The Hardest Thing by James Lear Read Free Book Online Page B

was the lake to swim in. Beer was doled out in small quantities every evening—never enough to get loaded, of course. The food was a little worse than what we were used to at home base. We were allowed to sleep more—but the sleeping quarters were so fucking hot and airless that it was a pointless indulgence.
    I took my furloughs because I had to; I’d rather have worked. But on this occasion I was looking forward to
the next 48 hours, because one of the other names on the list was Corporal William Laurence.
    I saw him getting on the bus. Nobody grabbed him in one of those complicated handshakes by which the popular guys recognize each other. Nobody play-punched him in the gut or got him in a headlock. He nodded to a couple of people, and they nodded back. He walked past me, smiled and took a seat halfway down the vehicle.
    I glanced around. He was dressed in civvies—a faded college T-shirt and a pair of board shorts. Trainers on his feet, no socks.
    Nice, I thought, and looked away.
    I didn’t see him for the next twelve hours. I wouldn’t say I was looking for him—that would be too deliberate—let’s say instead that I walked around the facility with my eyes open and he was not there. I spent the day reading the newspapers, watching DVDs, doing a bit of paperwork and joining in a game of volleyball when the sun was less fierce. No sign of Will anywhere. Hey ho. Off with his friends.
    After dinner I took a stroll around the perimeter; the facility was fenced and heavily guarded, which kind of spoiled the Methodist picnic vibe they were going for. Out by the water’s edge there was an old concrete guardhouse that must have been shelled at some point in the last twenty years, and nobody had bothered to pull it down; now, I guess, it was home to a few scorpions and furry critters and not much else. It was known as a place where you could sneak a joint without much danger of being busted; the ground was littered with roaches as well as more conventional cigarette butts. On
occasion I’d seen condoms, too, so dope wasn’t the only illicit substance being sampled out there. Typical of the USMC to turn a blind eye. As long as nobody officially knew about it, it wasn’t a problem.
    Tonight there was no smell of dope, no sounds of fucking, just lake waters lapping and the strumming of a guitar. A few soft chords, a bit of picking, the suggestion of a melody.
    I walked slowly toward the old guardhouse. The sun was down, and what little light was left in the sky was reflected in the water—and it was against that that I saw the silhouette of a seated figure, head down, back bent, the neck of a guitar sticking out at right angles. I got within ten feet and listened.
    I must have shifted, made a noise, because the music stopped.
    “Who’s there?” The voice was tense and guarded.
    “It’s okay. Friend.”
    The figure stood up and faced me. I squinted; there was just enough light to identify the mystery guitarist.
    “Corporal Laurence.”
    “Captain Stagg?” He stood to attention and saluted, swinging the guitar over his back.
    “No need for that, Will.” I stepped closer. “We’re on leave. You can call me Dan.” I leaned against the pitted, crumbling concrete wall. “Carry on playing.”
    “Oh, it’s okay. I was only wasting time.”
    “Nice way to waste it.” A roar of voices drifted over the sand. “Better than drinking beer, right?”
    “I got beer.” He picked up an old canvas rucksack, and there was a chink of glass.
    “You came prepared.”

    “Sure did. Want one?”
    “Why not?”
    He sat cross-legged on the sandy ground, opened two bottles and handed one to me. I sat too.
    “Cheers, Cap’n.”
    “Cheers, Corp’ral.”
    We touched the necks of our bottles together and drank, our eyes joined in the gathering darkness, and we both knew at that moment what was going to happen. I reached out—actually watched my hand moving out from my body, as if it was something over which I had no