Twist

Chapter Four: The Morning After

Ghost awoke in blissful ignorance. For a few precious seconds, he blearily snuggled into the pillow, his eyes half open in the gloom. He had learnt to savour this time. Spending his life waking up into warzones, foreign jails and recovery rooms had scarred him with the knowledge that the moments before you remember where you are and how you got there, are sometimes the best moments of the day.



He was lying on a bed, albeit a cheap and thinly-sheeted affair which scratched at his naked skin, but a bed all the same. This was a positive point. Beds were not a strong feature in any of the worst places that he could imagine and it smelled wrong for a hospital. It smelled of sweat, of cheap washing powder and a cologne that seemed vaguely familiar... Six hours of memory suddenly punched into his brain. Oh God. He thought. Oh Fuck! Indecent images of the night before seared across his vision. Oh fucking God...





He had fucked Roach.





The truth washed over him, cold and sobering. He let out a thin, keening of breath as the full horror of the situation sunk in.





He had fucked Roach.





In the sharp light of morning, it was undeniable, unforgettable and yet still unbelievable. It was such a overwhelming shock, so far removed from his usual behaviour that he couldn’t quite take it all in at once. Clenching his eyes, tightly shut, he listened. There were no other sounds in the room. Gently, he slid out his foot across the bed: empty. Roach was gone. He sighed with relief and opened his eyes.



Thin daylight crept under the edges of the curtains, barely illuminating the room. In the poor light he recognised the familiar, standard-issue furniture of the British Army that was fashionable about fifty years ago, covered with the detritus of someone who clearly didn’t care much for personal order. He focused on the table beside the bed: a digital clock, partially hidden by a rogue sock, informed him that it was ten-thirty. Beside this, a series of personal photographs were crowding round. He didn’t look at them. Locking eyes with even a miniature image of Roach would have sent him tumbling. Instead, he jammed the pillow over his head and tried to think.



The smell of Roach permeated everything, bringing memories bubbling to the surface of mind: Roach in the kitchen, Roach pinning him onto the living room floor and kissing him, Roach staring into his eyes as he licked... Ghost drove his head into the mattress and tried to force the thoughts away, but it was no use. They whirled, unbidden and unwanted in his head.

He needed to get out, get back into the safety of his own room before Roach returned.  He pulled off the covers and winced as he tried to move. His cock was sticky with a combination of cum, lube and Christ-only-knew what else. Carefully, he freed himself from the sheets and disentangled enough pubic hair so that he could move painlessly. With horror, he realised that he was naked, and he had no clothes of his own. He couldn't even remember what had happened to the towel. Desperately, he grabbed a pair of boxer shorts that were lying abandoned on the floor, and fled the scene.

 

 

A shower, a shave and several cycles of toothbrushing later, Ghost had at least removed the smell of Roach and his spilled bodily fluids from himself, giving himself space to think. In the safety of his own room (a temple to the gods of organisation and tidiness) he checked himself over. Ghost was tall, topped with sandy-blonde hair that was starting to show hints of ash as he matured. At thirty, he had spent half his life running himself into the ground for Queen and country, and it showed: a thick, keloid scar bisected his torso from sternum to crotch, a lasting reminder of nasty incident that had nearly spelled the end of him, impaled by a desperate stab from a fleeing young Columbian he had tried to pin down. The original wound, two-inch line on the left flank, had been lucky enough to hit an artery, just before the perpetrator received Ghost’s forehead to his nose and then two rounds to his chest.



Ghost had long stopped wincing at the memory of the knife, but was horrified at the new wounds that had appeared overnight. There was an obvious lovebite on his left shoulder, an unmistakable splash of purple and burgundy that refused to rub off. Across his back and his arms were scratches were Roach had clearly clawed at him in his frenzy. Shit! He thought. It didn’t take a forensic expert to work out what had caused them. Twisting to get a better look in the mirror, he experimentally probed the deepest of the scratches and winced: it was tender. In fact, his whole body felt like it had just finished a fight. Gently, he handled himself, and examined between his legs for anything incriminating. Had he really? Had he really done it? It seemed so unbelievable, so unlike him that it felt unreal.



Turning back to face the mirror, he gripped the edges of the sink hard and tried to concentrate. What the fuck have you done? he thought. He could hear the faint, tinny sounds of a radio in the distance. Roach was obviously up, and going about his daily business without the same crisis of consciousness. Ghost on the other hand, was trying to work out what on earth he was supposed to do now. His whole life had been spent sneaking from sordid sexual encounters, avoiding even the tiniest trace of contact with the men with whom he sucked and fucked into the night. Now, one of those men was not only still present, but was going to remain so indefinitely. What was he supposed to say? Thanks for being such a good sport, we’ll just call it quits now and go back to pretending we’re wanking over girls like the jolly chaps we are, shall we?



It was an unbelievably ludicrous situation to be in. Just yesterday he had been dreaming about Roach,  imagining a whole series of depraved acts to perform with him. The possibility of actually doing anything had seemed so remote that he felt he could indulge his fantasy, but now it was real. It had happened. His secret was out. Ghost didn’t want to admit it to himself, but he was scared.



And what was worse, he still wanted Roach. In fact, now that he knew what hid beneath the clothes, the thought of Roach made him dizzy with desire. Part of him was reliving the night before, every image remembered giving him butterflies, whilst the rest of him was starting to buckle under the fear of what was going to happen next.



“Fuck!” he said aloud, to his reflection. “You’re a fucking idiot, you know that?”

Mirror-Ghost regarded him with an expression of disdain.

 

 

 

Eventually, when hunger got the better of him, he climbed out of the window and snuck along to the canteen. As he crawled through the meager shrubbery lining the edge of the dormitories, he was filled with a sense of deep shame. He cursed himself for getting into such a mire of complications and thoroughly wished he was somewhere else, even bloody Columbia would do.

Ten minutes later, and he was nursing a limp and greasy breakfast as he watched the the other men and women come and go in groups of two or three: laughing, chatting and commiserating each other on their awful hangovers. They looked so at-ease with each other, as if it was obvious what they should be doing. He had never felt so alone.

Normal small-talk he found awkward and difficult, so the idea of talking to another man he’d had sex with terrified him. The idea of talking to Roach, of having to actually look him in the face was something he just couldn't compute. Roach wasn't just someone he'd met in the dark of a distant sauna, he was supposed to be a team-mate. A gorgeous, lusty and eminently fuckable team-mate, but a team-mate all the same. Ghost clenched his hand into a tight fist and drove the hard knuckle into the orbit of his eye, using the pain to focus his attention.

He wished he could ask someone for advice. He thought of phoning his sister, but it was still the early hours of the morning in Los Angeles, and much as he knew she loved him, he didn’t think his anxiety over post-coital small-talk was something she’d appreciate losing sleep over. He would have to cope alone.

 

 

Returning to his room, he tried to exercise, but his body was aching and his commando sojourn to the canteen hadn’t helped. He had hoped that if he could just clear his head for a while, carry on as normal, he could solve the problem of what to do. He lay on the floor, his sit-ups abandoned, and stared at the ceiling. The rough carpet tiles bit into his skin, inflaming the scratches and bruises. He sighed, and rubbed his hand along his aching stomach muscles, which made him think of Roach’s glorious physique. Last night, he had convinced himself that fucking with Roach would resolve the tension, but it had only made things worse. Now whatever he did reminded him of Roach, of sex and of his pathetic understanding of basic human relationships. He wondered if Roach was tired, if his body had any reminders of what they had done and if he had thought about Ghost at all?



He absent-mindedly stroked his fingers over his skin as he thought, and then realised with horror that he was starting to become aroused. Stop it! He checked himself and jerked his hand away. For a few moments he lay still, counting the cracks in the plaster on the ceiling in an attempt to focus. He decided he needed something to occupy his mind and pulled out the notes for his Arabic course.



The challenge of it seemed to settle him for a while. The rotund woman who waddled up from the local college in order to teach him had left a pile of children’s books to translate, her latest attempt to get him familiar with the foreign alphabet and comfortable with some vocabulary. Realising that thoughts of sex and reading children’s books were a highly inappropriate combination, he used every bit of mental fibre to concentrate on the task at hand. Unfortunately, Ghost’s linguistic ability was practically non-existent, a fact that drove the poor woman mad on a weekly basis.



After an hour he was angry at his own inability to understand the fiendish script, frustrated at his lack of progress and his mind was wandering back to his looming problem. Finally, exasperated and exhausted, he swept everything up from the desk and threw it clear across the room with a furious roar. The bundle hit the door with a tremendous thump and clatter, exploding sheets up paper that slowly fluttered to the floor like feathers around him.

“Fuck!” he yelled. “Fuck! Fuck! FUCK!”

Seething with impotent rage, he kicked over the chair, sending it flying into the wall and snapping one of the legs. It didn’t help. He spun round, and was about to punch the wall when he heard a voice.



“Ghost?” he called. “Are you okay?”

 

Ghost started at the sound. It was Roach, and he was standing just outside the door. Suddenly, the rage was gone, replaced with a terrible, overwhelming fear. His heart felt like it was in his throat.

 

“Can I have a word?”

 

Shit! thought Ghost.

 

“Please?” said Roach, through the closed door. There was a muffled sigh.

 

Ghost was rooted to the spot, terrified of what would happen if he let Roach in. The thought of looking Roach in the face filled him with dread. What was he doing? What did he want? Would he go away if he kept quiet?

 

“I know you’re in there.” said Roach.  

 

Fuck! Ghost crossed the room, trying to move as silently as he could, until he was at the door. Taking a deep breath, he asked “What do you want?”

 

“I want to talk to you.”

 

“I’m busy!”

 

“It’s about last night”

 

Oh fuck! Was he going to stand there and shout it through the door? Shit!

“I just wanted to-”

 

Ghost threw open the door to tell him to shut up, startling Roach who had been leaning against it. For a moment they stared at each other. Roach was wearing a fashionably crumpled black shirt, rolled up over his taunt forearms and hanging loose out of his dark jeans. His hair was gelled so that the curls showed, locked in the position they had been when he had stepped out of the shower. He looked even better than Ghost remembered.

“Shut up!” growled Ghost, enunciating every word through clenched teeth.

 

“There’s no one else here.” said Roach, stepping back to lean nonchalantly against the door opposite. He slid his hands into his pockets, as if this was the sort of conversation he had every day. His shirt shifted as he moved, opening up at the unbuttoned collar, revealing more of his chest underneath. Ghost could see the dark hair peeking through. The same hair he’d touched the night before.... He couldn’t look Roach in the eye, couldn’t look at him at all.

 

“Are you alright?” asked Roach looking concerned at Ghost's blanching expression. Ghost backed away, trying not to look at Roach as he came towards him and then Roach was in the room, closing the door behind him. Ghost's brushed against something and realised there was no more space left for him to go.

 

Fuck. Fuck. Fuck! thought Ghost. Roach was standing in Ghost’s room. He felt sick. He didn’t know what Roach wanted, what he would say or do and he was terrified at the thought. What if Roach threatened to tell someone? Shit!

“Doesn’t look that controversial.” Roach dryly observed, picking up the book Ghost had hurled at the door.

 

“Yeah? Well you don’t have to be fucking fluent in it.” Ghost snapped, automatically. His mouth was dry. His hands were starting to shake, so he clenched them into fists. The churning in his stomach grew worse.

 

“Actually I am.” Roach replied.

 

“What?”

 

“My mum’s Yemeni. Dad was out there for a while. You know, Aden? He knew a bit, and when married her she taught him. And the rest of us.” Roach said all this quite matter-of-factly as he leant back against the door, perusing the book slowly. He continued, and for a moment Ghost thought he was talking nonsense until he realised that it was Arabic. He was reading the story aloud.

 

“Anyway...” Roach stopped, switching back to English. “What’re you reading this for?”

 

“They wanted people to learn.” replied Ghost. He was trying to stare at the floor and not at Roach. He realised that he was shivering. “It’s... it’s... difficult.”

 

“I could help?” said Roach.

 

“No!” exclaimed Ghost, with horrible visions of having to cope with sitting shoulder to shoulder with Roach over the book. Suddenly, the room was far too small to have him and Roach in it.

 

“Suit yourself.” Roach walked over to the desk and dropped it down onto the empty surface where it landed with a slap. He turned back to Ghost, and perched on the edge of the desk.

 

Ghost could feel his heart thumping in his chest. He really felt sick. His mouth was dry and he realised he was breathing, hard, through his tightly clenched teeth. He tried to relax his jaw but couldn’t.

 

“It’s not just that, is it?” Roach asked.

Oh fuck! Ghost realised he was sweating, and his legs had gone oddly numb. He sat down heavily on the bed. His chest was hurting like it was being crushed. Was he having a heart attack? He thought, and then started to properly panic.

 

“Ghost?” He could hear Roach speaking in the distance, like he was suddenly miles away.

 

The room was spinning. He couldn’t breathe.

 

“Ghost? Hey!”

Ghost looked up to see a terrible double vision of Roach’s face in front of him, obscured and distorted by flashes of black. “Don’t...” he couldn’t manage the rest of the sentence. He wanted to tell Roach to get away from him, to call for help. He couldn’t breathe.





Suddenly, he was knocked sideways by a heavy, ringing slap that knocked the wind from him. For a moment, he didn’t know what had happened and then the wave of pain hit him full in the face.



“Take a deep breath. Come on. Deep breath” He felt the bed shift underneath him and he was pulled upright again, into a squeezing half-embrace. “You’re panicking. Deep breath”



Confused and disorientated, Ghost did as he was told: a huge, stuttering gasp that filled his lungs with cool, clean air.



“Now, breathe out. All the way out. And in again” Ghost was too numb to do anything other than follow instructions. Everything seemed unreal. Slowly, the room stopped spinning and he put his head between his legs, resting his elbows on his knees and clutching his face in his hands. The left side of his face was on fire.



“Sorry about that, but you looked like you were about to freak out.”

Ghost concentrated on breathing, embarrassed. Roach squeezed his shoulder.

“I came to apologise.” he continued “I shouldn’t have come on to you last night. I just let things get the better of me when I saw my chance.”

Ghost moaned. What was happening to him?

 

“I’m sorry.” said Roach.

 

Ghost rubbed his aching cheek. He could taste the metallic tang of blood in his mouth and realised he must have bitten down when Roach slapped him. He moaned again: a terrible, aching sound of defeat.

 

“It’s alright” said Roach, rubbing his hand across Ghost’s shoulder. “We’ll be okay.”

We’ll be okay? Thought Ghost. We’ll?

“It just takes getting used to.”

 

“Oh. Do you do this to people often?” snapped Ghost. “And get off me!” He jumped up, pulling away from Roach’s embrace. He felt utterly humiliated at his panic, and it suddenly welled up inside as a rage.

 

“You know, you didn’t have to kiss me. You had a choice. And you seemed pretty happy with what was happening in my room.” Roach snapped back.

 

Ghost bridled.“I thought it would make it easier!” he shouted.

 

“So did I!” yelled Roach. “And you’re the one freaking out about it! I am quite comfortable with the fact we fucked and-”

 

“SHUT UP!” Ghost screamed. “It never happened!”

 

“YES. IT. DID” Roach screamed back. “The whole point, if you remember, was to stop you tearing yourself up about it!”

“So it was an act of charity?” snarled Ghost. “Designed to make me feel better? Because that really worked.”

 

“No!” said Roach “I wanted to. I wanted to, the moment I saw you!”

 

Ghost’s anger burned bright inside, coursing through his veins with its tremendous fury, but when Roach said that he had wanted Ghost it was like being hit with a bucket of ice. No one had ever said that before. He stood, shocked into silence, with his mouth gaping.

 

“There’s no point having done it, if you’re going to go all neurotic pretending it didn’t happen. It did. You have to deal with it. Your problem,” he jabbed a finger at Ghost “is that you don’t know how to cope with it and you’re too bloody stubborn to talk to someone about it.”

 

“I-” Ghost stopped on the brink of saying it, too embarrassed by the admission to continue.

 

“You, what?” asked Roach.

“I... I don’t have anyone to talk to about it.”

 

“You can talk, to me!” in a tone of weariness that suggested this was completely obvious.

“No. I can’t!” said Ghost.”Every time I looked at you, I just see everything that happened. I can’t look you in the face without thinking that this is what we did when... Urgh!” he tailed off.

Roach gestured to the bed beside him “Sit down.” he said, shaking his head.

 

Ghost remained where he was.

“Please?” said Roach “We have to deal with this like adults. And that means not freaking out, and talking about it.”

 

Ghost stayed still

 

“I’m not coming over there and dragging you here. I’m asking, politely.”

 

He knew Roach was right, and he gave up. Roach moved aside to give him space.

 

“Was that so awful?” said Roach.

 

Ghost was silent. He didn’t know what to say, and not knowing what to say was making it worse. And he could smell Roach’s aftershave from the end of the bed. It was playing on his libido like a dedicated harpist. He still wanted Roach too, but there was no way he was going to admit it. The humiliation of his panic burned inside.

 

“Is that your girlfriend?” asked Roach. Ghost looked up, surprised at the sudden line of questioning. Roach had picked up photograph from the chest of drawers beside the bed and was waving it at Ghost.

 

“No. It’s my sister.” he said.

 

“She doesn’t look much like you.” said Roach, squinting as if this would bring out a resemblance.

“She’s technically my cousin. But I lived with her family, and she calls me her brother.”

 

“Interesting" said Roach.

The sat for a few minutes, saying nothing.

“She knows about me.” explained Ghost, desperate to fill the awkward silence. He had never spoken of this before, and was surprised at how easy it was to say.

 

“Why didn’t you call her?” asked Roach.

 

“She’d tell me not to be so stupid.”

 

“She sounds pretty bright.”

 

“Yeah. She’s brilliant.” Ghost suddenly felt very alone. He had never admitted to missing Rochelle, because he thought the others might think it was weird. They had wives, and girlfriends and bits on the side. Women weren’t friends, they were just there, back home.

 

“My brother knows.” said Roach. “Chris. We’re really close. He wasn’t weird about it, when I came out. It was like this: we were both really drunk and I suddenly just said it. And then in the morning, I freaked out and left. I thought he wouldn’t speak to me ever again, and I was really kicking myself for saying anything. But he was just angry I’d never said anything before, and it was fine.” Roach smiled.

 

Silence descended again.

 

“It's going to be okay." said Roach. We have to just get on with our lives.” he continued. “Day to day stuff. Like mates do.”

 

“Mates?” said Ghost, incredulously.

 

“Mates. Mates-who-fucked.”

 

“Mates-who-fucked?”

 

“Yeah. That can be our Red Indian Tribe name. “How! Mates-who-fucked.” Roach laughed and even Ghost smiled at the atrocious attempt at a joke.

 

“It’s not so bloody awful, is it?”

 

Ghost shook his head. He did, for all his burning face, feel better. “No."

 

“Sorted then,” said Roach. “You fancy a kiss?”

“What!?”