Poppy Day

by Amanda Prowse

  ‘I’m sorry, Miles. I promise I will do what you tell me. I’m grateful for all your help.’

  ‘As I’ve said, don’t talk to too many people and, secondly, when you encounter anyone new, tell them you were a student in London and that’s where your accent comes from, OK?’

  Poppy nodded. ‘OK.’

  ‘Good. Finally, keep close to me and keep in regular contact because that’s how you will keep safe and that is how we will get you close to your husband. I’ll be the catalyst, Poppy, but if anyone, anyone at all gets a sniff that all is not as it should be, we are both on the first plane out of here and my career is in the shredder. Do you understand?’

  ‘Yes.’ Although she wasn’t sure that she did fully understand, not at that point.

  She was waiting for him to tell her more; having hinted that he had the semblance of a plan, she was intrigued when Max Holman and Jason Mullen appeared in the aisle.

  ‘Hey, aren’t you that award-winning journalist that I read about? Can I have your autograph?’ Max delivered this with a slight American twang.

  ‘Are you never going to let it drop, Max?’

  ‘Sure I am, big shot, in about twenty years’ time…’

  ‘Oh, when you get recognised, you mean?’ Jason quipped in defence of his friend; Max clearly needled him as much as he did Miles.

  Jason addressed them both, ‘Well, young lovers, here we are back in theatre. Ah the smell of the greasepaint! The roar of the crowd! Wouldn’t you simply die without Marlowe?’ He collapsed onto the empty chair to the other side of the aisle in a mock faint.

  Miles laughed, ‘He’s nuts.’

  Poppy had turned her attentions to the other side of the window. It was dark, but she could make out rows of tents and makeshift buildings all the colour of dung. Then, beyond the perimeter fence; nothing. Not just a little bit of nothing either, but nothing as far as you could see, they were in the middle of nowhere.

  The journos were shepherded off the bus and taken to their accommodation. Poppy’s gait was lumbered; she was still unused to the body armour and helmet that would be her constant companions. The Media Centre was actually just a group of tents. Poppy was freezing; she hadn’t known that as the sun went down and the day slipped into night it would be so cold. She had always pictured this landscape with camels, hot sun and sand. Her teeth chattered in her gums, you would think being born and raised in Denmark she would have been more accustomed to the sub-zero temperatures…

  There were approximately ten tents grouped together; each one slept up to five people, although they weren’t full. Poppy was shown to her accommodation. Inside, the tent was divided by what looked like thick mosquito netting, more to give each occupant some private space than to offer any protection. Within each netted area was a cot; a rickety camp bed with a sleeping bag and a pillow folded neatly on the end. To the left of the bed was a hanging canvas rectangle, which unzipped to reveal shelves and a small mirror; Poppy’s own personal space for her meagre belongings. Had she thought about it with any level of sense, she would have packed very differently. It was another subconscious gesture, illustrating the doubt that she wouldn’t get further than the North Circular.

  The other beds in the tent were bare and unoccupied; this she registered with a mixture of relief and disappointment. Poppy didn’t want to have to talk to anyone, remembering Miles’s instructions; similarly she hated the idea of sleeping alone, especially in such a strange environment. Miles, Jason and a couple of the others were in the tent opposite. She was glad of their physical proximity, figuring they were only a shout away from coming to the rescue, should the need arise.

  Bastion wasn’t like any campsite that she had seen or imagined. It was more like a city whose buildings were made of corrugated iron and canvas. It was huge. Crude signs were everywhere so you wouldn’t get lost. The pavements were made up of pallets; the walkways covered with a plastic duckboard made up of little hexagonal shapes where the sand lodged in the corners. Poppy ate with the other journalists in one of the large canteens; the food was part way between motorway service station and school. It was served on disposable white plastic trays with dents in for different foodstuffs. They were a standard prison issue, quite disgusting really, but the food was warm and plentiful and she was hungrier than she had realised. Eighteen hours of travelling and the constant rush of adrenalin had given her an appetite.

  Poppy didn’t speak to many people; following Miles’s instructions, appearing ‘serious and aloof’ turned her into quite a novelty. She didn’t really care.

  That first night she climbed into the sleeping bag fully clothed and pulled the spongy cover up over her shoulders. She placed her hand on her flat stomach. Poppy had secretly hoped to conceive before Martin had gone on tour, thinking being apart might be easier if she carried their baby while he was away. To have part of him growing inside her would certainly ease her sense of abandonment and would be the beginning of the family that she craved.

  In moments of daydream she saw how it would happen. Martin would come home from tour and she would hand him his son or daughter. ‘Thank you, Poppy! Thanks for doing all that hard work while I was away. You have grown a beautiful baby while I was sat in the desert building sandcastles.’ But there was no baby for Poppy, not that night.

  Her empty womb pulsed with longing for both the presence of her husband and the stretch against muscle of her baby’s limbs. It was a craving that she couldn’t satisfy, an ache that no amount of stroking or words of consolation could allay. In the same way she pictured Martin lost and waiting for her to claim him, so she pictured her unborn babies – Peggy for a girl, Charlie for a boy – swimming in limbo until she could give birth to them. Her palm rested on the cool skin. ‘Hang in there, baby, I’m coming.’

  Poppy could hear the dull echo of people moving and the muted tones of speech all around her. She felt strangely close to Martin, willing him to feel her getting closer. ‘I love you, Mart. Sweet dreams, darlin’.’

  She also sent a message to Dorothea, telling her that she loved her and hoped she wasn’t wondering where she had got to. Poppy had never thought of their little flat as luxurious, but as she lay her head down on the sagging cot, she pictured her lovely IKEA bed and realised that there were worse places to lay your head every night, much worse.

  Twelve

  MARTIN THOUGHT A lot about their bed at home. He longed to feel the soft mattress under his skin. He wanted to lay his head on the floral pillowcases that Poppy had chosen, the ones he had mocked as girly, whilst secretly applauding her taste. He wanted to feel her chest rise and fall as she slept close to him. He knew that when he lay on that mattress with his beautiful wife nestled in his arms that he would truly be home. That was Martin’s definition of home, he and Poppy in bed together, her snuggling up to him for warmth.

  Once again he dreamt that he was woken by Poppy, again she stroked the hair away from his forehead. Her voice gentle, ‘Mart… Mart… I’m here.’ It made him miss her so much his gut ached with longing. He didn’t want to open his eyes, knowing that he would lose her all over again, but she was fading…

  The door banged against the wall, Poppy was gone in an instant. It was unusual for it to be opened in such a way; there was never any need to startle him, his captors could be certain that he was always in the same spot, exactly as they had left him. Their entrance sounded aggressive and urgent; Martin instinctively knew that something was wrong. Life in captivity had become mundane and this had led him into an almost false sense of security. He had forgotten the horror he felt when first taken; not that it had gone completely, there was always a lingering, subdued anxiety in the pit of his stomach, but the raw terror, that life-or-death feeling, he had almost erased. It returned in an instant, an energy-zapping fear that fuelled his anger, but also rendered him weak.

  Martin sat up on the bed, shaking his head and rubbing his eyes, trying to go from asleep to alert as quickly as he could. He snagged his broken finger against his face
, but there was no time to consider the throb of pain which would become insignificant soon enough. Two men stood in front of him, with shemaghs tightly wrapped around their heads, covering most of their faces, apart from a small gap around their mouths that was exposed. They wore sunglasses and, more worryingly for Martin, were carrying Kalashnikov assault rifles. One of them shouted an instruction in his native tongue. The words meant nothing, but Martin could tell by the man’s tone and speed of speech that he wanted him to act quickly.

  He leapt from the mattress. This was apparently the wrong thing to do. The second man ran forward and smashed the butt of his gun into Martin’s face, the force of which knocked him back down onto the bed. His teeth, already a little loose in their gums, proved no resistance to the hard wooden stock as it collided with the soft pulp of his face. Fragments of tooth, mixed with the warm swell of blood, filled his mouth. His swollen tongue snaked over the crumbly remnants of at least two of his teeth. He was shocked and in pain, but his overriding emotions were panic and fear. Fear of what came next.

  Martin thought a lot about Aaron’s demise and had only recently considered how strange it was that people gave so little thought to their own death. It occurred to him that it was the only certainty, highly unconsidered. Hours could be spent mentally frittering lottery wins, romancing the unattainable or celebrating a victory goal in the shirt of your nation, yet very little thought was applied to how your life might end.

  He guessed that most people outside of this war zone, if pushed, would envisage a warm bed in old age, eiderdown tucked under chin, a clutch of grandchildren whimpering into hankies on the floor below and slipping into a blissful dream that lasts for eternity. Yet at every minute of every day, all around him, people young and old came face to face with the grim reaper after encountering pain, shock and confusion. Not so much a happy release, but more often a grapple with crushing, asphyxiation or the agonising shutting down of organs that meant vitality. Death could of course be peaceful, calm and poetic, but in many cases brutal, violent and disturbing. Martin felt confident in that moment that he could predict which category his own end would fall into. His final wish, however, was not for himself, but that Poppy should, when her time came, experience the exact opposite.

  The shouter came over to the bed and pushed him downwards, rolling Martin onto his stomach. He pulled at his arms until they were behind his back. Martin felt the familiar bite of plastic ties as they cut into the skin of his wrists. He could almost predict what came next; it was his old friend, the lice-ridden sack. Martin felt sick and frightened; his brain tried to process the answers to the many questions that were firing inside his skull: ‘Are they going to rape me? Am I being set free? Am I being moved? Where would they move me to? Are they going to kill me? Where will they kill me? Will they kill me how they killed Aaron? Will anyone know that I have been killed? Help me. Help me, someone. Hear me, God. Please, help me, please help me, God.’

  His captors hauled him up onto unsteady, bare feet. He walked with the faltering steps of a new calf; his head swooning with the exhilaration. Unable to see, and with his hands tied, he felt a new level of vulnerability. The muzzle of the Kalashnikov jabbed at his lower back; his captors wanted him to walk. He felt a strong yearning to stay in that shitty room, the rat-infested hovel that he had longed to escape from, the home of his beatings, his prison for an indeterminate number of days and nights. He could not be certain that where he was heading wasn’t going to be that much worse and, if he was being taken on his final walk, he wanted to delay it.

  With his guards walking behind him, Martin very quickly found himself outside. This told him that he had been in a small building, or at least on the edge of a larger one, closer than he had imagined to the outside world. He could hear voices in the distance; it sounded like children, chatting and playing. How could that be? Martin found it hard to understand that everyday life was going on right outside those walls where his own world had fallen apart.

  He stumbled forward as jagged stones, chunks of brick and shards of glass bit the soles of his feet. The guards didn’t want him to walk any slower just because he couldn’t see and had no idea of what was in front of him. Martin could have been at the top of some stairs, the side of a road or the edge of a cliff, the butt of the rifle now prodded his back, making sure he kept the pace up.

  He tripped and almost lost his footing. His captors found this most comical; his legs were out of practice. He wobbled and wavered like a drunk. Then he nearly fell, floundering and stumbling, threatening to fall down, but not quite. The reward for keeping his balance was a swift kick in the stomach, which caused him to stagger then sprawl onto the floor. He lay, trying to catch his breath.

  Falling without being able to put out his hands was both horrendous and painful. Instinct caused his elbows to jolt upwards as nature tried to apply brakes, but with his hands so tightly secured, it was futile. Martin felt his face receive even more collateral damage. He breathed slowly, trying to recover. The men drew pleasure from their brutality, there was no need to kick the man that was already down, but kick him they did. Martin yelped as the leather sandal carrying a man of weight crushed against his spine.

  His breathing returned to a natural rhythm and as it did so, Martin felt awash with a strange calmness, inner warmth that could do little to soothe his body, but certainly helped focus his mind. He thought about Poppy and was so, so glad that he had dreamt about her. It made him feel close to her. He thought about how he wanted to be seen, if these were going to be his last few minutes on the planet. Did he want to shrivel and bend like someone apologising? No. No he did not. He was a British citizen; he had fought for his Queen and his country. Martin decided to hold his head up. He thought of Aaron and he thought of Poppy. He wanted to make her proud. He thought of his dad, he would show him, the bastard. He would show him what courage was. He would be defiant, he would make a stand. He would be a man.

  Martin stood slowly with difficulty, until he was rigid and tall, holding his head high. Sucking in his stomach, pushing out his chest and ignoring the pain, he practically marched. One of his captors held his arm. ‘Don’t touch me, you bastard!’

  The guard didn’t understand the words, but Martin’s tone was sufficient to reveal the sentiment. The guard removed his hand immediately.

  Martin laughed as blood dripped in large globules from his lacerated mouth, soaking the hessian sack. Once again he swooned with the exertion. One of his eyes was swollen shut; his head felt heavy, too heavy for his neck, his words were slurred, ‘I am Martin Cricket, Infantryman with the Princess of Wales’s Royal Regiment. I am a soldier with the British Army, the best. I am your prisoner, but I am also a man. I am someone’s husband; I am a man who is loved.’

  He felt powerful, in this desperate situation, bound, hooded and without a weapon. He felt invincible. It was a strange sensation, almost of time standing still. Martin wanted it to be over, half thinking, just shoot me you bastards, shoot me and get it over with, but there was another part of him that wanted one last gulp of air, one more image of Poppy, one more prayer. It was an adrenalin-fuelled combination of anticipation and suspense, nerves and excitement, but strangely Martin wasn’t afraid. He had no fear at all, quite the opposite.

  He felt a hand on his chest and held the position, standing still. Waiting. The blood pulsed in his temples, his heartbeat was steady. He thought about his wedding vows; Poppy had looked so beautiful and he was honoured to be her chosen one. He envisaged the moment he placed the small gold band on her finger…

  He heard the dry drawing of metal inside metal, followed by the telltale click as a weapon was made ready for firing, or it could have been the smooth slice of a sharp edge against leather as the blade was drawn from its sheath. He couldn’t be sure which. It didn’t really matter, not now.

  Thirteen

  THE NEXT MORNING Poppy showered in the communal block, careful to avoid eye contact and conversation with the two female soldiers that passed through. S
he waited until they had both left before washing out her pants in the sink. With only one other pair, she was going to have to rotate their use. She smiled; contemplating the fact that only she would travel to the other side of the world in a daring rescue attempt, to liberate her husband from a band of religious fundamentalists, with a packet of Polo Mints and sunglasses as her weapons of choice.

  Miles met her outside the block. ‘Morning’.

  ‘Gud morrnink, Miles,’ Poppy laughed, her accent was an intriguing mix of Polish and Muppet Swedish Chef.

  ‘Did you sleep OK? These cots take a bit of getting used to.’

  Poppy was ashamed to admit that actually she had slept brilliantly, having fallen into a deep and exhausted slumber, not stirring until there was activity outside the tent that very morning.

  ‘Let’s go somewhere and chat.’ He guided her off the path.

  They ducked into an empty Portakabin that inside looked like a makeshift internet cafe. Four high-spec computers with tired keyboards blinked on separate tables, each with a payphone to the side and a plastic chair; no comfort, no privacy. She ran her fingers over one of the grubby keyboards, knowing instinctively that Martin had been there, this was where he had emailed from on the odd occasion. ‘Hang on, baby. I’m coming.’ This was her silent mantra.

  Miles jolted her into the present with his words, his urgency and inability to look at her face. ‘Poppy…’

  ‘Yep?’

  ‘Poppy…’

  ‘For God’s sake, Miles, you’ve already said that! What is it? What’s going on?’

  Miles ran his fingers through his hair and finished by pushing his specs over the bridge of his nose. ‘Oh Poppy. I need to talk to you…’