Chapter 2: The Love and the Fall
The grey morning light softened, bathing the tangle of their limbs in a muted glow. Simon’s guilt was a palpable weight in the quiet room, but Yaa refused to let it settle. She nestled deeper into the hard plane of his chest, the steady thump of his heart a counter-rhythm to her own throbbing headache.
“You know,” she began, her voice still rough, her finger tracing the stark lines of a tattoo on his pectoral. “When I first met you, I thought, ‘Christ, this bloke’s a brick wall with a scowling problem.’ All silence and sharp edges.”
Simon’s hand, which had been absently stroking her hair, stilled. “I was.”
“You were,” she agreed, a soft laugh in her words. “A proper moody bastard. All that military stiffness, like you’d forgotten how to be a person. And now look at you. Planning surprise road trips. Organising party invites. Letting Soap give you bear hugs. Writing letters to your mum.”
He tensed slightly at the last one. “That’s not…”
“It is,” she insisted, tilting her head back to see his face. “You reached out. After all those years of radio silence. That’s you. That’s all you, Simon. Not me. I didn’t do that. You did that shit.”
He was quiet for a long moment, his gray eyes fixed on a crack in the ceiling. “She hasn’t replied.”
“But you opened the door,” Yaa said softly. “You put the letter in the postbox. That’s the brave part. Whether she’s ready to walk through it… that’s her journey now. You did your bit. You changed.”
A muscle ticked in his jaw. “Had a good reason to.”
She swatted him lightly. “Don’t you dare put that all on me. Change comes from within, you great lump. You chose to. Every day, you choose to be here, with me, like this. Not hiding in your own head.”
He finally looked down at her, the corner of his mouth lifting in the ghost of a smile. “S’easier to be here.”
“Damn right it is.” She stretched up, ignoring the ache in her muscles, and pressed a slow, lingering kiss to his lips. It tasted of sleep and forgiveness. “I love you. So much it’s stupid.”
“I love you,” he murmured against her mouth, the words still rare enough to send a thrill through her. “More than is smart.”
She sighed, content, melting back into him. “Don’t even want you to leave one day. When we’re ancient. You better haunt me. Properly. Move my keys. Make the lights flicker. The full ghostly experience.”
He barked a surprised laugh, the sound rich and warm in the quiet room. “Only if you’re interested in fucking ghosts. Heard they’re cold. And insubstantial. Probably shit in bed.”
She giggled, the movement making her head pulse. “We’ll invest in electric blankets. And a ouija board for logistics.”
They lay like that until the afternoon sun began to bleed through the curtains, painting the room in streaks of gold. The hangover receded, replaced by a weary, sated peace.
The next evening, the scent of hot butter and salt filled the Surrey apartment. Yaa stood by the stove, shaking a large pot over the flame, the rhythmic pop-pop-pop of kernels a cheerful sound. Her body still hummed with a pleasant soreness, a catalog of the previous day’s celebrations. She eyed the stack of half-packed moving boxes in the corner, a bubble of excitement rising in her chest.
Simon emerged from the bedroom, dressed in black running shorts and a tight grey t-shirt that clung to every ridge of his torso. He was lacing up his trainers, his focus on the task.
“It’s got a proper garden,” Yaa said, not for the first time, as the popping slowed. “A little patio thing. We could get one of those ridiculous fire pits. Burn stuff.”
“You’ll set the fence on fire,” he said, but there was no heat in it.
“You’ll put it out. Soldier.” She grinned, dumping the fluffy white popcorn into a large bowl. “And the kitchen is bigger. I can actually turn around without elbowing you in the bollocks. And the light in the living room, Simon, in the morning… it’s perfect.”
He finished with his laces and walked into the small kitchen. She was at the sink now, washing the hot pot, her back to him. She kept talking, painting their future with her words. “I’m thinking a deep green for the feature wall. And we can finally get a proper bookshelf, not just those wobbly IKEA things. And—”
His arms slid around her waist from behind, cutting off her flow. He was solid and warm at her back. He nuzzled into the crook of her neck, inhaling deeply. “You owe me,” he murmured, his voice a low vibration against her skin.
She chuckled, leaning back into him. “Do I? What for?”
“For finding the place. Doing all the landlord bollocks. For the birthday celebration. The travel. The organisational fucking miracle of it all.” His hands spread possessively over her stomach. “That’s a lot of owed favour.”
She could feel the hard line of him already pressing against her lower back through his shorts. A familiar, delicious heat began to pool low in her belly. “Yeah? And what does His Majesty want as payment?”
In one smooth motion, he spun her around. His eyes were dark, intent. Before she could utter another word, he was on his knees on the kitchen tiles. He shoved her soft cotton shorts and knickers down her thighs in a single, rough pull.
“Simon, the dishes—” she started, a weak protest already dying in her throat.
His answer was to hook her right leg over his shoulder, opening her to him. He didn’t tease. He dove in, his mouth a hot, demanding brand on her cunt. His tongue was blunt and relentless, licking a broad, wet stripe from her entrance to her clit, then circling the aching nub with torturous precision.
“Oh, fuck,” she gasped, her hands flying to the edge of the sink for support. The cold stainless steel bit into her palms.
He ate her like a man starved, with a focused, brutal efficiency that was utterly his own. One hand clamped on her hip, holding her in place, while the other came up to press two fingers deep inside her, curling them upwards. His mouth sucked her clit hard, his tongue flicking over the sensitive peak in time with the thrust of his fingers.
The juxtaposition was outrageous, devastating. The mundane chill of the kitchen, the smell of detergent and leftover popcorn, and the obscene, wet sounds of his mouth on her. She looked down, saw the dark blonde of his head between her thighs, the intense concentration in the set of his shoulders. Her knees trembled.
“You taste like last night,” he growled against her flesh, his breath hot. “Still taste like me.” He drove his fingers deeper, fucking her with them as his tongue lashed her clit.
Pleasure, sharp and coiling, mounted with terrifying speed. It wasn’t gentle or slow; it was an assault, a claiming. He was demanding her orgasm as his payment. Her protests became ragged moans. She swatted weakly at his head, not to push him away, but because the sensation was too much, a lightning rod about to strike.
“Come on,” he commanded, his voice muffled. “Give it to me. Now.”
Her body obeyed. It shattered around his fingers and mouth, a white-hot detonation that ripped a sharp cry from her throat. Her legs buckled, but he held her up, drinking her in as she convulsed, swallowing every pulse and shudder until she was whimpering, oversensitive, pushing feebly at his head.
He finally released her, sitting back on his heels. His lips and chin were glistening. He looked up at her, his eyes fierce with satisfaction. “First instalment.”
She could barely breathe, leaning heavily against the sink, her shorts and knickers still tangled around her knees. She felt raw, used, utterly glorious. “You’re… a monster,” she panted.
He grinned, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand before standing. He pulled her clothing back up with a surprising tenderness. “Your monster.” He kissed her, hard and deep, letting her taste herself on his tongue.
“Go,” she managed, pushing at his chest. “Jog. Before I collapse.”
He blew her a kiss, a ridiculously playful gesture from a man who minutes before had been on his knees devouring her. Then he was gone, the front door clicking softly shut behind him.
Yaa slumped against the counter, spent, a stupid smile on her face. The evening stretched ahead, quiet and ordinary. She would eat popcorn. Maybe pack a box. And wait for the sound of his key in the lock, for the heat of his return, for the next unknowable, perfect thing.
The apartment held the echo of him in the cooling popcorn bowl, the dent in the couch cushion, the faint scent of his sweat mingling with the butter in the air. Yaa turned on the telly, some loud reality show about people yelling in a kitchen, and curled up with her bowl. The clock on the microwave read 9:05.
Rain began to tap against the balcony glass, a soft, insistent patter. She glanced at the door. His runs were precise, thirty minutes almost to the second, a military rhythm etched into his civilian life. She ate another handful of popcorn, the salt sharp on her tongue. The people on screen argued over a ruined soufflé.
9:40.
The number glowed in the dim room. She muted the television. The only sound was the rain, heavier now, drumming on the pavement outside. He was never late. A flicker, cold and thin, traced her spine. Maybe he’d just pushed harder, wanted to burn off the residual energy from the last two days. It was a rainy night, though. She pictured him on the well-lit path by the estate, his breath fogging, headphones in, lost in the beat.
She tried to watch the silent, gesticulating chefs. Their drama felt absurd and distant. Her eyes kept slicing back to the clock. 9:52. Her foot tapped a jittery rhythm against the leg of the sofa.
10:05.
“Okay, this is stupid,” she said to the empty room. Her voice sounded thin. Mrs. Ewart from number 12. Simon was polite, in his way, and the old woman could talk the ear off a statue. He’d be trapped, nodding, looking for an escape route while she prattled on about her cat’s digestion. Yaa almost smiled. That had to be it.
10:15.
The smile died. The flicker in her spine became a live wire. Something was wrong. A fundamental law of her universe—Simon returns—was breaking. She stood up, the popcorn bowl tumbling from her lap, scattering puffy white kernels across the rug. She didn’t care.
She yanked the door open. The night air was a cold, wet slap. “Simon!” Her call was swallowed by the hiss of rain on asphalt. She hadn’t grabbed a coat. The drizzle soaked into her t-shirt immediately, plastering it to her skin. “Simon, you idiot, where are you?”
She took the steps down to the estate path two at a time. The orange glow of the streetlights made puddles look like spilled oil. Her trainers splashed through them. “Simon!” Her voice cracked.
The usual jogging path was empty. Her heart was a frantic drum against her ribs. She circled the block, the rain blurring her vision, her calls growing more desperate. “Please, Simon, answer me!”
Then she saw it. A dark shape, wrong against the trimmed grass bordering the path. A trainer. A black running shoe, exactly like his, toe-up in a cluster of dripping rhododendron bushes.
Her breath stopped.
She rushed forward, the world narrowing to that shoe, the dark shape attached to it. “No, no, no, no.”
It was him. Simon was on his back, half-shrouded by the glossy, wet leaves. His eyes were open, fixed on the weeping sky, seeing nothing. Rain beaded on his pale lashes, on his slack lips.
A sound ripped from her, not a scream but a raw, animal expulsion of air. She dropped to her knees in the mud beside him. “Simon!” She slapped his cheek. It was cool. “Wake up. Wake up right now!”
Her fingers fumbled for his neck, slick with rain. She pressed, searching, hunting for a pulse. Nothing. A still, terrible silence under his skin. She wailed, tipping his head back, pinching his nose, covering his cold mouth with hers. She blew air into his lungs, watching for his chest to rise. It did, a mechanical inflation. She laced her hands, found the center of his sternum, and began to pump.
“One, two, three, four…” She counted through sobs, putting her whole weight into each compression. She heard a sickening crack of cartilage and vomited a little in her mouth. She didn’t stop. “Come on, you bastard! Don’t you dare! You promised! You promised to haunt me!”
She breathed for him again. His lips were unyielding. She pumped his chest. Thirty compressions. Two breaths. The rhythm was a frantic, hopeless prayer. “Please, Simon, please. I love you. Come back. I need you to come back.”
Nothing. His head lolled with each compression, his beautiful, empty eyes staring past her. She was screaming now, a continuous, ragged sound. “HELP! SOMEBODY HELP ME!”
She scrambled for her phone in her soaked pocket. Her trembling fingers couldn’t grip it. It slipped, clattering onto the path. She left it, returning to his chest, her arms burning, her tears mixing with the rain on his face. “Don’t go. Please, please, don’t go. I know you’re gone. I know it. But come back anyway. Just come back.”
A shape blurred at the edge of the light. A man with an umbrella, stopping, his face a mask of shock. “Oh my god. I’m calling an ambulance!”
“Hurry!” Yaa screamed, never breaking rhythm. “Please hurry!”
But she knew. With each compression into his unnaturally still body, she knew. The love of her life was gone. The ambulance lights, when they came, painted the rainy scene in streaks of frantic blue. Hands pulled her away. She fought them. “I have to keep going! I have to!”
A paramedic knelt, checked, shook his head. The world became a smear of sounds and lights. Someone wrapped a foil blanket around her shoulders. She didn’t feel it. They loaded him in. Someone guided her into the back, next to the blue bag that held his shape. She held his cold, unresponsive hand all the way to the hospital, whispering words that lost all meaning.
The waiting room was a tomb of beige and faint antiseptic. Time ceased. A nurse brought her a plastic cup of tea. It sat on the floor, steaming, untouched. She stared at a smudge on the wall, her mind a perfect, silent void.
Then a door opened. A doctor in green scrubs emerged. He looked around, his eyes finding her. His face was not neutral. It was heavy with a practiced, weary sadness. He didn’t need to speak. She saw the finality in the slope of his shoulders, in the slight, apologetic press of his lips before he even began to form the words.
The love of her life was gone.
The doctor’s words were a formal, medical slurry. “Sudden cardiac arrest… underlying, undiagnosed cardiomyopathy… not uncommon in veterans with extreme physiological stress histories… we’re so very sorry for your loss.” Yaa heard the spaces between the words more than the words themselves. The hum of the strip lights. The squeak of a trolley wheel down the hall. The absence of his breath.
Her mother, Sarai, arrived within the hour, her face a monument of compressed pain. She didn’t speak, just gathered Yaa into her arms and held her as they drove back to the Surrey apartment. The popcorn was still scattered across the rug like vile, fluffy confetti. Yaa looked at the bowl on the floor and let out a sound that was part laugh, part retch. Sarai guided her to the sofa, began cleaning in silent, efficient movements.
The next days were a grey smear. Appointments happened. Sarai made the calls, steered her daughter to the funeral director’s hushed office, a room that smelled of wood polish and regret. Yaa selected a casket online, pointing at a screen. “That one.” It was plain, dark wood. She couldn’t think of anything but the image seared behind her eyes: Simon beautiful and dead in the rainy bushes, the sheen on his still-open gray eyes.
Vanessa and Adeola moved in like a gentle, determined tide. They handled the caterer, the notifications, the endless admin of death. They filled the fridge with food no one ate. “Heart attack,” Yaa said to the wall one morning, the words tasting of ashes. “He was thirty-four. He survived fucking war zones. I read it’s common. For men like him. Their bodies just… give up.” She wanted the nightmare to end. She wanted to rewind to the kitchen, to his mouth on her, to the stupid popcorn. The numbness was a thick bell jar; she functioned beneath it, mute and slow.
At the church meeting, a young pastor with soft hands said, “We must trust it was God’s will, a call to a better place.”
Yaa’s head snapped up. The numbness cracked, and white-hot fury poured through. “Don’t you fucking dare,” she hissed, her voice low and venomous. “Don’t you dare call that pointless, random waste his will. He was mine. He was happy. It was no one’s will. It was a faulty, broken muscle.” Sarai gently took her arm, apologising to the flushed pastor, leading her out. Yaa shook, the rage evaporating as suddenly as it came, leaving the hollowed-out silence again.
The day of the funeral was sharp and clear, a mockery of the rain that had taken him. The church was full. She saw them then, his impact. Rows of men and women, some in crisp uniforms, backs straight, faces carved from granite. Soap and Gaz sat in the front pew across the aisle, Soap’s usually animated face still and grave, Gaz staring straight ahead as if on guard duty. The sheer, silent mass of them was a physical force.
Yaa sat in the front, Simon’s citrine necklace cold against her skin. She wore the midnight blue dress, the one from Brighton. She hadn’t thought about it; she’d just pulled it from the wardrobe. It felt like a layer of someone else’s life. The service droned. Hymns she didn’t know. Prayers that meant nothing.
Then Soap stood. He walked to the lectern, his bulk seeming to dwarf it. He cleared his throat, looked at his notes, then crumpled them in one big fist. “Right. Simon. Ghost.” He attempted a smile. “He’d hate this. All this fuss. Probably scowling at me right now.”
A faint ripple went through the uniformed rows. Soap’s voice was rough but clear. He told a story about a training exercise in the freezing rain, how Simon had shared his last dry sock with a lad who’d lost his. He talked about his reliability, his silent, brutal competence. The jokes were strained, the delivery awkward. Then he stopped. The church was utterly quiet. Soap looked directly at Yaa, his own eyes glistening.
“But I don’t understand this,” he said, the words breaking. “I really don’t. How does a bloke with a heart that strong just… stop? It doesn’t make sense.” He swallowed, a hard, visible motion. “Because it was whole. It was finally whole. She was in it.” He gestured weakly toward Yaa, his composure shredding. “So why’s it stop when it was full?”
That was the pin. That precise, anguished question shattered the bell jar. A raw, wrenching sob tore from Yaa’s throat, then another, uncontrollable, her body folding in on itself. Sarai held her as she wept, great heaving gasps that felt like they would turn her lungs inside out. She cried for the unfairness, for the year of marriage, for the civilian life he was just learning to wear comfortably, for the ghost who wouldn’t get to haunt her.
She didn’t see the woman who slipped in during the final hymn. The woman who stood at the very back, near the doors, her posture a mirror of Simon’s own guarded stance. She wore a simple navy coat, her face pale, her eyes fixed on the coffin. She did not approach. She did not speak to anyone. As the final notes faded, she turned and disappeared back into the daylight, a phantom at the edges of his story, there and gone before Yaa could lift her head.