by Paul A. Rice
I nodded, saying: ‘Can’t you get a casevac, get some choppers or something? I don’t think it will be a good idea for me to rock up at the border with a wounded Brit squaddie on-board…’
Taking a breath, Malc said, ‘The bloody Italian choppers haven’t lifted-off yet, and anyway, the ground-threat is too dodgy up here for them to risk their necks – it’s a right, fucking mess!’
I knew how he felt, when things go wrong, they usually go completely wrong. Then you’re just left at the mercy of your wits and the hand of fate, or luck. Right at this moment, I was Malc’s luck.
‘Okay, well… jump in and we’ll go and get them!’ I said.
‘JC, I’d love to, mate,’ Malc said, shaking his head. ‘But if you get whacked down there and you’re with us, then all hell will break loose – you guys are a civvies and I will get hung-drawn-and-quartered if anyone finds out I took you along in the middle of a contact!’
‘So, you just need the truck, is that it?’ I looked at Raouf out of the corner of my eye. He was visibly wincing. I sympathised, this latest turn of events was probably pushing his trust in me to the very limit.
Malc’s voice interrupted my thoughts.
‘Yeah, just the truck, that’s all we need. We’ll only be an hour…’ he said.
‘Okay, go for it,’ I said, without hesitating.
Glancing across, I could see Raouf’s cheek muscles bulging under the pressure of his grinding teeth.
‘That’s fucking magic, JC! Cheers!’ Malc said, turning to go back to his men and shouting out: ‘Guys, over here, mount up in this wagon!’
‘Hey, Malc, just one thing…’
‘Yeah, what is it?’ He stopped and turned back to me.
‘There’s a body in the back of that truck, just look after it, Okay?’
He laughed and shook his head. ‘You’re a fucking nutter, JC!’
‘Seriously,’ I said, ‘that body is my bloody pay-cheque, mate. If I don’t deliver, I don’t get paid. Bring it fucking back, Okay!’
‘It’s a deal – don’t worry, we’ll bring your corpse back nice and safe, let’s hope that it’s the only one!’ he said, without a smile.
I grabbed my daysack and the weapons from the pickup, passing one rifle to Raouf. Resting his AK against the wheel-arch, he leaned into the back and stuffed the blanket more tightly around his money. Standing upright, he shook his head in disgust and threw me a bottle of water from the handful he had taken out of the box.
Seconds later and he and I were sitting by the side of a dusty track, watching as two ribbons of dust raced away from us. One heading west with the casualty on-board, and the other, well, that one, along with our damned money, was busily racing south to engage in contact with the enemy…
It had all happened so quickly, I hadn’t even thought about saying no, and now that we were on our own, sitting and sipping water in the absolute middle-of-nowhere, I began to realize the realities of our position. None of them were good.
‘I’m sorry, Raouf,’ I said, looking across at him.
‘Jake, my friend, you have done a good deed, men’s lives are worth more than money. It is God’s way of teaching us the lesson for one more time, and I have just recently been forced to remind myself of that! There is no other thing to say, it is God’s will,’ he said, staring at me in complete seriousness.
I left it at that, he was right. ‘Just as long as Malc and the boys make it back in one-piece, that’s all that mattered.’ I thought.
I suggested that perhaps we should take up a position in amongst the clumps of rocks and shrubs behind us, just in case someone came past. Grabbing our gear, we moved over to them and sat under a big slab of sandstone, the shadow of its overhang providing some much welcome shade.
It seems that God was a merciful being after all. Although, his generosity must have been solely for Raouf’s benefit, because I was pretty sure, even if there was such a being, that he definitely would not have held any sympathy for a man like me. Two-hours later, and after watching them come racing across the desert, a mushroom-shaped cloud of black smoke rising behind their dust trail, Malc and his crew rolled to a halt on the track below our shady spot. Seven weary men dismounted, six taking-up relaxed fire positions and watching outwards as they drank from their water bottles and lit cigarettes. Malc, seeing where Raouf and I were sitting, plodded over to squat next to us, gratefully taking the bottle of water I offered him.
‘How’d it go?’ I asked.
‘Yeah, all good,’ he said, after taking a swig. ‘We got the kit out, what a nightmare that was, fucking tech guys and their big ideas… anyway; we scavenged what we could from the truck and then torched it properly. It was pretty fucked anyway, I’ve no idea how we didn’t lose the whole patrol, what the fuck was a mine just doing in the middle of nowhere?’
‘Maybe there were more and you just got lucky,’ I said.
‘Yeah, true,’ Malc said, with a grimace. ‘That area is supposed to be clear, my guess is that some rebels laid them the other day, hoping to catch Gadaffi – he was supposed to be trying to get out along this way somewhere, but you never heard that from me, Okay?’
I grinned, saying: ‘My lips are sealed!’
Malc nodded in appreciation, going on to say: ‘The bad guys were in the area, but they shit themselves when some jets gave them a fly-by… Anyway, so… that’s about it, mate – were gonna wait here for the other wagons to get back, which should be in about an hour or two. Are you staying for some lunch? We have meat paste…’
He patted his webbing and, whilst still grinning, walked over to our pickup to start off-loading various items of military hardware. I didn’t recognise any of them, and I didn’t go across to have a nosey, either. At least two of the items were fully concealed by shemaghs, which they had wrapped around them. All I saw were the ends of some severed wires trailing out below. Stacking his kit on the floor, Malc asked a couple of his men to move it all into the shade. After a few minutes, the whole group had joined us in the rocks, leaving one man on sentry whilst the rest cracked open their emergency rations. In short-order we were tucking into some of the British Army’s finest dried biscuits, meat paste and chocolate bars.
Raouf wandered down and moved our pickup up into the cover of the rocks, I saw him taking a quick look into the back before turning to me and giving a little nod of his head. All was well with the world, feeling a whole heap of pressure lifting from my shoulders, I sat and enjoyed my rudimentary picnic alongside the boys, listening as they took the piss out of my occupation, my suitcase, and in general, out of everything I had become…
Less than two-hours later, three of Malc’s wagons turned up – one vehicle returning from the casevac trip and two coming from the other side of the wadi. All of their Toyota pickups were heavily-laden with weapons and equipment. By the brief account given to us by the men who had just arrived, the choppers had eventually made their appearance and John-boy had caught his ride to hospital, still clinging to life, just.
The patrol from the wadi also had several rebel fighters with them; they sat around and got stuck into their lunch, not one of them coming over to quiz Raouf or me. It was standard procedure if you were working alongside people like Malc’s lot, especially if they were ‘advising’ you. Don’t ask questions and you won’t be told any lies...
Raouf decided that we should be hitting the road, and so, after saying our goodbyes and acknowledging their profound thanks for our assistance, we climbed into our truck and set off. Raouf breathing a huge sigh of relief as soon as we were out of sight.
He suddenly burst into hysterical fits of laughter, tears of relief rolling unrestrainedly down his face. He just sat there, giggling and clouting the steering wheel with abandon. His joy was so infectious that I couldn’t help but join him. Together, we sat and roared our damned heads off. Raouf banging away on the wheel like a loon, his movements causing the pickup to zigzag all over the place.
‘Raouf,’ I said, ‘Watch the damned ai
rbags, man – much more of that and you’ll set the whole lot off!’
Stopping his banging, Raouf steadied the movements of our erratic vehicle and looked at me in despair, saying: ‘There are no airbags in this car, Jake. We never replaced them after the last crash…’
It was right about then that I stopped laughing.
Five hours later, and having successfully passed through all the checkpoints, we rolled up to the border-crossing. I was extremely glad to see the sight of Mus; he was standing under the security lights, looking all suave in a suit and tie. We stopped next to him, listening as he told us which lane to go into. Turning right, Raouf drove into the required lane and we crawled along, following in Mus’ footsteps as he led the way like a pall-bearer for our sombre hearse. The guards did their duty, nodding in recognition of me and the sad task I was carrying out. Shortly after the noise of the passport guy’s rubber-stamp, thumping on the roof above our heads, Raouf and I entered Tunisia.
The remainder of the trip went without a hitch. We followed Mus to the hotel where, upon arriving, I gathered my belongings and said a few words of farewell to both he and Raouf. We shook hands and swopped email addresses, Raouf saying that I should send him my bank details as soon as I was back in UK. He also said that he’d changed his mind about having a beer and would prefer to go and deal with the money now – I can’t say I blamed him. I don’t think that I would have been that keen on have a session at the bar whilst there were millions of dollars sitting outside in the back of my truck…
I said it was fine, pointing out that I was more than capable of having a few beers on my own, without assistance. We called it a day and that was it. Climbing back into their vehicles, the two men drove away. I watched as their headlights disappeared behind the hedges of the hotel’s driveway. I was never to see either of them again.
After checking-in at reception, I disappeared up to my room and quickly sorted my life out, ringing London and telling them that I was back on-line and asking them to get me on the soonest flight they could. I said that I would call in to the office later that week to give them an update. I would also be handing over the remaining cash and all the receipts for any expenditure I had accrued.
After hanging-up, I organised my belongings, transferring items from the daysack back into my suitcase in readiness for airport security. Finally, having zipped-up my bags, I laid out my last set of clean clothes and my gym kit. I hesitated, debating upon whether to read my email or not. I couldn’t be bothered, powering-up my laptop and getting the log-in key from reception just seemed to be far too much hassle. I had disabled my smart-phone’s email facility long ago, mainly due to the fact that my UK provider had been taking the piss with their charges every month.
Deciding that the email could wait, I went to the gym and hammered myself, training until I couldn’t train any more. I almost had to crawl back up to my room. After drinking some water, I took a shower, standing under the hot water for at least ten minutes and giving my stubble a good seeing-to whilst I was there.
In less than an hour, I was ready to go.
Climbing into my clean clothes, I did go – straight to the bar.
20
Grey Skies and Dry Eyes
I arrived in London later that same week. The city was grey, overcast and damned cold. The morning after I landed at Heathrow, and after having gone out for a night of pub food and English beer, I walked over to the office, giving them a blow-by-blow report on the trip, and the tragic outcome of it, whilst I was there. They informed me that Rick’s funeral had already taken place and that Bill’s was due in three-day’s time. Andi’s was going to take place in four-days and was to be a family-only affair.
The office staff also gave me some forms to complete. I had to fill them out with all the details of what had occurred on the day we had lost three members of the crew and our driver. It took me about two-hours to finish the task. I was not permitted to put any opinions in my statement, only the facts. All the dates, times and order of events, were the only things to be included in my statement. I was told that it, along with those written by the other members of our crew, would be submitted to the authorities, and if they needed any further information from me then I would be informed.
I told the office I was going to take some time off and that I would call them when I was available for work. Later that same day, once back in my flat, I confirmed the situation regarding large deposits with my bank. As I had thought, as long as any payments coming into my account were from a recognised and legal source, there wouldn’t be a problem. My accountant had more good-news for me: the money wouldn’t be a problem as it would be deposited offshore, and I wouldn’t be liable for any tax as long as I made sure that I kept religiously to the terms of my non-domiciled status.
I sent Raouf an email giving him my bank details and wondering if I would ever hear from him again. Most of me doubted it. I also read my email; there were a few messages from friends, plus a couple of job offers from some of the other companies I had worked for previously. Given the situation I was in – waiting to see if I’d ever have to work again – I couldn’t really think about taking on any more jobs at the moment. Anyway, at that precise moment, I felt too shattered to even think about more work. All I really wanted to do was to get on a plane and head for my house in Italy. London was too cold for me, and I don’t just mean the weather. The city had never been my scene.
I sat for a while, staring out of the window and wondering what the hell I was going to do with my life. I knew the facts, and whether I saw any money from Raouf or not, whether I did any more work, or not, my life still seemed to be almost meaningless. I needed something, but I didn’t know what. The familiar feeling of senselessness started to surface in my mind once more. I always felt like this after a big job, it was depression, I recognised the bitch, and going on the beer only made it worse.
As I was about to shut my laptop down, I suddenly noticed that I had a message sitting in my ‘Spam’ box, its little red flag catching my eye. I nearly deleted it without looking, but I didn’t. I don’t know why I didn’t, because I usually do, but something made me open it.
That single action, a little click of the mouse, was to change everything for me.
I read the heading of the email, fully expecting to see it was some crap about buying a car, getting cheap flights, or, if I was really lucky, getting awesome sex from some non-existent, Asian chick. All I needed to do was follow the link…
However, it wasn’t any such thing.
I looked at the date, noticing the message had been sent early in the early hours of Monday the 29th of August. The sender’s name was easily discernible in amongst the electronic address.
The message was headed: ‘Hello!’
It was from Andi.
The sight of her name, sitting before her news station’s electronic address, made me feel sick. I sat there trying to pluck up the courage to open the message. I looked again at the time it had been sent, quickly calculating the difference between Libya and the UK.
That just made things worse – she’d written to me after I had left her, drunk and stumbling into her room at the villa in Tripoli, the morning when we had found something together during our time on the roof. Andi must have written it before she went to bed, before she rushed out with the crew, looking for the big story, before she was killed…
The memories of that night filled my head, the sound of her whispered words, wishing me good night, the sight of that dimple, the blueness of her eyes, all came rushing back in an instant, and they hit me hard, truck hard. The pain was like Déjà vu, I remembered it.
My head swam, I knew that I had to stop this; I couldn’t do this, I…
Pushing myself away from the table, I walked over to the balcony window to stand and stare out over the grey city. There was nothing of real substance passing through the empty corridors of my mind. All I knew was that I really didn’t want to go back and open that message. I just couldn’t. I tried to pe
rsuade myself to be sensible.
‘She’s gone, Jake – she’s gone! Just delete it, mate. Delete the message and fucking move on…’
Then I thought about much fun we’d had on that night, laughing and flirting until the dawn, and Mr Jack, had forced us to retire. I remembered her last words to me, spoken in the cellar. At that precise moment I knew, absolutely, that Andi would have been mightily pissed at me if I didn’t open the message. I felt I owed her that much at least. With a sigh, I went back to the table, sat down and clicked the message open…
***
Hello there, Mr Mystery Man!
Just so you know, I’m roaring drunk so take this as you will, but always remember ‘in vino veritas’, as they say!(Hic…)
Thank you for a wonderful night, I can’t remember the last time I had such a good time! You make me smile, you’re a gentleman and, well… and you’re gorgeous!
I know we both have things that we didn’t discuss tonight, things from our past, things about our lives, but that’s fine because we have, I hope, plenty of time to discuss those things later. You see, I’d really like to get to know you better, Mr Collins. I hope you feel the way same about me.
Ooooh… hold-on, my sister’s ringing me, what does that nosey bitch want now? I’ll be right back…
Hunney, I’m home! Are you still awake? Ha-ha!
Anyway, look, the first thing I wanted to tell you (and this is my sister’s idea, as I’m too scared it’ll put you off) is that I’m a Mom, not much of one, admittedly. I have a son, he’s eight, his name is Harley, and he’s gorgeous.
I would send you a picture of him, but my zip-drive is hidden amongst all the mess in here and I’ll end up looking under my eiderdown, and then I’ll lie-down! Hey – that rhymed! And if I do that, not rhyme, lie-down, silly, then I won’t write this, and I have to write this, I don’t know why I do, but I just know that I do!
