by Andy McNab
‘Darling, this job of yours is taking a lot of time and you’re not seeing people like you used to,’ said Adi. ‘I mean, is it good for you?’
Jenny stepped back in surprise.
‘I would go to Tiff Curtis’s charity thing but she didn’t invite me.’
Tiff had not spoken to Jenny since she had spotted her at the theme park with Eugene. It wasn’t that Tiff was obviously avoiding her, but somehow she was always walking down a different street, using a different checkout at the supermarket. And she wasn’t the only one. Rose McKinley and Sharon Kirk always seemed to be walking in the other direction from Jenny these days.
‘Sometimes I think Tiff’s forgotten what it’s like for the rest of us – she’s got her Si home,’ said Adi. ‘You have some sort of argument with her?’
Jenny shrugged. ‘I don’t think so.’
Adi’s face creased itself up into sadness and sympathy. ‘Jenny, I hate all this tittle-tattle in camp but let me tell you she’s saying that you saw her in town and crossed the road.’
‘Oh!’ said Jenny.
‘And, according to Tiff, she called out a greeting but you didn’t reply. Of course, I don’t believe her.’
Jenny hadn’t heard Tiff call any greeting but it was true that she had crossed the road. Because the fact was that since Tiff had started to avoid her, she had been avoiding Tiff. It was the Curtises who had told Dave out in Afghanistan that they had seen her with another man. And what kind of a friend would do that?
Adi was looking at her closely. She said: ‘Jenny, darling, are you all right?’
Jenny shrugged.
‘Of course!’
‘Listen, if you ever want to talk … I mean, it doesn’t matter what you tell me, I won’t judge you and I won’t tell anyone else.’
Jenny forced a smile.
‘There’s nothing to tell, Adi. Everything’s fine.’
She passed Agnieszka’s house on the way home. It was empty. No buggy outside; no curtains at the windows. In fact, there was no indication that Jamie and Agnieszka and Luke had ever lived there at all. Soon another army family would move in and later another and they would be spared any information about the Dermotts’ tragedy. After five, ten, fifteen years, who would remember them?
Agnieszka was always the outsider, even when Jamie was alive. Only now did Jenny understand how you could feel completely alone in the middle of a busy army camp with people and vehicles buzzing all around. And it wasn’t like being alone in a city where you knew no one. It was a different sort of alone.
Agnieszka had become isolated when Jamie was away and people thought she was having an affair. People talked about her a lot but they didn’t talk to her any more. At the playground greetings and conversation were so restrained that Agnieszka started to avoid everyone: Jenny had seen the Polish girl dive down a side street rather than talk. And now she had done something similar herself. Because most people were still polite to her but there was a new restraint. And if there was any conversation at all, it was full of the small, everyday things they didn’t want to say because there was so much they didn’t dare to say.
As for Leanne, sometimes Jenny wasn’t sure if she was too busy to talk or if there was a new distance between them. But Leanne was a friend. She wouldn’t listen to gossip about Jenny. It must be that she was distracted by her job and by Steve.
Jenny turned up her front path and re-enacted the usual battle between the step and the buggy. At the sound of her key in the lock and the hollow click of the door opening into an empty house she longed to hear Dave, making a brew, watching TV, messing around on the computer. Then the house would feel like home.
She tried to ease the children from the buggy but they were falling asleep and remained motionless. And then, into the deep silence, there was the intrusion of the phone. Her heart leaped. Dave! It must be! And this time the call would be gentle and loving and they would apologize to each other for the terrible things they had said.
Jenny left the children in their buggy in the hallway and rushed to the kitchen, grabbing the handset breathlessly.
‘Hello!’
There was a pause on the line, the pause which always preceded the snap, crackle and pop of the satellite phone from Afghanistan.
‘Jennifer, is that you?’ demanded a crisp, clear voice. It did not belong to Dave and it did not have the strange hiss of transcontinental miles. It was a wealthy, educated, sure-of-itself voice.
‘Eugene! Yes, it’s me.’
‘You sounded rather unlike you for a moment there. Is everything all right?’
‘Oh, I just got home to an empty house, that’s all,’ she said, aware that her tone was flat and lifeless.
‘Where are the children?’
‘Here. They’re asleep in the buggy.’
‘Did you realize you left your bag here?’
She looked over her shoulder instinctively to the corner of the hallway where she always dumped the handbag on arriving home. It was empty.
‘I mean the big brown leather one which contains literally everything, possibly including a kitchen sink?’ he continued. ‘I’ve seen you get out a purse, nappies, make-up, pens, notebooks, a magnifying glass, scissors … and since you are the sort of woman who is always prepared, I suspect it also contains a screwdriver.’
She smiled. ‘Well, as a matter of fact, I do carry a small screwdriver around with me.’
‘I thought so. I knew that without looking in the bag, Jennifer Henley.’
‘I’ll come over and collect it now.’ She would have to carry the girls back out to their car seats, strap them in whether they cried or not, drive down the darkening lanes …
He interrupted her thoughts: ‘You said the children were asleep!’
‘They are, but they’re still in their coats so I could …’
‘Put them to bed, Jennifer.’ He sounded kind and capable. ‘I’m on my way over. Have you eaten?’
She paused.
‘Well, sort of.’
‘What does that mean?’
‘I gave the children tea.’
‘Don’t tell me. You ran around them eating the crusts and the leftovers?’
‘Something like that.’
‘Right, well, I’ve got a nice casserole which Linda left me …’ Linda was the woman from Tinnington village who came in to clean the house and make a few meals and feed the dogs if Eugene was in London. She had worked for the Hardys for many years. She regarded Jenny with beady-eyed suspicion and Jenny was sure Linda would not be pleased to know that Jenny had eaten her casserole.
‘I’m not really hungry and I need an early night—’ she began but Eugene’s kind voice interrupted her.
‘There’s more than enough for two and I’ll only stay half an hour.’
‘But—’
‘It won’t take long to heat up. I’m on my way.’
She put the phone down and stood quietly in the dark kitchen. The hall light shone on the children, fast asleep in their buggy. By the same light the mess in the kitchen was visible. Mostly it was piled up around the sink but it had spilled on to the table and the high chairs because she had gone straight out to the park after tea. Eugene would see it all.
As she carried the sleeping Jaime up to bed first, she recognized that she was not just ashamed of the mess, of what Eugene would think about it. She was ashamed that everyone in the street would see him park outside and walk into her house.
Chapter Eighteen
THE TRACTORS WHICH arrived to spray the poppy crop looked as though they belonged on the prairies of America. Dave had seen pictures of the harvest there, a line of mighty machines sweeping up the continent from south to north. But these machines were not going to harvest crops, they were here to destroy them. Because this was Afghanistan where, Dave thought bitterly, everything was back to front, arse over heels, upside down, inside out. And since he had been here, his life had been the same way.
They came under intense fire while they were
escorting the tractors from Highway One. They were ordered to continue but the enemy was determined to stop them and had enough PK machine guns and RPGs to do it.
Eventually they halted.
Finn passed Dave as he looked for a firing position.
‘Seems we’re out of the wagons! For an ambush!’ said Finn happily to Dave. ‘So much for the boss’s fucking safe journey!’
Dave had been thinking the same thing himself.
They fired back at a fast rate but the attack did not let up. The RPGs were badly aimed and no one was hurt, although Dave saw Doc Holliday busy with bandages in Kila’s wagon.
He told the section commanders to keep an eye on the new boys in 1 Platoon. In their daily patrols from the cave they had been involved in skirmishes but as soon as there was any serious fighting they were always ordered to fall back and leave it to the ANA. This was frustrating for the seasoned soldiers but he had sensed relief from the new sprogs.
So they had never been at the heart of a battle before and now here it was. RPGs lighting up the sky, the desert surface dancing with rounds as if it was crawling with some deadly, bouncing bug, the smell of cordite, the flash of enemy fire occasionally giving away their position in a confusing crescendo of wraparound sound, hot weapons and burning fingers and, above it all, your own heartbeat thudding in your ears as it pumped neat adrenalin around your body.
Sol said: ‘Hemmings is doing OK. He started off slowly but he’s into it now. Blue Balls has barely fired a round.’
‘What the fuck is he doing if he’s not firing?’
‘He’s in a firing position, he looks as if he’s firing, but nothing’s happening.’
Frozen. The first time they found themselves in battle some men went into overdrive, some men retreated into themselves, some men laughed uncontrollably, some men surprised themselves by turning into cool, calm fighting machines and some men just stopped – as if all their limbs were locked.
‘I’ll sort him,’ said Dave.
‘I’ve tried shouting and I’ve tried coaxing.’
‘Coaxing! Sol, for fuck’s sake, it’s the Taliban out there, not a Sunday School picnic!’
Dave found Slindon, who was just as Sol had described him. Staring at the enemy and locked into a firing position – but with the safety still on. Dave didn’t bother to shout. He got behind the motionless soldier, touched the safety, checked his aim very roughly and then pulled his finger on the trigger. Slindon seemed astonished by the rifle’s report, but at least it woke him up.
Time to shout now. ‘Fucking get on with it, Blue Balls!’
Slindon came to life and continued to fire.
‘And,’ Dave added, ‘try to target the enemy. Not the whole fucking desert.’
He ran up and down the platoon, carrying ammo. He barely had to yell at anyone: no one was slacking or taking their time over reloading. Their rate of fire was intense and fast and he admitted to himself that it felt good to be back in the thick of a battle instead of hanging around in the background while the ANA did all the front-line work. The concentration on the faces of the seasoned soldiers, their rapid selection of firing positions, their disciplined shooting, all of it pleased him. Even the boss, who had positioned himself in the line-up, was confronting the enemy in a professional, focused manner. Dave just wished he dealt with his men as well as he did the enemy.
After an hour, the Taliban showed no sign of retreating or easing their attack.
‘They really, really don’t want us to spray their fucking poppies,’ said Bacon to Binns.
‘Never seen them fight this hard over anything,’ agreed Binns. ‘Not even when they were holding Martyn hostage.’
‘Think we’ll be here all night?’ Mal asked Angus.
‘Don’t care if we are,’ Angus replied. He had handed the Minimi to Finny and positioned the sniper rifle now. He thought if he was slow and careful and accurate there was a chance the flapping dishdash of some distant raghead might flitter across his sights and he would have the pleasure of seeing the enemy stop mid-pace and fall.
‘That’s what they want. They want to keep us here until it’s too dark to spray,’ Mal said.
Finny, pausing for more ammo, looked over his shoulder and something caught his eye. Two tiny beetles on the horizon. He nudged Angus.
At first Angus couldn’t see them. When he did, he smiled and tapped Mal on the shoulder. Bacon realized the others had stopped firing and turned round too. Hemmings next, and then Binns. Sol, who was bending over and sorting out ammo, looked up and grinned. In 1 Section only Slindon continued to fire doggedly as two massive flying war machines approached overhead.
‘You can stop now, Blue Balls,’ said Sol on PRR. Slindon continued.
‘Christ,’ said Dave. ‘First he was locked out of firing and now he’s locked into it.’
He crouched down by Slindon and it was a moment before Slindon looked at him, his eyes struggling to refocus on a near target.
‘Stop now, Slindon,’ said Dave. ‘I’d hate you to shoot down an Apache.’
The Apaches were American. The men watched as they found their target and instantly dropped their firepower like wrath down on it. The desert beneath the helicopters seemed to move upwards towards them in flashes of sand and black smoke. The bombardment only lasted a couple of minutes. Then, smoke still spiralling from the ground, they disappeared. The thump of their engines became a distant patter until there was silence. The enemy had been annihilated. The whole operation had only taken a few minutes.
‘Are they dead?’ asked Hemmings. ‘Or did they hear the Apaches and run away?’
‘Do we care?’ replied Finny.
‘Dead?’ said Angus. ‘They’re fucking roasted.’
After a few minutes, Dave heard Major Willingham’s voice on the radio, brisk and clear.
‘Right,’ he said. ‘Well, after that little interruption, let’s carry on.’
Sergeant Liam Barnes from 3 Platoon waited for his men while Dave waited for 1 Platoon.
‘They never send an Apache that fast if men are in trouble. But they’ll do it for poppies,’ said Barnes.
‘I guessed the Taliban wouldn’t let us near the poppy fields without a fight,’ said Dave. ‘I don’t know why our platoon commander told the men we’d have a safe journey.’
‘He was right. We’re fairly safe with Apaches on standby,’ said Liam.
Dave rolled his eyes.
‘Listen, Chalfont-Price’s a pain. Just accept it,’ advised the other sergeant.
‘Want to swap him with your platoon commander, then?’
Barnes gave a humourless laugh. ‘No fucking thanks, he’s all yours. I mean, I know it’s not easy for you because you’re having a bit of trouble at home yourself, but don’t let that sour your work here.’
Dave was unable to reply because engines everywhere were starting. He climbed up beside the driver again and they continued their journey towards the poppy fields. But the other sergeant’s words kept ringing in his ears. Did every serviceman in the whole of Afghanistan know about his trouble at home? Tittle-tattle about the sergeant’s wife who’s seeing an awful lot of a retired general. A nice little chatting point for a man and a woman who had nothing better to say to each other over a crackling phone line.
He felt a new surge of fury. What was Jenny playing at with this man Eugene, getting herself talked about across ISAF forces? It was so unlike her. In fact, deep down he still believed it was impossible. She loved him; he knew she did. The marriage mattered, it was the centre of her life and she would do nothing to jeopardize it. He had always been sure of that. Until now.
There was soon more enemy fire and the gunners on top returned it but the convoy followed instructions and kept moving. Dave’s wagon was attempting to run alongside the third massive tractor in the convoy. The terrain was rough and the poppy fields were eight more kilometres away.
‘Fucking hell, I’m not enjoying this much,’ said the driver. ‘It’s all right for the b
ugger in that bloody great contraption but it’s shit running around him down here.’
Dave’s eyes followed the landscape but his mind was outside a big house, covered in ivy, staring in through the window at Jenny laughing with some bloke who dandled Jaime on one knee and a giggling Vicky on the other. When the huge bolt of lightning hit it felt as though his own anger had caused it. He took a few moments to recognize that an IED had exploded near the third tractor.
‘Fucking hell!’ said his driver.
Dave didn’t know if he had screeched on the brakes or whether the bomb had halted them but now they were stationary and rocking wildly.
‘All right, everyone?’ he barked.
After a pause, Sol’s voice came: ‘1 Section’s good.’
He heard Aaron Baker say: ‘2 Section’s good.’
‘3 Section all OK,’ said Si Curtis’s replacement, Jason Smith.
‘It missed the tractor,’ Dave pointed out. ‘Detonation was about fifteen seconds too late.’
‘But the driver looks a bit surprised,’ Sol said.
‘Let’s get Doc Holliday to look at him,’ Dave ordered. He radioed to Doc, who answered laconically.
‘Don’t know why you’re speaking to me on comms when I’m right outside your cab.’
Dave opened the door and there was Doc, waiting with hands on hips. Dave grinned. You could rely on Doc to be where you needed him. He had become an almost legendary figure among the soldiers, a fearless medic who retained exceptional infantry skills. No one knew his exact story but the rumour was that some crazy student game at medical school had got him thrown out just before he completed his final exams. Instead of qualifying as a doctor he had become a soldier, then a Special Forces soldier with a useful medical background. After an injury, he had left Special Forces but remained an army medic.
‘Who’s hurt?’ he asked now.
‘No one. Tractor driver’s shocked.’
‘I’ve got something for shock,’ said the medic, grinning. ‘It’ll make him drive his tractor very fast.’
