The Last Kestrel

by Jill McGivering

  He hesitated, then turned on his heel and led her further down the road to a flat piece of earth with the ruined remains of a broken mud-brick wall. He perched on it, his long cotton shirt billowing around his stomach and thighs, his feet sticking out in rope sandals from his baggy cotton trousers. The fabric flapped loose, stained brown with dust from the knee down. Ellen sat beside him, kicking aside the dried pellets of animal droppings at her feet.

  Karam leaned back against the wall. His hands were folded in his lap, a string of amber beads entwined round his fingers. ‘Well,’ he said. ‘Speak.’

  ‘Tell me,’ she said, ‘what happened at Nayullah?’

  He shrugged. ‘There was a bomb. A terrible thing. There will be more.’

  ‘Who were the bombers? Local people?’

  Karam’s eyes narrowed beneath his bushy black eyebrows. ‘You must ask the police these questions,’ he said. ‘They are the investigators.’

  ‘But Karam-jan, I think you know more than they do.’

  His weight shifted against the wall as he made himself a little taller. His gaze, fastened on her face, was unyielding. She sensed that he was trying to intimidate her and she steadied her breath, refusing to let him.

  ‘Your own nephew was there, wasn’t he, Karam? He was one of them.’

  The air sat hot and heavy. He looked taken aback, then his expression darkened. She watched him closely. My God, she thought. I’ve hit my mark.

  ‘You did know,’ she said. ‘You sent him, didn’t you?’

  His body tensed, and for a moment he seemed about to strike her.

  ‘Why would you do that?’ she went on. ‘For religion? Or just for money?’

  Her own hands were sweating at her sides, the nails clenched against the palms. Then the muscles in his arm slackened and he was still again, staring at her with such intensity that she felt her chest constrict. She concentrated on keeping upright against the wall, conscious of her taut muscles, of the tremor in her legs. She tried to think quickly, to read his anger. She needed him to speak.

  ‘I know more than you think,’ she said. ‘Much more.’

  His eyebrows rose. ‘You know nothing.’

  ‘Who paid you? Tell me. The Taliban? Foreign fighters? From Pakistan, from Chechnya?’

  He turned his head and spat in the dust.

  ‘This isn’t Afghan, this madness of suicide bombing,’ she went on. ‘We both know that.’

  ‘No,’ he said, ‘it isn’t Afghan, is it?’ His tone was sarcastic.

  He pushed back against the wall until he had reached his full height and towered over her. She could smell the sourness of his breath in her face, the traces of rancid meat and yoghurt. His expression was pure disdain. She stood firm and held his gaze. Afghan men despised weakness.

  ‘What about Jalil?’ she said. ‘How did he find out? Were you afraid he’d tell?’

  A shadow passed over his face, a look of confusion. ‘Jalil?’

  ‘The translator. Did you shoot him yourself?’

  He shook his head, tossing his white beard. For a moment, he looked offended, then snorted and the anger flowed back into his eyes. He raised his hand, the string of beads clicking at his wrist. His palm and fingernails were brown, encrusted with dirt.

  ‘You know nothing,’ he said again. His tone was venomous. ‘You are blind.’

  He took a step towards her until he was so close that his breathing rasped her skin. His chest was hard against her body and when he spat out the words, his spittle sprayed her cheeks. ‘You should be careful with your life,’ he said. ‘You are not in England now.’

  He turned abruptly and walked away, the outline of his body broad and strong under his cotton clothes. Ellen leaned back into the wall. She watched him striding away from her, feeling the blood hard in her temples. He was a vindictive man, one who had killed in his time, she was sure. His anger when she had pressed him about Hasina’s son and the suicide bombing had been clear. Now she was certain he’d been a key player in recruiting and planning the attack. But Jalil’s death? She shook her head. His puzzlement had seemed genuine.

  Once he was out of sight, she turned back up the road and climbed onto the hillside to pick her way through the graveyard. The land was jagged with cracks under her feet, dusted with light dirt which had accumulated in drifts against the base of the gravestones. She thought of Karam’s raised hand, engrained with filth, and quickened her pace.

  The shallow graves of the three children were distinct in their row, darker in colour than their neighbours because the earth had so recently been disturbed. Ellen stood quietly with her back to the road in the same place where Karam had prayed and ran her eyes over the low mounds. The graves were small, dwarfed by the adult plots around them, their edges rough hewn with picks and spades.

  She walked slowly round the edge of the plot, her eyes low, scanning the earth. A thin crust had already formed where the dirt, newly exposed, had hardened in the sun. She crouched down and skimmed the tips of her fingers across its surface. The dirt had formed into granules and it took firm pressure to break through its skin. She paused, breathing in the fine desert dust. A movement above made her look up. A solid, broad-winged bird, its head straining forward as it searched for prey, was rising and falling, riding a current of desert air. She stopped to watch as it mirrored the contours of the fields, then dived suddenly out of sight.

  She reached the final grave. She imagined the youngest child lying beneath the earth with her small pink fingernails and child’s bangle. At the far end, where the mound joined the level ground, there was a difference in colour. Ellen squatted down to examine the surface. The earth looked newly disturbed, dark and light dust mingled together and scattered to disguise the change. She moved closer. Her fingers traced the surface. No fine crust here. Her fingertips dug in and sifted through loose sand and earth with little resistance. She let out a breath, looked around the graveyard and down at the road below. No one.

  She sank her fingers deeper into the dirt and sensed her way through the earth, eyes closed, feeling the scratch of sand under her fingernails and against her mother’s ring. Suddenly the tips of her fingers made contact with cloth, buried flat just a few inches below the surface of the child’s grave. She opened her eyes and scrabbled to unearth it, to find out what had been buried in a place so sacrosanct no one might think to dig – and a place so private that only a grieving father might visit.

  That evening, she cooked and ate alone. The general mood in the camp was subdued and it was clear in her corner that no one wanted to speak to her. Dillon and Frank sat huddled together. They spoke in low voices and averted their faces when she passed. Ridiculous, she thought. They’re behaving like schoolboys. But as she sat on the cold sand and watched the darkness thicken, she felt wretched just the same.

  Finally Mack’s young officer came across the compound. He knelt down on one knee in front of her, as if he were about to propose, and whispered.

  ‘Major Mack wondered…’ he began. He didn’t look her in the eyes. His gaze was fixed instead somewhere on her forehead. ‘…He wondered if you’d like to come and see him.’

  It was absurd, she thought, to feel so pleased about the fact someone was still willing to relate with her.

  Mack was in the comms room, bent over the makeshift table and the latest crackling rolls of satellite maps. He looked up and nodded when she appeared in the doorway, then waved her towards a canvas chair.

  ‘Good,’ he said. ‘I’ll be with you in five.’

  She sat and watched him, taking in his brisk movements as he studied outlines, measured distances and made observations to the young officer who was now hovering at his side. His junior was in awe of him. She saw that in his scramble to please. Everything she knew about Mack told her that he was a soldier’s soldier, quick to make decisions and focused on results. His sense of command was reassuring. She thought of the way he’d knelt beside Hancock and bandaged his bulging eye, of the calm efficiency in his hands.


  After some time, he sent out the young soldier, rolled up the maps and turned to her. ‘Now,’ he said, ‘how are you?’

  She felt his attention settle on her. He dropped into the canvas chair beside hers and waited for her to answer. He was so close to her that she could feel the warmth of his thigh alongside her own. His physical presence was a comfort. She looked at the debris of half-rolled maps and pens.

  ‘I’ve had better days,’ she said. For a moment, she thought she felt tears rising. She swallowed. She could feel his eyes on her and turned her head away.

  ‘Yes,’ he said after a moment. ‘I think I could say the same.’

  They sat in shared quietness. She looked down at her feet, crossed at the ankle in front of her. Her boots were desiccated and coated with a film of brown dust. The laces were starting to fray. She imagined being at home in her own kitchen, newspaper spread out on the floor, cleaning them. She listened to Chopin when she cleaned. A Nocturne, perhaps, for boots. A lyrical passage came to her, flooding her head, and she sat with it, listening. There is a world beyond this, she thought. There is still beauty and peacefulness. Just a long way away.

  She realized that some minutes had passed. The silence would be broken soon. Mack would speak. It was inevitable. But, for now, she was grateful for the quiet. She poured herself into it, utterly exhausted, overwhelmed by all that had happened. The Chopin rose and fell in her mind.

  I have no idea, she thought, what music Mack would listen to. No idea at all. She turned to look at him, thinking how little she knew. He looked so tired. His eyes were bloodshot, the skin at their corners dry and creased.

  ‘It’s your decision,’ he said, ‘but I think you should move on.’ He was speaking slowly and carefully, his voice measured. ‘There’s the chance of a place on a helo up to Rounell on Thursday. In the north. I could get you back to base on a convoy tomorrow. No guarantees. You know how it is. But it’s a hot story up there. Lot of contact with the enemy. Lot of construction.’

  She paused before she spoke, taking time to register what he was saying. She realized she was dismayed. She didn’t want to leave. The idea fluttered in her mind, trapped, and beat out the last of the music. It smacked of defeat. In the face of the men’s hostility, it seemed cowardly to go now. Dishonourable, Jalil would say. And there was so much she still didn’t understand. She felt dragged down by weariness.

  ‘Is this because of today?’

  He shook his head. ‘I put the request in yesterday, just in case. You’ve seen the worst of it here. It’s quietened down.’

  She turned her shoulder to him and forced herself to think. It was true, in terms of military action, that the story had gone quiet. She was also falling behind. Phil had told her to get back to him today to say exactly what and when she’d be filing. She hadn’t. She couldn’t. She didn’t have the answers. She needed more energy and more time. She sighed to herself. Maybe Mack’s instinct was right. If she promised Phil a fresh location, he might give her another couple of days.

  ‘But after today,’ Mack was saying, ‘I’m all the more convinced you should leave. It was a close call. And the whole business has left the lads shaken up. You can understand.’

  ‘They blame me,’ she said. ‘Some of them.’ He tutted. ‘That’s absurd.’ He shifted forward in his seat to look at her. ‘You know that’s nonsense?’

  She paused, letting the question hang.

  ‘So what did happen?’ she said at last. ‘I mean, what do you make of it?’

  He exhaled, blowing out his cheeks. ‘They’re a threat,’ he said. ‘Of course. A constant threat. Explosives are cheap. Effective.’

  ‘But out there? In the middle of nowhere?’

  He shrugged. ‘It’s happening a lot.’

  Silence. He was sitting still, one hand resting curved in his lap in the open palm of the other. He seemed reluctant to talk. She thought of the passion with which he’d spoken before of protecting his boys. He’d organized the patrol for her, to accommodate her request. She felt guilt sitting heavy as a stone inside her. As their commanding officer, he must feel ten times worse.

  ‘Do you think,’ she said, ‘they knew we were heading out there? Knew in advance?’

  He didn’t raise his eyes. ‘It’s possible.’

  ‘Any idea who could’ve told them?’

  He paused. ‘None of my men, clearly. And there are so few others here.’

  She swallowed. She felt neither of them wanted to come out and say it.

  ‘The only Afghans,’ she said, ‘are the two translators. And the family. Hasina, the woman from the house. And Karam and his wife.’

  He lifted his hands, then let them fall again. ‘We don’t know enough,’ he said. ‘These are serious allegations.’

  She breathed hard, trying to decide how much more to say. She felt utterly miserable. If there was a chance that it might do any good at all, she felt she must confess to him the little she knew.

  ‘I feel very responsible for what happened,’ she said.

  ‘No, please, not at—’

  She lifted her hand to stop him as he tried to interrupt.

  ‘If I hadn’t been here, the patrol wouldn’t have gone to that area. Don’t deny it. I’m not saying it’s all my fault. It isn’t. But you can see, I feel some responsibility.’

  ‘Well, if anyone—’

  She kept on speaking. ‘Karam,’ she said. ‘I think he was involved with that suicide bombing.’

  ‘Nayullah?’ He turned to her with a look of surprise. She held his gaze. A moment’s stillness engulfed them both. Then he seemed to make a decision and his manner changed. He swung his chair round to face her.

  ‘Speak quietly,’ he said in a low voice. ‘Voices carry.’ He pushed in close to her until their knees touched. ‘Now. Tell me. What makes you say that?’

  Ellen felt the keenness of his attention. ‘I think he recruited local boys. Possibly he planned it too. He doesn’t deny it.’

  ‘You confronted him?’ He ran a hand over his mouth, looking at her with concern. ‘You should be careful.’

  ‘The Taliban’s paying him off,’ she went on. ‘I’m sure of it.’ She thought of the cloth bag she’d pulled from the grave and the soil that had fallen from it. Of the bundles of notes packed inside. ‘I found money he’s hiding. A lot of money.’

  Mack nodded, his head bobbing as he processed this, his eyes sharp on hers.

  ‘He’s said to be a rich man,’ he said. ‘Who knows what business he dabbles in? Drugs, maybe. Guns.’ He paused, watching her. ‘But what made you think he’s connected with the suicide bombing?’

  Ellen dropped her eyes. She remembered Hasina, sitting with her arms stretched round the crumpled figure of her son in her lap, stroking his filthy hair. Of her lying prostrate, her fingertips touching Ellen’s feet, her eyes imploring.

  ‘I can’t give you details,’ she said. ‘Call it a hunch.’

  Mack formed a steeple with his fingers and rested his face against it, rubbing his nose with his index fingers. She wondered if all this was new to him or if he already had suspicions about Karam. He sat silent and thoughtful, half hiding his face with the lattice of his hands.

  ‘There is something else,’ she said at last. ‘Najib. The translator.’

  He looked up. ‘What about him?’

  She hesitated. ‘I don’t want to get him into trouble. It’s just…’

  ‘Go on.’

  ‘I saw him with Karam earlier. Outside the compound.’

  Mack looked taken aback. ‘Doing what?’

  ‘Najib gave him a bag. The one I found, full of money. He seemed frightened.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘I don’t know.’ She paused. ‘Maybe they’ve known each other longer than we think.’

  Mack pushed back his chair and paced to and fro across the room. She waited. She had no sympathy for Karam but she was worried about the consequences for Najib. Mack came back and sat in front of her again, his head thrust for
ward.

  ‘You did right to tell me,’ he said. ‘Thank you.’

  The young officer had appeared in the shadows of the doorway, his face anxious. Mack got to his feet.

  ‘The convoy’s due out around lunchtime tomorrow,’ Mack said. ‘You’ll need to pack up in the morning.’

  He stopped at the threshold and held out his hand to say goodbye. So I never will find out, she thought, what music you like. The pressure of his fingers was warm and firm. She looked down at his hand as it enveloped hers, at his square knuckles and neat nails. She thought of her father’s hands, marred now by arthritic joints, but still comforting. You’re the only person who’s touched me, she thought, all the time I’ve been out here. Through the offensive, the deaths of the children and now the bombing. She remembered the warm pressure against her body when Jalil’s mother had embraced her. It seemed a long time ago.

  ‘Good to meet you.’ He smiled, already moving on. His tone was again becoming formal. ‘Ellen Thomas. Now I can put a face to the words.’ He nodded. ‘It’s been a real pleasure.’

  ‘It has.’

  The young officer was waiting to escort her outside. Mack, having dismissed her, was turning back to the room, to his papers. She hesitated, watching him. She was reluctant to move. You’re a good man, she thought, and a complicated one. The young officer’s arm was extended in front of her, leading her away. I’ll miss you, Major Mack. You’re another reason it’s hard to leave.

  That night Ellen lay in the darkness, listening and thinking, as the thick breaths of soldiers rose round her. The night breeze across the sand was cool and she pulled her sleeping bag up round her chest. Somewhere out in the desert, dogs were howling.

  Her eyes made a slow adjustment to the low gloom of the stars and the thread of moon behind the clouds. The guard was slumped against the metal gate, half dozing.

  She closed her eyes and tried to match the rhythm of her breathing to that of the soldier next to her. The breeze blew a fine spray of sand into her mouth and made her cough. She twisted onto her stomach, buried her face in the fabric of her sleeping bag. It was rank with sweat and dirt. A soldier snorted, spoke some incoherent words in his sleep, then turned heavily and settled again.