Hero by Paul Butler Page B

we put on at home and in the village hall—but nothing comes. His eyes remain focussed on mine, and there is no humour or irony about his expression.
    â€œSomeone else,” I repeat, trying to keep the confusion from my smile.
    â€œOf course,” he says, his reduced frame shrinking further into the armchair, his eyes narrowing into what I now suspect is a permanent wince. “You should have told me. You shouldn’t have allowed me to hope.”
    Sparks of both anger and fear are emanating from his dark eyes.
    â€œNo, no, no!” The words rush out as I lunge forward and sink to my knees, my body following the impulse of a few moments ago. I watch myself from above as I bury my head on his lap, a fractured part of me critiquing this melodramatic flourish. But this is a new territory, and I must take risks. What is dignity, after all, to life and limb? I have blundered already by holding back. This new lexicon of risk and disclosure is one I will have to learn quickly.
    â€œThere is no one,” I sob quietly, aware that the door is still open and Isabelle may be lingering for orders. “How could there be?” A hot tear oozes from my eye and sinks into the fabric of Simon’s trousers. I take in the alien scent once more, but this time I recognize it—whisky. “Everyone is like you, gone to war.”
    No hand comes to rest upon my head, and I feel no warm yielding from his leg. After a moment, I draw away and look up at his face.
    â€œIs that why there is no one?” he asks, an odd distemper quivering on his lips. “Simply because none were available?”
    â€œSimon,” I say, “this is mad! It was only you from the start. I’ve waited for you. Today, at the window, I watched you go by. Why didn’t you look?”
    He lurches forward in his seat in such a way that I am forced back onto my ankles. He hangs sideways from the chair, half off, half on. The critic hovering above me smirks faintly. I told you, she says. You have fallen from tragedy to farce. But as I crouch before him in silence, watching his face twitch in response to some internal rhythm of pain, I hold on. I have glimpsed a new hope. All this time I thought of Simon as the returning hero, and of course he is. But he is wounded inside. His kindness and confidence have been shocked into jealousy and anger.
    â€œSimon,” I say, laying a calm hand upon his knee, “it’s all right. I’m here for you. I’ll wait.” My voice sounds more like a nurse than a lover. But something in him buckles completely. His head comes down close to my shoulder, and he lets out a sound I have never heard before—something unformed. I reach out to bury it, holding his head in the crook of my shoulder and neck. His head is heavy and his skull digs into my collarbone. He is overtaken by spasms of crying.
    I glance to the open doorway to catch Isabelle, aghast, on the threshold of the room. She turns and scoots away. Gratitude floods through me in two simple words: at last.
    Here is my Olympian struggle. Here is my part in the war.

CHAPTER 8
    Simon
    M y father’s shed door drums hard against its frame as the wind gathers speed. So you’re home now , it clatters from below my bedroom window. The squeal of hinge that follows is like an inward breath promising a new barrage of mocking.
    I feel as though sleep has parted company forever with the night. Those two companions—slumber and darkness—always seemed ungainly together. Now, with my head motionless against the pillow, I see the mismatch as monstrous and absurd. Night draws forth fear, guilt, and imagination. How could rest possibly follow on its heels?
    But sleep hardly matters to me now. I am merely the floating ether of damnation, and I belong to the night. This evening part of me floated away from myself, dispassionately observing the layers of humiliation through which I was falling as I accused Sarah and then