Hiding the Past by Nathan Dylan Goodwin

Farrier:
babe.
    ‘Yeah, a real
killer, this one,’ he said sardonically.
    ‘Good show,
that’s what I like to hear.  Doesn’t do a chap good to be out of work
these days.’
    ‘Indeed,’
Morton agreed.
    ‘Here you go,’
Jeremy said, thrusting a can of beer into Morton’s hand.  Morton took a
large gulp.  He was going to need something strong to help him get through
this evening.  ‘What did you want to drink, Juliette?’
    ‘Just water’ll
be great, thanks,’ she said, before qualifying, ‘...driving.’
    ‘You’ve
decorated, I see,’ Morton said, vaguely directing his statement towards his
father.
    He
frowned.  ‘You must have been here since then.  Must have been a good
eighteen months ago.’
    ‘It looks
nice.  Very modern,’ Morton said, ignoring the oblique undertones to his
father’s statement.
    ‘Jeremy and I
decided it was about time we gave it a lick of paint.  I’ve still got one
or two mates down at B&Q who I used to work with, so I got my ten percent
staff discount.  And that was on top of the discount given to pensioners
on a Tuesday.’
    ‘Fantastic,’
Morton said, making no effort at all to sound genuine.  He just couldn’t
be bothered.  And nor, it seemed, could his father who had spotted someone
more interesting to converse with across the room and silently wandered off.
    Jeremy returned
with Juliette’s drink.  ‘Here you go.’
    ‘Cheers,’
Juliette said, as her glass met with Morton’s and Jeremy’s bottles.
    ‘You two really
should come over more often you know, we miss you up here,’ Jeremy said.
    ‘Yeah,’ Morton
said half-heartedly.
    ‘Could you do
something for me, Morton?’ Jeremy asked.
    ‘Uh-huh,’
Morton answered, not liking the sound of owing Jeremy a favour.
    ‘Will you call
in on Dad more often while I’m away?  He’s getting on a bit now and he’d
love to see more of you.’
    Morton took a
deep breath, resenting the implication and doubting the statement.  ‘Yeah,
sure.’
    ‘Great,
thanks.  It’ll be a big weight off my mind.’
    ‘Do you know
when you’re likely to be back?’ Juliette asked.
    ‘Hopefully six
months, but you never know,’ Jeremy answered.  ‘Anything could happen.’
    ‘We could
declare war on any unsuspecting part of the Middle East if there’s
enough oil there,’ Morton said, taking a large mouthful of beer and receiving
an admonishing hand squeeze from Juliette.  He really needed to tone down
the sarcasm.
    ‘I think
there’s a bit more to it all than that,’ Jeremy said.
    ‘WMD?’ Morton
mumbled, his hand feeling like it had been crushed in a vice.  Jeremy let
the comment slide and changed the subject.
    ‘How’s your
work going, Juliette?  Enjoying rounding up criminals?’
    ‘I love it.
Well, apart from the late nights and crappy shift patterns.’
    ‘What sort of
things do you have to do?  Is it like the regular police?’
    Juliette
laughed.  ‘Well, the regulars call us CHIMPS – Can’t Help in Most Police
Situations.  That about sums it up.  Mostly we confiscate alcohol
from fourteen-year-old boys, liaise with the community and direct traffic,’
Juliette said with a laugh.
    The doorbell
sounded and Jeremy excused himself to answer it.
    ‘Morton, stop
being such an arse,’ Juliette whispered as soon as Jeremy was out of earshot.
    ‘Just listen to
them,’ Morton said, quaffing his beer and indicating a large group of soldiers
in the doorway, ‘All this macho bear-hugging and back slapping.’
    Juliette took a
deep breath and moved across the room towards a table of buffet food. 
Morton headed into the kitchen, pushing past more army clones.  The place
was like a wartime working men’s club, he thought.  Keep up the good
work, chaps.  Don’t let old Blighty down .  He cracked open
another beer and took a swig.  Busy washing up at the sink was a
smartly-dressed lady with white hair in a neat perm.  She turned and
smiled.  ‘Hello,’ she said brightly.  ‘Are you