Page 17 of Break Me Apart
“You’re heading that way, right?”
I literally wasn’t. “No sir, I—”
“Great, take this,” he says, ignoring what I was saying,pressing the folder into my hands before disappearing back into the office like a man escaping consequences. Bastard.
By the time I cut across the base toward supply,most people are eitheralreadyclocked offor moving quickly between buildings,trying not to freeze to death before dinner. The floodlights have started coming on around the outer roads, washing everything in that ugly yellow-white glow that makes the entire place feel even moredepressingthan usual.
Supply is half-shuttered by the time I get there. One of the lads inside points me around the back toward the loading bay without even looking up properly from whatever paperworkhe’spretending to care about.
The loading area behind the building is quieter. A lorry sits backed into the bay with its rear doors hanging open,metal cages stacked nearby waiting to be moved inside. The whole place smells faintly of diesel, wet concrete, and cigarette smoke.
That’s what makes me notice Mason.
He’sstanding off to the side under the security light with a cigarette between his fingers, shoulders hunched slightly against the cold.He sees me at the same time I see him.A lookflickers across his face beforehe can stop it.Surprise, maybe. Or calculation.
“Alright?” he says, keeping his voice light.
“Thought you’d vanished,” I say. “I was starting to think you’d finally annoyed someone important enough to make it permanent.”
“Tempting fate, mate,” he snorts.
We stand there for a moment, close enough now that I can see him properly. I’m close enough that the small things start to stand out. The black eye isn’t obvious. It’s not a dramatic black mark or something that would draw attention. It’s old. Yellow around the edges and mostly faded into his skin. If you didn’t know Mason’s face, you might miss it.
“How long have you been working in the dark?” I joke, keeping my tone playful.
He blinks. “What?”
I tilt my head slightly, his hand comes up, fingers brushing the skin under his eye before he seems to catch himself. Then he drops it straight away. “Oh. That,” he says. “It’s nothing.”
“Does this nothing have a name,” I say, “or should I add it to the list of things no one’s mentioning?”
He exhales, glancing past me like he’s checking who might be close enough to overhear. “It happened a while back,” he says. “Dropped something. Slipped. You know how it is.”
I don’t press him, but I don’t quite buy it either. “Funny,” I say. “Because I can’t remember the last time I stood close enough to you to notice you being clumsy.”
He stiffens, then eases again. “I’ve been busy. They’ve had me doing odds and ends.”
“Odds and ends,” I repeat. “Right.”
He looks at me properly then. “Are you interrogating me now?”
“No,” I say. “I’m just asking.” We stand there a moment longer in silence. “Are you waiting for someone?” I ask, pushing brightness into my voice.
“Yes,” he says. “They’re late.”
“Shame, I’d have said grab a coffee otherwise. Another time?”
He nods, quickly, as if he’s glad that he can’t take me up on it. “Catch you later then.”
“Yeah. Later,” I reply, walking off without looking back and leaving him to his evening.
The next day we’re in the auxiliary gym. This isn’t a place for talking things through. You get it right, or you get your arse handed to you. Mason’s already on the mat when Iarrive, sleeves rolled up, expression set into that neutral focus he uses when he’s concentrating. He’s paired with one of the larger men from logistics — Harris, the CO’s son. Solid build, heavy through the shoulders, in short, a human bulldozer.
They square up at the signal. Mason moves first; he’s quick and precise, angling in to take the arm. The grip is clean, and the setup is textbook. Harris drops his weight early, driving forward instead of stopping, forcing Mason to absorb the impact rather than redirect it.
Mason goes down hard, his back hitting the mat flat. “Again,” the instructor says.
No correction, and they reset.
