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The Parallel Four Book Two Chapter Six

A Chronicle of Friendship, Love, War, Adventure, and Destiny

Writing The Parallel Four has been a journey in itself—a walk through memories, dreams, and all the little moments that shape who we become. Some parts of this story are true. Some are truer than I’d care to admit. And some—well, let’s just say they’re inspired by what might’ve happened if life had taken a different turn.


The characters you’ll meet in these pages—Stephen, Johan, Vinka, Marlin, Tim, and Petra—are fictional, but they live and breathe with the spirit of real people I’ve known, loved, and lost. Their world is stitched together from scraps of real places, actual events, and a few wild yarns that got better with each retelling down the pub.


Poplar, Hitchin, and the snowy reaches of Sweden aren’t just backdrops—they’re characters in their own right. They’ve shaped this story as much as the people in it. And if you happen to recognise a place, a turn of phrase, or a certain kind of mischief from your own youth… well, consider that my nod to you.


This first book takes us from scraped knees to stolen kisses, from playground politics to life’s first real goodbyes. It’s about growing up, making mistakes, and finding the people who’ll stand by you no matter what—even if they sometimes drive you round the bend.


To those who remember the ‘50s and ‘60s—this one’s a memory jogger. To the younger lot—it’s a peek into a time when life moved slower, but feelings still ran just as fast.


And finally, to Stephen, Johan, Vinka, Marlin, Tim, and Petra—six hearts bound by the wonder of first love. Not the fleeting kind that fades with time, but the rare and lasting kind that deepens, steadies, and endures—a love that grows with them, becoming part of who they are, and who they will always be. And though this is only the beginning, the road ahead will test them in ways they cannot yet imagine—through training, through battle, and through the choices that will shape the rest of their lives.

Transcript

Chapter Six.

Marlin and I returned to our unit two days before the boys were due at Stonehouse. We didn’t make a big deal out of it—just slipped back in like a pair of perfectly packed rucksacks. But you could feel the shift. We weren’t trainees anymore. We were Sergeants. Proper ones, with stripes, expectations, and timetables so tight they might’ve been drawn with dental floss.

Naturally, we stirred the pot the moment we arrived. The clerks had only just adjusted to our last surprise promotion, and now we were back with new qualifications, extra clearance, and a renewed gift for raising eyebrows. Our commanding officer gave us one of those polite military smiles that really meant, “What fresh paperwork nightmare have you brought me this time?”

Still, the welcome was warm enough. A few smirks, a few nods, and a fair few curious glances from the new recruits who hadn’t quite clocked yet that Marlin could dismantle their confidence with one raised eyebrow and I could interview them into submission without raising my voice.

But if I’m honest…

The corridors felt a little too quiet.

My bunk a little too cold.

The evenings? They dragged.

Stephen had written a postcard already—a picture of Plymouth Hoe with a ridiculous caption about “defending the cream tea coastline.” I read it three times, stuck it to my locker, and made a mental note to tease him for the handwriting. Again.

So yes, we were back. And yes, we were ready.

But a small part of me was still in that parade marquee, smiling like a lovesick schoolgirl while pretending to care about vol-au-vents.

We’d had the good sense to let Forty Commando know we were arriving on Sunday—figuring it was best to avoid the classic “wander around with kit bags like confused tourists until someone shouts at you” routine. The guardroom, manned by a bored lance jack with a crossword and a hangover, eventually called for the duty storeman.

Said storeman appeared ten minutes later looking like he’d been dragged out of a supply cupboard mid-nap—dusty, dishevelled, and utterly unbothered. He gave us a vague grunt and a wave vaguely resembling a gesture, then pointed us in the direction of our bunks.

The Orderly Sergeant greeted us with all the enthusiasm of a man who’d seen a hundred fresh faces and would likely see a hundred more before the kettle boiled. He gave us a curt nod and rattled off the bare essentials: where to be, when to be there, and not to embarrass the cap badge.

So far, so good.

No shouting.

No surprise inspections.

And nobody had made us do press-ups in the car park.

Progress.

The next morning, Johan and I squared away our room with all the finesse of two men who’d survived the Lympstone laundry Gestapo. Bed blocks tighter than a miser’s wallet, boots lined up like they were awaiting inspection from the Queen herself. Old habits—and mild trauma—die hard.

We hit the galley for breakfast, and I’m not exaggerating when I say the bacon actually resembled bacon. Crispy at the edges, not swimming in grease, and—miracle of miracles—no mysterious blue bits. Johan declared it a “triumph of military logistics,” and I nearly choked on my tea.

Full rig on, we reported to the Orderly Room sharpish, names rehearsed in case nerves kicked in.

“Marine Heald and Heale reporting for duty, Sergeant!”

The Orderly Room Sergeant didn’t flinch. Clearly a man three coffees deep with a soul fortified by bureaucracy. He handed us a joining routine that looked like it had been drafted by a sadistic cartographer after a few too many pints.

A signing sheet, a list of obscure offices tucked into improbable corners of the base, and a checklist of “things to do” that included everything except learning to juggle flaming torches on a unicycle.

He barked a name over his shoulder and summoned a fellow Marine—friendly sort, with the energy of a labrador on Red Bull—who gave us the grand tour. Mostly corridors, stairs, “Don’t go in there,” “Don’t touch that,” and a quick whisper of where to find decent coffee.

Finally, we landed at our troop office, where we met the man himself—Sergeant Philips. Tall, no-nonsense, and with a moustache so perfect it could’ve had its own NATO designation. He eyed us both like he was mentally weighing our souls.

“Welcome to Forty. Don’t cock it up.”

And just like that, we were in.

Now Sergeant Philips was, by our reckoning, in his late twenties—or a very well-preserved thirty. Lean, green-eyed, and with that easy confidence of someone who’d done it all and didn’t need to shout about it. If he’d walked into a bar in civvies, you’d probably peg him as a rugby player or a stuntman—not the poor sod in charge of two fresh-out-the-wrapper Marines.

He greeted us with a smile—an actual, honest-to-God smile—and then, just as casually, offered us both a cup of tea.

Now, this sent every alarm bell in our brains ringing like fire drill night in a bell tower. Was this a trap? Some elaborate psychological test? Poisoned Earl Grey? Were we supposed to refuse and ask for ration brew concentrate?

Before we could dive behind the nearest filing cabinet or launch into evasive manoeuvres, he clocked our expressions and laughed.

“Relax, lads,” he said, warm and easy, “you’ve passed out of Lympstone—you’re here now. You’ve earned your berets, your places, and your dignity back. We treat you like grown-ups here… mostly.”

And just like that, the tension melted.

Johan exhaled. I blinked twice. He even took the tea. And lo and behold—it wasn’t laced with truth serum or liquid beasting. Just hot, sweet, slightly over-brewed normality.

Miracles do happen.

After tea and a chinwag with Sergeant Philips—who, by now, we were convinced was the nicest non-commissioned human in uniform—we were told we had an interview with our new Troop Commander, Lieutenant Mark Dyer.

Now, this lad couldn’t have been more than twenty-three, twenty-four tops. Sandy hair, steel-grey eyes, and that soft Scottish lilt that managed to sound reassuring and mildly threatening at the same time. You know the type—like a bedtime story that ends with someone being court-martialled.

He welcomed us into his office like we were old schoolmates and, to our growing confusion, asked if we fancied another cup of tea.

At this rate, we were beginning to wonder if we’d been posted to Forty Commando or accidentally joined the Women’s Institute. Still, when an officer offers you tea, you say yes—even if your bladder’s filing a formal complaint.

So there we were—me and Johan, perched politely on wooden chairs, sipping PG Tips like we were waiting for someone’s nan to bring out the Battenberg—while the lieutenant flipped open a manila folder that, presumably, contained our entire past, present, and potential future.

It was disarming, I’ll admit. Sitting across from an officer who looked like he ought to be revising for A-levels, but instead held the power to send us into the freezing Atlantic on a moment’s notice. Still, he asked good questions, listened like he meant it, and didn’t once shout, which—after Lympstone—felt like being interviewed by a unicorn.

And just like that, Forty Commando started to feel like home. A strange, tea-fuelled, slightly surreal home—but home nonetheless.

He glanced down at our reports from Lympstone and raised his eyebrows like he’d just discovered we’d both cured scurvy in our spare time.

“I’m amazed you two didn’t go to university,” he said, flipping the page, “or Dartmouth, even.”

Now, Johan and I looked at each other—proper rabbit-in-headlights moment—both clearly hoping the other had something intelligent locked and loaded. Nothing. Not a sausage.

So, naturally, I blurted out, “Well, sir, we were actually planning on joining the Royal Navy… but the recruiter was off sick that day. So we ended up in the Marines by accident.”

Johan nodded solemnly, not missing a beat. “Best mistake we’ve ever made.”

Lieutenant Dyer stared at us for a second, then cracked up—full-on laugh, not just a polite officer’s chuckle. “With decision-making like that, lads, the sky’s the limit,” he grinned, shaking his head.

We grinned back, trying not to look too smug, but inside we were both thinking: nailed it.

He seemed genuinely impressed by our language skills—though, in fairness, he hadn’t been subjected to our attempts at flirting in Swedish. That’s a dialect all of its own: half charm, half panic, with just a dash of accidental innuendo.

He asked about our lives, where we came from, that sort of thing. And then, casually, as if it were just another box on a form, he asked, “Any girlfriends?”

Now, we could’ve downplayed it. We could’ve said we were ‘seeing someone’ or ‘writing letters’. But no. We went full throttle.

“We’re both planning to get engaged at Christmas,” I said, chest out, like I was announcing an international summit.

“And married the following Easter,” Johan added, deadpan as ever.

“To two stunning Swedish soldiers,” I clarified, “with blue eyes, wicked aim, and accents that could melt the polar ice caps.”

That raised a proper eyebrow from Lieutenant Dyer. “Foreign nationals?” he repeated, with that tone officers get when the gears of admin start turning behind their eyes.

What followed was a very official-sounding monologue about permissions, forms, MOD regulations, and the diplomatic equivalent of marriage counselling with border control. Apparently, marrying abroad while in service was less of a romantic montage and more of a logistical minefield.

And until that moment, it honestly hadn’t occurred to us that Vinka and Marlin were “foreign.” To us, they were just ours—fierce, funny, brilliant, and entirely interwoven into who we were.

Still, the Lieutenant assured us it was all manageable. He gave us a smile—equal parts bemused and impressed—and probably started mentally drafting the next chapter of “The Curious Case of the Accidental Marines and Their Scandinavian Brides.”

Anyway, the Lieutenant waved us off with a grin and told us not to worry about weddings just yet—we had plenty of time to navigate the bureaucratic love maze. “First things first,” he said. “Survive your joining routine without getting lost or arrested.”

Reassuring.

Back in the corridor, Sergeant Philips had already lined up our guide: Marine Tom Evans. Now, Tom wasn’t so much a man as he was a fully sentient Welsh mountain in boots. Built like a second row with eyebrows, he looked down at us like we were interesting fungi growing on his parade boots.

“Follow me, lads,” he said, in a deep baritone that made the floor vibrate.

Stonehouse Barracks, as it turned out, wasn’t so much a base as it was a small empire. It was split across two sites: one where we slept, ate, and tried not to get shouted at; and the other—across the road—where all the real action happened. Workshops, garages, lecture rooms, stores, admin offices… basically a military-themed theme park, only with more forms and fewer rollercoasters.

Tom marched us from building to building like we were on a tourist trail. “That’s the armoury—don’t touch anything. That’s the gym—pretend you enjoy it. That’s the Quartermaster’s—don’t annoy him unless you fancy wearing size 13 boots for the rest of your career.” Sage advice.

The highlight? Johan accidentally saluted a mirror, then tried to pretend he was just stretching. Tom didn’t even blink—he just said, “Happens more than you think,” and kept walking.

Tom took us on the grand tour that afternoon. He was a softly spoken lad from Wales, with shoulders like barn doors and the kind of easy grin that made you trust him instantly. Though only twenty, he already had a few years under his belt and moved through the barracks like he owned the place—or at least knew where the best tea was brewed. As we trudged between buildings, he gave us the inside scoop: “Avoid Union Street late on payday, unless you enjoy punch-ups with Matlows.”

“Matlows?” I asked.

“Navy lads,” he said with a chuckle. “Think the pubs belong to them.”

Johan and I shared a look. “We’re lovers, not fighters,” we said in unison.

Tom laughed. “Aye, well—Union Street don’t care either way. Just mind your boots and your wallet.”

It took us a few days to settle into the rhythm of our new lives as fully-fledged Royal Marines—or as we started calling it, “general duties with occasional glamour.” In reality, we were glorified infantry with better hats. Our daily routine proved it. Mornings kicked off with a spirited three-mile run—nothing too dramatic, just enough to remind you that sleep was a civilian luxury. Then came breakfast, usually eaten faster than it was cooked, before drawing weapons from the armoury and cracking on with drills. Lots of drills. We spent our days practising movement-to-contact, vehicle searches, house clearance, and patrolling like we were being graded by ghosts. All of it in preparation for our January deployment to Northern Ireland. We told ourselves we were excited—but deep down it was the kind of excitement you feel before a cold shower or an overly honest dental appointment.

Then came the best part of the day: post. I spotted the envelope immediately—Vinka’s handwriting was unmistakable, all looping confidence and Scandinavian neatness. I tore it open like a starving man at a ration pack.

Hej älskling,

How’s life as a fully certified, government-issued action figure? Still dodging Matlows and pretending porridge is food?

Marlin and I are back in the rhythm too—our days now filled with language drills, tactical scenarios, and interrogations that sometimes feel like speed dating, just with less flirting and more yelling. Oh, and I had to give a presentation yesterday—in Arabic, French, and German—while blindfolded. Don’t ask. Let’s just say I now know how to accidentally insult someone’s goat in three languages.

Miss you like mad. Marlin keeps pretending she’s fine, but her desk drawer’s full of Johan’s old rugby socks. Don’t worry, she’s not wearing them—yet.

I hope you’re still shaving. And eating. And remembering which end of the rifle goes bang.

Yours always—Sgt. Rask (with lipstick instead of starch)

I grinned so hard my face hurt. I reached for my pen and wrote straight back:

To the most dangerous woman in Scandinavia,

You’ll be thrilled to know I’ve mastered the fine art of weapon drills and tea procurement at the same time—though my shaving technique remains dangerously experimental. We’ve had three blokes nick themselves so bad the mirror needs a mop.

The routine here is brutal, brilliant, and bonkers. We’re prepping for Northern Ireland in January, and I’ve never practised so many vehicle searches in my life. I could now find a packet of Wrigley’s in a fuel tank.

Tom (our Welsh guide and resident oracle) took us down Union Street last Friday. Two Matlows tried to square up. I defused the situation by accidentally offering one of them a sausage roll. It worked.

Miss you something fierce. Tell Marlin Johan’s still using his rugby socks… but for cleaning his rifle.

Counting down to Christmas. Counting even harder to Easter.

Love you madly, respectfully, and with slightly improved posture—Marine Heale

Sennybridge was like a military theme park—minus the fun, plus a lot more sheep. The landscape was all damp hills, soggy ferns, and sudden, inexplicable holes that ate your boots. We spent hours crawling around like camouflaged worms, whispering into radios, and trying not to rustle. It was all about stealth, patience, and remembering which bush you’d stashed your flask behind.

One night, Johan and I were tasked with setting up an OP on a ridgeline. We dug in, set our kit, and settled down for a long, wet wait. The mist rolled in like it had a vendetta, and our visibility dropped to “might as well be underwater.” I kept whispering updates just to stay awake, mostly along the lines of “still nothing” and “beginning to envy the sheep.”

By the end of week two, we could set up and strike camp in under five minutes, identify a Land Rover by engine noise alone, and distinguish between distant sheep bleats and potential footfall—a skill I’ve yet to use at any pub quiz.

We even tried “silent movement drills” in full webbing across open terrain—basically tiptoeing while carrying the weight of a small caravan. It made ballet look like a pub brawl.

Back at Stonehouse just before Christmas, with our training finally complete and muscles sore in places we didn’t even know had muscles, we were treated to the time-honoured Royal Marines Christmas dinner—served, as tradition demands, by our officers and senior ranks. There’s nothing quite like watching your usually terrifying Sergeant Major slop gravy on your plate while wearing a Santa hat and muttering, “Merry bloody Christmas.” Johan and I had sorted our travel—train to London, then a flight from Heathrow to Gothenburg on the 18th of December. We’d be back by the 4th of January, just in time to ship out for a four-month tour of Northern Ireland. Talk about going from mulled wine to minefields. Ho ho ho.

So, while the boys were off yomping through bogs and developing complicated emotional relationships with their rifles, Marlin and I had just completed our National Service. Yup—officially passed out as fully qualified military translators. Not bad, eh?

Come January, we were due back at our old translation company to finish our apprenticeships—only now, with a bit more polish, a lot more confidence, and the delightful ability to interrogate someone in five different languages without raising our voices. Our new boss looked absolutely thrilled when we walked in—though I think he was also a little terrified. Fair, really.

All that was left was for someone to teach us how to work the office kettle without treating it like a field radio, and by Easter… well, let’s just say, we had plans.

We flew out to Sweden and had an absolutely brilliant time celebrating our birthdays, Christmas, and New Year up at the Lodge with the family. For our birthday surprise, we planned on dropped the big one: we were engaged—and planning to get married at Easter.

That Christmas break was like stepping back into the best bits of childhood—skiing through powdery snow, roasting ourselves in the sauna, laughing till our sides ached, and devouring enough food to supply a battalion. Magic, it was. Pure. magic.

The fire crackled and spat like it was in on the secret. Outside, snow drifted lazily past the windows, blanketing the garden in a hush. Inside, the living room was all warmth—clove-studded oranges on the windowsill, soft woollen blankets, and the gentle clink of teacups.

Marlin and I were curled up on the rug, side by side in thick socks and oversized jumpers, cradling mugs of steaming tea. Across from us, Mama and Silvi sat in matching armchairs, knitting away with the quiet precision of women who’d mastered both wool and war.

Mama gave me that look—you know the one—eyes sharp behind her glasses, like she was about to catch me out in some delightful scandal.

“So,” she said, her needles pausing mid-click, “you’ve both been glowing since you got here. What is it? New job? Secret pregnancy? Or… something even juicier?”

Marlin nearly inhaled her tea.

“Mama!” .

I just smiled, reached beneath my jumper, and tugged out the chain around my neck. My ring slipped free and caught the firelight like a wink.

Silvi gasped. Mama leaned forward so fast she nearly lost her glasses. But just as they opened their mouths—

Marlin lifted her hand, cool as you like, and said, “Well, since we’re doing announcements…” She turned her wrist slightly, and there it was—her own engagement ring, glittering like a conspiracy.

Both mothers stared in stunned silence for exactly half a heartbeat—then all hell broke gloriously loose.

Silvi squealed and lunged for me with open arms, nearly flattening the teapot. Mama was on her feet like a general at roll call, inspecting both rings like priceless heirlooms.

“Engaged? Both of you?” Mama beamed. “This is a double blessing—or a double wedding, perhaps?”

“Let’s not get carried away,” Marlin said, laughing but blushing furiously. “We haven’t set a date yet.”

“Which means I still have time to meddle,” Silvi said, eyes twinkling. “And you know I will.”

Mama gave her a look. “You already have the seating charts, don’t you?”

“They’re just… preliminary sketches,” Silvi said innocently.

I smiled and squeezed Marlin’s hand. “We’re hoping for Easter. If the Royal Marines doesn’t decide love needs a Form 87/B in triplicate.”

Mama harrumphed. “If they try to stand in your way, I’ll write to the Queen.”

“Which one?” Marlin asked.

“All of them.”

We collapsed into laughter, the kind that leaves you breathless and teary-eyed. The fire popped in approval, and the kettle on the stove gave a little hiss, as if to say, Yes, this is the good stuff.

“I’m so proud of you both,” Silvi said softly, her voice thick with love.

“Two beautiful, brave girls,” Mama added. “And two lucky boys.”

I looked down at my ring, then at Marlin. “Feels real now, doesn’t it?”

She nodded. “Yeah. It really does.”

And as the snow kept falling outside, we sat together—four women, two love stories, one perfect night.

Well, the whole place erupted. Champagne corks flew like shrapnel, hugs were delivered with the force of artillery, and I’m fairly sure Mama had the seating chart half-sketched before we’d even finished the sentence. Petra looked a bit crestfallen for a heartbeat—bless her—but she gave me a kiss on the cheek and wished us every happiness. Then, naturally, spent the next few days shamelessly flirting with the postman. I think she bounced back just fine.

Later that evening, after the girls had disappeared upstairs with their mums—no doubt to discuss floral arrangements, seating charts, and whether the wedding should include a chocolate fountain or a string quartet—we found ourselves in the lounge with the dads. And when I say with the dads, I mean sat across from them like two dodgy applicants facing a panel of suspicious bank managers.

Harry, Ingrid’s other half and Johan’s dad, sat in his favourite chair, polishing his glasses like they’d personally offended him. Erik, Vinka’s dad, perched near the fire looking all Nordic and contemplative. And Lars, Marlin’s father, leaned back with that twinkle in his eye that said “I know more than you think and I might just let you stew.”

The silence hung in the air, thick enough to butter.

Then Harry cleared his throat like a judge about to deliver a verdict.

“So,” he said, one eyebrow raised. “Engaged, are you? Just like that?”

I swallowed hard and nodded. “Just like that. Spontaneous… but, you know… deeply considered.” I felt Johan glance sideways at me like, “Nice save, mate.”

Erik tilted his head and said with a smirk, “In Sweden, we call that a contradiction.”

Johan jumped in quickly, voice steady. “We’ve been together for years. This just… makes it official.”

Lars let out a laugh and sipped his whisky. “Official, eh? So when do the grandchildren arrive?”

Johan choked on his drink. I might’ve gone temporarily blind.

Harry stepped in like the seasoned diplomat he was. “Let’s not terrify them just yet. Give ’em a moment to figure out how to do their own tax returns first.”

Erik gave me a look that was equal parts amused and mildly threatening. “I always knew something was inevitable with you two. The way you and Vinka were looking at each other during midsummer? Like two undercover agents trying not to flirt.”

Lars added, “And Marlin’s been humming wedding marches since August. She’s as subtle as a marching band in a library.”

Johan smiled, proper heartfelt. “We just want to do it right. With your blessing.”

Harry gave him a long look, then smiled. “You’ve had mine since the day you taught Petra to ride a bike without stabilisers. Never seen such patience in a boy your age.”

Erik raised his glass. “You have my blessing too, Stephen. But if you ever make Vinka cry—” he pointed to the wall, “—I do own a shotgun.”

I held my hands up in mock surrender. “Understood. No crying. No sudden movements.”

Lars swirled his glass and winked. “Well, lads, if you’re marrying into this clan, you’d best keep up. We drink, we ski, we argue in five languages, and Julafton is mandatory.”

Johan grinned. “Sounds like home already.”

The tension popped like a champagne cork. Glasses were raised. Toasts made. Someone passed the bowl of nuts, and suddenly we weren’t two lads facing judgement—we were part of the family.

I leaned over and muttered to Johan, “Think we passed?”

He smirked. “We’re still alive. That’ll do.”

On Julafton morning, I heard the crunch of tyres on the snow outside the lodge and hurried to the window. A car had pulled up, and before I could even blink, Petra was flying down the steps. Tim barely had time to close the door before she was in his arms, her laughter carrying up through the cold air like bells. Inside, the warmth was thick with the scent of Mama’s vörtbröd and cinnamon, and Papa had already laid the sprigs of fir across the long table, ready for the julbord. Our own news — Stephen and I, Johan and Marlin — had been shared the night before, and the house still pulsed with that excitement. Four hearts promised, four rings to come, and every glance between us was full of tomorrow.

By midday, we were crowded around the television — yes, even the soldiers among us — to watch Kalle Anka och hans vänner önskar God Jul. It’s silly, but in Sweden it wouldn’t be Julafton without Donald Duck. Laughter filled the room, children and grown-ups alike calling out their favourite lines. Later, the julbord was laid: herring in its many guises, meatballs, prinskorv, ham, Janssons frestelse — all the dishes of my childhood. Glasses were raised, songs sung, and when dusk came early, we bundled outside for a walk in the snow, lanterns in hand. By the time we returned, cheeks stinging from the cold, the fire was roaring and the night gave way to stories, toasts, and the glow of knowing we were exactly where we belonged. That Julafton felt like the whole world had conspired to give us joy.