War Torn (65 page)

‘Did you catch the Brummie accent? I’m glad I killed him, the fucking heap of traitor shit.’

Binns was starting to shake now. He stared at the bodies scattered across the floor, the faces of the men who only minutes earlier had been alive with all their thoughts, feelings, complexities and inner secrets. He had taken that away from them now, there was nothing left.

‘Get yourself together, Binman,’ Finn said sharply. ‘Come on. So you’ve killed a few blokes, we’ve got a lot more to do here.’

Binns didn’t move.

Someone came in behind him. Binns jumped nervously and turned to fire again.

‘Hey, don’t shoot me!’ Sol was surveying the bodies. ‘You’ve done some good work, Binman.’

Jack Binns wanted to say: I couldn’t run away or I’d have been killed; that’s the only reason I did it. But he remained silent.

‘This fucker’s English,’ Finn told Sol. ‘Can you believe it? I mean, I could have been at school with him.’

‘Thought you didn’t spend a lot of time at school, Finny.’

Sol bent down and searched the bag that had been slung across the man’s shoulder. He pulled out a mobile phone, a Pakistani passport and a British passport.

‘Someone’s going to be very interested in that,’ Finn said.

But Sol was already moving on.

‘Let’s go. They’re bringing in more men.’

‘Think my mate Martyn’s still here?’ asked Finn hopefully.

‘We won’t know if we don’t look.’

Sol pushed Binns roughly ahead of him.

‘Stay focused,’ he ordered. ‘Stay on the job.’

Binns stumbled forward wordlessly.

On the other side of the compound, the firing eased and stopped.

They haven’t gone, thought Mal. They’re drawing breath.

‘There are still Taliban inside this compound somewhere,’ said the boss. ‘Unless there are tunnels.’

To Mal the place suddenly seemed immense and complicated, full of corners and staircases and dark places like somewhere in a dream. At home he played computer games but this was not like those games. This was full of the sights and smells of recent occupation. A warm teapot. A cushion with an indentation where someone had been sitting. Empty cartridges. A pair of sandals by a doorway, neatly arranged.

Jamie sensed Mal’s hesitation.

‘We’ll work this side together,’ he said. Jamie was quick, quiet and methodical. He made Mal feel calm as they entered rooms stealthily, checked briefly for civilians and then attacked the nothingness with a rapid burst of fire.

Finn and the boss were moving forward too. When the boss recognized the doorway to the room where he had sat around the carpet exchanging warm pleasantries with this family, he felt a deep blush start in his chest and creep up his body to cover his face. How had it ended like this? Finn bounced ahead of him into the room and was ready to put down a burst of 5.56mm when he halted abruptly.

‘Shit, boss,’ he said.

There was the carpet Weeks recognized on the floor, the smell of sweet tea and another smell, an aromatic spice. There were the rugs on the walls. And huddled against them, a small group of civilians.

Gordon Weeks looked at the women and registered their fear. Their eyes were wide and a child hid its face against its mother. Next to them an old man stared at him. Was there accusation in those eyes? Weeks recognized the man. He had handed around tea and warm, flat bread at the meeting. He had stooped and smiled politely. Who was he? A grandfather? A servant? Suddenly Weeks was ashamed of his lack of knowledge of Afghan culture. Why hadn’t he asked Asma more, studied more?

He felt his blush deepening. His hosts, or one of them, might have proved to be a prominent Taliban leader but Weeks could not forget that he had been a guest here once and he was no longer behaving like a guest.

The boss greeted the old man in Pashtu and the man bowed his head but did not reply. And that was another thing, the boss thought. Why hadn’t he persevered with learning Pashtu?

He said in clear, slow, precise English: ‘Please stay in this room and you will be safe. There are Taliban in the house and we are trying to remove them. We are looking for information about the hostage. Then we will go and you can resume your lives.’

He knew the man could not understand. He just hoped his tone was reassuring. But the old man continued to stare at him with accusation in his eyes and Weeks guessed that he was being held responsible for the death of Asad.

‘I didn’t kill him,’ he said to the man, who stared back un-comprehendingly. ‘I didn’t trust him but I certainly didn’t kill him.’

It was ludicrous, but it was better than saying nothing. To his surprise, the man listened and then got up creakily. He traipsed off down the open hallway. The boss understood that he was intended to follow. He warned the lads not to fire.

The old man led him past walls covered with rugs and matting to the shady courtyard where no doubt the men of the house sat and talked under leaves in the daytime and stars at night. The boss remembered that this was not a theatre of war for the people who
lived their simple lives here but a home that might be full of memories.

The morning sun was already caning the soldiers in their heavy kit but the courtyard felt cool, as though it was air-conditioned. The leaves created green shade and there was a large stone bowl of water and a few lemon trees, branches weighed down with fruit.

The man led them to a tiny mud-walled enclosure in one corner that might be a dog kennel. There was no dog now but evidently until recently there had been a very big animal here because its turd burned hot in the sun and a large chain was attached to one wall of the doghouse. The places where the chain had been dragged across the ground had been rubbed bare of vegetation and had turned to dust as fine as talcum powder.

The man gestured and said something.

Angus and Finn were behind Weeks.

‘Maybe he wants to sell you a dog,’ suggested Finn.

‘Cover me, I’m looking inside,’ Angus told them, sinking onto his hands and knees and crawling into the kennel. Its door was already open but he pushed it open further. Inside it was dark and smelly. He crawled in. There was nothing, except a mattress on the ground.

‘Holy shit! Holy fucking shit!’

But there was no time to show the boss what he had found because they were in contact again. Evidently the insurgents had regrouped. There were tracers whizzing in both directions. The men dived for cover. It took a moment for them to realize that no one was firing at them. The fight was going on over their heads across the courtyard and neither side had registered their presence among the trees.

The boss advised the old man to get down. The man ignored him and returned to the house, walking past the rounds as though he was invisible.

‘The doghouse is good cover,’ the boss said reluctantly. He crawled in, followed by Angus and Mal.

‘See that?’ said Angus, his huge body concertinaed into the small space. ‘He was here! Martyn was here!’

Gordon Weeks twisted round and saw the word MARTYN was scratched into the wall. He could not hide his excitement. Finn was so pleased he kept fingering the name.

‘Shit, he was here! Shit, we’re hot on his trail!’

The boss gave a sit rep over the radio and then the news about Topaz Zero’s signature.

Angus and Finn were in their firing positions, lying in the dog’s doorway now. Finn nodded to the turd.

‘Glad to see Marty finally had that crap.’

‘The shit’s old. He left at least a day ago,’ said Angus.

‘But at least he’s still alive!’ said the boss from behind them.

Angus grinned. ‘We’re going to find the old bastard. We might even get to him before they cut off his bollocks!’

‘He liked you,’ said Finn. ‘All that shit about your dad . . . He pissed me off big-time for telling you but he did it because he liked you.’

‘Know what I was thinking when he told me?’ Angus said. ‘I was wishing that Martyn Robertson
was
my fucking dad.’

‘That’s why you want to rescue him,’ said Finn. ‘If the Taliban got their hands on your real dad you wouldn’t give jack-shit.’

‘Nah, I’d buy them a pint,’ said Angus. ‘But I’m bloody sure we’ll get Martyn back.’

‘We all are,’ agreed the boss. ‘Especially now we’re hot on his trail.’ Angus started firing but Finn paused to think. ‘I may have to shorten my odds. I’ve been offering Burlington Bertie on Marty being found alive but I could go bankrupt on that. If you’re interested in a flutter, boss, it’ll have to be fifteen to eight now.’

‘Didn’t Dave Henley stop you taking bets?’ asked the boss, watching tracers cross the courtyard like fireflies.

‘What he don’t know about he can’t grieve over.’

‘And is it right to turn Martyn’s misery into a bookie’s opportunity?’

‘Boss, trust me. When we get Martyn out alive his first question’s going to be: Finny, what odds did you have on me?’

‘Stoppage,’ said Angus, falling back. ‘Get on with it, Finny.’

Finn shuffled forward.

‘You’re doing well, Angry, with that fiver you gave me at a hundred to thirty. That’s looking like a very good punt now.’

Angus said: ‘Don’t you ever fucking shuddup? Look, there’s a bloke on the roof there.’

Finn fired and the man teetered along the edge and then, as though in slow motion, fell, arms first, into the courtyard.

‘This is a shit-hot position. We see it all and no one sees us. From now on, everywhere we go, I’m heading straight for the fucking doghouse.’

The battle was easing. Some well-aimed mortars from 2 Platoon produced a massive dust cloud and then silence. 2 Platoon began to advance through the compound.

‘Just go firm, 1 Platoon,’ said the OC. ‘We don’t want a blue on blue.’

Angus, Finn and the boss waited. Finn sorted out his ammo.

‘I miss Marty, because he’s the only real betting man in the place. No one else risks more than a fiver.’

‘No one else earns enough,’ said Angus.

‘Officers do,’ said Finn pointedly.

The boss sighed. ‘Oh all right, Finny. I’ll do a tenner at fifteen to eight if you don’t tell Dave Henley. But I’m just going to make bloody sure we find Martyn so I get my money back.’

STEVE
DIDN’T
ARGUE
WHEN
LEANNE
ANNOUNCED
THAT
SHE
WANTED
him to come home from Headley Court for a day. Since everything he did and said felt hurtful now, she took his failure to put up a fight as indifference.

‘For heaven’s sake,’ said Jenny. ‘You’ve turned into one of those things in rock pools at the seaside that close up when you touch them. They even close up when they feel your shadow.’

‘Sea urchins?’

‘No . . . I’ve forgotten. My brain can’t remember more than the time of the next feed. Anyway, I’m trying to say, stop being so touchy. Steve’s happy to spend a day at home. You’re happy he’s coming. Act happy. The old Leanne would have been laughing and joking all the way down the M3.’

Jenny was changing the baby’s nappy. Vicky and the twins were watching TV. Leanne, who was folding washing for her friend, paused thoughtfully.

‘What did the old Leanne do if Steve went all silent on her?’

‘I expect he did it all the time and she didn’t even notice because she was too busy being a stand-up comedian.’

‘I don’t do funny any more.’

‘Well, start again.’

Leanne sighed. ‘I’m going to ask Kylie at nursery if she’ll take the boys for the whole day.’