Canal Fever
We that were friends tonight have found A sudden fear, a secret flame: I am on fire with that soft sound You make, in uttering my name
We That Were Friends
James Elroy Flecker
Chapter One
Ghost would remember the moment for the rest of his life: the moment he woke wrapped around Roach for the first time. The pale, cold light of Sunday morning seeped through the netted curtain, thinly illuminating the room. He would remember the quiet, the absence of sound, except Roach's soft breathing.
It was a strange, alien experience, and combined with the sharp surge of fear when he propped himself up his elbow and looked at Roach's face, his profile outlined against the pillow, he was suddenly nervous.
Even though he knew Roach was sleeping, Ghost still felt shy staring at him. With his eyes closed, and his delicate features outlined by the soft curls of his hair, Roach looked like the Renaissance ideal of a angel that had tumbled from the painted chapel ceiling into Ghost's bed. The juxtaposition of his innocent expression jarred against Ghost's memories from yesterday's fierce, passionate sex.
Roach was balled up in a foetal position, with his back pressed into Ghost's chest. Ghost pushed his face forward and gently nuzzled into the short, fuzzy hair at the nape of Roach's neck, his heart pounding as he did so. He could smell his sweat, the spicy, smokey scent of his aftershave and the lingering odour of beer from the night before. He closed his eyes and inhaled deeply.
They'd gone out. Roach had insisted on the importance of having an alibi. A few frames of pool and a few drinks had soothed the awkward lack of conversation. Ghost had been amazed to find that Roach knew people, people that Ghost had seen on the base, perhaps nodded to in passing. Roach knew them, knew something about them that just made them open up and talk to him: a baby on the way, a father recovering from an operation. Ghost had just stood there, shuffling his feet shyly and wishing the the ground would open up and swallow him whole... His hand was lying across Roach's waist, crooked with the elbow resting over his hip. Gently, he peeled it off, their combined sweat having glued them both together. He looked at his watch: it was already half past nine. Ghost suddenly realised that it was less than four hours until the minibus rolled through the gates of the base and their time together was ended. Ghost pushed the thought away. He wanted to exist solely in this present, this private moment.
They returned to the base together. Ghost remembered laughing at something Roach said as he stumbled through the door. Roach flopped down onto the sofa and commanded Ghost to put the kettle on whilst he flicked through the late night television. They sat there, drinking tea and giggling at adverts for sex-lines until Roach got up, blearily rubbing his eyes and told him he was calling it a night. Ghost wasn't sure why he'd said it, it must have been the beer talking, but he had asked if Roach was going to his room. The fact that he had acknowledged the possibility that Roach might not sleep in his own bed, as if this was normal behaviour, shocked him, but he was more surprised at himself tabling the possibility of sex. He suddenly felt very sober and very much not himself. In the light of the morning, Ghost still couldn't believe himself. He'd gone from entire sexual encounters without a word spoken from start to finish to suggesting to another soldier that they should jump into bed together. Roach had always initialised their encounters. Ghost had unconsciously approved of that, as if it resolved him of all responsibility of what they did together. Ghost closed his eyes. He didn't feel like himself anymore. He felt loose, flapping, free in the twisting gale that Roach had brought flooding into his life.
Roach had smiled. A cheeky, mischievous smile that showed he knew exactly what Ghost was thinking and had been having the same thoughts himself. It made Ghost nervous and excited at the same time. He steadied himself, and followed Roach out of the room. In the dark hollow of Ghost's doorway, Roach kissed him. Ghost knew how Roach kissed, knew what would happen next and that anticipation was an experience he'd never had before. Instead of boring him, the familiar gesture of Roach embracing him: reaching one hand round Ghost's body to rest in the small of his back and sliding the other gently up to stroke the nape of his neck, excited him. Ghost knew that Roach would take his bottom lip and suck it gently between his own, and the waiting drove him wild. “
I want you” he had breathlessly whispered. “I want to fuck you.” Ghost was shaken from his memories by Roach stirring underneath him. Ghost froze, realising that his developing erection was pressing into Roach's back and that he'd been gently rubbing himself against it. Roach scratched at his face clumsily and then settled. Ghost exhaled slowly and moved his face away from the nape of Roach's neck then froze again as Roach moved, sliding his arm down from where he was clutching the blanket and clasping Ghost's hand in his own.
Ghost swallowed, his throat suddenly dry. He felt Roach entwined his fingers in his own and squeezed them. He might as well have punched through Ghost's chest and crushed his heart. The surging, rush of emotion made his breath catch in his throat.
What was the fuck was Roach doing? Why was he holding his hand? He listened as Roach's breathing settled back into a measured, sleeping rhythm and lay there, quiet, trying to still the flutter of his heart.
“I'm impressed.” said MacTavish. “He convinced
you to go out on the pull?”
Ghost was doing a good job of putting up a front of sullen resentment, as if he was begrudgingly and silently admitting he'd been wrong about Roach. Over the last few days, a complex web of disinformation had been spun that now seemed to be bearing fruit.
They were in MacTavish's office as the dusk fell. Wednesday, the first Wednesday
after, was drawing to a close, and Ghost felt he'd done a pretty good job of holding himself together. It had been awkward, sure enough. Ghost had escaped Roach's grasp so when he'd finally woken he found Ghost in the kitchen, laying out the tools he needed to clean the bike's chain. Roach had seemed cooler, paler, slower, like a flame deprived of oxygen.
Ghost hid his nervousness in his work, his trembling hands fumbling over the tools. He wanted to go to Roach, and for a moment he imagined himself cleaning his oily fingers on the rag and then walking across to where Roach was standing, starting blearily at the kettle, to press him close. The cosy domesticity of the scene suddenly appalled him. He screwed his eyes shut, trying to push the image away: there was no place for it here. Mentally he cursed himself for thinking such thoughts and tried to focus on the task in front of him, knowing deep down that nothing was ever going to be the same again.
He'd not ignored Roach, to do so would have aroused suspicion: they'd exchanged pleasantries in the canteen over breakfast, and Ghost had pretended to be preturbed when Roach started regaling a tale of the Saturday night, involving two fictional girls they'd both kissed but who'd left without arranging any future meetings. He had watched and listened, awed, as Roach wove his story, adding elaborate touches Ghost would not have through credible, but the others seemed to lap it up. Roach had embedded himself into legend.
They had trained together too, monotonously plodding through the miles of German countryside, passing small talk about the weather, the cows, anything. Roach could talk for hours about the developments at home, and Ghost continually batted away his tentative inquiries into his own family life. No mention was made of the weekend, and Ghost was surprised to find that it hurt. When he heard Roach laughing with one of the others he felt a pang of jealousy, a drop of acid on his heart. He wanted to say something, he wanted to grab Roach's wrist, pull him to a stop and shout the question in his face: did he not care? And yet he couldn't: the words froze in his throat. He knew it was for the best, knew that the best thing to do was to pretend it hadn't happened, but it still hurt.
The first night he slept alone he realised he could still smell Roach on the pillows, on the bed sheets. His first thought was to take them out and burn them, to destroy all the evidence, but he found himself lying there, naked, driving his face into the soft place where Roach had rested his head, the pain like a knife in his chest.
“Well... it was getting pretty boring.” he said, trying to keep the nervousness out of his voice. He didn't want to have to make up any more lies.
MacTavish drew a deep breath through his cigar and then exhaled, filling the air with the sickly, sweet stench of tobacco. He had a thoughtful expression. “I thought it wasn't your thing?”
“It's not.” said Ghost. He shrugged. “It's dishonest, I think, leading them on when I'm not really interested. You know that.”
MacTavish nodded. “Not to your tastes then?”
“No.” Ghost shook his head and then continued “But they didn't seem to be that interested either, so I guess everyone went home happy.”
They sat in silence for a few moments, Ghost turning round the glass of vodka MacTavish had poured him. He'd known MacTavish for a long time, and he was probably the closest thing that Ghost had to being a best friend. He really wanted to tell him the truth, and share some of what he felt for Roach, but he knew he couldn't. As far as MacTavish was concerned, Ghost had
very specific tastes in women, tastes that ran deep, dark and tended to make people uncomfortable when discussed in polite company. He usually hated the tangled web of deceit, but today he hated it more. He knocked the drink back quickly, the alcohol burning at his throat.
“What was it you wanted?” he said.
“There's a job coming up.” said MacTavish. “Don't know the details yet, but Shepherd asked for you... and Roach. Hence my joy at you two sorting out your differences.”
Ghost felt you could hardly describe MacTavish's dour face as joyous, but he let this go. “Oh?”
“You, Roach, Doc and Archer. All leaving in two weeks for something.”
Ghost considered. “All Brits.”
MacTavish nodded. The task force was normally twenty four men strong, made up of a mixed bag of nationalities, a selection pack of various special forces from across the world. “Anyway, Friday we're going to the Embassy. Spread the word, make sure everyone looks sharp, but not too sharp. I'm not having any of you cunts muscling in on my patch.”
Ghost rolled his eyes, glad of the comic relief. MacTavish was the most unashamed womaniser Ghost had ever met. The briefings at the embassy were his excuse to sample the rotating smorgasboard of female delights that was the American diplomatic corps, and MacTavish seemed to regard the pleasure of the female sex as his personal mission from God. Personally, Ghost found it slightly nauseating: all the palaver of dinners, flowers and creating an aura of mystery for a few rounds of getting hot and sweaty, plus all the complexities that seemed to follow. It was the only point of having sex with men that he was prepared to capitulate as being straightforward: you went to the place, and there were people who wanted to have sex with you.
“I'll bear it in mind.” he said as he left, striding out into the darkness of the autumn night.
If you want to leave a review, I'm always grateful for constructive criticism, especially with a new work that's deviating in style from the previous story: Twist. I have a review reply thread in the forum, and a profile on FF.net if you are interloping and wish to confer.
