WRITERS ABROAD MAGAZINE: THE THIRD SPACE
The War Within
by Gillian Brown
The train rattles out of the tunnel and squeals to a halt in the station, jerking you forward in
your seat. Then comes the realisation: you are home. Your stomach churns. Grabbing your
kitbag, your hand brushes the windowpane – its coldness unfamiliar after the searing heat
of Afghanistan.
Eve is on the platform, her gaze darting up and down the carriages. When she spots
you she runs forward, her fuchsia pink dress tight against her breasts, her golden hair
streaming out behind her. For a second you’re dizzy with love. Then without warning, an icy
chill grips your chest.
‘Peter!’ Eve cries, eyes blazing. ‘You look well. The tan suits you.’ She stands back in
appraisal and then frowns.
‘What is it?’ you say, averting your eyes.
Did you expect her not to notice?
‘Oh, nothing.’
Out of nowhere, your mind flashes back to your mates. During lulls in the fighting you
shared crude jokes. The friendly banter left deeper emotions zipped up in a safer place. Out
of reach.
Eve doesn’t know the rules. Her soft body embraces your stiff one. She pulls away,
eyebrows raised. A flash of anxiety crosses her face which she quickly hides behind a
smile. You kiss her briefly on the lips. It’s not enough. The numbness inside you won’t shift.
It’s a relief she doesn’t show her disappointment, although you sense it. She wouldn’t, of
course. Not Eve. She’s too sensitive and caring. Instead, she grabs your hand and
squeezes your icy fingers with hers. ‘Welcome home!’
You walk to the carpark, together yet apart. ‘I had your MG serviced and polished,’ she
says.
Its bodywork gleams a welcome. After Eve, this car is the second love of your life. You
hop in. Once behind the wheel, the familiar thrill burns inside you. The last thing you drove
was a tank. Firing at buildings, inside of which you never knew if women and children were
hiding. Until you heard their screams. Barely able to breathe, you drop your hands from the
wheel.
‘You drive.’ It comes out as no more than a mutter.
A gasp escapes her lips but she exchanges places, without questioning.
Once inside the house you drop your bag and sink onto the sofa, trying to make sense
of the comfortable furnishings and the smell of furniture polish. But all you can see is the
makeshift sergeants’ mess in the desert – a khaki-coloured tent, and the latrines and
communal showers out the back, with their whiff of body odour and disinfectant.
‘What are you staring at?’ Eve asks. ‘Don’t you remember?’ She laughs that warm
giggly laugh of hers. ‘We got married a year ago, got a mortgage and moved in. This is
home!’
You know she’s making a joke, though her voice seems a little too high-pitched and
edgy.
‘I’ll make some tea,’ she says, ‘and I’ve baked some of your favourite scones.’
26 | May 2016