War Torn

by McNab, Andy

  ‘You’re not saying she’s messing about with someone?’

  ‘I don’t know. I might just be thinking that sort of thing because I’m uptight.’

  ‘Is Agnieszka the type to mess about?’

  ‘Not really. But then everyone’s the type when they’re lost and lonely.’

  ‘Except you.’

  ‘No one’s going to try messing around with a woman whose belly’s bigger than a house. So you’re safe for the time being.’

  ‘Stay pregnant until I get home.’

  ‘No thanks. I’d explode.’

  ‘Jamie’s devoted to Agnieszka,’ Dave said quietly.

  ‘Yeah, he rings her all the time.’

  ‘Hasn’t stopped her cheating on him, though.’

  ‘She might not be. Except that . . .’ Her voice trailed away.

  ‘What? Except what? The line went dead.’

  ‘That wasn’t the line, it was me. I’m probably wrong. But when I was driving back from nursery with Vicky, I thought I saw him.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘The bloke who was in the café with her.’

  ‘Well, where was he this time?’

  ‘In a car. So I might be wrong. An old red Volvo. But it was driving towards her house. And now it’s parked outside.’

  Dave groaned.

  ‘I hope you haven’t told anyone.’

  ‘Not about the car. I did mention seeing her in the café . . .’

  ‘Oh-oh.’

  Jenny sank down into one of the kitchen chairs. Her legs ached. She had been focusing so hard on the call that she had been standing up throughout and now a great tiredness washed over her.

  ‘I’ve only told Adi.’

  ‘OK. Adi’s watertight. What about Leanne?’

  ‘I didn’t tell her because she can’t think about anything except Steve. If they’d just let her talk to him . . . she’s really falling to pieces and if she could hear him it would make a big difference.’

  ‘I used to think Leanne was unbreakable,’ he said.

  He wasn’t wrong. Leanne Buckle didn’t put up with any nonsense from Steve or anyone. If you were angry about something you’d go and see Leanne and she’d feel angry for you. When Jenny had been pregnant with Vicky and Dave had been away, Leanne had taken up Jenny’s fight with a shop over a faulty TV set and won it. This new, lost tearful Leanne scared Jenny a bit; she was so different from the old Leanne.

  ‘Even the strongest woman would have trouble coping right now. She just sits by the phone waiting to hear if Steve’s going to live or die. She’s scared to go out in case there’s news.’

  ‘We can’t afford for Leanne or you or anyone back home to fall to pieces,’ said Dave. ‘You’re part of the army. More than you know. If you fall, we fall.’

  ‘I don’t want to be part of the army,’ said Jenny. ‘I don’t want you to be either.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘I hate it. I want you to leave.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘It’s driving me crazy, not knowing if you’re safe. Not hearing from you.’

  ‘Jen . . . I’ll try to phone more often, all right?’

  ‘It’s not about phoning. It’s about leaving. I’m serious, Dave. I think you should come out of the army and live in the real world with me and Vicky and the baby.’

  ‘This isn’t the time to discuss it.’

  ‘When is the time?’

  ‘When I get back. When you’re not pregnant and uptight.’

  She took a deep breath.

  ‘I’m serious and I’m not going to shut up, Dave. I want to talk about it.’

  ‘OK, we will, only not now because there are too many people around.’

  She didn’t want to argue with him.

  ‘Promise? Because I won’t let it go.’

  ‘Promise. And, listen, Jen, don’t fall apart like Leanne.’

  She gathered her strength. ‘I’m not falling anywhere. Except asleep sometimes.’

  She thought she could hear him smiling at the other end. But his voice was serious. ‘Don’t say anything to anyone about Agnieszka messing about. This is important. I don’t want Jamie hearing any rumours. So whatever you’re thinking, make sure you keep it to yourself.’

  ‘And what about you men? Aren’t there women at the base? Suppose rumours reach us about you?’

  ‘There are two women. One’s Royal Military Police so we don’t talk to her. The other’s Intelligence Corps so she doesn’t talk to us.’

  ‘I heard about another.’

  ‘There aren’t any more.’

  ‘Her name’s Emily.’

  Dave laughed out loud.

  ‘How did you hear about Emily?’

  ‘People talk. There are wives who don’t like the sound of her.’

  ‘Well, the only lad ever to clap eyes on Emily is Billy Finn. And he’s keeping her all to himself.’

  Chapter Seventeen

  MARTYN ROBERTSON WANDERED OVER TO THE 1 SECTION LADS IN THE cookhouse and introduced himself.

  ‘Thanks for covering us at the shura.’ He held out his hand and shook each of theirs solemnly, then sat down with them.

  ‘We were doing our job,’ Dave said. ‘No thanks necessary.’

  ‘Well, I felt safe with you. Which one was in the room with us? You?’ The American looked at Jamie.

  ‘Yeah,’ Jamie said.

  ‘And what did you think of that meeting?’

  Jamie’d mostly been alert to the body language, but he’d found himself listening anyway and having a few private thoughts of his own. He’d noticed the way the boss kept staring at that pretty, Intelligence Corps woman. And he’d decided that the tribesman’s son with the blue eyes was probably a nasty dude beneath all those warm words.

  ‘Nothing, sir, it’s not my job to think anything.’

  ‘Don’t sir me, call me Marty!’

  It was impossible to know how old he was. As old as the hills, thought Dave. The man’s face was gnarled, its skin cracked and lined; it reminded him of the mountains around here.

  ‘Where you from in America, then?’ Finn asked. ‘I’m always meaning to go there.’

  Dave raised his eyebrows but said nothing.

  ‘Texas. I was brought up living, breathing and thinking oil,’ said Marty. When he smiled his face broke into canyons.

  ‘Where are you boys from?’

  ‘London,’ Dave said. But probably not the London you know. Not your London of hotels and bridges and tourist restaurants.

  ‘Gloucestershire,’ said Jamie. ‘I grew up living, breathing and thinking cheese.’

  Martyn tried to repeat Gloucestershire without much success.

  ‘So you Brits got your Worcestershire Sauce and your Gloucestershire cheese,’ he said affectionately, mispronouncing both counties. ‘And how about you, young man?’

  ‘How about what?’ Finn said.

  ‘Where’re you from?’

  Finn shrugged. His deep brown eyes were always searching, always alert, like a bird’s. ‘Everywhere,’ he said at last.

  ‘Oh, c’mon, you must have been born somewhere?’

  ‘In a caravan. Going nowhere.’

  ‘You were born in a trailer?’

  ‘I’m trailer park trash.’ Finn flashed a dazzling smile. ‘I mean, without the park bit. ’Cos we never park anywhere for long.’

  ‘Your family was always on the move?’

  ‘Yup. I’m what’s called a pikey back home.’

  Finn rolled up his sleeve to reveal a tattoo. Pikey. Just nick it. Martyn looked confused.

  Dave explained. ‘Nike. Just do it. It’s an ad that appealed to Lance Corporal Finn’s subtle sense of humour.’

  ‘One of the things pikeys like to do is bet,’ Finn said. ‘Are you a betting man by any chance, Marty?’

  Dave and Jamie groaned.

  ‘Ignore him,’ Dave advised the American but Martyn was nodding enthusiastically.

  ‘What’s your name?’ he asked Finn.
/>
  ‘He’s called Finn,’ Jamie said.

  ‘As in Huckleberry?’

  ‘No,’ Jamie said. ‘As in shark.’

  ‘Well, Huckleberry Finn,’ Marty said, ‘as a matter of fact I’ve had a bit of success in casinos. My idea of a good vacation is Vegas and a lot of blackjack.’

  ‘Great! Show me how to play and we’ll have a game some time!’

  ‘Oh no you won’t,’ Dave said. ‘Finny, you’ve been banned from betting in this FOB.’

  Finn looked ready to protest but Martyn had turned to Mal.

  ‘Where you from? I took a peek when you were guarding those prisoners and thought you looked just like one of them.’

  ‘No relation, honest,’ Mal said. ‘My tribe’s in Manchester.’

  ‘Your parents are from Yemen, aren’t they, Mal?’ Dave said.

  ‘It wasn’t called Yemen when they lived there. I forget what it was called.’

  ‘Could you find it on a map?’ Martyn asked.

  ‘You must be joking. But I couldn’t find Manchester, either.’

  ‘I guess you’re Moslem, though?’ Martyn persisted.

  Mal shrugged awkwardly. ‘I’m not anything really.’

  ‘A babe magnet,’ Finn reminded him.

  Mal smiled. ‘Oh, yeah. Babes. That’s my religion.’

  ‘But you must have—’

  Jamie glanced over Martyn’s shoulder. ‘Who’s that?’

  They all turned.

  Dave said: ‘That’s someone who just went out to the High Street to pick up a bit of shopping . . .’

  ‘. . . and woke up in an FOB in Afghanistan,’ Jamie finished.

  A substantial woman with a Sainsbury’s shopping bag was standing at the food counter. She was obviously just on her way back from the supermarket because the contents of the bag bulged a bit. A head scarf was knotted severely under her chin, wisps of white hair visible beneath it. She wore a grey suit with knee-length skirt stretched tightly over her ample frame. Her shoes were solid.

  ‘Or maybe,’ Jamie said, ‘there’s a Sainsbury’s in town and no one told us.’

  Martyn smiled. ‘That’s my colleague, Professor Emily Fullerton.’

  There was a pause.

  ‘Emily?’ Dave’s eyes narrowed. ‘Did you say Emily?’

  ‘That’s Emily!’ Jamie said.

  ‘That’s Emily!’ Mal cried.

  Every face turned towards Finn, who, despite trying to look nonchalant, couldn’t stop himself grinning.

  ‘Oh, yeah!’ he said as though he’d just noticed her. ‘That’s Emily.’

  They watched as the woman withdrew the contents of her shopping bag. She handed a package carefully to the chef, Taregue Masud, who beamed at her.

  ‘She needs him to put some samples in his freezer,’ Martyn said.

  Finn was chuckling.

  ‘Oh, man!’ Mal couldn’t hide his dismay. ‘You’re never shagging her on hot afternoons!’

  ‘You all fell for it! I had you all over! I had every single man in the platoon after that old bird!’

  ‘Not me,’ Jamie said.

  ‘Nor me,’ Dave said. ‘Or Sol.’

  ‘Whenever I told you I was with Emily, I was in a sangar getting my head down for an hour.’

  ‘You shithead!’ Mal’s expression was tragic.

  ‘I knew it wasn’t true,’ Jamie said.

  ‘Will someone tell me what I’m missing?’ Martyn asked.

  Dave coughed. ‘Well, the marines started this rumour. And Finn’s been doing his best to spread it . . .’

  ‘They said there’s a lady in the isoboxes called Emily who’s a bit of a . . . er . . .’

  ‘Sex grenade,’ Finn said helpfully.

  Martyn burst out laughing.

  ‘Well, maybe Emily is a sex grenade,’ he said. ‘Never judge a book by its cover.’

  ‘What’s she doing here?’ Dave asked.

  Martyn rolled his eyes. ‘I’ve had her imposed on me by the company. I can smell oil at a thousand paces, but that’s not good enough for the company. They have to send an academic out to sit in an air-conditioned box all day and analyse my results and argue with me.’

  Dave grinned. ‘You’re the best of mates, then.’

  ‘I fight with her every day.’

  ‘She an engineer?’

  ‘A geophysicist. And if she started the sex grenade stuff with me, I’d run a mile.’

  Emily was issuing instructions to Masud, who was nodding vigorously. ‘Yes, madam. Yes. Yes, madam.’

  ‘Where’s her body armour?’ Dave asked.

  Marty pulled a face. ‘She doesn’t always wear it. You can try giving Emily orders. But even Nick Willingham’s given up.’

  ‘Well, Finny,’ Jamie said. ‘I just hope you don’t get lynched.’

  ‘I had the whole platoon hot for Emily!’ Finn still hadn’t stopped chuckling.

  ‘I want to cut you,’ Mal said.

  ‘It was just a joke,’ Finn said.

  ‘Angus’ll want to cut you too. So will all of 2 Section.’

  ‘And just wait till you get back home,’ Dave said. ‘Jenny told me half Wiltshire knows about Emily the sex grenade and some of the wives are getting really pissed off.’

  Finn rubbed his hands.

  They watched Emily march out of the cookhouse. And then, simultaneously, they all started to laugh.

  When the others got up to go, Finn remained seated. ‘How about we play some blackjack?’ he asked Martyn in an undertone.

  Dave swung around, fixing him with a meaningful stare.

  ‘I mean, for matchsticks or something. Not money of course.’ The oilman launched into an explanation of the game as the others left the cookhouse.

  ‘We might as well let them get on and fleece each other,’ Dave said wearily.

  ‘The Yank seems a nice enough guy,’ Jamie said.

  ‘Topaz fucking Zero tries to go sniffing out oil wherever he wants, whenever he wants and expects us to do the security without any consultation. The marines got fed up with him and now the OC can’t keep him under control either. He may be nice,’ Dave said, ‘but you’ll see, he’s trouble.’

  Chapter Eighteen

  THE SUN GREW STRONGER DAILY. IN WILTSHIRE THE WOMEN changed into their summer clothes and lay in their back gardens whenever they could, soaking up the light and heat as though it was a rare commodity they had to hoard. In Afghanistan temperatures soared up to 50 degrees and men sheltered from it.

  ‘Is it that much hotter?’ the lads asked. ‘It’s always been hot.’

  ‘It’s bloody hot but you’re used to it now,’ Dave told them.

  He’d watched his men grow leaner and stronger as they muscled up carrying heavy kit in blinding heat day after day. Some even seemed to grow taller. And they were more proficient. Dave had to impose fewer and fewer of his on-the-spot penalties, like shit duties or press-ups, for lapses at kit inspection.

  Everyone was falling into the routine of base life and their thoughts of England were fading like old snapshots. Their feelings of longing, loss and love still welled up at unexpected moments then mysteriously subsided. Every man experienced this. No one spoke about it. The new arrivals were no longer getting a hard time just because they were new. And the casualties they had replaced, Buckle and Nelson, were seldom talked about now. Until word came through that Steve Buckle was flying back to the UK at last.

  Dave phoned Leanne as soon as he heard.

  ‘Remember,’ he warned her, ‘they’ll have dosed him up with extra morphine for the flight so he won’t be himself.’

  ‘But why haven’t they let me speak to him yet?’ Leanne demanded. ‘They keep saying soon, soon.’

  He was relieved at her anger. It was more like the old Leanne than the anxious, tearful woman he’d been hearing lately. He had one of those sudden and unexpected bursts of homesickness. He was remembering Leanne, plump, loud and funny, sitting in the garden with Steve one summer’s day. They’d been pretending to argu
e and after a few beers the argument had turned into a comedy act. No aspect of married life was too private to escape their slick one-liners. Dave hoped it wouldn’t be long before they were concocting some good jokes about prosthetic limbs.