Another soldier appeared, dropping down from the shattered ceiling. Jack was beginning to recognize the enemy by the colour of the uniform and shape of the helmet. The soldier whose point of view he was sharing fired two, three, four times, and the other man flew backwards to slump, bleeding and dead, against a bullet-scarred wall.
‘Jesus, Rick! This is horrible.’
‘Shhhh.’ Ricky’s concentration was absolute.
He was barefoot in his pyjamas, crouched on the edge of a settee in the darkened living room and hunched over his controller. The fifty-inch TV screen filled Jack and Ricky’s vision, and became the world they were sharing. Jack could almost smell the cordite and the smoke, and the ugly odour of death. There was some kind of count going on. A score accumulating. But Jack couldn’t take it any more. He crossed the room and switched off the TV.
‘Jesus Christ, Grampa! What are you doing?’
Jack pulled the curtains open and sunlight streamed in to almost blind his grandson. ‘I’m surprised the sunlight doesn’t burn you, Rick,’ he said. ‘You should be in your coffin by now.’
Ricky dropped his controller on to the settee beside him. ‘Very funny.’
‘To be honest, I didn’t really expect to find you up at this time.’
It was almost midday.
‘I’m not. I haven’t been to bed.’
‘Have you been playing that bloody game all night?’
Ricky shrugged. ‘So?’
‘You’ve spent the whole night killing people?’
‘No, I stopped to have breakfast with Mum and Dad before they left.’
‘For God’s sake, son, do you not see what you’re doing?’
‘What am I doing, Grampa?’
‘You’re killing for fun.’
‘It’s just a game.’
‘A game where you kill people and count up the score. That’s fun?’
‘It takes skill! I’ve got one of the highest registered scores on the internet. And anyway, it’s not real.’
‘It might as well be. It’s totally desensitizing. Makes you think it’s alright to kill other human beings. So how are you going to tell the difference if you’re ever faced with the real thing?’
‘I’m not daft, Grampa. I’m clever enough to know the difference between a game and reality. And, anyway, what would you know about killing people?’ The contempt in his voice for his grandfather was clear.
‘Nothing, fortunately.’ Jack sighed and sat down in one of the armchairs. ‘Seriously, Rick. You can’t go on like this. Sitting playing computer games in the dark. You said it yourself. You’re not daft. You’ve got an honours degree in maths and computing, for heaven’s sake. You need to get out and get a job.’
Ricky blew contemptuous air through his teeth, and Jack started to get angry.
‘So you’re just going to be a burden on society for the rest of your life?’
He saw Ricky’s hackles rise.
‘I’m not one of those benefits scroungers. I’ve never claimed a penny in my life.’
‘Aye, only because your folks indulge you. Most people on benefits don’t have a choice in the matter. They don’t have honours degrees in anything.’
‘No, they’re just work-shy scroungers and layabouts. Picking up cheques from the government and going and getting their free shopping from the food bank.’
Jack shook his head in disgust. ‘Where’d you hear that? Your father?’
Ricky pressed his lips together and declined to reply, which in itself answered his grandfather’s question.
‘You know nothing, son. Sitting here in my house, with your big TV screen and your computer games, spoiled rotten by pampering parents who fill your head full of nonsense. I’m ashamed of my own daughter. My father, and his before him, must be turning in their graves.’
Ricky’s plump face glowed beetroot red beneath his black curls. ‘And what would you know about anything? Failed at everything you ever did, my dad says. Failed student, failed musician, and forty years behind the counter at a bank. I suppose you must have learned a lot about the world from the other side of a glass screen.’
Sometimes words said in anger carry hurt beyond real intention, and Ricky was just being defensive, Jack knew. But words meant to cause pain very often do so because they express a truth that the conventions of politeness avoid. Jack had spent a lifetime avoiding what he knew only too well. But, still, it was almost painful beyond hurt to have it thrown in his face by his own grandson.
If Ricky had any remorse he wasn’t showing it. He turned surly instead. Perhaps as a way of concealing his regret.
‘And why do you keep calling me Rick? It’s Ricky!’
Jack had always called his grandson Rick. It seemed fonder, somehow.
‘Anyway, what are you doing here? You know my folks are out all day.’
Jack took a few moments to calm himself. ‘I didn’t come to see your parents.’
The hint of a frown gathered faintly around Ricky’s brows. He glanced at his grandfather, but was reluctant now to meet his eye.
Jack said, ‘Maybe you heard about the time I ran away when I was a kid? Me and the rest of the boys in my group.’
Ricky sighed. ‘Once or twice.’ He lifted his games controller from the seat beside him and pretended to be fiddling with it. ‘Probably the only interesting thing you ever did in your life.’
‘Aye, well, I was five years younger than you when I did it. And you still haven’t done anything interesting.’
Time to hurt back. And the jibe didn’t miss its mark. He saw Ricky’s lips pale as he drew them in. But the boy said nothing. Jack let a silence hang between them for a while, like the motes of dust suspended in the sunlight falling through the window.
Finally he said, ‘So, anyway, we’re doing it again.’
Ricky flicked sullen eyes in his direction. ‘Doing what?’
‘Running away to London. Those of us who are left, that is.’
Ricky forgot his sulk and his eyes opened wider. ‘Running away? At your age? Why would you do that?’
Jack shrugged. ‘Unfinished business, son.’ Then he hesitated. ‘Only thing is... we’ve no transport.’
Suddenly Ricky realized why his grandfather was there. He breathed his annoyance. ‘No!’ he said firmly. ‘You’re not borrowing my car.’
And the way he was so possessive about ownership of it made Jack wonder if he realized just how lucky he was to have parents who not only tolerated his lethargy, but who spoiled him by buying him his own wheels. Not a new car, admittedly. A second-hand Nissan Micra. But wheels nonetheless.
‘I don’t want to borrow it.’
Which momentarily took the wind out of the boy’s sails.
‘I want to borrow you to drive it for us.’
Ricky’s eyes opened wider. ‘You’re having a laugh, right?’
‘No, I’m serious. Just for a few days. A week at the most. We’ll pay you for the petrol.’
‘No. Way.’ A long pause. ‘And anyway, my folks would never let me.’
‘You’re twenty-two years old, Ricky.’
‘You don’t know my dad.’
‘Oh, I think I do.’
‘He’d never let me in a million years. Particularly if it was a favour to you.’
Jack pursed his lips, containing his anger.
‘So there’s no point in even asking. He wouldn’t hear of it.’
Which was Ricky’s way of deflecting personal responsibility.