Patterns

Bands of colour crisscrossed the sky like a loosely woven cosmic basket.

This was not natural, any more than the text just received from a long dead friend.

Reality was changing - at least Christy Chan's was if no one else's. He was at that age when the thought of dementia looms large but, as this long dead friend had once assured him, when you've got the wits to assess the symptoms, you probably don’t have it. Old age is compulsory and with luck you’ll be gone before it turns to senility.

So why was Christy seeing intertwining streamers of colour pattern the sky?

When he looked again they were gone, so perhaps the hallucination was down to nothing more exotic than lack of sleep and gnawing feeling that he shouldn't really be there. He hadn't dared read that text: perhaps the long dead Jason was trying to explain something from the grave... or wherever he was now.

They never did find his body.

Perhaps Christy's changing perception of reality was the penalty for being so tough for so long. For all the battlefield scars and lost comrades, he'd never experienced the symptoms of post-traumatic stress. But then, he had never killed a civilian and had rescued too many to count, though that probably wasn't the point.

He did miss Jason, however; more than the two wives who had tried to domesticate him, which was probably another thing he should have thought more seriously about. There had never been time to bother with it before... heat of battle and all that.

So what now? Back to afternoon tea with the languorous Laura, or stroll round the park with her overweight poodle? The big decisions he used to make in an instant. Now, with all the time in the world, the small ones could take forever. Was it his turn to wash the dishes..?

There was a voice whispering at the back of his mind, ‘Stop being such a twerp, Christy. There's no need for this.’

It was Jason's voice.

He tried not to listen, but it went on, ‘They're all safe, man. You can come back now.’

Christy suddenly caught his breath and nearly toppled over. The brightly patterned sky was back. Now it was studded with flashes of light and the drone of huge wasps weaving in and out of the unravelling streamers of light.

Christy's knees gave way and refused to let him get up. It looked as though Petra the poodle would have to find her own way round the park that afternoon

The Jason he had heard was from decades ago, long before enforced retirement after one skirmish too many. Christy may have remained in uniform if he had chosen catering. But he needed to change the world for good, go out and protect people in war zones, see they reached somewhere, relatively, safe.

The next voice had an American accent. ‘This was a mistake pal!’

‘Too bloody true!’ came back an angry Jason. ‘Just help get those civilians out of here!’

The sky began to clear again. No more ribbons of light or low drone of monstrous insects.

The next voice was much quieter and female. ‘Sorry Sir, nothing more we can do...’

Christy pulled himself up and at last opened the text from Jason. ‘We will meet again old friend; not here, but some place yet to be discovered.’

And as he read, the words dissolved. The mobile faded from his hand and the brilliant sky descended to engulf him.

Christy Chan was posthumously awarded the Victoria Cross for putting himself between civilians and friendly fire.