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They both laughed, a flimsy token but a start. Ted motioned to the chair next to him. “This one at least has a seat.”
Solo parked his butt on the old busted chair, felt the ping of a spring up his arse and chuckled. “Not much of one.”
“I only get the things that are thrown out. Bit like me, on the scrapheap.”
“Don’t say that. Your family love you.”
Ted sighed. They sat in silence for long moments. “You know what the irony is? The thing that makes me want to drink the most is knowing how much I’ve let them all down. The shame. That’s what I try to drown out. That, and the memories.”
“Pretty bad, huh?”
“Vietnam. Did Poll tell you? You being a shrink and all, she’s probably told you everything about my fucked-up life.” Ted’s voice had an edge that Solo sensed would need careful handling.
“Yes, she mentioned you were in Vietnam. My best friend served in Afghanistan. It roughed him up a lot.”
Ted turned his head and looked at Solo, his eyes glinting in the dim light. “So, you’ve seen what it does to someone first-hand?”
“I have. It’s not pretty.”
“Telling me.” Ted leaned back. “I get them less now, you know, the flashbacks. That sound, though,phtpht phphhht, pphhhttt. Helicopters. Even now, if I hear one I want to flatten to the fucking ground. I keep away from the bastard things. And that stuff, the magic elixir”—he waved his hand at the lined-up bottles—“helps you forget. All you want, all you need, is to forget. It’s a battlefield… only up here.” He tapped his head.
“That’s pretty much how my best mate described it.”
“Shit, is the poor bugger okay?”
Solo paused. Was Drew okay? He couldn’t know for sure. “He’s getting treatment.” That much was true, at least.
Ted sighed. “Did Polly say I drove her mum away, too? With my drinking, my verbals. I hit her, once, twice at most. Lowest points of my life. It was mostly words, but I guess words can be just as bad. Poll, she was a good girl, always smiling, always forgiving, hugged me as she cleaned up the freakin’ mess afterwards. Told me ‘you’ll be okay, Daddy’. Then her mum left. And her gran died. She adored her gran, our Polly did. That’s when it changed. She stopped talking to me. Scarpered. Can’t blame her.” Suddenly his shoulders shook. “I want to tell her…”
“Tell her what?” Solo asked softly.
“That I’m sorry… For what I did.” Ted’s voice choked up. “For what I didn’t do… how I, you know, wasn’t a real dad to her all those years.”
Solo turned towards Ted, his body language open and accepting. “You were unwell, Ted. It’s hard to treat people decently when you’re suffering. And no-one can see psychological wounds.”
“Dead right. would have been better if my bloody legs had been blown off. Then they’d have seen it.”
“PTSD is as bad as losing limbs,” Solo pointed out. “Maybe worse, because nobody can see when we lose part of our mind. They just feel the effects.”
“Yeah, like a fucking great mine blowing up in their faces. I tried to get help, several times, and then, you know, you feel better, you think, ‘Christ, stop being a sook, you don’t need these bloody pills. Man up. Just get on with it’. And I’d ditch them down the loo. A week later be back on that stuff.” He waved a hand at the bottles again. “Just got to shoot the rest and I’m done.”
“Maybe not, Ted.”
Ted hung his head. “Ah, it felt good smashing the buggers.”
“Empty them out instead.”
“Gah, you young ’uns. No sense of adventure.”
“Not around guns, no.” Solo dared to grin now the mood was lightening. “Now, motorbikes, that’s a different thing altogether.”
“Thought I heard an engine coming up the hill. What is it, a Honda?”
“No, Ducati Monster.”
“Used to have a Bonneville.”
“Really? You lucky man.”
