War Torn (30 page)

‘Well, you do, don’t you?’

‘Er . . . er . . .’ And it gave him great pleasure to hear her laugh again.

‘I thought so,’ she said, drawing on her cigarette. ‘I’m trying to give up. But an FOB where everyone smokes may not be the right place. Although Jean says there’s never a right place to give up.’

‘You seem very good friends with Jean.’

‘Yup,’ she said, throwing down her cigarette stub and stamping on it fiercely. They were in the darkest part of the camp now and, although their eyes were accustomed to the night, they could barely see each other. But Weeks could sense her. He could sense the warmth of her body. As well as, regrettably, the smell of the extinguished cigarette.

‘Listen, it’s obvious you’re not keen on Jean. But you don’t know her.’

He was silent.

‘She takes her job seriously and she gets pissed off here. We both do. We’re used as interpreters at this FOB but we’re trained to do a lot more. Jean’s Royal Military Police. That’s what she joined up to do. She didn’t join up to interpret for engineers who want to talk about fucking wall-building.’

‘But,’ said Weeks, ‘without her interpretation the school wall would never get built.’

‘She thinks it’s a waste of her skills because a local Afghan interpreter could handle it. And you want to know something, Gordon? She’s right.’

‘What about you? Do you feel your skills are wasted?’

‘I could be doing a lot more at Bastion. Listening to intelligence,
helping piece it altogether, getting something useful done.’

‘So why have you both been sent here?’ asked Weeks.

‘Because of the civilians. It’s part of the contract that top-level interpreters are on hand for them.’

‘Top level, eh?’

They had completed a circuit now and their faces picked up the light from some of the brighter tents and reflected it. She was ridiculously beautiful. He could not understand how she could stroll around the hesco without a line of panting men behind her. Except that she was so skilled at freezing people out. The only man he’d seen her respond to warmly was the tribesman at the
shura
, the one with the moviestar looks. When he thought of the way Asma had talked to that man he felt a stab of something which might have been anger. Although it was probably jealousy.

She was smiling now. ‘Yeah, top level, that’s us. Which means we speak Pashtu and our English is a lot better than the locals’.’ She giggled, adding: ‘Innit?’

So she had detected how irritating he found
innit.
Weeks smiled too.

They walked on towards the darkness. Overhead the Afghan night was a canopy of stars. The constellations were the same as at home, of course, but they stood out less here because they were saturated by thousands more.

‘Oooh, it’s so fucking beautiful!’ said Asma.

Weeks thought that her English may be better than the locals’ but it still left a lot to be desired.

He took a deep breath.

‘Is that why your friend Jean gets so hot under the collar about one half-dead Taliban fighter in a ditch? Because she’s looking for police work?’

‘Well,’ said Asma, ‘yeah. But she’s right. You should keep gripping your blokes about the RoE.’

‘But she’s gripping an exceptionally good sergeant. It does nothing for morale when someone so respected gets a public dressing-down.’

‘That geezer they shot would probably still be alive today if, say, 2 Platoon had found him. Sergeant Somers is a bit different from Sergeant Henley.’

Since arriving in Afghanistan everything the boss thought he knew or understood had been challenged. But in this strange, new world, there had been one rock-solid certainty. And that was Dave Henley. Of course, he was the boss and Dave was the sergeant. But they both knew that Dave was in charge. Dave handled the men when he could not. And thanks to him they had escaped serious harm on more than one occasion. Weeks had felt the foundations of his world crack in a few places but he could not allow any cracks in the foundation that was Dave.

He said stiffly: ‘Over the weeks I have known him I have learned to respect him and trust his judgement totally.’

‘He just might be a bit weak on the RoE,’ said Asma.

‘He is both an exceptional sergeant and a good man,’ the boss insisted. ‘The Rules of Engagement are very hard for soldiers on the ground to apply when their lives are in danger during a contact. We tell them this isn’t a war. But it’s difficult for them to understand why we’re here.’

‘So why are we here?’

He stopped walking in surprise.

‘To support the reconstruction of Afghanistan by encouraging democracy and keeping the Taliban at bay.’

She swung round to look at him in the dark.

‘If you learn Pashtu for the rest of your life,’ she said, ‘you’ll never do more than talk bollocks in two languages. You’ll never, ever understand this place and neither will any of the fucking politicians who sent us here.’

‘But . . . well . . . then . . . what are you doing? Working with the British Army?’

She hung her head.

‘I don’t know sometimes.’

He waited for her to speak. His heart was thumping. What was she trying to tell him? That she was a security risk?

‘I’m going to have another cigarette,’ she announced rebelliously.

‘So that would be four today?’

‘Yeah.’

She lit up and held the cigarette lightly between her long fingers and began to walk again, inhaling deeply.

‘Asma,’ he said, when they were in the dark part of the camp once more. ‘What are you saying to me?’

‘The ambush today . . .’

‘It was quite a contact.’

‘I was scared.’

‘So was I,’ he admitted.

‘Gordon, I think I killed a bloke.’ Her voice was small.

‘Are you sure?’

‘No. That black kid in your platoon was firing at him too but he was all over the place. I think my round brought the geezer down.’

‘You didn’t have to fire at all. If you remember, I told you that—’

‘Oh, give over, Gordon.’

She was right. Give over, Gordon. Here she was, confiding in him, and all he could do was remind her of the rules.

‘Actually,’ he said, more quietly, ‘I’m almost certain I killed someone today, too. And it was the first time for me as well. Since we were fighting for our lives I didn’t think about it then. I have since, though.’

‘You get back to base and think: I killed the enemy. But all I can think is: shit! I killed my Moslem brother.’

This relationship was getting more complicated every time he spoke to her. Not just a smoker. Not just from Hackney. Not just a lot of
innit.
Not just a girl who swore like a trooper. But also a Moslem.

He said awkwardly: ‘So . . . are you a practising Moslem?’

‘I was brought up Moslem, of course. Then we came to England and the longer we stayed here the more it sort of peeled off. Like paint. And when I left my family I thought I’d peeled it away completely. The army wanted me because of my Pashtu and I never even thought twice about why. Not till we went to that
shura
. . .’

It hadn’t been the
shura
that reminded Asma of her Moslem roots, he thought. It was that man with the startling blue eyes. He’d talked to her intensely in Pashtu. She’d claimed they were discussing the school wall but Weeks had been sure they were having a much more significant conversation. Because why would the school wall have made her blush?

‘So,’ he said. ‘You were radicalized at the
shura.
’

She laughed.

‘Now you’re going too far, Gordon. Radicalized, for God’s sake! They weren’t pro-Taliban. But they were pro-Afghanistan and probably they support the idea of a new country called Pashtunistan. Either way, they were asking themselves what we’re doing on their soil.’

‘What exactly did the tribesman say?’

‘It’s nothing anyone said. It’s just the way they think. I recognized it because the dad was a bit like my dad. See, it’s complicated being Pashtun. There’s all the hospitality and the right words and the pride and honour. But if anyone gets it wrong, you’ve got to get angry, and it’s really fucking awful anger. After that you’ve got no choice, revenge is next, whether you want to or not. The
shura
took me right back to all that.’

The passion in her face and voice fascinated him. He just wanted to watch her but he made himself reply.

‘That’s very interesting, Asma. But what do their complications have to do with us? They don’t want the Taliban here and neither do we. It’s simple.’

‘No, no, Gordon, you don’t understand, that’s the fucking problem. If we’re going to fight here, we need a straightforward reason. Good guys and bad guys. But when I talked to the tribesmen I remembered how Pashtuns aren’t straightforward. We can’t just come here thinking we’ll slot our world into theirs. It won’t work. Can’t you see that?’

‘I can see it would give you doubts about your work here.’

‘I can live with doubts,’ she said, reaching for her pack of cigarettes, taking one out, tapping it on the lid and then slowly putting it away again. ‘I’m happy to think I’m out here saving soldiers’ lives when I listen to the enemy on their cellphones. I’m pleased to turn into a fucking diplomat at meetings with the locals. That’s all sweet, Gordon, I like it. But when I actually kill a bloke, then doubts start buzzing around inside my head.’

He reached for her hand in the dark. She looked around at him in such surprise that he squeezed her fingers and rapidly let go. But he felt as though the imprint of her hand remained in his. He could still feel its warmth and fragility as he said: ‘I understand what you’re saying, Asma, and I respect it.’

JENNY
’
S GARDEN WAS FILLED WITH MOTHERS AND CHILDREN
. Adi’s idea was that everyone should get together. They could have gone to the park. But Jenny, whose house was on a bend in the road and so had a larger plot than most, had offered her garden instead so that they could use the paddling pool.

She was regretting it now. It had taken hours to put blankets and cushions and toys all over the lawn, to drag out the paddling pool and fill it and to lay out food in the kitchen with paper plates. And now she was running around with mugs of tea and cups of juice.

The other mothers sat on the blankets and chatted. There was Adi and all her children, Agnieszka and Luke, Leanne with the twins, Sharon Kirk and Rosie McKinley whose husbands were in 2 Section and who had five red-haired kids between them, a couple of 3 Platoon wives . . . the door bell rang again. It was Tiff Curtis, whose husband was commander of 3 Section.

‘Sorry I’m late, Jenny, we do Shake and Shout on a Tuesday.’ Her little girl clung to her arm.

‘I do Shake and Shout all day every day,’ Jenny said cheerfully, leading them through to the garden, trying not to notice the way Tiff, as she passed the living room, gave it one of those appraising stares. There were only so many things you could do with a married quarters living room but everyone always wanted to see anyway.

‘You’re huge, when are you due?’

‘Another six weeks.’

As soon as Tiff’s little girl saw so many other children, she put her thumb in her mouth.

‘Oooh, look at the paddling pool!’ Tiff said. ‘And all the toys!’

The little girl immediately hid behind her mother.

Adi called a welcome and Jenny returned to the kitchen to finish making more tea. Tiff sat down on the blanket with the other mothers and put her daughter on her lap.

Jenny washed mugs and wished someone would give her a hand. Agnieszka was the only mother who was not busy with small children. She could have offered to help. Luke, who seemed to have two states of being, asleep and screaming, was thankfully asleep. So Agnieszka was doing nothing. She sat on the blanket, leaning on one arm, her long legs stretched out to the side like a mermaid.