by McNab, Andy
Leanne had not mentioned this before. Neither had Dave. Jenny smiled and tried to look as if she knew.
‘He was trying to explain that Steve was on so much morphine he didn’t know what time of day it was and I’d be really upset hearing him like that.’ She swallowed. ‘He made me feel a lot better. It was so good of you, Jen, to let him use your minutes on me.’
Jenny straightened up, an empty mug in her hand, her smile rigid.
‘So how was he, Leanne, when you saw him in the hospital?’ someone else asked.
‘Well . . .’ Leanne’s face creased a little and she swallowed again. ‘Just to see him alive . . .’ Her voice cracked, suddenly and without warning. ‘They didn’t let me speak to him before I saw him . . . and if you can’t see them or hear them or touch them, you don’t really believe it, do you?’
The others watched as her face folded in on itself and tears ran down her cheeks. Her body shook with sobs. Sharon Kirk put a hand over hers.
‘Oh, Leanne, we know how you must feel,’ Rosie McKinley said.
The children fell quiet. They watched soberly with big eyes as sobs shook Leanne’s generous frame. Tiff Curtis’s daughter sucked her thumb with renewed passion. A few of the mothers felt hot, wet tears running down their own cheeks. Children who were old enough ran to push the tears away.
‘Why are you crying?’ they demanded with a mixture of curiosity and fear.
‘Because Leanne’s sad and we’re feeling sad for her,’ Sharon Kirk explained.
Jenny stooped awkwardly to put an arm around Leanne. Gravity and the weight of her belly pulled her to the ground. She settled at Leanne’s side and held her friend as she cried.
‘Oh, God, sorry, everyone, sorry . . .’ Leanne dabbed at her eyes. She looked down at Jenny’s belly, protruding absurdly between them both. ‘Sorry, Bump,’ she added and some people laughed too loudly because it was a relief to laugh.
Rosie passed Leanne a tissue and she slapped it against her face as though she was scolding herself.
‘You don’t have to say sorry.’ Adi had been hands-on at the paddling pool and was now, as usual, drawn to the emotional centre of the gathering. ‘We all understand, honey, we’re all feeling what you’re feeling.’
‘You lot understand better than anyone. But you can’t really understand until it happens to you and I hope to God it doesn’t.’
There was a silence. Leanne had voiced what everyone was thinking. Don’t let it happen to us.
‘See,’ Leanne said, ‘he’s not really the Steve who went away. He’s only just beginning to understand that he’s lost a leg. For a long time he wouldn’t believe it, Dave said. And there was the shock from the blast . . . his brain sort of came unwired . . .’
‘But what happened at the hospital?’ Tiff asked.
‘Well, he recognized me in the end. But at first he wasn’t sure who I was and that was awful. Then after a day or two of just sitting there and chatting, he remembered and then he was almost normal. Except there was this . . . sadness. He was all turned in on himself. He wasn’t really interested in us . . .’ Her voice almost failed her and she whispered the rest. ‘It was ages before they let me take the kids in. He was pleased to see them. Sort of. But before that he didn’t ask about them at all . . .’
Tears spilled down her cheeks. Her big round face was wet now. Her mouth twisted itself into strange shapes.
She whispered: ‘He’s alive . . . but it’s like a bit of him really did die out there . . .’
Jenny wanted to cry but she swallowed, trying to strengthen herself deep inside and all the way up her throat, so that her voice came out sounding calm. ‘Oh, Leanne, it’s all a question of time. He’s been traumatized.’
‘And,’ Rosie said, ‘seeing you and the boys was probably very emotional for him.’
‘He didn’t seem very emotional about us!’ Leanne was wailing now.
‘But you know how our lads don’t let themselves show it,’ Adi said. ‘When they get emotional, they don’t know what to do with it. Not like us, we can have a good cry.’
‘He didn’t seem emotional,’ Leanne sobbed. ‘He seemed as if he didn’t care a lot.’
There was a silence on the blanket, broken only by Leanne’s lunges for breath. In the paddling pool, children shrieked and splashed. Mothers eyed them without hearing them.
‘Did he tell you he love you?’ Agnieszka asked. Everyone turned to her in surprise. She’d been silent until now.
Leanne looked as though someone had hit her in the face. She winced in pain and her voice, when it emerged, was a high-pitched wail. ‘Noooooooo! He didn’t say that! He acted like I wasn’t part of his life! Like his life was out there fighting with the lads and now it was over.’
And she broke down again.
Jenny cried too this time. Vicky came over and cuddled up close to Jenny and Leanne and the big, big bump, and she cried as well.
‘How am I going to manage?’ Leanne cried. ‘What’s going to happen? He’s not Steve any more. He’s this stranger with one leg!’
All the mothers cried and then the babies started and a few more of the toddlers. Only Agnieszka sat watching them all, biting her lip, dry-eyed.
Chapter Twenty-eight
1 SECTION HAD FINISHED EATING BUT REMAINED GLUED TO THEIR table watching a TV news item about Afghanistan. Since the Taliban were stepping up their use of IEDs, or roadside bombs as the reporter called them, politicians were calling on the Prime Minister to send the troops more helicopters.
Angus McCall gave the screen two thumbs-up. ‘That’s it, that’s what we need for IEDs. We need to fly over the fuckers.’
Finn said: ‘Yeah, but we’ve still got to get out there on foot patrol. We need wagons the bastards can’t blow up.’
‘Well, my dad says that—’
‘Aaaargh!’ Finn cried. ‘What does he know about the Taliban?’
Angus grew red in the face. ‘My dad knows about fighting!’
‘Your dad never fought out here, did he? Everything’s different here! And it’s just a matter of time before Terry Taliban starts taking down our air support.’
‘My dad says that Black Hawks are—’
Finn pulled a face and stuffed his fingers in his ears. ‘I am so fucking sick sick sick of hearing what your dad says about everything!’
‘Because he knows what he’s talking about! He was in the Jedi!’ Angus reddened still more then. Not with anger but because he hadn’t meant to say that. His dad had never actually claimed to be in the SAS. But he’d implied it. When Angus had asked him outright once, John McCall had said: ‘Lad, I can’t talk about that. Not everyone tells every detail of what they’ve done. We don’t all go and write fucking books about our achievements. For some of us, just knowing what we did, and our mates knowing what we did, that’s enough.’
So that meant he was in the SF then. Angus knew it. But if his father hadn’t told anyone in all these years, he was sure he shouldn’t have blurted it out in the cookhouse.
The head chef’s sudden appearance prevented Finn from taking the discussion further. Taregue Masud was one of the more popular men at the base. But he ruled his kitchen so tyrannically that he was known as the Regimental Sergeant Major. The lads soon learned not to get in his way, not unless they wanted to buy the RSM’s bootleg DVDs or T-shirts he’d had printed with SIN CITY across them in camouflage colours.
He stood over Dave holding a large parcel wrapped in a black plastic bag.
‘Evening, Taregue,’ Dave said. ‘That was an award-winning steak pie tonight.’
But the chef was not in the mood for pleasantries. ‘What the bloody, bloody hell is this thing doing in my third freezer?’
He slammed the black plastic bag down on the table.
‘Well, I couldn’t exactly say . . .’
The RSM was about to explode. The cookhouse fell silent as he untied his apron, peeled it from his polyester shirt and threw it to one of his kitchen staff. There were cheers
and whistles but the lineup of young assistants looked too nervous to join in. They knew what was coming.
The RSM put his hands on his hips. Suddenly no one was eating any more, or talking or watching TV, despite the fact that it was Arsenal v. Chelsea. Taregue Masud had run army kitchens all over the world and generations of soldiers had learned that when the apron came off fireworks always followed.
‘I am informed by my staff – and my staff are very reliable – that you and your men have been keeping this item in my freezer. Now just take a look please, Sergeant, and tell me what it is.’
Dave lifted the plastic bag up and weighed it in both hands with an expression of extreme seriousness.
‘From the temperature and the general rigidity of the item, I’d say it’s frozen goods.’
‘And what is it? What is this frozen goods?’ Masud loomed dangerously over him.
Dave turned to Streaky and smiled. Streaky was alarmed enough to look right back at him for the first time in a while. ‘I believe Streaky Bacon can help us here.’
The RSM’s eyes narrowed. He’d sold Streaky a Sin City T-shirt only that morning.
‘Aha! So it was you who placed this in my freezer! And may I ask exactly when?’
Streaky raised his eyebrows and rounded his eyes and was about to protest when he remembered how nobody ever believed his denials. Except sometimes his mum.
He took the black plastic bag reluctantly in his hands and appeared to weigh it, just as Dave had. It felt like a slab of frozen meat.
‘Open, please!’ the RSM cried.
The cookhouse was deathly silent now. Someone had turned off the TV. Everyone watched Streaky. He pulled at the tie. Tiny splinters of ice scattered as he opened it. He carefully withdrew the contents.
The piece of meat was wrapped in DPM. At one end was a badly butchered mess of frozen blood. At the other, Streaky saw a foot. A human foot. The toenails were a shade of blue. The heel was pink. The ankle, which disappeared into the trouser leg, was encrusted with small icy hairs. Rifleman Bacon shrieked and threw the leg onto the table.
The cookhouse was in an uproar. The lads were laughing or shouting and the RSM was jabbering in Bengali. To prove that he had just been surprised, not scared, Streaky forced himself to laugh along with everyone else. He picked up the leg gingerly and held it up. People stared in fascination. Taregue hopped angrily from one foot to the other. Streaky couldn’t hear a word he was saying, but knew it had to do with a human leg not being a nice thing to find in your third freezer.
‘Thank you, Streaky,’ Dave said as the noise died down. ‘If we weren’t dry here, I’d buy you a drink.’
Streaky glared at him.
‘But what are you going to do about this alarming thing? Are you expecting to leave a human leg with some sort of medicinal powder around the toes inside my freezer? Because if you are really thinking that then let me tell you—’
Dave signalled for the RSM to calm down. ‘The leg belongs to one of our lads who’s now back in Selly Oak. When I next speak to him I’ll ask him what he wants us to do with it.’
‘We could get it stuffed for him,’ suggested Mal.
‘Look good on his mantelpiece,’ said Angus.
‘Or hanging in the fucking National Gallery. Frame it and Steve’s leg could sell for millions,’ agreed Finn.
The chef rolled his eyes. ‘This is disgusting. I am not housing a human foot in my freezer with its leg attached. It is not worth millions to me.’
Streaky put the leg quietly back in the bag. He was still embarrassed that he had looked scared in front of everyone. He would lose face for that. There were already people here not showing him respect because he was new and now Dave, fucking Sergeant Dave who was always on his back, had made things worse.
Dave was watching him. He turned away from the din to Streaky.
‘All right, mate?’
‘Man, why you fucking do that to me?’ asked Streaky. ‘You got no respect.’
In the circumstances, Dave didn’t think he would insist on Sarge.
‘It’s all right,’ he said kindly. ‘You did all right.’ But he could see Streaky disappearing inside himself, his face sullen, head down.
‘Suck it up, mate,’ Dave told him.
Streaky glared at the ground.
‘Well then, rap your way out of it,’ Dave suggested.
Streaky did not look up. ‘What, man?’
‘You said you could rap. You told me you’ve been thinking hard about your raps. Well then, let’s hear you.’
Streaky shrugged. He watched as the cooks opened negotiations with the soldiers. Somehow a complicated deal was being struck which involved freezer space for the leg until Steve decided what he wanted to do with it, a consignment of Sin City T-shirts for the whole platoon and some bootleg DVDs.
The leg was finally carried back to the freezer, upright like a flag. People were beginning to drift away or gather around the football match.
Streaky stood up, his heart beating fast.
‘You planning to rap?’ Binns asked, recognizing the look.
Streaky nodded.
‘I been thinking about it . . .’ He climbed up on the table.
‘Oh, yeah!’ said Binns. ‘I’ll beatbox.’
They had done this routine at Catterick more times than they could count. Binns knew he was a sprog when it came to fighting but when it came to beatboxing, he was confident. At last here was one thing he could do well and he wanted to show it.
He climbed up on the table beside Streaky and put his fingers to his lips and made a series of such extraordinary sounds that everyone stopped what they were doing and turned to the sprogs.
‘Hey, listen to Binman!’ said someone. A few people began to clap to the rhythm. Once it was established, Streaky joined in.
You get hot in Sin City, you get tired in Sin City
You got a lot on your plate when you live in Sin City.
Brother you get hungry here in Sin City,
Brother, you get hungry, so what do they do?
Brother, of course they offer you stew.
They offer you stew but take my advice.
Don’t start to chew, just you think about it twice.
Everyone was swaying now or pointing to the rhythm. Binman, red-faced, was a one-man drum kit.
‘Get off that table!’ howled the RSM from the back of the cookhouse. Streaky and Binman could hear him but they took no notice and neither did anyone else. The whole cookhouse was enjoying the beatbox and waiting for the rest of the rap.
Take my advice when they offer you stew
Oh soldier just you think twice before you chew,
Get a knife, cut a slice of that belly of pork
’Cos it could be marinated Buckle you got there on your fork.
His left leg was wrapped up in deep refrigeration,
And Buckle leg and carrots are not the best combination.
People were laughing now as they clapped. Binman’s face was an unhealthy shade of red but he was still beatboxing. The RSM was advancing with a roar: ‘Just get down off my table, please.’ But even his assistants weren’t listening to him and a couple of lads reached out to prevent him closing on the rappers.
If the carrots are too crunchy then just you consider this, That could be Steve Buckle’s toes you chewing with your chips. I’m telling you man, the cooks in Sin City never run out of meat,
I’m telling you man, they got freezers full of soldiers’ feet. We the British Army, we don’t feed no Taliban, We keep British arms and legs just for the British man, We don’t put no tasty morsels on the Taliban shelf, Our lads get blown up, we gonna eat them ourself.
Streaky had run out of breath and run out of words. He was amazed he’d got that far. He’d thought each line was the last and then more flow had arrived from somewhere in the back of his head.
During the applause that followed he looked back at the smiling faces. They were telling him this was a good rap. He had earned back s
ome respect. Even the officers had enjoyed it, and the civilians were nodding approval.
Streaky searched for Dave’s face. For a moment he couldn’t see him. Then he found him standing in the corner, arms folded. Dave nodded. Streaky smiled back.
Someone came up and tapped Dave on the shoulder. It was an officer who had just slipped into the tent. He hadn’t heard the rap and he wasn’t responding to the atmosphere. He had a serious expression on his face and he was muttering something to Dave.
