The Weight Upstairs

Cafe latte.


You need to remember that.


Do you know how difficult it is to watch daytime tv? I really hadn't realised how mind numbingly awful it is. Mind numbing, which should be good for me of course but the drugs I'm on handle that quite well. Diagnosis: Boredom. Boredom, She Wrote. Boredom In The Attic. Even Monty, my cat, was bored. And it takes a lot to bore him. Although, having said that, he did perk up at Jeremy Kyle. I think he sensed food or cat litter. Possibly both.


So where did we get up to, children? Oh yes. Capn Harry had done a very bad thing to a man in a newsagents and a small cadre of police officers (sorry guys if you're reading...incidentally you really need to work on your martial skills if you don't mind me saying so) and had met a very strange (he won't mind me calling him that - in fact he'll take it as a compliment) Lieutenant General Bray. Connor Bray for you MOD types currently following (bless your hearts). And the nice Bray runs a very special place or says he does at least. The jury's still out on that one but he has invited me to stay at this special place for a bit until I get my head sorted.


Initially I didn't trust him. Would you? A man you've never met before gives hits you up with a bunch of custom made military strength drugs (I don't care what you think, they were AWESOME!) while you're strapped to a trolley in the local nick listening to a drunk next door howl at the moon and the police and society and is too stupid to realise its being lonely that is killing him. But I digress. you just wouldn't trust a man like that but I did. I don't remember much after that. Its all foggy anyway. I remember the drunk and Bray coming into the cell and getting really pissed off with someone. I don't remember getting there. But I do remember waking up in bed with Bray passed out next to me.


We had a chat. Basically, he's a doctor or something medical or has some medical training but I think, more importantly, he has the weight upstairs. He's got someones ear. He's got something over somebody. He - has - a - secret! I think, anyway.


So I was effectively placed under house arrest. Not to leave the house for three days and three nights. In return, no charges, no drama. Which more importantly means no Monkey's and therefore no Glasshouse. I wonder, though, whether Bray will hold this over me. One thing I've learned in the forces, its all about the favours. Well, let's forget about that for now. Back to me sitting in front of the TV for three damn days.


I worked out. It was good to do some work. When I moved off base, I converted my spare bedroom into a training room. Punch bag, chin up bar, weights, bench - its not exactly Lloyds but its better than nothing. So I stuck The Prodigy on my headphones and started getting back into some kind of shape.


It's weird. I feel so much better having started hitting the exercises, giving myself some goals, getting back to me. I feel bad about what happened in the newsagent and with the cops. But I'm not going to lie to you. It felt really good to be kicking out. I guess it gave me a release. All the confusion and frustration of the last couple of months and I unloaded all over the local constabulary. I'm really sorry guys! But hey, if six of you can't take down a wee little girl like me then you're slipping. Oh, and whichever one of you it was that tasered me that first time - I will be coming to find you and give you a little lesson in military close combat discipline. Having said that, it was wrong of me to take it out on you. I don't even remember it and noooo I wasn't drunk. I wish I had been. Clearly my mental issues are still somewhat of a problem but getting physical helps so I was going through some reps and getting some running done on the treadmill. It felt good again.


I always was your stereotypical tomboy. I was always fighting with boys twice my size (and kicking their sorry asses!) I was always running. Always moving. Too much energy. That's not the only reason I joined the Army. It certainly helped my mother's sanity but the real reason was.....na'ah. Maybe later.


And the cat is getting more bored except for wanting to use Jeremy Kyle as a litter tray which quite frankly I think most sane people do. He is after all a living piece of human excrement. And I fought for him. Actually put mine and my units lives on the line so that he could spout that shit and his guests could fail to realise its being poor that's killing them.

I wouldn't survive if I was ever held captive. Three days inside, the cat was ready to kill me and I could barely keep my head together. That was in my own home. I went to the front door six or seven times, terrified to open it, expecting to see the outline shape of a copper or a Monkey walking up the path. That sinking stomach that pulls all the way up to your throat. Then the knock. Boom! Boom! Boom!

Screw it. I opened the door and the cold air on my body felt so good. A touch of breeze. Everything quiet in the street. Low static of traffic in the distance and a blackbird singing to break up the night. I stepped barefoot on to the path and tip toed towards the gate. Then it started to rain and just to feel some honest to goodness British rain on my skin, well I did the only thing I could do. I had a bit of a dance.

Only I didn't see Lieutenant General Connor Bray standing there watching me, unsmiling.

So we went for a drink. Well, what I mean to say is he took me for a drink although I've never been for a drink that felt so much like a job interview. It's all very strange. One minute he's scaring the crap out of me going full military discipline and the next we're chatting over a drink and he could be any bloke down your local pub. It un-nerves me. I prefer to know where I stand. The Army gave me orders. You can't get any more un-equivocal than that. Its pragmatic and un-arguable. As an officer you're still under orders. So when a guy who could practically crush my career (what career now) with his eyelids is telling me about his 'facility' and I'm looking at him and thinking how he to all intents and purposes saved my physical and mental well being (don't know what drugs they were but - damn!) and he's being very serious about it, well I take him seriously.

He invited me to have a jolly round his 'hospital'. Some MOD run hospice or something for PTSD no- chancers, like me. You see the Army, bless it, doesn't look after its vets according to the papers and politicians looking for a quick electoral gain. Well, I'm here to tell you, yes it does! It's just its crap at it. I am a professional soldier and like all such grunts I don't blame the Army for any consequence of combat. We learn about it in training. We know the symptoms, the prognoses, the treatments. You become hardened to it. The Army sends you to fight, you fight, you come back, you heal, the Army sends you to fight and on and on and on. Now when you become irrevocably broken then, well, you can't be sent to fight again, can you? When armies still squared up to each other with swords and shields and it was skill at arms rather than who's got the best long range missiles, if you became a screwed up bag of quivering PTSD, it was considered a badge of honour. It meant you'd seen combat and your skills and prowess as a warrior had enabled you to survive. You were, officially, hard! Now, its an illness, a terrible curse. An infringement of your human rights. Well, that's what wars are. Its one state infringing the human rights of another state. And the Army, my Army, me, that's what we do. We impose our will over the will of others who would harm us.

At least, that's what the politicians will tell you.

Me, I follow orders. I've said that before. Not in a Nuremberg way. But my superior officer says go fuck up those Taliban weirdos (and they are true weirdos) then I go fuck up those Taliban weirdos. Those are my orders. I carry them out. So if anyone has a problem with Afghanistan or Iraq then please, go find the Ministers who issued the orders. You take it out on the Grunts at your peril.

Lieutenant General Bray runs a 'hospital' called 'Bethlem'. As in Bethlehem. Its located out in the countryside but unless you actually know where it is, you'd never find it. Hidden in plain sight and its quite lovely. Beautiful architecture from a range of periods if you're into that stuff. Clearly a big house that's been added to through time. Of course the 21st Century addition of 10 metre high electric fencing, razor wire and gun emplacements as well as a damn great reinforced gate that sinks into the ground like something from 'Thunderbirds' and several Jerry rigged prefabs stuck on the side of it I don't think will make the critics of the future look favourably on us.

It wasn't as much an order to go there but Bray was certainly persuasive. He mentioned The Cave. I think that's what swayed me. No-one since I came back had mentioned it despite the mission being on official record. He'd obviously read my report, used it to crow bar me in. Not that I needed much persuasion. After all, what else am I going to do. The regular Army won't have me back until my head is straight and even if I did go back, they'd always sideline me as a potential risk to operational success.

Bethlem is a clearly hush-hush. There was about, I don't know, 30 staff that I saw and 60, maybe 70 'patients'. I use the term but only in so far as they were staying at the 'hospital'. I saw only a handful of patients with outwardly visible physical wounds and they appeared to be quite minor. A missing hand. A missing leg. An eye gone. But the wounded were all chipper. But then you would be. The facility is superb. State of the art gym and physio. Swimming pool, sauna, steam room, massage. Library, dojo, Tech suite, private rooms en suite, sweet! MOD can't afford that either financially or politically. The patients were chipper and open, even with a woman outsider (so double outsider for some of them). They talked differently from most soldiers and there wasn't the usual inherent sexism. All different ranks too but no rank abuse. Something's up. Something wasn't right about it. It's all too good.

They let me join in a 'group' therapy session. Basically, a group of 12 talking about their experiences. Basic stuff. They were so open though. Amazing. I fought hard to keep control. I just wanted to scream and cry. I could feel it boiling up inside me and these sweet lads were just talking about soldiering. No bullshit. No heroes. Just talking. I've never experienced that before. The 'session instigator' was caught out. This lad started talking about combat stress but somehow started got around to talking about his impending marriage to 'Cathy' only to find her then calling it all off due to the name change.

His surname is Lattay.

I'm staying here. I'm not convinced what this place is but just to be back with some good honest moaning mithering whingeing no good squaddies is good. I have my own room and I'm apparently free to wander about, leave at any time, no restrictions, no papers, no orders. I get a timetable in a few days but right now I'm just going through a 're-adjustment' period. Settling in.

For the first time, in a long time, I honestly feel like I'm on the road to recovery. I actually feel human again.