by McNab, Andy
She was smiling now. ‘Yeah, top level, that’s us. Which means we speak Pashtu and our English is a lot better than the locals’.’ She giggled, adding: ‘Innit?’
So she had detected how irritating he found innit. Weeks smiled too.
They walked on towards the darkness. Overhead the Afghan night was a canopy of stars. The constellations were the same as at home, of course, but they stood out less here because they were saturated by thousands more.
‘Oooh, it’s so fucking beautiful!’ said Asma.
Weeks thought that her English may be better than the locals’ but it still left a lot to be desired.
He took a deep breath.
‘Is that why your friend Jean gets so hot under the collar about one half-dead Taliban fighter in a ditch? Because she’s looking for police work?’
‘Well,’ said Asma, ‘yeah. But she’s right. You should keep gripping your blokes about the RoE.’
‘But she’s gripping an exceptionally good sergeant. It does nothing for morale when someone so respected gets a public dressing-down.’
‘That geezer they shot would probably still be alive today if, say, 2 Platoon had found him. Sergeant Somers is a bit different from Sergeant Henley.’
Since arriving in Afghanistan everything the boss thought he knew or understood had been challenged. But in this strange, new world, there had been one rock-solid certainty. And that was Dave Henley. Of course, he was the boss and Dave was the sergeant. But they both knew that Dave was in charge. Dave handled the men when he could not. And thanks to him they had escaped serious harm on more than one occasion. Weeks had felt the foundations of his world crack in a few places but he could not allow any cracks in the foundation that was Dave.
He said stiffly: ‘Over the weeks I have known him I have learned to respect him and trust his judgement totally.’
‘He just might be a bit weak on the RoE,’ said Asma.
‘He is both an exceptional sergeant and a good man,’ the boss insisted. ‘The Rules of Engagement are very hard for soldiers on the ground to apply when their lives are in danger during a contact. We tell them this isn’t a war. But it’s difficult for them to understand why we’re here.’
‘So why are we here?’
He stopped walking in surprise.
‘To support the reconstruction of Afghanistan by encouraging democracy and keeping the Taliban at bay.’
She swung round to look at him in the dark.
‘If you learn Pashtu for the rest of your life,’ she said, ‘you’ll never do more than talk bollocks in two languages. You’ll never, ever understand this place and neither will any of the fucking politicians who sent us here.’
‘But . . . well . . . then . . . what are you doing? Working with the British Army?’
She hung her head.
‘I don’t know sometimes.’
He waited for her to speak. His heart was thumping. What was she trying to tell him? That she was a security risk?
‘I’m going to have another cigarette,’ she announced rebelliously.
‘So that would be four today?’
‘Yeah.’
She lit up and held the cigarette lightly between her long fingers and began to walk again, inhaling deeply.
‘Asma,’ he said, when they were in the dark part of the camp once more. ‘What are you saying to me?’
‘The ambush today . . .’
‘It was quite a contact.’
‘I was scared.’
‘So was I,’ he admitted.
‘Gordon, I think I killed a bloke.’ Her voice was small.
‘Are you sure?’
‘No. That black kid in your platoon was firing at him too but he was all over the place. I think my round brought the geezer down.’
‘You didn’t have to fire at all. If you remember, I told you that—’
‘Oh, give over, Gordon.’
She was right. Give over, Gordon. Here she was, confiding in him, and all he could do was remind her of the rules.
‘Actually,’ he said, more quietly, ‘I’m almost certain I killed someone today, too. And it was the first time for me as well. Since we were fighting for our lives I didn’t think about it then. I have since, though.’
‘You get back to base and think: I killed the enemy. But all I can think is: shit! I killed my Moslem brother.’
This relationship was getting more complicated every time he spoke to her. Not just a smoker. Not just from Hackney. Not just a lot of innit. Not just a girl who swore like a trooper. But also a Moslem.
He said awkwardly: ‘So . . . are you a practising Moslem?’
‘I was brought up Moslem, of course. Then we came to England and the longer we stayed here the more it sort of peeled off. Like paint. And when I left my family I thought I’d peeled it away completely. The army wanted me because of my Pashtu and I never even thought twice about why. Not till we went to that shura . . .’
It hadn’t been the shura that reminded Asma of her Moslem roots, he thought. It was that man with the startling blue eyes. He’d talked to her intensely in Pashtu. She’d claimed they were discussing the school wall but Weeks had been sure they were having a much more significant conversation. Because why would the school wall have made her blush?
‘So,’ he said. ‘You were radicalized at the shura.’
She laughed.
‘Now you’re going too far, Gordon. Radicalized, for God’s sake! They weren’t pro-Taliban. But they were pro-Afghanistan and probably they support the idea of a new country called Pashtunistan. Either way, they were asking themselves what we’re doing on their soil.’
‘What exactly did the tribesman say?’
‘It’s nothing anyone said. It’s just the way they think. I recognized it because the dad was a bit like my dad. See, it’s complicated being Pashtun. There’s all the hospitality and the right words and the pride and honour. But if anyone gets it wrong, you’ve got to get angry, and it’s really fucking awful anger. After that you’ve got no choice, revenge is next, whether you want to or not. The shura took me right back to all that.’
The passion in her face and voice fascinated him. He just wanted to watch her but he made himself reply.
‘That’s very interesting, Asma. But what do their complications have to do with us? They don’t want the Taliban here and neither do we. It’s simple.’
‘No, no, Gordon, you don’t understand, that’s the fucking problem. If we’re going to fight here, we need a straightforward reason. Good guys and bad guys. But when I talked to the tribesmen I remembered how Pashtuns aren’t straightforward. We can’t just come here thinking we’ll slot our world into theirs. It won’t work. Can’t you see that?’
‘I can see it would give you doubts about your work here.’
‘I can live with doubts,’ she said, reaching for her pack of cigarettes, taking one out, tapping it on the lid and then slowly putting it away again. ‘I’m happy to think I’m out here saving soldiers’ lives when I listen to the enemy on their cellphones. I’m pleased to turn into a fucking diplomat at meetings with the locals. That’s all sweet, Gordon, I like it. But when I actually kill a bloke, then doubts start buzzing around inside my head.’
He reached for her hand in the dark. She looked around at him in such surprise that he squeezed her fingers and rapidly let go. But he felt as though the imprint of her hand remained in his. He could still feel its warmth and fragility as he said: ‘I understand what you’re saying, Asma, and I respect it.’
Chapter Twenty-seven
JENNY’S GARDEN WAS FILLED WITH MOTHERS AND CHILDREN. Adi’s idea was that everyone should get together. They could have gone to the park. But Jenny, whose house was on a bend in the road and so had a larger plot than most, had offered her garden instead so that they could use the paddling pool.
She was regretting it now. It had taken hours to put blankets and cushions and toys all over the lawn, to drag out the paddling pool and fill it and to lay out food in the
kitchen with paper plates. And now she was running around with mugs of tea and cups of juice.
The other mothers sat on the blankets and chatted. There was Adi and all her children, Agnieszka and Luke, Leanne with the twins, Sharon Kirk and Rosie McKinley whose husbands were in 2 Section and who had five red-haired kids between them, a couple of 3 Platoon wives . . . the door bell rang again. It was Tiff Curtis, whose husband was commander of 3 Section.
‘Sorry I’m late, Jenny, we do Shake and Shout on a Tuesday.’ Her little girl clung to her arm.
‘I do Shake and Shout all day every day,’ Jenny said cheerfully, leading them through to the garden, trying not to notice the way Tiff, as she passed the living room, gave it one of those appraising stares. There were only so many things you could do with a married quarters living room but everyone always wanted to see anyway.
‘You’re huge, when are you due?’
‘Another six weeks.’
As soon as Tiff’s little girl saw so many other children, she put her thumb in her mouth.
‘Oooh, look at the paddling pool!’ Tiff said. ‘And all the toys!’
The little girl immediately hid behind her mother.
Adi called a welcome and Jenny returned to the kitchen to finish making more tea. Tiff sat down on the blanket with the other mothers and put her daughter on her lap.
Jenny washed mugs and wished someone would give her a hand. Agnieszka was the only mother who was not busy with small children. She could have offered to help. Luke, who seemed to have two states of being, asleep and screaming, was thankfully asleep. So Agnieszka was doing nothing. She sat on the blanket, leaning on one arm, her long legs stretched out to the side like a mermaid.
Her face turned dutifully to the others as they talked but she did not join in and Jenny could see she was not listening. She was daydreaming. Jenny remembered the broken photo frame. Her father’s damaged photo and the wedding picture were now lying flat on the shelf instead of on display the way they should be. She felt doubly resentful.
At that moment, a mobile rang. It made everyone jump. Agnieszka dug rapidly in her shorts pockets. When she found the phone she held it close to her. She tapped a few keys and then turned away to read it.
She’s anxious, Jenny thought. In case someone sees it. Because it’s from him.
When her phone rang, Agnieszka caught herself hoping it was Darrel. She turned away from the stares of the other mothers, just in case it was.
Her long fingernails made tiny clattering noises on the keys as she unlocked the phone. For a couple of weeks it had buzzed with Darrel’s short, funny messages. Or sometimes he spoke to her, telling her he’d found some part for the broken dishwasher, and then, if Luke was asleep, they would talk about other things, too. On a few occasions they had talked for more than an hour. If Luke was angry or having a fit or hungry, then Darrel didn’t try to distract Agnieszka. But he always called her back later. He seemed to understand how hard it was to manage a child like Luke by yourself without another adult to speak to.
Contact with Darrel had stopped abruptly after their last meeting. She missed him. She sometimes rewrote their final conversation in her head. In this version, Darrel didn’t leave. He sat down on the edge of the sofa and talked to her sweetly and softly about how he felt. He explained how he respected the fact that she was married and then he said he hoped they could be friends. He took her hand and smiled at her.
Agnieszka knew this daydream was dangerous. Because she loved Jamie. So why did she like to pretend another man was sitting on the edge of the sofa talking about his feelings for her?
Turning now so that no one could see the phone or her face, she read the message. It wasn’t from Darrel. It was from Jamie. These days, when the phone at home rang, it was almost always Jamie. She knew he made strenuous efforts to call her and that most wives did not hear so often from their men. But sometimes it was hard to know what to say. He couldn’t talk much about what he was doing. And when he asked about her, she usually said: ‘All just the same. Nothing ever happen.’
But Jamie also texted her in secret.
The men had handed in their mobiles at Bastion on their arrival in Afghanistan. Jamie had done so, but he had kept a second, secret phone. It was an old one of Agnieszka’s and she had given it to him the night before he left. He had watched her slip it into his Bergen.
At first he’d fished it straight out.
‘Niez, if I’m found with it I’ll be in big trouble.’
Agnieszka had thought about this and then said: ‘Listen, darling, just hide it. And if they find you say your wife leave it in kit and you don’t even know it there.’
‘But mobiles are banned for a reason. The Taliban can pick up the signal. And they can use it in all sorts of ways. It could compromise everyone’s safety.’
‘Huh!’ said Agnieszka, wrinkling her nose. ‘When you are in base, just text to tell wife you love her. Taliban cannot read English and they not interested in love. So, no compromise, everyone happy.’
He had frowned but he hadn’t removed the phone. She’d thought he wouldn’t use it, but he had. Just the occasional little message, like the one about becoming acting section 2 i/c. Well even Agnieszka couldn’t understand that, so she doubted the Taliban would. Or he texted to tell her how much he loved her and missed her and was thinking of her. And why would the Taliban care about that?
While the other women talked and the children splashed and Luke slept, Agnieszka read the message.
Hit by high-calibre round thought i was dead. Uuu and only u were in my head. It bounced off armour and I’m fine. Xxxxx J
At the first sentence she almost let out a small shriek. She composed herself. She glanced up. No one was looking. They were too busy with their children and their chatter. She read the message again and again. She tried to remember exactly what he meant by a high-calibre round. Was it a huge bullet? She wondered if she could somehow slip the question into the conversation without anyone guessing it was related to the text message. It was vital no one guessed Jamie had a secret mobile.
She looked up once more and this time she realized someone was watching her. Jenny, making tea in the kitchen. The last person who should know about the text was the sergeant’s wife. Agnieszka put the phone back into her pocket.
When she brought the tea out, Jenny said pleasantly: ‘Everything all right, Agnieszka?’
‘Everything good. I just hope Luke don’t wake up because he often wake up very angry.’
Jenny smiled.
‘We’ll help you if he does.’
Jenny’s smile was thin and tired, Agnieszka thought. She looked as though she was ready to have the baby tomorrow. Agnieszka decided that Jenny had a lot on her mind and was certainly not interested in texts and probably hadn’t even been watching her after all.
Leanne was talking about Steve. He was still at Selly Oak. She had stayed a week and was due to visit him again after surgeons had carried out a small operation on his stump. Then he would go to Headley Court for a new leg and rehabilitation.
‘He might even come home for the weekend between hospital and Headley Court!’ She looked pleased.
‘That’s great, Leanne!’ said the other women brightly.
‘There was a welfare officer from BLESMA who had a long talk with me and told me all the things he’ll be able to do when he’s got his new leg. It’s amazing, the technology now . . .’
‘Yeah, some blokes have even gone back to frontline fighting,’ said Rosie.
‘That’ll be Steve!’ Jenny said.
Leanne pulled a face. ‘Not if I can help it.’
Tiff leaned forward and said quietly: ‘It’s been a terrible time for you, Leanne. We’ve all been thinking about you a lot.’
Leanne hesitated. ‘The worst was when he was at Bastion so long and they wouldn’t let me speak to him. Thank heavens for Dave.’
Jenny, swooping to remove someone’s mug of tea from a child’s reach, was surprised.
‘He rang me a few times to make sure I was OK. He was really kind. He spoke to Steve once and then he phoned me straightaway.’
