Bombshell - Jane Harvey-Berrick

by Harvey-Berrick, Jane

  James stepped out of the minibus with Yad, shaking hands with the police officers and pointing to the minefield, asking a few questions and showing them the area on a map.

  The other women didn’t seem interested in the discussions, instead chatting to each other and yawning as if they were about to go to shopping in the supermarket, but when James signalled them, they all climbed out and started to don the heavy protective clothing with which they’d all been issued.

  James approached me, his face shuttered.

  “Wear your PPE clothing at all times,” he said. “If you’re not sure where to stand that’s safe, fucking find me. If I’m busy, Maral will show you. If she’s busy, wait in the minibus.”

  As Maral heard her name, she looked up and smiled at James, throwing me a quizzical glance.

  He gestured at the pile of body armour next to me and she caught the hint, helping me on with everything.

  And it was really heavy! The chest piece alone weighed me down, and combined with the enormous boots that I’d been given to wear, I could barely move. Then Maral placed the helmet on my head, lowering the visor.

  It was like being a deep sea diver. Immediately, the sounds around me became muffled, and my peripheral vision was severely reduced. I could only look straight ahead.

  She pulled the heavy gloves onto my hands, then nodded, pleased with her work.

  I plodded behind her as she donned her own protective clothing.

  She also picked up a number of digging tools that she settled into a thick leather workbelt, then unpacked one of the Vallon metal detectors from its case, checked the battery, handed it to one of the other women and lined up with the searchers.

  I stood well back, feeling the sweat build up on my body, despite the chilly air and piles of slushy snow that still clung to the more shady spots.

  My back started to ache with a dull throb and my shoulders were bowing under the weight of the body armour. My hair was sweaty and sticky, and my breath fogged up my visor.

  Nevertheless, the women in the team worked slowly and steadily, the searchers leading the way, Vallons in hand: swing, listen, concentrate, repeat; swing, listen, concentrate, repeat.

  Then Dilara found something.

  I found myself holding my breath as she paused, swung the Vallon, listening to the sounds. She nodded to herself and raised her hand. James was with her immediately, listening to the tell-tale bleeps through the earphones and confirming that she had indeed found something that was giving a positive reading. She placed a jaunty red flag in the ground and carefully moved on.

  Maral was following, having the equally dangerous job of removing the landmine from the ground.

  Taking a long, thin wooden stick, she pushed it into the soft, muddy ground cautiously, prodding carefully all around where the signal had come from.

  Then she used secateurs to trim back the tough grasses and shrubs, so she could reach the landmine more easily. I’d been told that she had to be careful not to get too close in case the device was magnetized. It was a horrifying thought.

  I watched, appalled and fascinated as she cleared the scrubby plants, then slowly scraped the earth away using a flat trowel, until the landmine was exposed.

  At that point, she signalled to James, and he was back again, kneeling in the dirt next to her, pointing out something.

  He pulled a handyman tool out of his belt and proceeded to loosen a screw on the top of the device. He paused briefly, clearly telling Maral to move back.

  I wanted to close my eyes, but I couldn’t. Although his visor and body armour was in place, his hands were bare, the smooth tanned skin clearly visible.

  Bile rose in my throat and my hands flew to my mouth, trying not to be sick. Time ticked by slowly as he remained kneeling next to the ugly device, Maral’s eyes fixed on his broad back.

  When he stood up slowly and gave a thumbs up, a happy little cheer erupted from me. Well, more like a squeak than a cheer. No one else reacted except Maral, who gave me a curious look.

  Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Yad watching him, squatting in the dirt like a discontented toad. Hatred sparked in his dark eyes, and a shiver of dislike forced me to stiffen my spine so he wouldn’t see, wouldn’t suspect that he scared me.

  The hours dragged by, more dirt, more landmines, more dangerous back-breaking work.

  When one of the women found something, they left the ominous red flags behind them.

  Then the de-miners moved in. Bending, kneeling, sometimes lying prone to scrape soil away from scary-looking devices, carefully lifting them from the ground; while James seemed to be everywhere: supervising, encouraging, instructing, occasionally taking over a particularly difficult job.

  I watched, heartsick, as James lay in the dirt, his face just inches from a device that was proving trickier than the others, a device that could kill him, as close as he was.

  “That one’s booby-trapped,” said Yad, sounding bored. “It’s designed to kill anyone trying to lift it from the ground.”

  I hadn’t realized he’d walked up behind me and I stiffened immediately. He leaned closer, his garlic breath penetrating even through my visor.

  “You have to be broken in the head to do it!” and he laughed loudly.

  I walked away, even as a part of me agreed with him.

  For three hours, the women continued their slow march across the minefield, and I stood in awkward awe of the work they did.

  I felt incredible relief each time they took a break, stopping to drink flasks of hot, sweet tea, then rest again over their lunch break, always cheerful, always glad to relax away from the intensity of their work.

  I removed my helmet but found that my own appetite had vanished.

  They sat in the cool sun, legs out-stretched, joking about something, flashing quick shy smiles at James.

  I could see the hero-worship on their faces and the attraction in their eyes; but none of them were brave enough to approach him.

  He sat apart from the others, studying the distant mountains, lost in thought. But clearly he was more aware of his surroundings than he was letting on, because when Yad stood up, I saw James following him with his eyes.

  Yad unzipped his trousers, pulled out his penis and peed in full view of the women, a golden stream steaming in the cool air. They looked disgusted but unsurprised. One of the women said something that made the others laugh, and I got the impression that they disliked him as much as I did.

  When Yad walked back toward the minibus, tucking himself in, he smiled smugly when he caught me watching him.

  “You want a closer look, Ice Princess?” he asked, grabbing his crotch.

  “I don’t have a microscope with me,” I said, moving closer to the other women.

  His eyes hardened and he spat in my general direction.

  James shouted something in the local language and everyone fell silent. The two men eyed each other, until finally, Yad swore and slunk away to sit inside the minibus.

  The tension lessened slightly but we could all see feel the violence in the air.

  James took a final sour look at Yad, then stormed up to me and hissed in my ear.

  “Don’t wander out of my sight, understand? Not even to take a bathroom break.”

  I nodded quickly.

  “I won’t, I promise.”

  Frowning, he stamped away, shouting at the women to follow him.

  I walked behind, tiptoeing through the dirt, feeling scared and ridiculous.

  At the end of the day, James and the team had a collection of 23 ugly anti-tank mines. Ugly metal discs glinting dully in the failing light, squat and deadly.

  Cold had settled into my bones that was nothing to do with the falling temperature.

  How could he do this, day in, day out, knowing that each day could be his last? I understood the women’s rationale better—this was a well-paid job for them in an economically depressed country. What they earned in these months of work could change their lives and those of their fami
lies for years ahead.

  But why did James do it? What was his motivation? It seemed impossible to understand.

  I watched from a distance as James carefully arranged the landmines in a depression in the ground, then laid a wire from them and prepared to detonate.

  We all had to lie down on the other side of the road, and not look up.

  The explosion shook the ground, and I almost wet myself as dust bloomed in the sky and clods of soil rained down.

  I sat up slowly, pulling off my dirt-encrusted helmet with shaking hands.

  Maral looked over and reached out to squeeze my arm reassuringly.

  “Okay?” she asked.

  I nodded and gave her a weak smile.

  I could only imagine how much worse it was when the explosion wasn’t controlled.

  James walked back toward us, his clothes covered with mud, and exhaustion etched on his face. He glanced at me.

  “Now we go back to HQ and report on the area we covered, the type and number of devices we found and how we disposed of them. About an hour of paperwork.”

  I winced in sympathy. I’d nagged him about the paperwork almost every time he’d come back from a Task. It was obvious he loathed it, but for the first time I understood that it was a mountain to climb after a day like this.

  Without asking his permission, I sat next to him again on the minibus for the short ride back to our base.

  “That was … I can’t even being to explain how intense today has been. The work you guys do … it’s insane.”

  He closed his eyes and leaned his head back.

  “Yep, been called that before.”

  “Well, not insane,” I backtracked hurriedly, “but crazy. I mean, those are bombs! They could explode at any moment, and you just walk up to them.” I took a breath as he opened one eye and squinted at me with bemusement on his face. “You can be such an arsehole, James, but you’re a very brave one.”

  And for the first time, he gave me a genuine smile.

  “Thanks. I think.”

  We didn’t speak for the rest of the journey, but it was a comfortable silence.

  THAT EVENING, WITH pent up adrenaline from the emotional rollercoaster of the day surging through me, unable to relax, unwilling to force my company on the other women who were drinking with Turul and Yad, I prowled the compound. And when that didn’t help, and Clay and Zada had already retired for the night, I went to look for James.

  He was the wrong man at the wrong time, but I was drawn to him. Underneath that scary, bad-tempered exterior, that aura of danger, he was a kind and thoughtful man. I’d seen him with his co-workers and I’d seen him with those schoolkids, so patient, so calm. And I’d experienced his odd brand of kindness firsthand.

  I fingered my chin-length, scraggy hair with a wry smile. I’d asked him to get rid of the lice and he’d done it instantly. I could have been angry with him about that, but somehow I wasn’t.

  I found him on his cot-bed reading, but this time he was smoking, as well. I didn’t know he was a smoker, never seen him with a cigarette before, although Yad and Turul smoked like chimneys.

  James was wearing sweatpants, but his chest and feet were bare. I saw for the first time that he had a tattoo on his left pec, directly above his heart. It had been designed to look like claw marks from some huge creature. How strange—he didn’t strike me as the whimsical type.

  My gaze skittered across his body, drinking it in, as if at any second he’d grab a shirt and cut off my view.

  I stared, my eyes growing wide at the sight of his bare arms and chest on the right side of his body. More in horror than appreciation. There were pale gashes carved into the tanned skin, around his rib cage and along his right forearm.

  “Shrapnel,” he said without looking at me.

  I swallowed hard, the reality of his life sinking in.

  But other than those scars, he looked strong and fit, although perhaps a little thin, a little pale. Except for his face, neck and hands which were tanned a golden brown. Maybe the deeper scars were on the inside.

  I was surprised to see that he was wearing British Army dog tags. I knew he’d been in the Army but he definitely wasn’t anymore. Odd. I wondered why he still wore them. Habit, perhaps? Or maybe just practical. I knew that the tags recorded blood type, name and serial number, as well as religious affiliation.

  He took another drag on his cigarette and the fragrant scent caught in my throat. My eyes widened.

  “Is that grass?”

  He nodded slowly, his eyes never leaving his book.

  “Is that … safe? I mean, for you. Um, I don’t mean smoking in bed, although that’s not safe either,” I warbled on, “but for your work?”

  He answered without looking up.

  “We’re not doing a Task tomorrow. The local Chief of Police has requested a meeting, and Clay can’t say no. Political crap. The boss gave me the day off.”

  “The rest of the team are having beers in the Mess,” I mentioned hesitantly.

  “Not interested.”

  “Oh, well, that’s fine. I just thought … whatever.”

  He continued to ignore me, but I was bored and lonely and on edge. If he wanted me to leave, he’d have to throw me out.

  He still hadn’t met my gaze, but I was used to that now. I sat on the side of his bed, staring longingly at the joint, wishing he’d offer it to me. In the end, I gave up waiting.

  “Can I have some?”

  He paused, turned the page, then took the blunt from his lips and passed it to me without comment, without even looking. I took a hit, feeling the sweet smoke sink into my lungs. It had been a while since I’d had grass, but the analgesic effect was immediate. My sore, tired muscles began to loosen, and the breath that I felt I’d been holding all day, finally left my lungs.

  “Today was intense,” I said, taking another hit before passing it back to him.

  “It’s either this or whiskey if I want to feel numb,” said James, surprising me by speaking, “and I’ve given up whiskey.”

  The bleak honesty of his words saddened me.

  I stared at his eyes as they worked their way steadily down the page of his book, those icy blue eyes that tilted cat-like, as I searched for the emotion he hid so well.

  “Do you want to feel numb?”

  “Yep.”

  His answer was brief, but I’d expected that.

  “Me, too,” I sighed plucking the joint from his fingers for a second time. “Can I ask you something? Why do you do it? The landmines, the bombs. I don’t understand.”

  He shrugged, still not looking at me.

  “I’m good at it.”

  I waited for more, but that was all he gave me.

  “I’m sure you’re good at lots of things.”

  “Then you’d be wrong.”

  It didn’t take a genius to work out that I wasn’t going to get any better answers tonight.

  I turned the cover of his book face up.

  “The Qu’ran. Again. Why are you reading that? You never really explained.”

  He pulled the book from my hands and stared at me for the first time.

  “Maybe I’m a Muslim.”

  I blinked and raised my eyebrows.

  “Are you?”

  He hesitated, weighing up whether or not he was going to answer me. But then he surprised me again by speaking.

  “I was planning to…” His words hung in the air, heavy and oppressive. “Now I’m not anything.”

  I glanced at his chest again.

  “But … your dog tags say ‘Church of England’…”

  He didn’t answer, just continued to stare.

  “Oh!” I stuttered as realization hit me. “I see. You would have converted for her? Zada’s sister.”

  His gaze lowered.

  “Amira.”

  He said her name with such sadness and longing, it sounded like the loneliest word in the whole world.

  “Yeah, I was going to convert to Islam,” he cont
inued. “I was having lessons … but like I said, I’m not anything now.”

  The significance of his words wasn’t lost on me, and the grass was making him unusually talkative. I took my chance and pressed on.

  “Then why are you reading the Qur’an?” I asked gently.

  He shrugged.

  “Because I wanted to believe what she believed. I wanted to know what she knew. She was so sure of herself, at the end. She always said Islam was a religion of peace. I couldn’t see how, and I wanted answers.”

  “Did you get any?”

  He shook his head slowly.

  “No, not really. I don’t think there are any. Not the ones I’m looking for.”

  He stared up, his gaze drilling into me. The intensity of those icy eyes was so unnerving, especially after the many, many times that he’d avoided so much as even glancing at me.

  “You should go back to your room now, Bel,” he said, his voice rough, a warning.

  “Maybe I don’t want to,” I said, meeting his gaze directly. “Maybe I get lonely, too.”

  I leaned forward, one hand on his chest, one hand on the pillow next to his head, and I lowered my head, resting my mouth on his lips, those soft, pliable, sweet lips. I kissed him gently, peppering light kisses from one corner of his mouth to the other, smiling as his eyelids fluttered and closed.

  “Thank you for looking out for me today. I didn’t tell you earlier.”

  He didn’t answer and didn’t move as I trailed my hand down his chest, feeling his pulse jump beneath my fingers, but as my hand slid down to the growing erection I could see in his sweatpants, he clamped his hand on top of mine and pushed me away roughly.

  “Go back to your room, Bel.”

  “I don’t want to,” I said again, sounding bolder than I felt and feeling stubborn.

  He swore under his breath and stood up suddenly, grabbing my arm as if he was going to throw me out of his room.

  But he didn’t.

  Instead, he shoved me up against the wall, pinning me there with his hips as he rained down hungry kisses on my cheeks, neck and chest.

  I anchored my hands on the waistband of his sweatpants and hung on.

  But then he shook me free, and without speaking he tugged my sweater and t-shirt over my head, ripped my bra from my breasts, moaning slightly as his head dropped to kiss and bite my nipples.