The Black Path by Paul Burston

the things he’d witnessed, but mostly about the kid he shot in Iraq. Owen keeps seeing him falling, like a puppet with its strings cut. He wakes up each morning feeling disoriented and has to remind himself of where he is and why he’s here.
    Jake Gyllenhaal is dancing in his G-string and Santa hat when the shouting begins.
    ‘Hey, Brokeback!’ someone yells. It’s Jackson, of course. At first, Owen thinks he’s shouting at the screen. Then he realizes that the comment is directed at Collins.
    If the boy is intimidated, he doesn’t let it show. ‘Wrong movie,’ Collins says. ‘That was a film with actors playing at being cowboys. This is a film with actors playing at being soldiers.’
    Someone laughs, which provokes Jackson even further.
    ‘Don’t get funny with me, Collins. Why did you join the army anyway?’
    ‘Same reason as you. To serve my country.’
    ‘Queen and country more like,’ Jackson sneers. ‘It must be great for you here, with all us men. I bet you really get off on it.’
    ‘No more than you, mate,’ Collins replies.
    ‘Are you calling me queer?’ Jackson is angry now. Owen can see the vein throbbing in his left temple.
    ‘I’m not calling you anything,’ Collins says. ‘We’re here for the same reason. We have a job to do. But nobody forced us to join the army. We’re here because we like it.’
    ‘And what about him?’, Jackson asks, gesturing at the screen. ‘Jake whatshisname. Do you like him too?’
    ‘I’ve never met him.’
    ‘You know what I mean,’ Jackson says.
    There are jeers, followed by more laughter. Nobody is paying attention to the film anymore. All eyes are on Collins. Nothing has happened for days. The possibility of a fight offers a welcome respite from the boredom.
    ‘Well?’ Jackson says. He looks around at the others and grins. ‘Do you want to fuck him or not?’
    Collins doesn’t respond.
    Jackson grabs himself by the genitals and steps forward, thrusting out his groin. ‘Or maybe you’d prefer a bit of this?’
    Collins reddens. More laughter.
    Watching Collins, Owen feels a sudden welling in his stomach – a mixture of revulsion, identification and pity. He thinks back to his first day at the army cadets. He was fourteen, and an older boy was smoking a cigarette.
    ‘Press your hand against my chest,’ he told Owen. ‘And I bet you I can make the smoke come out of my ears.’
    The boy inhaled and held his breath. Owen placed his right hand against the boy’s chest and the next thing he knew the cigarette was burning into the back of his hand. He went home and cried, but instead of comforting him, his father gave him a good hiding.
    ‘Come home crying again,’ he said, ‘and I’ll give you something to cry about.’
    So yes, Owen knows a thing or two about bullies.
    ‘That’s enough, Jackson,’ he snaps.
    ‘What’s it to you, McGrath? Jackson snarls back. He’s really stepping out of line now. He may be a senior private, and one many of the younger privates look up to, but he’s still only that – a private. And whatever their personal history, a private doesn’t speak to a lance corporal the way Jackson is speaking to Owen. Especially not in front of an audience.
    ‘I could ask you the same question,’ Owen says.
    Jackson looks confused. ‘What’s that supposed to mean?’
    ‘Why are you so bothered about who’s gay and who isn’t? First Armstrong and now Collins. It’s becoming quite an obsession.’
    At the mention of the dead soldier, the mood changes. The men shift about, their eyes shining solemnly.
    Jackson looks around for support but finds none. He stands up, looks at Owen as if he’s about to say something and then thinks better of it. He grabs his body armour and storms off. Slowly the others drift away. The film is still playing, the soundtrack barely drowning out the sound of someone snoring a few feet away.
    Owen waits until they’re out of earshot before turning to Collins. ‘Don’t ever do that