Chapter 2: Rest and Recuperation

2045 hours 2nd May, 2002; 23 Kitchener Road, Plaistow, London.

It was dark when I came to. My 'genuine' Rolex watch, bought off a barrow in Petticoat Lane for £25, showed I'd been out for almost three hours.

Everything hurt: my head, my leg, my ribs, but most of all my pride.

My many extra marital relationships during our marriage debarred me from claiming the moral high ground when discovering Miriam indulging in adultery. She was merely mirroring my behaviour, and many would say 'serves you right, you philandering bastard'. But for her to be shagging Martin Hodge, a man who I hated and despised, rubbed salt into the wound.

Miriam and I went through several rocky periods during our marriage, yet we remained married almost twenty years after tying the knot in 1983. If she really despised me, as Hodge had insinuated, surely she would have left me during one of those times? There had been extended intervals, on holiday in Spain, and at Warminster, where we enjoyed a full, wonderful, loving relationship which couldn't have been an act on her part. Since my posting to Colchester in 1998 we managed to live a more normal married life, and I would spend most weekends, and some week nights, at Plaistow with her. Our marriage, including the sex, improved enormously. On Millennium Night we made ecstatic love, and after her climax Miriam whispered she loved me. She definitely wasn't acting; it would take someone of the calibre of Judi Dench to give such a performance.

Miriam's face had displayed more than shock when I entered the bedroom and found her shagging her brother. Shame, guilt, sorrow, and most noticeably relief, were also present when her dazed, sex glazed, eyes met mine.

The last emotion probably being the most heartfelt for now Miriam could share her terrible secret. If what Hodge said was true he had been shagging his sister for over twenty years. Incest and under age sexual relations are both criminal offences, and any hint of what the two of them had been doing would lead to prison for him and Miriam being placed into care. She must have been wracked with guilt and worry for years, fearing her relationship with her brother might one day come out in the open.

My forehead had been split above the right eye by the bottle wielded by Hodge, and blood had caked over it and my face. I staggered into the bathroom, and a stranger, with one eye closed by congealed blood, stared back at me from the cabinet mirror. I looked like death warmed up but felt much worse. I gingerly sponged off the worst of the blood on my face, but left the clotted mess over my eyebrow as I didn't want to set off another flow of blood.

As I stood there, still groggy and aching, one thought filled my mind; kill that bastard Martin Hodge. But in my present condition he could deal with any attack by me with one arm tied behind his back. The first thing I needed to do before confronting him was to regain fitness and strength.

Hodge might return to the house tonight and give me the kicking he intended before Miriam intervened, so I required a secure billet while I got myself fit, and worked on a strategy to fix Hodge once and for all.

From the contents of the bathroom cabinet it appeared Hodge and Miriam had been shacked up together for a few days at least. Today's assignation might have been the last for some time as I was due back home. Unfortunately for them I arrived a day earlier than expected. Perhaps they shacked up together every time I was away, even before my mum died. I couldn't believe my mother would ever allow Hodge anywhere near her, but she had gone back to hitting the bottle, and picking up unsuitable shagging partners in the Black Swan pub, after Vivian, her longtime lover, returned to his wife. It was possible, although highly unlikely, she had brought Hodge home one night and perhaps Miriam joined in ... a three-in-a-bed job?

The image of three in a bed brought Maggie, the barmaid from The Crown, to mind. Judging by her attitude towards me earlier today she would be more than willing to give me shelter for a week or two, and maybe something more than shelter, not that I was in a fit state for anything physical.

I went downstairs to pick up my bags; they had been ransacked, but as most of the duty free goods brought from the Ramstein PX had been for Miriam no big deal, although I was pissed off the replacement bottle of Jim Beam had disappeared. I hoped it choked the pair of them. I threw the scattered belongings back in the bags, and on an impulse checked the wallet in my jacket. Sure enough, all the folding money was gone, most of which was in Uzbek Soms, so Hodge would have difficulty getting rid of those around the manor. My bank card had been left untouched so I was OK for whatever money I needed. I locked the door behind me and put the spare key in my pocket.

If Hodge came back later he would need a key to get in.

I started walking, limping more like, towards the Crown.

By the time I reached the pub it was nearly chucking out time and the place was emptying. I went in and fell into a chair, completely knackered after the walk. Maggie was going round picking up the empty glasses, and when she saw me came rushing over ... well, as fast as she could rush wearing such a tight skirt.

"My God" she said, "what happened to you?"

"I had an altercation with my brother-in-law; he was shagging my wife at the time."

She was aghast. "Bloody hell. Look, come with me and I'll fix your cut."

She put the glasses she carried on the table and shouted across to a tall, thin, dark haired man behind the bar.

"Alfie, I'm finishing now. My friend needs attention, and I'm taking him upstairs."

By the expression on his face Alfie did not appear best pleased, but he made no comment, other than giving a sullen shrug of his shoulders.

I trailed after Maggie through the bar and a door marked Staff Only, which opened onto a steep flight of stairs leading to her living quarters on the second floor. As I followed her seductively swaying arse up the steps she explained she lived on the premises, and that Alfie Tupper was her land lord, besides being the pub's licensee and her boss.

"He charges a weekly rent, which I pay in kind, the long, lanky, streak of piss."

I knew by the way she spoke she held some affection for Alfie.

She led me into an untidy and cluttered room, sweeping a pile of clothes off an easy chair for me to sit down, before going into the kitchen. She soon returned with a bowl of warm water, a bottle of iodine and some cotton wool, and bathed the cut.

"We get a few punch ups on a Saturday night and I patch up the wounded ... saves the local hospital being clogged up with a load of drunks with bloody heads," She said as she attended to my wound.

Maggie was surprisingly gentle, and under her ministrations I relaxed and felt comfortable for the first time since leaving Afghanistan.

"I don't even know your name, and here you are up in my boudoir,"she said, grinning. "My name's Maggie, but you know that already."

"Just call me Des."

"OK, Des. Tell your Aunty Maggie all about it."

Her breasts softly pillowed my head, making me feel warm and snug, and I talked, almost forgetting she was there.

I told her about Afghanistan and how I got wounded. I described the utter devastation of learning the army was to get rid of me; my heartache at Merville Barracks when I said goodbye to 23 years of my life, the shock of finding Miriam and her brother shagging in my house. I mentioned his jibe about the size of my prick, and how he boasted of also screwing my mother.

"I went to punch him in his lying gob, but he hit me with a bottle and I went down like a sack of sh ... spuds, and was lucky not to have the bastard kick me to death."

As I finished my tale there were tears in Maggie's eyes.

"You poor love" she sniffed, wiping her eyes with a handkerchief, "what you have gone through would have floored most men; you must be made of steel."

"More like made of polystyrene at the moment, Mags."

She stood up. "I could eat a horse, jockey and all," she announced. "I'm going to cook some scrambled eggs and bacon ... can you manage some grub?"

The thought of food reminded me how hungry I was. I nodded, and she went out to the kitchen. I heard her singing to herself as she got the utensils for the meal but sleep soon overpowered me.

"Wake up, sleepy head." Maggie stood in front of me, and there was the glorious smell of frying bacon. The thing you miss most of all in Moslem countries is not alcohol but bacon. It's no wonder they are all raving nutters in the Middle East, there ain't no bacon sarnies to comfort them when things get tough ... the poor sods.

Maggie had changed out of her working clothes and was dressed in a more practical arrangement of a printed flowered dress, tight over her hips and low cut over her breasts; she looked extremely attractive, and I told her.

She smiled warmly. "I bet you say that to all the girls when you want a good feed."

We made short work of the meal, and said little while we ate. Eventually, after a cup of tea, she said, "I'll curl up in the armchair tonight and you can sleep in my bed, you need a decent night rest. I promise I won't molest you." The last sentence spoken with a cheeky grin on her face.

I demurred but she insisted, "I often drop off in the armchair. Go on, stretch out in the bed. You'll feel so much better tomorrow."

She was right. A good night's kip in a bed would do me a power of good.

I thanked her and went in the bedroom, which was in a similar state of chaos as the living room. The bed was a double, and I had a sudden mental image of Alfie and Maggie on "rent day" writhing around in a sweaty love knot: I hoped the sheets had been changed since then.