He remembered the pain. No flash of memories, no sudden realisation of a life unfulfilled. It was quick and he was thankful. His last action was one of a courageous man, at least that’s what his Commanding Officer would have said. The click of the trigger was to be his funeral toll.

Standing in this clearing, he is devoid of pain. The crack of a twig brings the realisation of the unsettling silence. There is no life in this place. Is he alone he wonders. “Is this hell” he asks aloud. Banished to be forever in his own company.

Surveying his surroundings, his mind wanders. Ten years old in his grandfather’s back garden. Some details vivid others long pushed out to make room for military tactics, poker tactics and the devil’s finest trick, women. His hands so large and dry. He handed him the rifle, “this is the only friend a man needs,” he said. Its weight shocked and comforted him in equal measure. “If you can hit that can on the wall, it’s yours”.

Standing up he steadied the rifle against his shoulder like he’d seen in the movies. His mother frowned upon him watching them but it was quietness she really craved. He aimed, at least he thought he did. His index finger found the trigger and slowly pressed down. The shot startled him, it flew into the afternoon and he in the other direction, hitting the ground to the deep belly aching laugh of his grandfather. Picking himself up and holding back the tears, he noticed the can untouched on the wall. “Maybe next time,” his grandfather said with a smile.

He would eventually win that rifle and learn an important lesson. He thought he was invincible at ten but landed on his ass. He thought the same at 22 when the bus pulled up, ‘Army — Cadet School’ scrawled above the windscreen.

He emerged from the clearing as he snapped back to the present. Was it the present, is there such a thing now, does time still exist he couldn’t help but wonder. He found himself on a deserted small town street not unlike his own. The illuminated sign of a bar shining out above the others.

The dust jumped from the unused tables the moment he pushed through the door before stopping, stuck where he stood, his gaze transfixed. A mirror on the wall held his full attention. It was only now he realised that he was dressed in his formal military uniform. His hair short and neat. This was how he knew his father would remember him. He believed the man he respected and feared had only truly been proud the day he passed out of Cadet School. Finally a son had followed in his footsteps. The legacy fulfilled. His son, James Gilpin, like his father and grandfather before him, a soldier. The bank might have pleased Mother but he had never yearned for her respect.

“What’ll it be,” said an old stooped man standing behind the Bar. This was the first form of life James had encountered, his mouth went dry trying to get the words out , “Whiskey,” he eventually managed. She hadn’t liked him drinking it but what did it matter now. He settled himself on the bar stool as the glass arrived. He reached for his pocket but the man waved him away “we all have a tab here,” he said.

The first gulp was warm against his lips and burnt as it slowly descended, the realisation that his body still functioned he found unsettling. The door swung open. Momentarily blinded by the light, it took a few second for his eyes to make out the man who stood there. Dressed in a University graduation robe and box fresh shirt and tie. His weathered face and strong chin unrecognisable to James. He ambled over to the bar catching the old man’s eye “Beer please John”.

“I didn’t always look like this,” he said by way of introduction while climbing upon a stool at the other end of the bar. “I can see you don’t recognise me, we’ve never met, well unless a trigger is your idea of hello” In that moment it all make perfect sense to James. Sitting in front of him was a man he had known momentarily. Strung out on whatever was available, he had crossed James’ path only once.