Chapter 16: Settling Down

Now I had made my peace with Miriam, and had the purchase of the Iver apartment well under way, I could fully concentrate on my career.

I make no bones about it: I was struggling to get my head around my new life, not only the technical aspects of system analysis and programming but also with civilian life. After spending almost 23 years in a regulated and well-ordered environment I found Civvy Street unfocussed, scrappy, and largely shambolic.

Although MilSys was based on a RAF camp there was little to show of a military presence, apart from the police on the gate wearing RAF uniforms.

Of course the RAF were looked on by the army as being only one step away from civilians, but I had expected to be working in a more martial ambience than which I now found myself.

The abrupt change from one way of life to another could be a factor in the occurrence of Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder, and the unexpected flashback to the Falklands I had suffered in Suzannah Weston's office, for no apparent reason other than her mentioning 'aged eighteen', might be due to the realisation I was now in a much different milieu.

But as I have no training as a trick cyclist my opinion is worthless.

I had not suffered flashbacks since leaving the army, other than the 'small penis' episode in Maggie's room at the Crown, and the one in Suzannah Weston's office, but unfortunately the period of peace was shattered one night when the full panoply of my demons paraded in front of me.

It was the same old gang: the Argie, the Shifta child soldiers, and the young Serb who I had shot in the back, but thankfully they didn't make disparaging remarks about the size of my penis on this occasion. There was also the added 'pleasure' of seeing visions of the corpses left on the road, and in the graves we had excavated, in Bosnia. The sight of their bloodied bodies appearing during my dreaming sleep would bring me to a shivering and startled awaking.

Once a week I paraded at Slough Drill Hall with Bravo Company of the 8th Battalion of the Wessex Regiment, a Territorial Army unit. I thought the military atmosphere and camaraderie/ comradeship would have staved off any onset of PTSD, which I imagined these nightmares/flashbacks to be. Of course the TA is not the regular army, and I only spent one evening a week and a couple of weekends a month with them.

I did some instructing, and held the rank of a sergeant, and latterly the rank, and post, of Company Quartermaster Sergeant (CQMS), which was quite ironical when you think about it.

In late August of 2002 I had accompanied the company to Otterburn for the annual 14 day Summer Camp as Acting Company Quartermaster Sergeant.

That fortnight was something like the 'real' army, and I didn't experience any flashbacks then, so it must be the amount of time spent, or not, in a military environment which determined the frequency of flashbacks, or at least it seemed to be in my case.

On September 10th I moved into my apartment in Bourne Mansions, and celebrated both milestones — my promotion to CQMS and becoming a property owner — by conducting an energetic battle with Stephanie on her war game table.

This was followed by an even more energetic, and sweatier, battle on her kitchen table, her lounge carpet, her king-size bed, and finally doing her doggy, which she rarely permitted, with her bent over the balcony overlooking the River Thames while the sun set — very romantic.

Since our first assignation at her apartment in Datchet my meetings with Stephanie were on a semi regular basis, dependent on her work schedule. Milton, Marvell and Marlowe, the law firm she worked for, were the trustees of several other apartment blocks in various parts of southern England, and often Stephanie was away for a days at a time. She would also spend some weekends with her lancer toy boys, and as I was also occupied in military manoeuvres at week ends with Bravo Company we had to ensure our free time coincided.

Not all of her young lovers were members of the Royal Lancers, but all were in the cavalry, and all poked her with their lances.

When our schedule permitted I would spend a weekend at her apartment.

She would never come to Bourne Mansions, or at least not to indulge in sexual activity. One Saturday afternoon, after a pleasurable workout in her bed, I asked why she wouldn't spend a night at mine.

"Your concierge and I work for the same firm, Dewey. It wouldn't be seemly for him to see a work colleague disappearing into your apartment, and only reappearing after being well and truly shagged."

"Mister Burlington would keep what he sees to himself."

"I'm sure he is the soul of discretion, but I would know he knew. Call it a guilty conscience if you like. Besides I expect Milton, Marvell and Marlowe have a clause forbidding employees bonking their clients."

I sniggered. "Mister Milton probably sussed that you and I were shagging, judging by the smirk and wink he gave me when we were signing the deeds of the apartment."

"Old Mister M is a randy devil, and over the years I worked there I've had nearly as much cock from him as from the Royal Lancers ... and he's bloody good for his age." She disengaged her naked body from mine and got out of the rumpled bed. "Anyway you don't have a table, or the models soldiers, to play war games. Fighting those battles really turns me on ... if I thought my lancer boys could grasp the subtleties of table top gaming I would put it on their curriculum. But as soon as they get inside my bedroom all they want to do is get inside me."

I did mention to Steph about me having nightmares and flashback. As a former nurse, as well as being from a military family, I didn't feel I was being a wimp in revealing my problems to her.

"I think you should seek help from the regimental association, Dewey. They should be able to point you to some psychiatric help, probably in the private sector, the National Health Service is overwhelmed just coping with civilians' mental disorders. They are not geared up, or funded, for PTSD or other combat related stress problems." She saw the frown of disapproval on my face.

"Your condition is not something to be ashamed of. If you had lost an arm or a leg you would go for physiotherapy and suchlike. Look on psychiatry as physio' for the mind."

I shook my head emphatically. "I don't want no bloody trick cyclist rummaging about in my brain. The flashbacks aren't causing me any problems at work – or in the bedroom."

I sucked one of her nipples into my mouth and gently bit it to illustrate my point. She gasped, and then grasped my re-burgeoning prick.