Dirty Deeds Done Cheap (21 page)

After the range practice that day, the Gurkhas cooked again and we managed to get hold of a load of wooden pallets from the store and built ourselves a fire for the evening. I was feeling a bit pissed off – call it a bit of depression if you prefer – but this was just down to the fact that I was away from my family. However, this was part and parcel of the job, so you had to just suck it up and get on with it.

H
aving been hit and laid up for a number of weeks with nothing to do but think about what had happened to me and my mates more than I really cared to dwell on, I had wanted to go straight back to the job, since boredom was getting the better of me. However, my close brush with death and the ongoing casualty rate among our teams was really making me regret my decision to rush straight back to work. This job was tough and being injured had been a bit of a reality check.

My bosses had advised me to take some leave and go home and recuperate and really think about whether or not I wanted to continue. One of them pointed out that there is nothing worse than working with someone who is nervous and distracted with thoughts of his own mortality. A distracted person could easily endanger the lives of the whole team. At the time I was quite blasé about it. After all, I had been hit in the chest and survived – surely that meant I was bulletproof. I had decided that northern Iraq didn’t faze me. I had the attitude you should have after falling off a horse: you have to get straight back up and back in the saddle before your fears cripple you.

At the time that I went back to work I was sure that I had made the right decision and was eager to get back to all my mates. I was missing the camaraderie. After all, these guys had become my family. After only a few weeks back at work I realised that the advice I had been given was actually very good advice: I should have taken that extra time off to sort out my head and my feelings.

It wasn’t long before one of my bosses suggested to me that I was burnt out and really needed to go home for a while. He was good about it. They weren’t going to sack me or anything like that. However, they were concerned for my welfare and, for the safety of the whole team, I really needed to go home.

Initially I was furious about this. I felt almost cheated, as if I had been injured and come back and they were throwing me away. With hindsight, I realised the truth of what he said to me but at that time I was too angry to appreciate the favour he was doing for me. So, after stewing about it for the best part of two days, I reluctantly agreed to go home for some leave.

I had been working in Iraq for nearly fifteen months by this time and had taken only one decent leave up until this point so I reasoned to myself that I could go home and have time with my family and friends and then would be able to come back, clear-headed and focused. As soon as I told the boss that I would take the leave they arranged it so quickly that it almost made my head spin. In barely twenty-four hours I was, once again, packing up my stuff and hugging Kasper goodbye. Rotten dog still tried to bite me – that’s gratitude for you! Once again I was transported to the airport by the Gurkhas. I said goodbye to all the lads, absolutely convinced that within a month I would be back and carrying on where I had left off. I remember standing outside the airport and watching them scream away with barely a backward glance. I picked up my bag and walked into the airport. After the usual delays I was once more on a plane to Kuwait. I had a twenty-four-hour layover in Kuwait, which wasn’t so bad. I managed to explore a bit more and ate a couple of really good meals in the local restaurants.

The next day I was up early for my flight back to Amsterdam. Everything went really smoothly. There were no delays and before too long I was settling into my seat for the flight. I started to watch the in-flight movie but it was crap and I fell asleep really quickly. I didn’t wake until the air stewardess shook my shoulder to get me to fasten my seat belt. After only about fifteen minutes I was once more in Schiphol. I had to kill about three hours in the airport before my flight back to Heathrow, so I wandered about the shops looking for a gift for my mum. I was feeling quite restless by now and kept checking my watch, but time seemed to have slowed to a crawl. Now that I was on my way home I couldn’t wait to get there and catch up with everyone.

Eventually, after what seemed like eight hours but was really only three, the departure board showed that my flight was boarding. The flight to Heathrow was, thankfully, really short and before too long I was standing outside the airport thinking about how to get home. I hadn’t told anyone I was coming back, so there wasn’t anyone waiting for me this time. I decided to get the train back to Bristol and call my mate Rodders from the train and get him to collect me at Bristol Temple Meads station. The train was crowded and it was a struggle to find a seat, and, when I eventually found one, I found I was sharing with a harassed mum and her two toddlers, who were noisy and messy. I love kids but these two little monsters would have pushed anyone to the limits – shrieking and screaming and throwing tantrums. Their poor mum kept apologising to me for them but I was very relieved when she got off after about an hour. The rest of the train journey was pretty peaceful.

I got into Bristol, grabbed my bags and left the station. Fortunately, Rodders was waiting for me. We hugged and loaded my bags into his boot. We talked all the way home. I didn’t mention my injury to him and, in fact, didn’t really mention Iraq at all. Rodders, being quite a sensitive guy when it suits him, didn’t push, realising that I didn’t want to talk about it. He knew I would tell him if and when I wanted to.

Getting back to my home town was quite strange. There was a new building in town that hadn’t been there when I’d left. The whole place seemed somehow smaller than when I’d last been there. The quiet pace of life there was at such odds with what I had been going through for the past year that I wondered if I would find it too boring for me.

I spent a few days getting in touch with my mates and meeting up with them – mainly in the local. In fact I think I may have camped out in the pub for about a week. I guess I thought I needed it. I certainly know that I drank quite a chunk of my wages that week! As a lot of my friends are builders and mostly self-employed, they are able to take a lot of time off if they want to – so it was never a problem to find someone to hook up with and sink a few pints.

One evening, while I was sitting in the local (just for a change!) I bumped into this woman, Kim. I’d known her for years but never really knew her, if you know what I mean. She sat down next to me and asked how I was and said that she hadn’t seen me for ages. I explained that I’d been out of the country for months and had only just got back. We were just sitting chatting when I told her that I hadn’t had a shag for months and months.

She put down her drink and looked me in the eye and said, ‘OK, your place or mine?’ I had, unwisely, taken a big mouthful of my beer and I nearly spat it everywhere. She burst out laughing and blushed scarlet and said, ‘Oh, sorry. Wasn’t that a request?’

‘Too damn right it was,’ I replied.

I told her that I didn’t actually have a place to call my own at the moment, since I was crashing at a mate’s. Once we’d both got over the embarrassment (I for asking and she for accepting with indecent haste), we decided to go back to her house.

Funny thing was, once we got there, she opened a bottle of wine and poured me a glass and we spent the whole night talking. We were still talking at about five in the morning and were both a bit more sober. Eventually, she grabbed me and dragged me off to bed. We had great sex and then fell asleep.

At about 9 a.m. Kim’s kids (she had two, a boy and a girl) started banging on the door. I had totally forgotten about that – the kids had been in bed when we had got to her place the night before. I was really embarrassed. I buried my head under the covers as Kim got up and dressed and went downstairs to see to the kids. I lay there considering the best way to escape this compromising and embarrassing situation. I looked out of the window and briefly considered jumping out, but that would be cowardly and it was quite high. I got up and took myself to the bathroom for a shower. While there, I heard Kim knock on the door. She said she’d made me a cup of coffee and that I should come on down when I was done. I’d never been involved in a relationship with a woman who had kids before, so I was more than a bit nervous.

I couldn’t stay in the shower any longer without turning into a prune, so I had to get out. I dried and dressed and came downstairs. Neither of the kids was there: her son had gone out to play football and her daughter had gone out to see friends. I was relieved. She then offered to make me breakfast and I gratefully accepted.

I was grateful, that is, until she placed my bacon and eggs in front of me. Ugh! Heart attack on a plate. I made a show of eating it while actually just chopping it up into smaller and smaller bits and pushing it around the plate. Kim laughed and said that she had many skills (she was a trained carpenter, had worked as a secretary, was a single parent and loved gardening) but cooking wasn’t her strong point. She said it was because it was just another chore, like housework, and if you had to do it every day, three times a day, you would hate it too. I suppose she had a point but I, though freely admitting that I’m not very good at it, love my cooking.

Sex, though, was another of her skills, and, while Kim was chatting away, all I could really think about was that I wanted another shag – but I didn’t have the nerve to say it.

Over the next few days I spent more and more time with Kim. She was a breath of fresh air with no airs or graces and barely any manners. Talk about blunt! Tact was obviously something that she had never learned. I found it quite endearing, as she was always brutally honest. I even got to know the kids a bit; they were nice kids if a little mouthy (like their mum I guess).

Anyway, we were both single and lonely and sort of just got on. I’d been dating her all of two weeks when I invited her up to London to meet up with some mates. I was due to go back to Iraq the next week and I wanted to be with her, but I also wanted to see my mates. We managed to sort out the logistics of work and childminders and off we went. We had a really great time: we did mega pub crawls and visited a few clubs.

We spent two really great days in London, I had a lot of fun with her and we laughed loads. However, all good things come to an end, and we had to return home – Kim had to take her kids to school, among other things.

We caught the tube to Paddington but found that we had about an hour to kill before our train, so Kim challenged me to a game of pool. Now I fancy myself as a bit of a pool player, so I was well up for it. We got down to dares and bets or forfeits should either of us lose. I’ve got to say I had the best game of pool in my life. She is such a cheat and she totally stuffed my arse. She does not play fair.

She can play really well but her distraction techniques when it was my go won every time. She danced to the music over the pocket I was aiming at. Then she’d pretend to be uninterested and plant her arse over the pocket with her back to me. She has the greatest arse I’ve ever seen and knows how to use it! I lost the game! I can’t remember what our bet was, but she won –it was the best game of pool ever.

We had a few drinks riding on each game while we were waiting. She stuffed me but I’ve never been happier to lose a game! Time was short and we were having fun. After about an hour our train was due, so we grabbed our bags and legged it – of course, we’d left it a bit late and we were a bit the worse for our vodka-shot bets, which I’d mostly lost. But she still kept pace with me. What a woman!

So we were finally on the train and just talking about things we had always wanted to do before we were forty years old. Kim produced a pack of cards and challenged me to a game – for forfeits. So I said that I’d never had sex on a train. Fuck me if she doesn’t turn around and say ‘OK, next hand for sex on the train or not.’

Now she had been totally stuffing me: she’d already won about 5–2 on rummy (I’m sure she cheats, but I don’t know how!). So my prize was sex on the train. It was such a tense game but she dealt me a flush and I only needed two cards to win. I couldn’t believe it when I beat her. She went absolutely crimson and tried to squirm out of it. I was triumphant and gloating and winding her up. So she says she needs a drink. OK, I thought. I hadn’t really expected her to come through, anyway, but the gloat factor was well worth it.

So, leaving our coats and bags on the seats, we made our way up to the buffet car. It turned out we hadn’t got much change between us and would need to go to the cashpoint at the station, so we barely managed to scrape the cost of a vodka. I needed the toilet and left Kim to get the drinks.

There was a young lad with his bags sitting near the entrance to the toilet. I went into the little cubicle. I was quite happily having a piss and sort of whistling to myself when the door suddenly burst open – I jumped out my skin and turned to find Kim shoving me out the way so she could shut the door behind her.

‘Well I’m here,’ she said. I was so shocked I peed all over the toilet seat. Shit, shit, shit! I was thinking. Fuck me! This woman’s great. I managed to finish my pee and Kim very kindly wiped up the accidental spillage!

Now you have to understand this cubicle wasn’t one of those nice big ones with the circular doors. No, this was an old-fashioned one – with a door with a small bolt-type lock – and really small (like that of a plane loo). So we’re both squeezed in and she starts to tell me this story about how the nice man on the buffet counter gave her the Coke for free because she didn’t have enough change. I was totally unable to understand what the fuck she was on about, and then she hangs her coat on the peg and says, ‘Well? How about it?’

She undid her jeans and pulled them down, then her pants, and, after cleaning the toilet seat and lid with wipes, bent over and presented her fantastic arse to me. Well, what could I do? What would you do? I went for it. No,
we
went for it. The train was going at about 60 m.p.h. and I think we even stopped at a few stations. I could see people walking past the window but, fuck it, we went for it.

People knocked on the door but we ignored them. I took my T-shirt off and dumped it on the sink. Kim kept saying, ‘Pete, sink!’ It took me ages to twig that the sink had one of those automatic taps and I’d dumped my T-shirt in it; the tap had come on and was soaking my T-shirt and jacket. I grabbed it out and threw it on the floor. We carried on. Somebody knocked on the door just as I was about to come. How fucking frustrating is
that
? Talk about offputting!