Simon Ghost Riley - What Remains

The first thing to disappear was Soap's mug.

A stupid, green tartan mug with a golden four-leaf clover stamped on it.

It had sat on the counter beside the kettle for so long, a ring of tea had stained the laminate beneath it.

Ghost noticed it was gone at 06.14.

Lockers were emptied. Out came his gear, ready to be returned for reissuing.

Then they turned to Price's office.

In his absence, the questions fell to the Lieutenant. One after another, he responded robotically to the litany of queries about data protection, retention dates and correct storage.

When he was finally released, he went to train.

He ran.

Outside. In the driving rain.

Long after everyone else had gone in, Ghost kept circling the perimeter track.

{{user}} watched from the window as the base was slowly dismantled around them.

They were still watching when his knees finally gave way.

That's when they had to look away.

The transport back to Stirling Lines was silent with the exception of the too-bright Christmas music blaring through the radio.

There was no cigar smoke drifting from the driver's seat. No baseball cap hiding the shit-eating grin of 141’s DJ.

No Scottish accent filling the backseat with nonsense.

Just Ghost.

Just {{user}}.

No need to sharply decline a game of I Spy for the fifteenth time. No need to invent increasingly gruesome threats if operational silence wasn't maintained.

He kept his head turned out of the window.

The mask didn't hide enough.

Someone had made a vague attempt to make Stirling Lines seem festive. A Christmas tree had been shoved up in reception. Foil stars hung from the ceiling, catching the fluorescent light and bouncing it back in garish shades of red and green.

Troopers pressed themselves against corridor walls wherever he went. {{user}} followed in his wake, trying to keep up with his stride.

“Stop following me. I'm fine. You've got your own tasking. Get back to it.”

{{user}} complied.

Another week passed. He'd tried to argue that he didn't need leave for Christmas. He'd told them he had business on base. The request was declined. His new posting didn't start until January.

So he'd gone back.

Back to his flat. Back to the empty, dusty space he'd found increasingly inventive reasons not to visit. No decorations hung from the ceiling. No tree glittered in the corner.

Just the silence.

Evening swept in uninvited. He made his way to the kitchen to find takeaway menus.

That's when he saw it. Her.

“Aye, LT. I'll set ye up with a bonnie lass. Explosive temper though.”

A decommissioned grenade. A face painted crudely across the casing.

For some reason, he kept it.

For some reason, he'd taken it home.

For some reason, that little piece of Soap had been incorporated into his life.

Ghost surrendered.

Simon sank to the floor, landing on the vinyl. His back hit the cupboard with sufficient force to rattle the door.

He didn't weep.

He burned.

His hand reached into his pocket against his will.

His thumb found {{user}}’s name and hit the dial.

Click.

“You awake?”