More Than You Can Say by Paul Torday Page B

up to you to seek help if you feel you need it.’
    ‘OK.’
    ‘You can’t claim on your insurance, you know. It’s not recognised as an insurable illness.’
    I didn’t know, but I nodded my understanding. Themedical officer scribbled something on a piece of paper and then looked up at me.
    ‘Plenty of sleep, that’s the ticket. Have a good rest. They say art therapy can help. Painting pictures, that sort of thing. Sounds like a lot of nonsense to me. You’re a fit young man. You may experience flashbacks and perhaps have some difficulties adjusting to civilian life, but no doubt you will manage very well.’
    The interview was soon over. He had many other people to see that day – and every other day. Some of them were a lot more damaged than I was.
    So that was it. I was out; and nobody would look after me except myself.
    As I sat at dinner with my family that evening I began to wonder whether there
was
something wrong with me after all. I hardly spoke again before I went upstairs to bed and at breakfast I didn’t speak either, except to say good morning. After a while the silence I imposed on myself fell like a wave of cold air on the rest of the household. They thought I didn’t care for their company, that I was bored, that I was not grateful for everything they were doing to make me feel welcome, that I found their lives meaningless, that I wasn’t interested in anything but myself. Affection was replaced by puzzlement; puzzlement by dismay; dismay by irritation; irritation by anger. And there was nothing I could do about it. I could see their hurt, but I couldn’t ask for help. There was my pride; and besides, how could they help? How could anyone help, if they hadn’t been where I had been and done what I had done? Most of the people who had shared those experiences with me were dead, or far away from England.
    Even while this estrangement was creeping in, one part of me still remembered fondly the kindness and support I hadbeen offered as I grew up. I was the golden boy: nothing was too good for me. My mother and Katie adored me. I grew up in a simple, straightforward world where I expected everything to work out for the best, and everyone expected the best for me. That wasn’t how things were now.
    My visit lasted three days. At the end of that time I couldn’t stand being there any longer. The house had become totally silent. No one spoke to anyone else, at least not when I was there, and I felt as if I had brought a curse upon the place. So I left and went back to London. I hadn’t been home since.
    I looked out of the carriage window and saw we were just pulling out of Reading. Two noisy youths arrived, carrying a six-pack of lager. They opened a couple of tins, spattering me slightly with foam, and seemed to have every intention of necking down not just the two cans in front of them, but the rest as well. I got up and managed to find another seat.
    I was in an odd frame of mind when I returned to my flat in Camden. Perhaps getting married and separated from one’s new wife on the same day would do that to you. And I wondered whether Mr Khan and his friends might have followed me here. They’d had enough time. I approached the street where my flat was with caution, but I saw nothing to alarm me.
    I unlocked the door, and saw that all my post had been picked up, opened, and left in a pile on the kitchen table. It must have been Amir who had done that, when he visited the flat a couple of days earlier. I somehow felt violated, even though most of the post was just unpaid bills and bank statements.
    There was a letter from my landlord about unpaid rent. Iput it aside to read later. There was a card from my regimental association acknowledging my acceptance of the invitation to Lancaster House to be presented to the president of Afghanistan on his forthcoming state visit. A note from my commanding officer was enclosed. It said, ‘The invitation is for you and Mrs Gaunt – I presume you have