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September 21, 2017, Spitalfields, England
Jamie’s patrol boots felt like concrete weights about his feet as he plodded down the hallway towards his flat. Most days, he loved his job. It filled a psychic need to contribute meaningfully to society and provided a loose camaraderie that acted as a substitute family. Physically and mentally taxing, on a bad day like today, it left him feeling wrung out and far older than his twenty-seven years. All that kept him moving was force of habit and the promise of a glass of whisky, a long shower and a comfortable bed.
A steady thump of bass throbbed from behind his door. Frowning, he fit the key in the lock and walked into a wall of sound. Claire was nowhere to be seen, but her iPhone sat on the coffee table, wirelessly connected to the tele’s surround sound system. He tapped the screen once and lowered the volume significantly.
The sudden lull drew his roommate from the kitchen, where she’d evidently been cleaning. She was wearing a tattered pair of jogging pants, a plain white tshirt and rubber gloves. Corkscrews of sweaty hair stuck to her temples.
“Jamie, hi. Sorry, I didn’t hear you come in.”
“Understandable. Depeche Mode, Sassenach?”
Her lips curled in a shape he knew was supposed to be a grin. Something was missing, however. A spark, a hint of magic, the ineffable quality he associated with Claire.
“Are ye alright, Claire? Ye seem... I dinna ken, but not yerself,” he inquired as he opened the liquor cabinet. Raising a nearly full bottle of Glenfiddich in silent query, he set about pouring two healthy glasses. When they met back at the sofa, Claire had removed her cleaning attire and tried to arrange her hair in a slightly neater bun.
“I could ask the same of you,” she countered. “You look done in. Rough day? Cheers,” she added, raising the amber liquid.
“Slainte,” he replied, letting the spicy heat coat his throat and settle like an ember in his belly.
“Do you ever...” Claire began before subsiding into silence.
“Do I ever what?” he urged.
“Some days I just feel as though no matter what I do, the cosmic ledger is not going to balance, you know? That there isn’t enough good in me to balance out all the bad.”
He forced himself to mutely accept her statement, no matter how much he wanted to dispute it. She was exposing a chink in her formidable armour. His job was to listen, not debate. He couldn’t help wanting to peer past the small opening to the burning core within, though.
“I loved this album as a lad,” he offered instead. “Dark an’ moody an’ all about sex. My Mam hated Personal Jesus, complained twas blasphemous.”
Claire chuckled softly. She was looking at a point over his shoulder, visibly straining to reach some buried emotion.
“When things got horrific at Camp Bastion, the surgeons would listen to music, ridiculously loud music. Artillery fire, evac choppers, the wails of wounded soldiers, it drowned them all out. Or at least that was the idea. The camp only had an old portable stereo on its last legs, held together with suture wire. By the end of my year, Violator was the only tape that fucking thing hadn’t eaten. This is the soundtrack of the worst moments of my life.”
He could have asked why she would want to relive that personal hell, but he already knew the answer. It was the same reason he still rushed into a burning building, even as the memory of his accident played havoc with his PTSD. Survival was an act of redemption. You fought your demons because if you didn’t, the demons had already won.
They sat beside each other on the sofa listening to the melancholy songs on repeat. When her glass was empty, Jamie poured another two fingers unprompted. He didn’t ask what happened during her hospital shift to send her thoughts back to Afghanistan. He could guess. She didn’t ask why his uniform smelled of ashes and burnt flesh. She could guess. Sometimes the hurt didn’t need to be articulated. Sometimes silent complicity was the only cure.
***
October 20, 2017, London Stadium, England
She’d almost missed the envelope entirely. Bleary eyed after an overnight shift, her plan was to sleep through the rest of the day and wake up tomorrow in her thirties. Checking the surface of her desk for mail out of habit on her way to the shower, Jamie’s bold scrawl, black across ivory paper, caught her eye.
Happy Birthday, Claire.
Her finger shook as she unsealed the feather-light rectangle. A ticket for that night's Depeche Mode concert was the only content. Her hand covered her mouth as she drew in a quivering lungful of air. She had no idea how he even knew it was her birthday, never mind how he happened upon the perfect gift.
After a rejuvenating nap, shower and thirty minutes trying on every outfit in her wardrobe, she now stood in an endless security lineup in the hulking shadow of London Stadium. A soft brush against her bare shoulder and a hint of his familiar scent were the cues that sent her heart beating against her ribs. She looked up into the sunrise of his warmest smile.
“G’d evenin’,” he greeted. “Fancy meetin’ ye here.”
She shook her head in mock exasperation.
“Really, Jamie. I can’t believe you. How ever did you even get tickets? It’s been sold out for months.”
“Och, twas nothin’. The sister of one of the lads on my engine works fer their record label,” he demurred, running a hand through his curls. She could see they were still damp. He must have showered at the station and come straight from work. The bright floodlights caught the blond tones of the stubble along his jaw. She looked away, feeling a lurch in her stomach that had nothing to do with missing dinner.
They chatted easily as they slowly advanced through the metal detectors and into the colossal stadium.
“I’ve never been inside,” she remarked, craning her head upwards. “It’s incredible, isn’t it?”
“Aye, tis. This way, birthday girl. We’re on the floor.” Jamie extended a courtly arm and shepherded her into the steadily growing crowd.
At concerts in her youth, she always started near the stage but was gradually pushed backwards by larger, rowdier fans. It took several songs for her to realize why that wasn’t happening. Jamie had planted himself directly behind her and was acting like a breakwater, parting the crowd with his tall, broad form before they could push up against her. She felt something vigilant loosen along her spine. Before long, she was dancing and singing along, completely lost in the moment.
Looking up over her shoulder at his proud, chiseled features as they were washed in multi-hued lights, she caught his eye and smiled. He bent close, his warm breath feathering her hair as he whisper-yelled into her ear.
“Happy birthday, Claire.”
Impulsively, she stood on tiptoe and placed a careful kiss near the corner of his mouth. Lying in bed that night with the echo of the music still ringing in her ears, it was the memory of his shyly delighted grin that lit her mind like a thousand stars.