Fit For Purpose by Julian Parrott (scary books to read .TXT) 📗

“Nia, it’s me.” She opened the door and Goldenboy pushed his way in.

“Get out,” Nia said. “It’s the ladies’ loo.”

“Don’t care. You got to try some of this,” he said. He was stoned and held out a little baggie with white powder.

He pushed her into a toilet cubicle, placed some cocaine on the back of his hand and snorted it. He placed some more on his hand and proffered it to Nia.

“I don’t want to,” she said. “I’ve given it up, remember. Bloody kicked it.”

“Come on, pussy. It’ll keep you going ‘till dawn. Come on.” He pushed the back of his hand against her nose. Nia snorted deeply. Her nostrils burned, her headache ceased, her pupils dilated covering almost her entire irises.

“Fuck wow,” she said.

Goldenboy grabbed her by the arm and they made their way back on to the dance floor. She shut her eyes and let the music wash over her. She was re-energized and became part of the music as she danced. Nia felt Goldenboy’s taut, gym toned body close to hers but then sensed him drifting away. She moved across the dance floor not caring. She opened her eyes and saw Goldenboy deeply kissing one of the other women at the dance floor’s periphery. Nia shut her eyes again and felt the music move her around the dance floor.

***

Outside the club, a group of soldiers in civvies, but noticeable because they all sported the same obvious haircuts, waited in the queue to enter. They’d been there some time and they were getting chilly and pissed off as the bouncers allowed newcomers in ahead of them. They were getting restless. They wanted a good time after long days on post-9/11 anti-terrorism duties. A large black bouncer wearing a loose-fitting suit approached.

“Sorry lads,” he began with a sincere smile. “We’re only letting in couples at the moment. If I were you, I’d move on.”

There were collective groans.

“Okay, lads let’s find somewhere else,” said one of the group, slightly older. “I’ll buy the first round.”

There was a ripple of approval from the group.

“What about a tat sir?” asked an already heavily tattooed squaddie.

“Jones, I’m not going to buy a round of tats,” said Second Lieutenant Tom Price. “What would all your mothers say?”

The group laughed.

“Nah, sir,” continued Jones. “You said you’d get a tat with the lads after deployment.”

Price smiled, “That I did, but standing outside the Houses of Parliament doesn’t count as a deployment in my book. At least, not yet. Come on lads, there’s a pub around the corner. Beer’s getting warm.”

The group pushed off shoving each other and laughing. They were happy young men feeling invincible and immortal.

***

Afghanistan, Spring 2006

The rubbish-strewn dirt road through the tiny hamlet was supposed to have been cleared and made safe. Lieutenant Tom Price had drilled his soldiers not to treat any road as totally safe, to watch where they stepped, to keep eyes peeled for wires, to be aware of any suspicious locals watching a stretch of road, or anything that looked out of the ordinary. Such vigilance took its toll. His men were physically and emotionally exhausted and concentration always slipped at the end of a long mission. Today’s patrol was winding down and thoughts were already turning to the relative safety of their Forward Operating Base and the bunks, cold beer, and Skype phone calls home that were waiting.

Corporal Nick Jones was a good soldier. He loved the army and, like many a poor boy from the inner cities with little family to account for, had found a sense of kinship with his comrades. He was close to his platoon commander, Lt. Price, whom he would have followed to the gates of hell. Jones had made it a personal mission to get Price to agree to getting at least one tattoo. Jones liked his ink. He was lost in his thoughts, thinking of his next leave when he felt something spring under his left foot. He felt the explosion engulf him in flame, dirt and pain.

Jones was thrown in the air and landed in a broken pile. He looked down to where his legs had been and where his blood was already staining the sandy soil around him. Price ran to Jones and used his own field dressing to attempt to staunch wounds that were unstaunchable in the field. Price and the platoon’s medic tied tourniquets on both of Jones’ thighs. A Medivac helicopter had already been radioed for.

Jones looked up at Price with fear.

“Jones, you’re going to be okay, do you hear me,” Price said.

Jones grabbed Price’s bicep with his right hand and Price noticed Jones’ left hand was missing. Jones was breathing rapidly and was covered in blood. Price knew that Jones was bleeding out and there was nothing they could do for him. Jones’ eyes fluttered and closed.

“Stay with me, Nick,” Price commanded. “The chopper’s coming. Stay with me.”

The medic tied yet another tourniquet on Jones’ left arm.

Jones cried out in pain and fear and his eyes opened.

He focused on Price’s face.

“Aw fuck, Lieutenant,” Jones gasped through pink stained teeth. “I think I’ve bought it, haven’t I?”

“Nonsense,” Price lied. “You’ll be fit for purpose in no time.” Price tried to smile reassuringly.

“Do me a favour, Tom,” Jones said with a smile through a grimace. “You gotta get yourself some ink. Not a proper soldier if you don’t.”

“Only if you come with me too, Nick,” Price replied.

Jones closed his eyes, he appeared to sigh deeply, and then died in Price’s arms.

Chapter Eleven

Nia’s House, December 9th

Nia made cafetière coffee while Tom showered upstairs. Her phone dinged with texts from her friends, mostly about Tom but Amanda asked Nia where she had learnt to twerk. Nia giggled. Tom’s mixture of embarrassment and excitement on the dance