The Buried

Chapter 2

Delwyn had left home when he was just eighteen. It was a decision that had been burgeoning for a long time; he had failed his GCSEs and felt no desire to seek out apprenticeships in plumbing and bricklaying. His life had reached a point of stagnation before he'd even reached his twenties, which wasn't helped by the incessant arguments he shared with Audrey. It was as though hot water were simmering inside of him. The longer he stayed stewing in the cottage, walking the maze of familiar streets, pacing through the murkiness of everyday life, the more he was brought to boil. And as his only marker of progress, he longed for the day when he would finally combust.

That day came after another explosive argument with his mother. It had given him the clarity and the courage to enlist, a decision he had never been sure about but now seemed like his only escape. It was only when he joined that he became aware of his own strength: he hadn't cracked, not after rigorous training, not even after seeing his first dead body. The gore of active duty soon became quotidian. His purpose had been found and it had occurred far away from his tiny cosseted village; no longer was he a listless teenager but a grown man, fitter and sharper and better than he ever could have hoped to be back in Clydwen.

Three years without serious injury made him feel invincible. The worst hit he'd taken was from a partially detonated pressure plate under a Mastiff which only succeeded in knocking him against the wall and leaving him with an egg-sized lump on his temple. Apart from that, (and the occasional bout of tinnitus,) he was home and dry. That morning he had woken early to wash in the canal. It was partly down to the worsening shower facilities—things had been on the decline in Bastion for months—and also for the sights that encompassed him: the saffron planes, the rising sun, the tall grass flanking the banks and the flat, apricot-coloured buildings of nearby villages. They had needed gunners on hand while a group searched for IEDs. He and twelve others had stood by as the province was combed with metal detectors, trying to make light work of it. Liam Chadwick had been mid-sentence when the first pressure plate detonated.

There was a giant roar. The ground lurched and a flurry of silt and stone erupted, like the earth itself had exploded. Delwyn was thrown to the floor. He gasped through plumes of grey dust, ears ringing. It took a moment before the feelings registered and, in a confused order of events, he saw Chadwick's torso, prone and bleeding. Dead on impact. Delwyn tried to raise his hands. In shock, he hadn't felt the hit he'd taken to the face. Pain tore through the white silence. He screamed for his mother.

Fragments remained from the trauma clinic. A myriad of masked faces loomed over him. Lights glared in the ceiling. A strong but possibly fabricated image: his eyeball skewered on a rusty nail, a flash of blue and white. Blood was rushing through his head. Moans of pain sounded from neighbouring beds. The pain was so bad that he wanted to die.

'Delwyn?' Audrey's hand slid into his own. 'Your sister's asked you a question.'

Dazedly, Delwyn looked across the table. Rosie was indeed sat opposite him, with Celia, who was trying to convince Bo that carrot and parsnip was "Barbie mash." Delwyn swallowed and squeezed his mother's hand. He tuned into his sister's voice, the thick odour of cooking, and made them the hooks he grabbed just in time to save himself.

'Sorry. What, Rosie?'

'I said, was the food okay there.'

'Yeah. It could be quite nice, depending on the day.' He'd fed Rosie the stories of occasional full English's, not the spam, rice, and unflavoured noodles that Bastion had been doling out in his final few months. He made picking up his knife and fork an excuse for leaving go of Audrey's hand, even though he hadn't put anything on his plate yet.

'The chicken will be done now,' Audrey said, pulling back her chair. 'Grab the carver out of the cupboard will you Rosie?'

Rosie did as she was told but not without attitude. 'Try the Yorkshires Delwyn,' she said, as she fished the carver out of the box. 'I made them myself.'