A Brighter Fear by Kerry Drewery

was familiar.
    But it scared me, thinking that, because my very being screamed at me that it was wrong to want to see him. These soldiers were occupying my country, walking around with guns, pointing them at civilians, stalking around in mirrored sunglasses, cigarettes drooping from corners of mouths. Arrogant. Insolent.
    Yet this one I dared to think I might like. And after a few days of seeing him at the gas station, I headed over to him and he finally spoke, greeting me in Arabic fashion.
    “Asalaamu aleikum,” he said.
    I looked at him, surprised. “Wa aleikum asalaam,” I replied.
    I had my beliefs about America and their soldiers. He did not fit these beliefs. American soldiers did not greet us in Arabic.
    I scanned his face, his eyes obscured by his dark glasses, his face creasing as he gave a quick, flickering smile.
    I felt confused. He thanked me for the food, said it was delicious, and said he hoped I would come and see him again the next day. I kept my mouth shut. He didn’t know I could speak English, and I felt something of a spy as I listened to these men.
    The following day he was there again, still wearing his dark glasses, and when Hana moved away I walked towards him, my stomach lurching, my face flushing and burning and my hands shaking as I handed him a cup of chai.
    I willed the courage to speak to him in English, to let down my defences. “Why are you guarding the gas station?” I whispered.
    He looked at me from the corner of his eye. “Well, just to make sure there’s no trouble. Y’know, because it’s rationed, and there are huge queues.” He shrugged. “People get frustrated. Annoyed. Tempers get frayed.”
    And he paused, turned his head and looked at me. Really looked at me. And I felt so uncomfortable that I took a step back, hanging my head, my hair falling in front of my face.
    “Your Joe’s daughter, aren’t you?” he whispered. He took off his dark glasses and lifted down his helmet. And the shock of it took my breath away. I swung around to him, staring up to his face, my mouth hanging open, my face a deep frown.
    “I’m Steve,” he said, extending his hand. But I couldn’t take it. I couldn’t touch him. “I came to your house that day,” he continued. “And the funeral.”
    I was about to shake my head.
    But I looked at him properly now. My eyes searching past the stubbled chin, flicking over his dusty blonde hair, his narrow face, those eyes, those bright blue American eyes, filled with compassion I thought no soldier could hold, and I saw him, the soldier who had given me such bad news, and despite the heat of early summer, I felt cold. Every inch of me prickled. The hurt and pain of that day and every day since, without Papa, flooded back and I gulped away tears.
    “I recognised you a while ago,” he continued, “but I didn’t think you’d want to see me, so I tried to keep away.”
    I watched him as he hid his head again inside the helmet, obscured his eyes and face again behind those glasses, but now I could still see him. I could see him sitting at my kitchen table, see his fingers edging the cup in front of him, hear those words coming from his mouth as he told me Papa had been shot.
    I watched the Steve in front of me lift the cup to his mouth, watched him drink, watched his dusty fingers and broken nails wipe the corners of his mouth.
    “It’s nice to see you,” he said, holding the empty cup out to me.
    I didn’t have any words to say, couldn’t get them past the lump in my throat and the burning in my chest. I nodded and reached out for the cup. But for a second, he didn’t let go.
    “I’m sorry,” he whispered, “about your dad, Joe.”
    And I looked up at him. “I’m sorry for hitting you,” I breathed.
    He smiled and let go, a shrug on his shoulders. And as I turned away from him, I felt my cheeks flush, and as I walked away, I looked up and saw Hana’s eyes boring into me.
    I thought about Steve that night as I lay in bed, but I