Everything is good. I have three days left here, then I’m back to base and packing up for home. How goes the planning for our road trip?
We’re all set.
I’m looking forward to it. When I was home, I wanted to be here so bad. And now that I’m here I want to be home. And not Townsville, but home. It’s this constant feeling of being torn, of feeling like I don’t quite belong anywhere. I don’t know how to fix it, but maybe our road trip will help me work it out. Then I’ll see you soon.
His response is short, but it sends an odd little flutter through my belly. I can’t wait to see you, Jamie.
I’m up before dawn the next morning, stepping out into the quadrant as Sergeant Marsh comes towards me, suited up and ready to finish today’s final task. The sun is yet to hit the horizon, but it’s not far off. Pale blue and gold start to colour the sky. “You good to go?”
I heft my pack over my shoulders. The heavy weight of it presses me into the ground. I’m careful to keep the struggle from my expression. I don’t want special treatment. There’s still a huge percentage of male soldiers who resent us, but my team accepts me. “All good.”
Our convoy arrives in Kandahar over an hour later. The city is the second largest in the country, the population a little over five hundred thousand. There’s been recent bombings in the city outskirts.
My rifle is at the ready as we get out and walk, my eyes skimming every nook for injured civilians. My arms ache from holding it as an hour turns into another. From my peripheral vision, I see a figure running and turn my head. It’s a child. A young boy. There’s something familiar about him. My pulse kicks up a notch. His clothing is worn and dirty and splattered with blood.
“Arash?” I call out.
Connor turns and slams a hand in my chest. “Shut the fuck up, Murphy.”
Shit. I step around him and start moving forward, keeping low. “Arash?”
“Corporal Murphy! Get your ass back here,” Connor growls as I move off in the child’s direction.
“Just give me a minute,” I call back, moving forward, my eyes on the little boy as he picks up his pace, dust kicking out behind him.
“Goddammit,” I hear Connor yell, but I don’t stop.
“Arash!” I call again, starting to run, chasing him down.
I’m getting close, passing an open alleyway when I’m grabbed from behind.
“Hey!” It’s a group of local Taliban, turbans wrapped around their heads and guns in hand. They’re holding American M9 Berettas. I slam the butt of my rifle into the nearest face and another rips it from my grasp.
A hand slaps over my mouth, and I’m dragged backwards by two solid men. They each have an arm, their fingers digging in hard enough to bruise. Sonofabitch. The kid was a decoy. How could I have been so stupid? My team was right. Searching for Arash took up too much space in my head, leaving me careless.
Using their grip as leverage, I lift up and kick out to my right. The Taliban soldier drops to his knees, his hand loosening. I turn, swinging hard, and my fist cracks into the face of my second attacker. He lets go, cursing in Pashto, the local language in Kandahar.
I start running towards the opening of the alley when my bun is grabbed from behind by a third soldier. Tears spring free at the sudden pain. I’m yanked backwards so hard I land on my ass. I grapple with the man, but he’s yanking me so fast my feet can’t gain purchase. The pins fall and my hair spills down. He grabs another handful, pulling me with both hands, dragging me along the ground.
“Let me go, you goddamn asshole!” I shout, twisting, reaching out behind me and clawing at his hands.
Shots fire from the alley. It’s Connor. The rest of my team would be close behind him, cursing my idiocy. Bullets rain down, and one soldier jerks in a dance as blood sprays outward. He drops to the ground. Dead.
“Murphy!” Connor shouts.
I’m lifted up and tossed into the bed of a dirty, old pickup truck. Two soldiers jump in behind me, firing back as the vehicle accelerates with a wild lurch. I kick out, knocking one of them clean out of the truck. He lands in the dirt, stunned for a minute, before he gets up and jogs after us. The other soldier pins my arms down from behind as he leaps back in, landing right on top of me. His knees punch into my stomach and I grunt. “You’ll pay for that, you little bitch,” he growls in English as we pick up speed.
His fist slams into my head with a crack. Pain erupts, stars exploding as my vision blurs, blood filling my eye. The metallic stench is thick and vile, bringing back memories of crunched metal and shattering glass. I barely take another breath before he comes at me again, punching me in the jaw. I’m hit again and again. A rib fractures, and I wheeze in agony, my head lolling to the side.
I swallow, gasping. I won’t go out like this. I won’t.
My knee jerks up, catching him in the crotch. He hisses, pulling away, and I use the diversion to kick him in the face. His head snaps sideways and he snarls, leaping on me again.
“Bitch!” he shrieks and flicks open a short, sharp blade. He jabs it into my shoulder.
Fire explodes and I cry out. He yanks it free and jabs again. And again. I scream and lift my head, biting his shoulder clean through his shirt. Blood fills my mouth, tangy and vile. My belly heaves, but I don’t let go.
My head is ripped back by the soldier behind me, his fist tearing the hair from my scalp. He presses a gun to my temple and I still immediately, the only sound my heavy breathing and the jarring engine of the truck. The metal is cool and hard against my skin. “Move and you die.”
The soldier above me slices through the fastenings of my armour and rips it free, tossing it over the side of the moving truck. He starts on my shirt next, yanking through the buttons, tearing the tee shirt underneath. Air hits my exposed chest, blood pooling into my neck and over my white sports bra.
My breath comes in gasps, panic setting in. I squeeze my eyes shut, gagging on blood and bile. He grabs at my breasts with his free hand, sliding beneath the fabric and pinching the soft flesh with a sickening grin.
I can survive this, I tell myself. But I’m not going to sit back and take it.
I open my eyes, taking deep breaths as the soldier above me claws at my belt, clumsy in his haste. He gets it open and unzips my pants, snarling as he looks up at me. His eyes are dark. Angry. He’s not doing this for fun. This isn’t pleasure. This is degradation. A lesson. He yanks them down, the knife in his hand nicking my belly and thighs as my underwear is exposed.
The truck jerks to a stop behind an old quala as he pulls himself free of his pants. I force myself to remain calm as he leans up over me, the gun still pressed to my forehead as he yanks my underwear to the side.
My nostrils flare as I glare hard into his eyes. “Go to hell, you ugly sonofabitch.”
I punch upwards with my legs, using every bit of strength I have. The soldier above me slams forward, crashing into the one behind me. His knee smashes into my nose and blood spurts down my face. There’s a tangle of legs and arms as I scramble to my hands and knees, swiping blood from my face so I can see.
The soldier who held me down still has the gun. I grab for it but he won’t let go. I slam his arm into the side of the truck, once, twice. It drops to the floor of the bed, and I snatch it up, slipping in a pool of blood.
A guttural growl wrenches from deep inside as I turn, firing at point blank range. The first soldier goes down. And the second. The driver is already out of the truck, gun out and running low around the front of the hood.
He fires off a shot through the front windscreen. The bullet goes right through the back windscreen. I’m already ducking down as glass sprays outward, splintering my face and chest.
I rise up fast, returning fire. The first bullet catches him in the leg and he stumbles. I adjust my aim. The second catches him in the head, blood and bone shattering as he drops.
“Murphy!” The shout is long and loud. I turn. It’s Connor. He’s running straight for me, an expression of horror on
his face.
I stumble in the bed of the truck, the gun falling from my fingers. I blink through the blood in my eyes, swiping it away with the back of my hand.
I need to pull myself together.
I need to …
He reaches me before the rest of the team, leaping up onto the truck like an Olympic vaulter. “Jesus.” His voice is shaky, his eyes darting over me, from the stab wounds in my shoulder and down to the bloodied nicks in my flesh and exposed underwear. “Murphy.”
“I’m fine. Just …” I grasp my pants, pulling them up from where they hang half down my hips. My fingers slip on the zipper. “Help me,” I whimper. “I don’t want them to see. I don’t want …”
“I got you.” Connor steps in close and slides the zipper up swiftly, fastening my button and belt. “You’re okay,” he says in a reassuring tone.
“I’m okay,” I repeat, clasping my shirt together as he fixes me up, covering the wounds on my shoulder. There’s nothing more I can do. The buttons are gone. “Don’t tell anyone, Connor.”
He pauses, looking at me. “They’re going to see.”
I swallow. “Not how bad.”
“Did they rape you?”
“N-n-no.” Dammit. I swallow, pushing everything down inside. “No,” I say in a firmer tone.
“Murphy?” I peek around Connor. It’s Sergeant Marsh and the rest of the team, breathless, slowing from a jog as they reach us. The team spreads out, scoping the area, checking the downed soldier and the two sprawled behind me, both of them piled on top of each other.
“I’m fine, sir. A minor scuffle.” Connor tries to help me down from the back of the truck, and I nudge him away, sweat breaking across my brow as I climb down myself.
Marsh takes me in. “I’m calling in a medevac.”
“No! I’m good. Just get me back to camp. I can fix myself up.”
“Your shirt is covered in blood, Corporal Murphy.”
“It’s not all mine.” His expression remains unconvinced, but I’m not going back on a Hawk. I’m not leaving my team for something that wouldn’t have happened had I been male. The lone female playing soldier tucks tail and runs back to base the minute she gets hurt? It’s not happening. “It’s not, Sergeant,” I reiterate, forcing myself to meet his eyes. “It’s just a couple of punches and a torn shirt. It looks worse than it is. I just need some ice for my face.”
Sitting in the truck on the convoy back to camp is a welcome relief. Connor sits in the back with me, handing me gauze for my shoulder. I slide it inside my shirt, pressing down hard, my stomach rolling over with a queasy thump.
Marsh orders me to get cleaned up when we return. “Connor, go help her.”
Once in my room, I push my shirt over my shoulder, inspecting the wounds in the small cosmetics mirror I keep in my bag. They’re small and shallow. The worst concern is infection. “Bring me my first aid kit.” Connor pulls it from my pack and hands it over. “Can you get me a wet cloth?”
He ducks out of my room, and I whip off my torn shirt, lightheaded from the pain. The cuts on my belly, hip, and thighs, need nothing more than a bit of antiseptic and some butterfly tape. I quickly wrap a towel around myself and sit on the bed, pulling out everything I need.
Connor returns, shutting the door behind him. He walks over and crouches in front of me, the damp cloth in his hands. “What can I do?”
My lower jaw trembles. “Don’t be soft me with me, Connor.”
He nods. “Okay.”
“I need you to stitch up my shoulder.”
Connor’s eyes widen a fraction. “Are you insane?”
“Do I look insane?”
“Maybe a little. Murphy, I’ve never done this before.”
“It’s easy.” I swallow the thick bile in my mouth. “I’ll walk you through it.”
I instruct him through cleaning the wound, the anaesthetic injection, and each stitch, watching him pull the needle through my skin. It’s not neat, but it’s not a complete mess either. I probably could have done it myself, but I’m not freaking Rambo—alone and in the damn mountains.
He finishes by covering them up with waterproof gauze so I can shower, his breathing a little shaky as he straightens. “I need a drink.”
A laugh bursts out of me, the sound a little hysterical. “What I wouldn’t give for a shot of whiskey right now.”
“Or a bottle,” he mutters as I stand, fighting back a wave of dizziness. He’s looking me over like he wants to cry. “You’re a fucking mess, Murphy.”
He brushes his palm down the side of my face, and I wince. His touch is gentle, and it has me fighting back tears at the pain it evokes. I’m holding on by my fingernails right now. “Bruises fade.”
“Only the ones on the outside.”
I lift my trembling chin. “You can go now, Connor.”
He hesitates.
“I’m fine.”
He shakes his head. “You’re not fine.”
I swallow. “Maybe I’m not, but I will be. Okay?”
Connor exhales deeply, his eyes searching mine before he turns and leaves, shutting the door quietly behind him.
Camp is subdued over the next two days. My body aches everywhere. My face swells up like a balloon, both eyes almost closed from the hit I took to my nose. My fractured ribs are taped, and my body is mottled with deep, dark bruises. It hurts to get dressed, and Connor sneaks into my room each morning to plait and pin my hair for me before I can attempt it myself. “I have two little sisters,” he tells me in a light-hearted tone. “I have so much practice I could even put your hair in a French twist if you wanted. But if you tell that to anyone in the team, I’ll take you out while you’re sleeping.”
I find myself staring down every soldier who looks at me a little too long with pity on their face. Most of them show respect, but there are a few with irritated expressions. We were warned about what happened to females over here. The requirement to be extra vigilant. Our brief training in Kuwait before my first deployment included a lecture on female assault. It happens. But it happens everywhere, right? I was trained for it. I dealt with it. I’m not crying on their shoulders. Isn’t that enough?
I’m fatigued when our convoy returns to Bagram Airbase. I’m placed on immediate medical leave, and after a briefing my commander advises the incident isn’t significant enough to report. He slaps my file on his desk. “You’re going home in two days.”
“Sir, I’ve obtained permission to fly direct to Perth.”
I won’t have to fly back to Townsville first.
He nods. “Godspeed, Corporal Murphy. You’re dismissed.”
My ribs scream as I lift my arm, snapping off a sharp salute. I return to my bunk and start packing, putting my phone on the charger. It died while I was gone.
Lying down on my bed, I switch it back on to a flood of messages from Erin and Wood. Most are simple updates about what they’re doing because they know I’ve been off base. It’s hard to read about normal life when mine’s been anything but, though I get through them. There’s a few messages from Kyle too, but his are different. They’re a little more personal.
I send off replies to all three, letting them know I’m back on base. I add another just for Kyle, sending him the link to my flight information.
Little Warrior: My flight details have changed. Can you pick me up from the airport?
His reply comes in an hour later.
Bear: You’re coming two days early?
Little Warrior: I’m coming straight in, not diverting to Townsville. But I won’t have my stuff for our road trip.
Bear: We can just buy what you need here before we leave. Is everything okay? How was camp?
Little Warrior: Camp was fine.
Bear: Jamie?
Little Warrior: Yeah?
Bear: I miss you.
My eyes well up and my face scrunches, flooding my entire body with pain. I curl into a ball on my bed, shuddering as I hold the sobs at bay. I need to hold on. Just a little longer
.
Little Warrior: I miss you too.
He takes his time replying, the bubbled dots appearing and disappearing for at least two minutes.
Bear: Hurry home, okay?
I close my eyes, hugging the phone to my chest, and I fall asleep.
27
JAMIE
Four days later…
My legs ache from lack of use as I walk from the plane and up the narrow ramp. I’m tired of travelling, but the flight attendants took one look at my battered face and army uniform when I boarded and they bumped me into business class. I didn’t even get to appreciate the finger of whiskey they brought me, or the comfortable quiet surroundings, because I crashed before takeoff, sleeping the whole flight home.
I field constant stares from civilians as I step into the arrival gate, my eyes searching for Kyle. I take my time scanning the mass of people, but he’s not here. I swallow disappointment and keep my chin high as I collect my bag and walk the length of the airport, leaving through the arrivals entrance.
The doors whoosh open, and I see him then, my eyes picking him out in the crowd of people coming and going. He’s jogging towards the doors, towards me, his expression agitated as he dodges around slow-moving travellers.
My heart climbs to my throat as I take him in, every part of him so wonderfully familiar. He’s dressed in civilian attire of white cotton tee shirt, dark jeans, and boots. He’s always bigger than I remember. So much larger than life. His eyes are searching for me in the leaving passengers, the hazel in them illuminated by the orange glow of the setting sun. The line of his jaw is stubbled from a weekend of free time, and his hair needs a cut. There’s a slight curl to the ends, their colour golden from time spent outdoors.
My jaw trembles and I mash my lips together, starting towards him. I know the moment he sees me. His step falters until he comes to a stop. “Jamie?”
I swallow a sob. “Kyle.”
People flow around him as he stills, his eyes raking over me. “What …” He trails off, his expression horrified. I keep moving, blinking wildly as I reach his side.
Fighting Absolution Page 27
