War Torn (23 page)

‘You haven’t been doing it for five minutes,’ she said gently. ‘When did you pass out of Sandhurst?’

‘Just before I came here.’

‘There you are then!’

He tried not to notice the way she held her knife and fork. ‘I think I manage pretty well in theatre. I’ve been trained for that. But when I’m here at the base doing everyday things, trying to communicate . . . I’ve just given the men orders for tomorrow and . . . well I’ve never been much of a public speaker. If it wasn’t for the sergeant yelling at them, I’d lose control.’

‘But you’re OK when you’re out there fighting?’

He nodded. ‘So far.’ He felt himself blushing again.

‘Better to be that way round. I’m on patrol with you tomorrow and I’d rather be with a platoon commander who can lead against the Taliban than someone who knows how to deliver an after-dinner speech.’

‘I wish I could do both,’ he said quietly.

‘I’ll bet, when you stand in front of the boys, you’re too busy thinking about all the differences between you and them. See what I mean?’

He shook his head. She was mesmerizing. It was hard to listen to a word she said when he just wanted to study her lovely face. The skin on her cheeks was supernaturally smooth and soft. Did women in FOBs get up in the morning and put on their makeup? Or did she just look this way without even trying?’

‘See, you’re different,’ she continued. ‘You can’t imagine their lives back home, and they can’t imagine yours. No way. But when you’re fighting, you’re united. There aren’t any differences; it’s you against the enemy. So it’s easier to communicate then, innit?’

He thought about this and decided she was right. He was just about to tell her so when her friend Jean sat down beside them.

Weeks gritted his teeth. Not just because he was enjoying these
uninterrupted moments with Asma but because he’d begun to dislike the policewoman. He knew his men avoided the RMPs like the plague. Boss Weeks had been brought up to believe only those with something to hide avoided the police, and he had nothing to hide. Yet he’d also found himself avoiding the sharp-faced, sharp-eyed Jean.

She smiled at him. ‘
As salaam alai kum.
’

‘Good evening,’ he replied.

‘I’ve had an informal chat with the Officer Commanding about that incident in the Green Zone . . .’

Weeks looked at her gloomily. ‘Which incident? There have been so many.’

For the first time he saw Asma laugh. He wasn’t sure why. But he watched with pleasure as her face changed shape, broadening to reveal a row of even teeth. He loved to hear the giggle bubbling up from inside her like a spring. From that moment, it became his private mission to make her laugh again. It was a challenging mission. He knew he was seldom funny.

Jean Patterson did not laugh.

‘The only incident I’m aware of took place some weeks ago when your men opened fire on a group of Taliban fighters. While their bodies were being searched, one turned out not to be dead. We’ll never know the extent of his injuries because he was then shot at point blank range.’

‘He was perceived to be dangerous. He was reaching for his weapon.’

‘The weapon should have been removed during the routine search. And apparently another soldier did remove it at once.’

‘He was killed because he was a threat,’ Weeks insisted.

‘No. He was killed because the sergeant ordered it. The soldier who was searching the insurgent quite rightly hesitated. But another soldier followed the sergeant’s order and shot the man.’

Weeks never physically brawled and seldom got into verbal arguments but he recognized the surge of adrenalin that was suddenly pumping through his body as fighting adrenalin.

He leaned forward. ‘Jean . . . may I call you Jean?’

‘Certainly, Gordon.’

‘Jean. The sergeant saw that his men were in danger because they
were in intimate contact with a member of the Taliban. That man may have been feigning death while perfectly healthy. What would you have done under the circumstances?’

Jean leaned forward too. ‘Gordon. Since the man was lying wounded in a ditch, I’d have treated him as a casualty.’

‘Jean. He was a Taliban fighter. There can be no question about that, he was fully armed. Of course he had to be dealt with like any other armed insurgent.’

‘He may have been an insurgent but he was also a member of the human race. He—’

‘Jean—’

‘Gordon!’

Weeks was aware of the delightful Asma laughing at them both. He did not allow himself the pleasure of looking at her. He supposed they were comical, but he was so angry now he did not care.

Jean raised her voice. ‘The man was no longer armed and he was wounded. He required medical treatment.’

‘How do you know? My men certainly fired on him, and his comrades were certainly killed. But he might have been unhurt and feigning death. It is, after all, a common enemy tactic.’

‘Your men have all described him as wounded.’

‘My men aren’t doctors and are not trained to spot the difference between someone who is wounded and someone who is pretending. And do you know what order, precisely, the sergeant gave to shoot him?’

Jean nodded confidently. ‘He said: “Get on with it.”’

‘I’m not familiar with that order. Are you?’

Jean sighed.

‘In fact,’ the boss went on, pressing home his advantage, ‘I don’t remember ever hearing that order before. I don’t think I learned it at Sandhurst. So I’m surprised you recognize those words as an order to kill.’

Jean leaned back in her seat. There were red circles in her white cheeks.

‘His men knew what he meant.’

‘Have you asked Dave Henley what he meant?’

‘Sergeant Henley has a reputation,’ Jean said. ‘He’s considered a
very tough and no-nonsense sort of sergeant who might not tolerate legitimate hesitation on human rights grounds by one of his soldiers.’

‘Sergeant Henley is considered an outstanding NCO precisely because he’s tough and no-nonsense,’ Weeks snapped, ‘and this is the best protection for his men after body armour.’ Her accusation made his heart pump faster, dispersing anger through his body. ‘He has a humane and compassionate side which does him great credit. Before you make any assumptions or accusations you should ask him what he meant by those words.’

‘It isn’t appropriate for me to ask him because this is not yet a formal investigation. But I’m not going to let this one get swept under the carpet. I expect someone in his unit to question him very closely.’

‘And so we will,’ Weeks said. He believed he’d won this skirmish and it was therefore better to stop the battle.

He glanced over at Asma at last. Incredibly, for a few minutes he had actually forgotten she was there. Now he felt happy to see her again, as though she had just walked in. He remembered that she had said she would be out on patrol with him tomorrow. When he looked more closely, he was surprised at the expression on her face. It was something like admiration.

‘
NOW THEN, THIS SHOULD DO IT . . .’ DARREL CROUCHED DOWN
beside the television. ‘And if it doesn’t, I’ve got another idea.’

Agnieszka set his coffee on the table and then knelt down to watch him. The baby lay on the floor nearby. Luke liked that. He liked just lying there, staring up at the ceiling, rearranging himself from time to time. When the atmosphere was tranquil he became tranquil too.

‘How you know what to do?’ Agnieszka stared at the nest of wires and the way he flicked through the buttons and settings on the machine.

He looked up and gave her a quick grin. His eye was caught by a picture behind her, the large one at the back of the room. Jamie was in uniform and smiling, his eyes shining as he looked over the camera as though a mountain was looming right there behind the photographer and he was about to climb it. Agnieszka loved that picture. Steve Buckle had taken it when the platoon was training in Kenya. She had enlarged it and then bought a nice frame.

Darrel gazed at the photo for a few moments longer than politeness demanded. Then he turned back to his wires and answered her question.

‘I’ve always been good with this sort of stuff. When I was a kid I used to take things apart to see how they worked. And my dad always made me put them back together again myself, he wouldn’t help me. Sometimes I hated him. But it meant I learned a lot.’

She watched him work. Now she knew his face better she could
see that he was handsome. The first time she had met him she had liked his smile but found him ordinary enough. Since then the tapering lines of his face had pleased her more and more.

It occurred to her now that she could draw those clean lines. On impulse she fetched her sketch pad. It was at the back of a cupboard where, despite Jamie’s encouragement, she barely looked at it these days. She settled on the sofa sketching his dark features as he bent over in concentration. He was older than Jamie and that made his lines deeper and stronger. Jamie was certainly good-looking but his face still had youthful curves which reminded you of the boy he’d been until a few years ago. Whereas Darrel was more of a man.

Luke, on the rug, murmured sometimes to himself. Otherwise the room was quiet except for the scratching of her pencil strokes. Darrel did not know she was drawing him until he looked up. He stared at the pad.

‘Show me!’

‘When it finished. You please continue.’

‘But I have finished. Look.’

He retreated to the armchair where Jamie usually sat, pressed some buttons on the remote and the TV sprang into life, its picture clear. He turned down the sound and then zapped through the silent channels to prove that he could.

Agnieszka was delighted. She watched the pictures rushing past with a smile on her face. That game show was here again, the one where you watched the faces of people who had won a million, or won it and then lost it all. And then that channel was gone, replaced by leopards on a wildlife programme which gave way to a splinter of a soap opera with sulking, angry faces, which was rapidly replaced by a serious newscaster who turned suddenly into a football match. The whole world, in its infinite variety, was galloping past as Darrel zapped his way through the channels. Agnieszka thought: That’s how my life feels. As if the whole wide, colourful world out there rushes by while I sit here alone in Wiltshire.

The picture disappeared altogether and Darrel turned to her.

‘Oh, Darrel, that very clever what you done!’

‘You can tell me I’m clever if it’s still working next week.’ He
looked pleased. ‘I’ll phone you to check. Now let’s see what you’re drawing.’

She sighed. ‘I only start five minutes ago . . .’

But he was delighted with her sketch. He looked carefully at every line and then held it at arm’s length. He told her how good it was until she went pink with pleasure.

‘Please, take this home with you. Maybe your wife like it also.’

She’d seen his wedding ring, of course. She’d noticed it the first time she met him at the garage. They’d met at the superstore, then he’d come to the house to diagnose the problem with the TV and she’d given him a cup of tea and they’d talked. He’d said she needed some gadget and now here he was installing it. That was three, no four meetings. And he’d never once mentioned his wife. Today was Saturday. Didn’t she ask him where he went? This thought filled Agnieszka with apprehension. She wasn’t sure why.

‘My wife won’t like this picture.’ He smiled at her. ‘Because it looks just like me.’

Agnieszka blinked at him.

‘I’m separated.’

‘Long time ago?’

‘No.’

‘Since when?’

‘Since I had that cup of coffee with you.’

‘But that was only . . .’

‘A month ago.’

‘You just separate!’