War Torn

by McNab, Andy

  Her heart began to beat faster. She remembered Jenny telling her that today she had to win an Oscar. It was essential not to show fear, disgust or horror. She concentrated hard on looking relaxed. She thought she was succeeding. But when she tried to smile she found she was unable to.

  Steve took the leg off the socket. He made several attempts to lean it against the sofa. She did not help him. It began to slide to the floor. She did not catch it. The leg landed with a thud. Then she watched as he released the socket at the top of his leg. Already his movements were practised and fluent. She reached out and very gently stroked his forearms as his hands worked. She tried not to pay any attention to the part of her that felt dizzy with fear at what she was about to see. She reminded herself that this was Steve. She wanted him to know that he was still her Steve.

  And, suddenly, there it was. Steve’s stump. It grew out of his groin and was recognizably a human body part. The surgeons had rounded it off nicely: it was covered with tight flesh like the rest of him as though it had always been that way. What had she expected? A dripping mess of hanging wires like a fire in an electrical showroom? So, after all that, his stump wasn’t an ugly, scary deformity. It was Steve.

  She knew he was watching her. And it was easy to smile. Very slowly, she reached out and touched it. Yes, it even felt like Steve. Even more slowly, because her bulk, as usual these days, got in the way, she leaned forward and kissed it. Gently, and lovingly.

  Steve watched her. She looked up at him from his small fraction of a leg and smiled.

  Agnieszka ran to open the door quickly so no one would see him. She didn’t want to smile at him but she could not stop herself.

  ‘Darrel!’

  ‘I don’t start work until one today. So I thought I’d stop by and show you my new wheels.’

  ‘You get new car?’

  ‘Yeah, came into the garage last week. A part-ex. It’s a Mazda MR2, not very new but some old bloke had it for years and didn’t drive anywhere. It’s even still got its original tyres!’

  He talked about the handling, the acceleration, and something about cylinders. She nodded and tried to look as though she understood, the way she did when Jamie talked about weapons.

  ‘I see from window!’

  She went back to the living room and peered out at the car.

  He followed her. ‘I was going to take you for a ride in it. But it’s just not the weather today.’

  ‘We go when sun shines again. Darrel, this very nice car. This beautiful car.’

  And it was. He looked pleased.

  ‘Er . . . Shouldn’t you . . .?’ He hesitated. ‘So, what’s upset Luke?’

  She realized, for the first time since he had started, that Luke was still crying.

  ‘He always begin when doorbell ring,’ she said, going to his pushchair and unstrapping him before she remembered that she had answered the door before Darrel had rung.

  Darrel held out his hands as if Luke was an old friend.

  ‘How are you doing, mate? Want a hug with Darrel?’

  She handed Luke over and gradually, walking slowly around the room and chatting in a calm voice, Darrel worked his magic. She watched as Luke turned into a quiet, soft, pliable baby.

  Darrel said, softly: ‘Aggie, I’ve got something to tell you.’

  ‘Something more than new car?’

  ‘Yeah, something else. I’m going away for a while.’

  She felt her body stiffen. She looked up at him.

  ‘My boss has a garage back in his home town. And it’s not doing very well. He wants me to spend a few weeks sorting it out.’

  There was a long silence.

  ‘Where this garage?’ she asked at last.

  ‘Great Yarmouth. East. The other side of London. Not far from Poland.’

  ‘You not come back for a few weeks?’

  His face drooped.

  ‘I’ll try. But the place is in a right mess. I’d rather get the job done and finished . . .’

  ‘When you go?’

  ‘Today.’

  ‘Oh!’

  She turned away from him, back to the window. It sounded as though someone was throwing gravel at the glass. But it was just the rain.

  ‘Look at me, Aggie.’

  She did not want to face him. She felt desolate. Desolation was a long, flat field, covered with snow. The field had been there when her father died. And when she had first arrived in England. She had cried herself to sleep each night for a whole month at the hotel where she worked. The field was there every time Jamie went away, every time Luke went to the hospital. And now here it was again. That blanket of snow over frozen earth in a field in a frozen world far from anywhere.

  ‘Ags? Come here.’

  She walked over to him obediently and he put his free arm around her. He managed to kiss her, although he was still holding Luke with the other arm.

  ‘Aggie, it’s not for long and I’ll ring you often,’ he said softly.

  He stroked her hair and the repetitive movement was soothing.

  ‘I want to take care of you. I wish you hadn’t sent me away the other day, after the beach.’

  She closed her eyes. She leaned against him. It was one thing to look at Adi Kasanita on a summery evening laughing with her brood of healthy kids and think that was how life ought to be. And another to send away your only friend when you were stuck alone in a small house with a sick child on a rainy day. She was sure now that she did not want Darrel to go.

  ‘Will you miss me?’ he asked.

  She nodded. She was frozen.

  ‘I have to get to work,’ he said softly. ‘I’ll be back soon, Ags. Take care of yourself.’

  He carefully settled Luke into the corner of the sofa and this time the baby did not object. Darrel bent over Agnieszka. When she didn’t turn her face up to him he kissed her on the forehead.

  She stood at the window watching the beautiful car drive away. She did not permit herself to feel anything.

  She switched on the TV. The screen was filled with British soldiers. They were wearing desert camouflage and streaming out of the back of a Chinook. This must be Afghanistan. Her heart missed a beat.

  ‘A new development,’ said the anchorman, ‘in the unfolding Afghan hostage crisis.’

  Afterwards, Steve held Leanne so tightly that it crossed her mind he was trying to kill her. It was a moment before she realized he was trying not to cry. The thought that this big man had been moved to tears by having sex with his wife brought tears to her own eyes.

  ‘You can cry if you want, sweetheart,’ she said. ‘I am.’

  As soon as she had spoken, his entire body was shaken by the immense sob that followed. He held her as he cried and cried. When she looked at his face she saw the pain there. The pain of the leg he had lost, the pain of the new reality, the pain of all the hopes and possibilities that had been exploded in a few seconds under the hot Afghan sun. She cried too, as though she could carry some of his pain and save him some tears.

  ‘Life’s going to be different now, love,’ she said at last, passing him a third wad of tissues. ‘But that doesn’t mean it’s going to be worse.’

  He nodded and put an arm around her. ‘I still love you. I don’t always show it but I do.’

  She smiled.

  ‘And,’ he added, ‘thank God I can still do it.’

  ‘Oh, you can still do it all right.’

  When she stood up to go and make them a sandwich she realized that she felt relaxed for the first time in months. If she fell asleep now she would sleep for the rest of the day and the whole of the night. Instead of waking up and tossing and turning for hours and then sneaking down to the fridge as though it was her secret lover.

  ‘Turn on the TV, sweetheart, it’s time for the news,’ said Steve. He sounded like his old self again.

  She switched on and went into the kitchen. She didn’t feel hungry! She decided to go without a sandwich and just make one for Steve. She was reaching for the bread wh
en she heard shouting.

  ‘Bloody fucking stupid bitch!’

  She ran back to the living room.

  ‘You left the zapper over there, fat cow! Look, there’s something about the lads and I can’t reach the zapper to turn it up!’

  He was roaring. His eyes were bulging with fury, his face was angry black lines.

  She rushed to the zapper and dropped it.

  ‘For fuck’s sake!’ he screamed. She picked it up and hastily turned up the volume. His eyes blazed as he turned away from her. He was intent on the screen.

  Leanne sat very still. She watched the newsreader without listening.

  ‘. . . now made a ransom demand for the safe return of the American hostage, oil exploration expert Martyn Robertson. The Foreign Office has refused to comment on reports that his kidnappers are demanding as much as thirty million dollars, as well as the release of a number of Taliban detainees.

  ‘Martyn Robertson was kidnapped by insurgents in Helmand Province while under the care of a British Army escort. The army has issued a statement saying that every effort was made to keep Mr Robertson safe but members of his family are calling for a full inquiry into how the Taliban slipped through the army’s security net.

  ‘The kidnappers are rumoured to have set a two-week limit for the delivery of the ransom. They are unlikely to let the hostage live past that deadline.’

  The picture changed, the story changed, a different reporter appeared on the screen. Steve and Leanne continued to watch, mute and motionless, from separate chairs.

  Chapter Sixty-three

  THE MEN WERE CLUSTERED AROUND THE TV IN THE COOKHOUSE. Martyn Robertson was the first news story. There was a shocked silence as the newsreader announced the ransom demand and execution threat.

  A grainy video was shown of Martyn looking miserable. He said he was being well treated and he read out a prepared text about the evils of imperialist powers in Afghanistan.

  The watching men searched the background for clues to Martyn’s whereabouts but behind him was only a mud wall that could be anywhere in Helmand Province, anywhere in Afghanistan. The report cut to politicians from both sides of the Atlantic talking about their determination to free the hostage without giving in to terrorist demands.

  ‘That’s a load of crap,’ said Swift from 3 Section. ‘We should be driving around this area ripping the shit out of every Taliban bastard for miles around.’

  ‘Can’t we just go through the whole town looking for him?’ asked Aaron Baker. ‘He’s probably in someone’s cupboard.’

  ‘Why aren’t we doing something to find Martyn?’ people shouted.

  ‘And what good are fucking diplomats?’ asked Mal.

  The OC was in the cookhouse with the men. He looked tired. ‘Secretary of State Clinton is making a surprise visit to Kabul. While she’s here, she’s going to talk to the Afghan President about Martyn.’

  His words were met by silence. Finally CSM Kila said: ‘With respect, sir, that’ll do fuck all to help.’

  Major Willingham was doleful.

  ‘I know.’

  ‘Can’t we find him? Can’t we go and fight with the fuckers?’ men said. ‘We’ve got to get to him before the bastards slice his head off.’

  But the OC held his hands up to indicate his helplessness in the world of politicians and diplomats.

  After dark, Asma escaped from the ops room to have a cigarette and join Gordon Weeks for a walk around the perimeter. Foreign Office staff, walking with their heads tilted back so they could see the amazing Afghan stars, kept bumping into them.

  ‘They get paid danger money to come to an FOB,’ said Asma. ‘It’s a fortune. But the first sign of any incoming and they’re into the bunker and down on the ground.’

  Weeks stepped around a stumbling man in a smart suit and body armour.

  ‘Their greatest risk is falling and breaking a leg while they stargaze.’

  She giggled.

  ‘God it is so fucking good to get out of the ops room! It’s stuffy and smelly and horrible. And so are all the officers.’

  Weeks decided she had just paid him a compliment without even knowing it. Suddenly he felt happy. Happy to be with Asma, under a spectacular night sky, hearing her laugh.

  Without thinking he reached out and drew her to him. Their body armour bumped. He smelled the hint of perfume and the odour of cigarette. Her arms were bare and the softness of her skin excited him. Then his courage failed. He kissed her on the cheek and released her.

  ‘What was that for?’ She was laughing at him.

  ‘I don’t know what came over me,’ he said. ‘I hope you don’t mind.’

  She laughed again and then they walked on in silence.

  ‘So,’ he began awkwardly. ‘Are you sitting there with your headphones on just listening all day?’

  ‘Yup. Except when someone nicks me headphones.’

  ‘Is it ever interesting?’

  ‘It’s enough to make me take up fucking knitting. I mean, why do we look at the radio when we’re listening to it?’

  ‘But are you getting anywhere?’

  ‘Well, it’s frustrating. I knew Martyn and I feel this sense of urgency, especially now we’ve only got two weeks. But there are guys in there who are treating it like just another bloody day’s work. It’s more about politics than about finding him.’

  ‘But do you hear anything on the radio that may lead us to him? The men all want to get out there and search.’

  ‘Hmmm. Depends how you interpret what they say.’

  ‘Because the Taliban speak in code?’

  ‘Their codes aren’t very complicated. But they chatter a lot about nothing. So it’s hard to tell what’s crap and what matters. There was a lot of stuff about a holy place today so the colonel’s convinced they’re hiding him in a mosque.’

  ‘Well, they might be.’

  ‘Or they might just have been talking about mosques. Because Moslems do.’

  ‘Any idea which mosque?’

  She laughed again.

  ‘No. So if your blokes want something to do, they could search them all.’

  Chapter Sixty-four

  ‘FOLLOWING AN INTELLIGENCE BREAKTHROUGH WHICH SUGGESTS THAT Martyn is being held in a mosque, the colonel has decided that every mosque within a one-hundred-kilometre range of this base is to be cleared and searched tomorrow morning,’ announced the boss.

  ‘So what will we do after lunch?’ asked Jamie Dermott.

  Gordon Weeks said: ‘It is important to clear as many mosques simultaneously as possible and clearly this base doesn’t have the manpower. So troops from other bases will be taking part and other companies are being flown in to help.’

  ‘How many are we doing?’ asked Angus.

  ‘There are three mosques in the town by the base and each platoon will clear one. You will, of course, behave respectfully and politely. To you it may feel like any building to be searched: to a Moslem a mosque is a very holy place.’

  Dave involuntarily glanced at Mal. He was staring at the ground, his face red.

  ‘Don’t they have to leave their shoes outside? Well, I’m not taking my fucking boots off,’ said Angus.

  ‘You can keep your boots on,’ said Dave, rolling his eyes.

  The boss continued: ‘There is to be no shouting or swearing in the mosque. And, although we will have to enter with our weapons, we must avoid firing them unnecessarily. It’s a green entry so strictly, strictly no grenades. Plus total respect for any religious objects like the Quran, please.’

  ‘On training they told us that the Taliban store weapons in mosques,’ said Bacon. ‘Where’s their respect, then?’

  ‘They not only store weapons but they frequently fire from mosques. But that’s no reason for us to do the same.’

  ‘So how can Martyn Robertson be held in a mosque if it’s a public place?’ asked O’Sullivan.

  ‘Good question. Either the Taliban has to ensure the silence of an entire community, which i
s possible. Or he’ll be kept in a cupboard, room or underground area around the mosque. In short, we don’t know.’

  ‘Will there be many people inside? Saying prayers and things?’ asked Binman.

  ‘The operation has been deliberately timed to avoid the five Moslem prayer times. But there may well be people inside the mosque and we will have to indicate to them, very politely, that they should step aside while we search the place.’