by Ed James
‘We’re sitting ducks here.’ Hunter stomped back up and grabbed Mowat’s jacket. The little bastard wasn’t budging. ‘We’re moving out, NOW.’ Another tug then he started running downhill. He raced towards Terry and cut to the other side of the entrance, spinning round to face back up the way, his SA80 pointing up and ready to fire. All one movement. Like he’d been trained to do. Like he knew what he was doing. Like he could cope with this shit.
Mowat bombed towards them, his short legs pounding downhill, and shot between them into the hut.
Hunter shook his head at Terry and stepped inside. Half of the bottom right wall was open to whatever creatures lived here, worms of light crawling across the scrub floor towards Mowat, who was now lying in a heap, groaning.
‘Pipsqueak . . .’ Terry joined them inside as gunfire lashed the building. ‘You bleeding tit.’
Mowat pushed himself up to his feet. ‘Shut up!’ He pointed his gun at Terry. ‘Shut your face, you cockney arsehole!’
‘You what?’
Mowat lifted his rifle and pointed it at Terry. ‘I said, shut up!’
Terry raised his hands. ‘Calm down, Pips—’
‘Stop calling me that!’
‘Stop it!’ Hunter stepped between them. ‘Dave, you need to calm down, okay?’
‘How can I stay calm?’ Mowat switched his gun to focus on Hunter. ‘They’ve got rockets!’
Terry held up his hands to Mowat. ‘It’s okay. We can stay here for a bit. It’s cool.’
Mowat nodded slowly.
‘This place is safe as houses.’ Terry waved a gloved hand around the hut. ‘Been standing here since we were monkeys in the trees, I reckon.’
‘I’m not happy about this.’ Hunter pointed his rifle back out the door. ‘Like he said, they’ve got rockets and this place is falling apart.’
‘No!’ Mowat raised his rifle again. ‘I’m staying!’
Hunter tapped the wall with the butt of his rifle. ‘One lucky strike and this is coming down.’
Terry sucked in air and peered through the hole. Then back in with a grim look on his face. ‘He’s right, mate.’
Mowat’s breathing sped up. ‘I’m staying.’
‘Dave, we need to move out.’ Terry waved down the hill. ‘The path at the bottom of the slope will take us into Lashkar Gah. We’ll be okay from there.’
‘I’m not going. Send a chopper to pick me up.’
Terry looked lost, his barrow-boy cool missing in action. He frowned at Hunter. ‘Craig?’
Ranking soldier here, got to show leadership.
Hunter locked eyes with Terry, then Mowat. ‘We’re moving out. No man left behind.’
Mowat threw his rifle on the floor. ‘Piss off.’
‘Dave.’ Hunter settled into a crouch. ‘We need to—’
BOOOM!
The ground shook. Hunter tumbled over, landing face first on the scrub. Dirt covered his teeth. He spat it out and rubbed his tongue against his sleeve. Then he got to his feet and huffed out more dirt. ‘No questions. We’re moving out.’
Mowat eased himself up to standing, shaking his head like he wanted to be back in his mummy’s arms.
Didn’t we all?.
Terry leaned against the wall, surveying the ground outside. ‘Looks clear this way.’ He waved off to the right. ‘The rocket came from over there.’ He followed the trajectory to the bottom of the valley. ‘Those rocks will give us cover when we’re on the path.’
Hunter swung round to Mowat. ‘You hear that? One last push and we’re safe.’
Mowat nodded slowly. ‘Okay.’
‘On three.’ Terry counted on his thumb. Then his forefinger. Then his middle finger. ‘Go.’ He clambered through the hole in the wall and hurtled down the hill, dust billowing up behind him.
Hunter climbed through the gap and jabbed a finger at Mowat. ‘Go!’ He ran down the hill. Much steeper than it looked. He tripped and pushed himself up into a run, unable to do anything but keep going. It levelled out to a shallow bank near the bottom, where he almost clattered into Terry.
WOOOSH!
A gust streaked across the sky from the left.
BOOM!
Pebbles and boulders scattered down the hill. Hunter covered his face and waited for everything to settle. When it was just dust falling, he pulled his arm away and scanned around the path.
Terry kicked away a pile of stones and picked up his rifle. ‘You okay, mate?’
‘I’m fine. Where’s—’
An SA80 skittered down the scrub towards them, the strap torn in half.
‘Where’s Mowat?’
Next down the hill was a standard-issue boot, blood streaking the dusty ground as it trundled to a halt.
Terry swallowed hard, his eyes shut. ‘That’s Mowat.’
‘What?’ Hunter vomited, his stomach evacuating his final remains of hope. A half-digested sausage lay in amongst the carrots and bile. ‘Where is he?’
‘He’s gone, mate.’ Terry clapped his arm. ‘Come on. We’ll have a squad of Taliban on us before we know it.’
Hunter grabbed Terry’s fatigues. ‘You’re not listening to me! Where did—’
* * *
The office could’ve been anywhere. Painted concrete blocks, covered almost floor to ceiling by aluminium filing cabinets. The only window was open wide to encourage some air flow, a pitiable attempt against the oppressive force of the Afghan heat. At the centre of the room stood a giant desk the size of a family car, neatly ordered by a series of three trays. No computer, just a phone. Cutlery clattered as Captain William Morecambe tucked into a fry-up. A full plate of meat; four sausages, six rashers of bacon, tomato, fried bread, two eggs. The aroma coiled round Hunter’s nose, the sweet burnt smell of the bacon making his eyes water.
Morecambe nibbled at the bottom of his hare lip, then reached up to flatten his moustache, some habitual attempt to cover the cleft palate. With a quick flick of the knife he sliced off some tomato and speared it with a doubled-over rasher of bacon. Left it hovering in front of his mouth. ‘Lance Corporal, your actions were responsible for the death of a serving member of Her Majesty’s Armed Forces.’
Hunter stared at him, long enough to show he wasn’t going to be messed with, short enough to show some respect. He flared his nostrils as he looked away. ‘My actions were responsible for the safety of myself and Corporal Terence—’
‘You lost a soldier, Lance Corporal.’ Morecambe finished chewing and stabbed his fork into another rasher.
‘My actions were responsible for—’
‘Silence.’ Morecambe cut a sausage in half lengthways, the fat dripping out. ‘Someone’s clearly trained you for a mission debrief. Repeat your pat line, over and over, until I eventually give up, right?’ He left a space.
Hunter didn’t fill it, had no intention of ever speaking again, especially to a monkey like him.
The cutlery clattered against the plate. Morecambe snapped at the Military Police armband on his arm. ‘Lance Corporal, need I remind you of my function?’
‘You’ve made that clear, sir. My actions were respons—’
‘Enough!’ Morecambe’s shout echoed round the room, until it slipped out of the crack in the window. ‘We had been investigating him. Your actions stopped the prosecution!’
Hunter scratched at the scar on his cheek. ‘What are you talking about?’
‘You got in the way of justice, Lance Corporal.’
Hunter’s mouth was dry. He reached over for his glass of water. Already drunk it. He cleared his throat. ‘I’ve no idea what you’re talking about.’
‘We had your late colleague under investigation.’
‘What for?’
‘Quit it.’ Morecambe sat back in his chair with a creak. ‘You know perfectly well what I’m talking about.’
‘I don’t.’
‘Lance Corporal, I can squeeze you until you admit to—’
‘Are you threatening me?’
Morecambe ran his ton
gue around his teeth. Seemed to find something worth chewing among his bottom-left molars. ‘Are you telling me you had no inkling of—’
‘None. I swear.’ Hunter wanted to open his shirt collar, but didn’t feel like giving the little dictator the satisfaction of appearing hot and bothered, so he left it. ‘What’s he supposed to have done?’
Morecambe waved a hand across to the door. ‘Get out of my sight.’
Hunter got to his feet and stood there. ‘My actions were responsible for—’
‘We’re watching you, Hunter.’ Morecambe went back to his breakfast, his cutlery chinking off the plate as he cut away at the fried bread. ‘Now, clear off.’
‘Sir.’ Hunter saluted him and marched over to the door. One last look at him, hamster cheeks twitching as he chewed the fried gunk. Looked like a plate of sick. The bacon smell everywhere in the room.
Hunter opened the door and left.
The corridor was baking hot, worse than Morecambe’s office. He took his hat off and clamped it under his arm, sweat trickling down his back now. That could’ve gone better.
‘He got you, too?’ Terry was sitting outside the room, head cocked, eyebrows raised.
‘He got me.’ Hunter marched off down the corridor.
Terry caught up with him by the stairwell door. ‘What did he say?’
Hunter pushed through the door and let it rattle shut behind them. ‘Tried to haul me over the coals, but I kept to the party line.’
‘Good man.’ Terry grinned. ‘Good man.’
Hunter leaned against the wall, the bare breezeblocks scratching at his uniform. ‘He said they’d been investigating him.’
Terry swallowed, his Adam’s apple bobbing up and down.
‘You know why, don’t you?’
Terry nodded. ‘A little birdie told me something.’ He rubbed his cheek. ‘Said that little bastard killed a woman in Iraq. Last tour. Local girl. And I mean girl. Fourteen.’
Hunter slumped back against the wall. ‘You serious?’
‘Deadly, mate. They found this girl’s body, didn’t know it was him who did it. Now someone can place him at the scene. Turns out he shot her when he was pissed.’
‘He killed someone?’
‘So they say. He did go for his gun in a heartbeat, though. We both saw that.’
‘So why was he still on duty?’
‘You know what they’re like.’ Terry thumbed behind him. ‘Most of what the monkeys get up to is political. If he’d done that back home, he’d be locked up. Out here? They’ll cover over anything they can.’
NINETEEN
Chantal
‘—killed a girl?!’ Hunter jolted forward, almost cracking his head off the seat in front.
What the hell?
Chantal stuffed her Kindle away and twisted round to face Hunter. His eyes were swivelling in his head, not focusing on anything. His breathing was out of control.
The passenger next to Chantal looked up from pretending to read his Daily Mail. ‘Is he okay?’
‘We’re fine.’ Chantal smiled at him as she clutched a hand around Hunter’s. ‘Craig, it’s okay.’
‘Where’s . . .’ Hunter was panting hard. ‘Where’s . . .’ He pinched his nose.
‘Did you have a flashback?’
They were over tall hills now. Foothills of the Pyrenees? Could even see the plane’s shadow on the green. The engine droned, the waft of bacon and coffee filling the pressurised air.
Hunter kept his silence.
‘Craig, who killed a girl?’
‘A squad mate.’ Hunter swallowed, his breathing still fast. ‘In Helmand. Private David Mowat. We were hiding in a hut and a rocket fired into it. He just blew up. Disappeared. I carried his rifle back to base. The only thing left of him was a boot. Turned out he’d . . . he’d . . .’ Tears filled his eyes.
She tightened her grip, let him focus on it. Centre around it. ‘It’s okay, Craig.’
Hunter ran a hand across his face. ‘What a bloody mess.’ He clenched his jaw tight. ‘I’d forgotten all about Dave. There was an investigation, word was he’d killed a civilian, then he got blown up before the . . . That shouldn’t happen to anyone.’
‘You poor thing . . .’
‘Christ, and I want you to commit to me?’
‘Hey, hey.’ She leaned over and kissed his lips. ‘It’s okay, Craig. You’re with me. Okay?’
‘It was so real . . .’ Hunter stared over at Daily Mail man as he sunk his gnashers into his last bite of roll. ‘Bloody bacon . . .’
‘So that’s definitely the trigger?’ She caressed his hand. ‘We’re going to get through this, okay?’
‘You don’t have to do this with me.’
‘I want to.’ She reached up and ran a hand over his stubbled head. ‘That’s two flashbacks in two days. Do you need to call Dr Gold when we land?’
‘I’m fine, Chantal. I can keep my shit together when it matters.’ Their neighbour’s ears were burning. What was going through his head? Hunter leaned over and kissed the top of her head. ‘Such a bloody mess.’
She returned the kiss. ‘I love you.’
Hunter frowned. ‘You . . .’ He couldn’t help but grin.
‘We’re fine.’ She wrapped an arm around his and leaned in close. ‘I’m here for you, Craig.’
Hunter settled back and stroked her cheek. ‘Thank you . . .’
* * *
‘Thank you, madam. Have a nice day.’ The hostess’s smile was skin deep. Hunter would probably see some poetic imagery in her features, the way he looked at the world. Maybe that soft nature was what got him through his hard experiences in the army. Glancing at the stewardess again, Chantal tried to see her through his eyes. The woman’s smile looked . . . chiselled into her face, worn thin from hundreds of repetitions a day. Doubt she meant a single one.
Chantal felt a smile of her own spread across her face. She was finding it easier to inhabit Craig’s head, finding it easier to see things his way . . . finding it easier to see a shared future.
The cockpit hissed behind them, radio chatter turned to noise. Another nod. ‘And you too, sir.’
Chantal nodded back as she gripped Hunter’s hand and stepped down the stairs. Cold air nibbled at her cheeks, wind clawing at the stubble on her bare legs. Dots of rain turned into penny-sized splodges, the sort she would have thought you only ever saw on the west coast of Scotland.
‘Sure we’ve not landed back in Edinburgh?’ Hunter wrapped his holdall around his shoulder.
Chantal reached into her bag for a cardigan and groaned. ‘Typical.’ She clanked down the steps to the bus hissing and droning at the bottom, already half-filled. The tiny airport in the distance looked an hour’s drive away . . .
She marched across the tarmac and swung inside the bus, wrestling past the old couple hogging the entrance.
Hunter dropped his bag by a pole and grabbed her hand again. ‘Glad I wore my jeans.’
‘It’s supposed to be high twenties later today.’
Hunter shrugged. ‘So I’ll get some shorts. These are too tight anyway. Might be a good excuse to get some cycling shorts.’
‘Loose bermudas, please. Jesus.’ She felt herself grimace. ‘Looks like you’ll have time for a quick workout as well. I’ve checked out the airport transport. Train’s not an option. Taxis will be mobbed. You could carry me to the hotel.’
‘Don’t worry about it.’ Hunter held onto the pole as the bus set off. ‘I’ve got a mate who lives out here. He’s giving us a lift.’
‘Who?’
‘Finlay.’
‘Sinclair?’ Chantal’s eyes bulged. ‘I thought he broke his back?’
‘Aye, he got his compo, so he retired out here. All it took was a text. He jumped at the opportunity to give us a lift.’
‘That’s kind of him, but that’s where his involvement stops, okay?’ Chantal wagged a finger at him. ‘He’s not helping on this case.’
* * *
‘Craig, come on.’
Chantal led him to the end of the queue.
Hunter stabbed a text into his phone as he walked. Then he clunked his head on the underside of the staircase. ‘Ah, you bastard.’
Chantal rubbed at his head, the stubble rasping. ‘Don’t be so hard on yourself. A lot of men your size have difficulty getting through the day.’
Can almost see the knob gag taking shape in his mind, but for once he thought better of it.
The queue ahead of them wound round the bend, then back again. A rope separated the strands of passengers as they forked to the three officers manning the Passport Control. Looked like they were double-checking every single word on the documents.
Hunter rolled his eyes at Chantal. ‘Maybe we’ll take that holiday somewhere else.’
She nodded, her fingers clutching her passport. Close to murdering someone.
Next to them, vodka and rum wafted off a stag party, all dressed in multi-coloured suits. A man in green and yellow covered in question marks pointed at his wheeled suitcase and hugged a mate. ‘Keep an eye on that, Stevie, aye?’ Sounded like he was from deepest, darkest Glasgow.
Perfect flight scheduling — two planes full of pissed-up Scots heading to a tiny bottleneck of three officers on Passport Control.
A young woman stood between the stag party and them, a frown twitching all over her face. Another stag member gave her a theatrical wink. ‘Excuse me, sweetheart, will you marry me?’
The guy who’d sat next to them on the plane was level with them in the other queue, though he’d lost his Mail somewhere between the plane and here. He shot them a lewd grin.
Chantal looked back at Hunter. ‘We’re in the wrong queue.’
‘I know.’ Hunter kicked his bag forward an inch, though it seemed to be more in hope than in actual purpose. ‘We’ve not moved for ages.’
She nodded over at them. ‘They have.’
‘Sure?’
Chantal shrugged out a huff. ‘It’s too bloody late, anyway.’
‘Wish I still had my MOD90.’
Chantal raised her eyebrows. ‘You wish you were still a soldier?’
‘Well . . .’ Hunter swallowed like something was stuck in his windpipe. ‘Being able to breeze through without all this malarkey.’
