye and put the receiver down. The call was exactly what he needed. It was as if time had stood still back at home. That his previous life was being encased in aspic waiting for him and that would do quite nicely.

As he opened the door for the bearded soldier, who gave him a rather stinging side-eye stare as he passed Jones, he heard the noise of the bird song. He felt the warmth and brightness of the day coming to life and the promise of something more positive. Jenny Richmond would soon be awake and he’d fill his stomach with Ulster Fry whilst she picked at some uber-healthy muesli.

He peered back over his shoulder; he saw Armstrong closing the door of his telephone box. He looked sad. Jones had seen the transformation in soldier after soldier as they talked to their loved ones, walking out of the telephone box with either smiling faces or their resolve restored, ready for the next challenge. But somehow Armstrong looked lost in his thoughts.

Jones upped the pace and smelt the glorious odour of breakfast as he got closer to the main buildings and mess. Instead of racing back to the room to see if Jenny had awoken, he took a right turn and entered the canteen. McNally was leaning on the wall, smoking a cigarillo, and reading the Irish Times. He had a concerned look on his face and Jones didn’t fancy facing him at this time.

He ordered two coffees, one with two sugars and the other black, and headed back to the accommodation block. He had a sudden feeling of enormous tiredness but with the butterflies still fluttering around his chest. Talking to his dad had grounded him, but he also had this awful feeling of guilt. Not just for lying to him but also for the simple fact that the dead of the YCU could never ring their parents again. Never have that simple pleasure of hearing the normality of life. Isadora and Stephen might have futures but these last 24 hours would never leave them either.

He used his right foot to open the door of their bedroom, it was a trick he’d mastered quickly. Richmond was still asleep. He placed the polystyrene cup next to her side of the bed and silently hoped its alluring smell would summon her from sleep. He needed her.