My last night here, she thought. Most people would be excited to get back to base. The prospect of hot showers and better food and an army cot. But she didn’t want to go. She felt restless. She’d failed here. She still didn’t understand Jalil’s death. She’d let him down. She didn’t have a decent story to offer Phil. Most of what she had was half-story, without proper substance. Her only hope now was of building something from the Rounell trip as soon as she got there. She turned onto her side, shielding her face from the sand with her hands. The boys’ hostility upset her too. It was hurtful to know she was leaving on such a sour note.
She thought of Moss and Hancock. Their families would know by now. They would have packed bags and started to travel, steeling themselves for frantic flights to medical bases in Germany or Dubai. They would ache to see their damaged sons for themselves.
Finally she gave up, unzipped her sleeping bag and pulled on her fleece and boots. There was solitude in the darkness and she welcomed it. She felt for her spare shampoo bottle and its dwindling supply of vodka. She diluted a sachet of orange energy drink in water and mixed a desert cocktail. She wanted to escape the compound, to walk and think, but at night, she knew, that was impossible.
In the silence, every sound was heightened. A stick of dried poppy cracked under her foot. The chickens, imprisoned for the night under an upturned basket, shuffled and set up a brittle chatter as they heard her pass. She placed her feet with care as she walked the narrow corridor through the building. In the comms room, a young soldier was stretched forward over the table, his face turned sideways on the wood. His eyes were closed, his skin a sickly silver in the moonlight, his mouth open and glistening with spittle.
As she turned back from the doorway to the dimness of the corridor, she almost stepped on a body, a torso sitting up against the wall with its legs stretched out. An Afghan man, wrapped round in a coarse wool patou. She crouched to look.
‘Najib?’
He raised his eyes to her, dull with fatigue.
‘What are you doing here?’
‘I cannot sleep.’
They peered at each other, faces a few inches apart, eyes shining in the gloom. He looked tormented.
‘Did you hear it?’ he said. ‘My job is finished.’ His voice was edged with panic. ‘Major Mack says I must leave. Why? I did everything he asked. Everything. I am a good worker.’
She felt hot, wondering exactly what Mack had told him. The young soldier in the comms room lifted his head, stared out at them bleary eyed, then turned his head away and settled again.
‘I’m sorry,’ she whispered.
His eyes showed his confusion. They held each other’s gaze. She didn’t know what to think. He’d seemed a kind man when she first met him. Good-hearted. But in Afghanistan, so few people were really what they seemed. She crouched down beside him on the ground, her back against the corridor wall. Najib made room for her, wrapping his patou round his upper body, his arms inside its cocoon, and flicking the end across his shoulder.
She raised her shampoo bottle. ‘Alcohol,’ she whispered. ‘Do you mind?’
He shook his head but didn’t reach for it. A good Muslim. Jalil too had always refused, even frowned if he caught her drinking. ‘It is not good thing,’ he used to say. ‘Especially not for a lady.’
She tipped back her head and tasted the orange, then, at once, the warming vodka kick. I would give anything, she thought, for the chance to do it all again and set things right.
‘I am afraid.’ He had leaned in close to her and his voice was quivering. ‘Major Mack is angry.’
‘What did he say?’
‘Just now. Before sleeping. He said I was no longer needed.’ Najib lowered his voice even further. ‘I think the other translator has been speaking against me. You know him? He is not a good man.’
Ellen sighed. He has the right to know, she thought, but is it for me to tell him?
‘Najib,’ she said. ‘Why did you meet Karam?’
She felt him shift nervously at her side. He didn’t speak.
‘I found the bag you gave him. And the money.’
When she twisted her head to look at him, his eyes flashed with desperation. He reached out a hand and seized hold of her wrist.
‘I cannot tell you.’ He could barely get the words out.
His fingers were digging into her skin. She tried to pull her hand away.
‘You shouldn’t have got mixed up with Karam.’
He pushed his face into hers. His breath was hot, his eyes pleading. ‘Would you tell Major Mack not to send me away? Please?’
‘Najib.’ She prised the claws of his fingers away from her skin, embarrassed. ‘I can’t do that. It’s his decision.’
He pulled away and sat stiffly beside her, his features obscured. The silence and the awkwardness grew.
‘Major Mack is in charge here.’ She tried again. ‘You know that.’
Silence. She drank back the orange and vodka. The night sat heavy on their upturned faces. Through the arch of the building, she could see a drifting wisp of cloud, covering one star, then another.
Somewhere out in the desert a donkey started to bray, a jagged, sawing sound. She tensed, wondering what had disturbed it. At night, in the still air, the distance of sounds was hard to judge. They sat quietly, side by side, listening to the braying, then to the emptiness that followed it.
‘Have you found the answer?’ he whispered. He spoke almost to himself, his head tilted backwards against the wall. ‘To your question about Jalil.’
‘No.’
‘But you will?’ His voice was tense, his breathing shallow. She couldn’t tell if he were faking concern or if he really did care about Jalil. ‘And you will write it in your magazine and all the people who read it will know?’
She hesitated. It would be easy to shut him up, to say: yes, she would do that. Jalil would have justice, of a sort. She drank back the vodka. The light from the stars cracked into white lines across the darkness when she blinked.
‘How can I?’ she said at last. ‘I don’t know the truth.’
‘In Afghanistan, there is no truth,’ he said. ‘No law. Only gun.’ He shook his head. He leaned in close to her and lowered his voice again to a whisper. She smelt his fear. ‘You must leave. Soon. You are not safe.’
He turned to face her. His features were distorted by the half-light and shadow, twisted into something grotesque. Was he warning or threatening her? She wrapped her arms round her body.
‘I am going. Tomorrow,’ she said.
It was time to end the conversation and leave. She got to her feet, aware of Najib’s eyes following every movement.
‘What will you do now?’ She meant it as a polite formality, but when he answered, his tone was intense.
‘I will find another job. I will work hard and save money. I will care for my parents and, when I take a wife, I will be a good father to my children.’
Your parents must have had the same hope, she thought, and your grandparents before them. But the peace they longed for never came.
‘Inshallah,’ she said. God willing. ‘Whatever you’ve done, Najib, good luck. Keep safe.’
‘Why do you say that?’ He sounded puzzled, his face upturned, staring at her. ‘Why do you say: whatever you have done?’
She shrugged and said nothing. He continued to scrutinize her for a moment, his face a mixture of confusion and defiance. Finally he looked away and they parted without exchanging another word.
19
Sickness woke Hasina. She lay, drowsy with it. The sickness was not in her stomach but deeper, in her gut. She lay, still clouded with sleep, and felt dread. Something had happened.
The sheet shielding her was torn aside and two soldiers stared down. One had his arm round the other’s shoulder, his foot raised from the ground. A mangled ankle or foot. His face was pale and sweaty with pain. Like Aref, she thought. My boy. Their eyes met for a second, then the sheet fell back into place and the voices move
d on.
Please God, she prayed silently. Protect my family this day. I will give you everything. Stay with us. The red pain in her gut made her twist onto her side and gasp as she waited for the spasms to pass.
After some time, a nurse came, helped her to wash and to swallow a cup of water. The dressing on her leg was changed. The fetid stink of the wound had gone now. The flesh was raw and pink but clean. Instead of applying a fresh bandage, the nurse peeled paper off a pink piece of tape and stuck it to her wound.
Outside there was commotion. An engine started up, more throaty than Karam’s tractors. A foreigner was shouting. She lay still. Soon Abdul would come. Yesterday he had never come. But today she would comfort him, tell him that Aref was found, Aref was alive. Maybe he would find a way of taking food and water to him. He was a weak man but a kind father. Praise Allah for the gift of a good husband.
The black man came. He stood over her, blotting out the sun, his dark skin dotted with sweat. He bent to inspect her leg, touching her skin with his black fingers, his palms as pink as lips. His smell, of alien male sweat, repulsed her. Najib stood behind him.
‘Do you have a place to go, the doctor is asking,’ he said. ‘They will help you leave. Your leg is much better now.’
She turned her face away. Go? Where could she go? Not to Karam. If she left the soldiers now, how would Abdul find her?
Najib was speaking softly. ‘You can’t stay here,’ he said.‘You understand? They’ve done what they can for you. Now you must leave.’
When they’d gone, she turned on her side and closed her eyes. Come quickly, my husband. I am bursting with news about our son. I need you. The pain in her gut was twisting, consuming her. A new machine was humming. Outside the compound. A machine with a deep, throbbing tone. She must have slipped at last into sleep.
Someone was shaking her. A foreign voice. Whispering her name: Hasina! A woman. She opened her eyes. The non-soldier with solemn eyes. She was pulling her shoulders, dragging her to her feet, pushing the sticks under her arms, pressing her forward. Talking at her. Urgent foreign words.
Hasina pulled her scarf up around her head and neck and they came together from behind the hung sheets into the compound. A soldier was standing there, his gun across his body. His expression was stern. They’re throwing me out, she thought, is that it? Kicking me out like a dog. What more did I expect?
The soldier followed them. The foreign woman had taken hold of her arm, forcing her to walk more quickly than she could. Out through the compound gate. An army vehicle waiting there, its back door standing open. The metal step was too high for her. Karam’s warning came into her mind. Stay away from the soldiers. Don’t let the fighters see you with them.
She tried to pull back but already the foreign woman and the soldier were pushing her up, propelling her into the vehicle. The seat was hard with a torn cover, spilling foam. The inside was dark and thick with the stench of engine grease and petrol. A ribcage of metal bars running round the roof and back were painted a dull green. The foreign woman climbed in too and they squashed together on the seat. The soldier pulled the back door shut behind him, plunging them into twilight. He picked his way between their legs and stood with his head sticking out of the roof.
A prisoner, she thought. They were nursing me back to health just for this. The foreign woman put her hand on Hasina’s knee. A hot hand. She looked down at the square-cut nails, the dirt-encrusted skin. The hand that tended Aref. Fear took her. Had this woman led them to Aref? She looked up quickly at the foreign woman’s face. She was looking back at her, her large eyes watchful. The vehicle shook as the engine started and they set off, shuddering and bouncing, across the desert. The red pain in her gut smouldered, stoked by fear.
The air inside the vehicle was stale and, as they drove, the petrol fumes rose in waves. She felt dizzy and sick. The vehicle kicked them to and fro, knocking each other’s hips, shoulders. Finally they circled and drew to a halt. The soldier clambered past them and opened the back door, saying something to the foreign woman.
Out of the back door, a triangular patch of desert was visible. Open desert, somewhere beyond the river. They had travelled not along the track to town but in the opposite direction, into wilderness. Hasina craned forward to see. Another army vehicle was parked alongside them in the dirt, its back doors standing open. The air was thick with flies.
Najib appeared. He had wound his scarf round his head so completely that only the narrow strip of his eyes could be seen. He climbed into the vehicle and sat opposite them. He looked first at the foreign woman, then at her.
‘Well?’ she said. Were they about to kill her? If Allah wills it, she thought, so be it.
Najib opened his mouth to speak and then closed it again.
‘Well?’ she said again.
‘Your husband,’ he said. He was about to say more but stopped, seeing it was already enough. The pain stopped her breath. Najib’s face shimmied in front of her. Oh Abdul. Karam had warned her. What had they done to him?
‘Where?’ she said. ‘Where is he?’
His body was lying crumpled in the back of the foreigners’ other vehicle. Twisted on the floor like an animal, flies hanging low around his head. She crouched there beside him and ran her fingers over his forehead, his nose, his sightless eyes. How bruised he was. His hair, his beard, were matted with dried blood and sand. She pressed her face into his cold neck, licked the folds of his skin with the tip of her tongue, tasting him for the last time. His fingers were stiff at his sides as she tried to weave her own between them.
She hung over him, put her head to his chest and closed her eyes, willing him back to life. My husband, my own dear husband. Her body vibrated with a low moaning that came to her distantly but that she knew to be her own. She sensed the presence of the soldiers, watching her with blank faces. She spread her arms over his body and lay across him, protecting him. His own familiar smell, clinging in traces at his neck, in the crook of his limbs, was already fading in the desert air.
The vehicle creaked. Najib climbed in after her and crouched at Abdul’s feet.
‘It wasn’t the foreigners.’ He spoke softly to her. ‘They found him. Here in the desert. This morning.’
She lay with her ear against Abdul’s chest, listening for the heartbeat that had lulled her to sleep a thousand times and hearing only emptiness.
‘May Allah in His Mercy comfort you.’ He started to pray quietly, his lilting voice surrounding her like an embrace.
Soldiers were shouting. A radio flared and faded. The vehicle darkened as someone shut and bolted the back doors, then shook as the engine started. She lay on its bare metal floor beside her husband, holding him still and steady in her arms, cushioning his head from the hardness of the metal as the vehicle bounced back to the village.
In the village, a team of soldiers was preparing a grave. As the vehicle doors opened, they stood back from the shallow trough they’d dug, spades in hands, shirts soaked with sweat.
The foreign woman held her upright as they wrapped Abdul in a sheet and laid him in the ground. Hasina’s own body slid downwards with his, formless as water. Let me vanish into the earth with him. Be covered by the dirt of our land, of our fathers and their fathers before them. An end to all this. Abdul, my Abdul. How could you leave me? Now what will become of me?
The dirt pattered down on him. Her breath came in gasps, her eyes barely able to see. Never again, she thought. Never see him. Never taste him. Never smell him.
When the soldiers pressed their boots on the mound and turned away, she spread herself across the fresh earth and filled her fists with dirt, groping for him.
Palwasha was there. Hard hands threaded themselves under Hasina’s shoulders and tried to lift her. ‘Come away,’ she was hissing in Hasina’s ear. Palwasha’s arms were strong, levering her upwards, her thighs taking her weight. ‘Get up,’ she was saying. ‘Sister-in-law. Come away.’
Hasina opened her eyes and saw Palwasha’s fierce fa
ce close to hers, her head covered, her eyes sharp.
‘Karam is waiting,’ she whispered. ‘Too dangerous for him here. But come now.’
Too dangerous? Hasina pushed the thought away. Unreal, her mind was telling her. This whole business is unreal. It cannot be true. Just sleep and wake again and this whole nightmare will have ended. Her feet moved forward across the ground, Palwasha pushing her as before the foreign woman had done. What difference did it make? She was sleeping; when she awoke, everything would have healed.
‘Aref,’ she whispered to Palwasha. ‘He wasn’t here. A father has the right to be buried by his son.’
Palwasha stared back at her, round-eyed and impatient, as she half carried, half dragged her towards Karam’s makeshift house.
20
Last time Ellen had stayed at the base, on the way into the offensive, it had felt basic and small to her. Now, in contrast to the makeshift camp in the compound, the bustle and vibrancy were striking. She hauled her kit from the vehicle drop-off point; it was thickly coated with dust after the drive. Her boots clattered on the honeycomb walkway as she passed the cookhouse and chapel, turned down to the women’s tent and unzipped the heavy canvas. The interior was dark and cool and hummed with air conditioning. She stood quietly and let her eyes adjust. It was late afternoon but two of the women were sleeping, curled on army cots. Above them hung the same array of towels and stiffly dried camouflage shirts and trousers.
Ellen dropped her rucksack at the foot of a bare cot and rummaged for her dirty clothes and wash-bag. The female ablutions block across the walkway was deserted. She tried to shrug off her guilt about the boys who were still covered with sweat and dust back in the compound and enjoy the luxury of a clean, stainless-steel flush toilet. The physical pleasure of punching the metal button in the shower cubicle and standing naked under a stream of lukewarm water. Of lathering herself with soap and shampoo and watching the water run brown with desert grime at her feet.
The Last Kestrel Page 22