I’m lying on my back and I’m looking at the ceiling. It’s not a flat ceiling, there’s no roof space so it goes right up to a peak. It was designed that way. It’s an apex ceiling with beams, not like those pretend ones you see in pubs or snooker rooms. These are real. Load bearing and beautiful. See the grain in the dark wood.

I know that just the other side of the light pink plaster there are soft red tiles. One hundred and nine years old and still they keep the rain out.

I lay here oddly. More, that is, than just lying on my back in the office. Somehow, I’m still in my chair, legs crooked over the seat. I can hear one of the castors still spinning. More slowly now.

It’s nice here. It’s cool; temperature cool. And peaceful.

Not like when the door banged a few moments ago.

When Michael left.

My Granddad always fascinated me. He was old. As old as Granddads are, and always captivating. His crinkly face, his white hair and that unfocussed gaze when he thought of sad things.

Granddad fought in the Second World War. He had medals, a uniform and a rifle to prove it. Granddad killed a German. At least, that’s what he used to say.

When Granddad had that distant look and you asked him, he’d tell you. He’d say that one day he and his platoon, they’d been ordered forward. He was running with them across this field when he saw a shape. Distant and grey, he’d say.

He dropped to one knee. He said that’s what they’d taught him to do. Granddad remembered the smell of the soil, the sound of his breathing.

Breathe.

Check the breech is clear. Work the bolt; mind the stock (wooden, load bearing, beautiful. Feel the grain in the dark wood. Caress.). Take aim. Breathe out slowly, squeeze. Squeeze the trigger, don’t pull.

Granddad said the shape fell down. Crumpled behind a tree – and then Granddad was running again. He would never get any further with his story. He’d always walk away or make a joke. Sometimes he’d just cry. He said he’d done it because that’s what you had to do.

When Granddad died, I asked for his medals, his tunic. And his rifle. It’s a Short Model Lee Enfield. SMLE. Or ‘Smelly’ as Granddad called it. I don’t know how he got it home. Granddad said he should have handed it in, but it was like an old friend and he couldn’t let go. See the grain in the dark wood.

I made Michael angry today – I didn’t mean to, it just happened. Sometimes I’ve walked away or made a joke. Sometimes I’ve just cried. But this time I said I’d done it because that’s what I had to do. What did Granddad say – breathe?

Check the breech is clear. Work the bolt; mind the stock (wooden, load bearing, beautiful. Feel the grain in the dark wood. Caress.). Take aim. Breathe out slowly, squeeze. Squeeze the trigger, don’t pull.

I’m lying on my back and I’m looking at the ceiling. It’s a light pink plaster ceiling with red dots on. I’ve spilt my wine. Red washes over me. I see the grain in the dark wood. Load bearing, beautiful.

I hope Michael comes home soon.

He’ll know what to do.

Ends

Angus Dewar

A long time ago