“Do you like working with children?” I asked James curiously.
Clay laughed loudly.
“Have you met James? The dude doesn’t like working with anyone.”
“Fuck off,” James muttered, but I suspected his gruff words hid a smile.
“Just remember,” said Clay cheerfully, “If the world didn’t suck, we’d all fall off.”
“Remind me why I married you,” sighed Zada. “Oh right, for your sense of humour.”
“Yeah, babe. Caught you on an off day,” he grinned.
The village school was a low, white building, almost hidden as it blended into the snowy roads surrounding it. But a closer examination showed that it had probably been built in the seventies and hadn’t been modernized since. I’d always wondered why schools were some of the ugliest public buildings you could find—hardly starting one off with the right motivation on a miserable Monday morning.
Zada led us inside where we were met by an older woman in a nurse’s uniform. Her name was Madina and she was our interpreter for the afternoon. I was glad Yad wasn’t with us.
She shook hands with Clay and hugged Zada warmly. But it was her greeting of James that surprised me the most, almost running towards him, kissing both cheeks, and pumping his arm with both hands as she spoke in heavily-accented English.
News of how he’d saved Maral had spread.
“Thank you, thank you, thank you!” She panted, wiping tears from her cheeks. “Maral is the wife of my third son. She is a good girl, a good mother.”
She hugged him again, and I watched with amusement as his cheeks turned pink and he tried to edge away from her enthusiasm, but she was a dauntless woman, pursuing him until he was pressed up against a wall as she pinched his cheeks, then his waist and told him he was too skinny and that he should come for dinner. She told him that heroes needed their strength.
She was right. James was a hero in dirty jeans—it was his disguise. His superpower was incredible bravery.
He was saved by the head teacher, a large, rawboned woman, severely dressed in navy-blue with flat, functional shoes. She reminded me of my old headmistress, and I quavered under her cool, hard stare, smiling guiltily as if she’d found me spraying graffiti in the teachers’ lavatories. Which totally wasn’t me and something I’d never condone.
We were ushered into a large hall where it seemed half the school were sitting on the worn linoleum. The children had an air of excitement that came with any break to the tedious routine of institutionalized learning.
It was fascinating to see Clay in action. He charmed and amused his audience, then rolled up his trouser leg and showed them his prosthetic.
“And this, boys and girls, is what happens when you play with landmines. My friend James, here, is going to tell you what to look out for and who to tell if you find something. And if you find a one-legged hitchhiker, don’t tell him to hop in your car.”
There was a confused silence.
“Huh, I don’t think that translated so well. James, buddy, over to you.”
James shook his head at Clay’s antics, then took centre stage.
To my surprise, he made eye contact with as many of the children as he could.
He’d brought with him a range of devices that had been made safe, and explained how they’d be hidden but what signs to look for.
“It’s a good idea to keep to animal tracks if you’re going through the forest. If deer have been there before you, it’s more likely to be safe.”
He waited for Madina to translate, and I saw many of the children nodding at the wisdom of what he was saying.
“If you see wires sticking out of the ground or pieces of waxed paper that bombs often come wrapped in, walk back the way you came and then tell your teacher or a police officer. Don’t ignore it—your best friend might be thanking you because you didn’t keep it to yourself,” and he glanced at Clay.
He invited the children to come up and see the different devices in detail and talk about how they worked. With this audience, doing his job, he was at ease. I even saw him almost smile several times.
As he knelt down to show some of the younger children what they must never, ever touch, one little boy leaned against him, patting his shoulder, and a young girl touched his non-existent hair, then giggled.
Madina smiled.
“She asks if you’re very old because you have no hair.”
“Yes,” James deadpanned. “Very old. Ancient.”
The children laughed, then the little girl pointed at me.
Madina raised her eyebrows and smiled.
“She wants to know if the lady is your girlfriend?”
James frowned and shook his head.
“No,” I said quickly. “Just friends.”
The little girl didn’t seem to like that answer and pouted at both of us, saying something else which Madina didn’t translate.
“What did she say?” I asked.
Madina sighed, an amused look on her face.
“She says that you’re pretty like a princess, so you’d make a good girlfriend. She likes your hair. It’s long and blonde so she wanted to know if you’re Elsa and can turn the world to ice.”
I laughed, only slightly embarrassed; more entertained, really. And I was well aware that my nickname at the compound was ‘Ice Princess’.
I glanced at James who was watching me impassively, obviously not thrilled with the idea that these kids might assume I was his girlfriend. I felt an unrestrained desire to tease him.
Loosening my hair from its long plait, I let it hang down untamed, a wild mass of waist-length curls. Men loved my boobs, my hair and my booty, in that order. Enough of them had told me that to know it was true. Personality came a loooong way down the list. If at all.
The little girl stroked my hair with her grimy fingers, and I tried not to cringe. Several of her friends joined in, until I had half-a-dozen under-sevens crawling all over me. I kept a smile plastered on my face like a pro.
And then Clay finished off the afternoon by challenging some of the older children to a hopping race, yanking off his prosthetic and handing it to Zada to hold.
He won, and the children cheered.
James hadn’t spoken to me once.
SNOW CONTINUED TO fall overnight, and the next day all the roads were impassable. Zada couldn’t get down to the village, so she and Clay had retreated to their room after breakfast, presumably to practise baby-making.
She’d warmed up to me once she’d seen how much I’d helped Clay in the office, although I didn’t think she was going to invite me over to paint our nails together anytime soon.
But I didn’t want to sit with the other women either, or Turul and Yad, all of whom were drinking the nasty local beer and singing folk songs. Champagne and cocaine was more my style: one put me to sleep, the other kept me awake to party some more. The good old days.
The women here still eyed me with suspicion, and in turn, I didn’t like the way Yad looked at me, or the sneer in his voice when he called me ‘princess’. I particularly disliked the subtle insinuation that he could have any woman here and that he’d be doing me a favour if I was on his list. Yuk.
But solitude didn’t suit me any better than boredom; I much preferred to be doing. Time to think made me depressed. And it was soooo long before I could go home. Counting down the days until I could leave didn’t even begin to explain how I felt, but being busy helped pass the hours and minutes and seconds.
I sat in the office chair, spinning in circles as I stared up at the ceiling. I worked out that 12 spins made me dizzy, and 23 took me to the point of nausea.
I know, pathetic. I always managed to find a way to make myself feel bad—it was a gift.
I’d already done all my laundry, trudging through the knee-high snow and getting a good workout from the effort. I couldn’t use my phone for anything, was bored of all the songs I’d downloaded, didn’t have a TV to watch or even a book to read, so I decided to take a short nap until lunchtime bu
t as I was passing the men’s accommodation block, I noticed that there was a light shining through the dirt on James’s window. I wondered what he was doing in there all by himself. I was desperate for something to alleviate the boredom and longed for conversation with another Brit, even if he generally seemed to stare right through me.
Most men were simple beings, but James was a puzzle I hadn’t solved.
I entered the small building and tiptoed down the peeling linoleum that lined the narrow hallway, and tapped lightly on his door.
There was no answer, so I pushed the door open. I liked my own privacy, so I had no right to invade his, but curiosity overcame manners.
“Oh!”
James was sitting on the bed, his long legs stretched out and crossed at the ankle, a scowl on his face. A thick book rested on his knees. Clearly, I’d interrupted him reading.
“Sorry, I didn’t think you were here.”
I gazed around the bare room: ugly floral curtains and a wooden chair were the only decorations. His room was so tidy, it wasn’t obvious that anyone lived here. It seemed more than military precision—the neatness was either obsessive or some sign that he didn’t even want to exist. Or maybe, when your life is chaos, maybe that one small piece of control matters.
Gosh, I’d never thought that my Psychology 101 class would come in useful. [Insert sarcasm]
“But you came in anyway.”
James’s voice was flat and unemotional, just as always, but I could hear the annoyance by his tone.
“I know, it’s rude,” I sighed, sitting uninvited on the end of his bed so that he had to move his feet. “But I’m so bored! Everything in the office is up-to-date; I’ve reorganized the personnel files and read all the manuals and reports. I don’t want to drink that horrible beer they’re all enjoying; Yad gives me the creeps; and Clay and Zada are enjoying some quality time.” I gave him a weak smile. “So here I am! Lucky you!”
He stared at me for a moment, then his gaze returned to his book.
“I’m busy.”
“Don’t be such a grouch,” I said, scratching my hair and eyeing him warily.
I hated not being able to shampoo and condition it every day. Here, I had to make do with every three days. Most of the time, I wore it in a long plait down my back to keep it out of the way.
James was still frowning at me. So I stared back. I’d already worked out that his bark was worse than his bite. At least I hoped it was.
“Whatcha reading?”
When he didn’t reply, I grabbed the book from him and read out a sentence.
“Do they not see the birds controlled in the atmosphere of the sky? None holds them up except Allah. Indeed in that are signs for a people who believe.”
Puzzled, I turned to the book’s cover.
“You’re reading the Qu’ran? Why? Did you borrow it from Zada?”
He plucked the book from my hands as I gazed at him in surprise. I was sure he would have been reading a thriller, something like Andy McNabb.
“No,” he said shortly. “It’s mine.”
Realization hit me.
“Oh, because of Zada’s sister, right? You and her.”
My words were careless and thoughtless, so I shouldn’t have been surprised when sudden fury darkened his eyes, and his whole body tensed as if he was about to leap up.
“Sorry, I’m sorry,” I whispered nervously, edging away from him. “I didn’t mean to upset you.”
“You haven’t.”
“Oh, but…” I waved to the book in his hand. “Why are you reading that?”
“It’s a book.”
“But isn’t it … anti-Christian?”
“What?” he said, his lips curling in a sneer. “Like all Muslims are terrorists who support Daesh, and all black people play basketball?”
“I’m not a racist, Mr. Spears,” I said stiffly, shocked by his vicious words.
“No, just ignorant and uninformed.”
He raised his hand, and I honestly thought he was going to hit me, and I couldn’t help jerking out of reach. But then his hand dropped back to the rough blanket he was sitting on.
“You’ve got lice,” he said.
I blinked at him, thoroughly confused and a little afraid.
“You’ve got lice,” he said again. “In your hair.”
Then he reached over my shoulder and held my braid in front of me. My eyes widened as I saw little black specks running up and down.
Horrified, I leapt up and screamed.
“Get them off me! Get them off!”
I whirled around, feeling like I was under attack, panic overtaking me.
“Get them off! Get them off!” I shrieked, flapping my hands uselessly then tearing at my scalp.
James stood up quickly, his boots thudding onto the torn lino. When he drew a knife from his pocket, I screamed again. He yanked my plait with his left hand and with a fast slashing motion, severed it in one smooth movement.
Stunned, I stared helplessly as he grabbed my arm and hustled me out of his room and out of the building, not even pausing as he tossed my long braid into the snow like a piece of rubbish. Tears of shock and loss burned my eyes as he dragged me across the snowy courtyard and then pushed me into the kitchen.
Without a word, he slammed a hand between my shoulder blades, forcing me to bend over the sink.
I squeaked as he poured something cold over what was left of my hair. A strong smell of vinegar filled the room, and I watched open-mouthed as he sprinkled salt liberally over my head.
Then he pushed me into a chair, contemplating me carefully as I gasped in heaving breaths.
“W-what?” I stammered. “What did you do to me?”
He cocked his head on one side.
“You told me to get the lice off. So I did. No more lice.”
I blinked up at him, thoroughly humiliated, but I wouldn’t let him see me cry.
With trembling hands, I touched the blunt ends of my hair. No longer waist-length, it barely reached my shoulders and was dripping with vinegar.
“Vinegar dissolves the exoskeletons of the nits,” he explained as tremors ran through me. “And salt kills the adult lice. Leave it on until it dries, then run a narrow-tooth comb through it. After that, you can wash it out.” He turned to leave then paused. “Did you share a towel with someone?”
“No!” I spat out, horrified.
“Then you probably caught nits from the schoolkids yesterday.”
James saw the dawning awareness on my face because he nodded.
“Wash all your bedding, all your clothes and towels. And don’t share anything: not a brush or comb. Don’t share hats or scarves, and don’t share towels.”
Then he strode away without looking back.
Only when I was sure he’d gone did I allow myself a few tears of anger and frustration. I stank of vinegar and my beautiful hair, my crowning glory, was gone.
Feeling sick and shaky, I headed back to my room, pulling sheets and blankets from the bed, determined to wash everything … and grabbed a comb.
I stuffed all four washing machines in the laundry room with my bedding and entire suitcase of clothes. Everything was recently washed already, but I couldn’t risk that those little bastard bugs hadn’t already re-infected my clothing. It all had to be washed again: even the dryclean-only dresses and silk blouses, praying that the water would be hot enough to kill, neutralize and destroy the lice and nits. And then I realized my mistake as I stood naked and shivering. I had nothing to wear—literally nothing. I could have cried with frustration at my continued stupidity.
I had no choice but to stand here freezing until the washing cycles had finished, even if that meant wearing something wet after. What choice was there? God, I’d end up with pneumonia or hypothermia or both.
I knew that Zada would lend me something, even if she was smaller than me, but I had no way of letting her know that I needed her. Maybe she’d miss me at lunchtime and come to find me. Maybe one of the other
women would come here and help. But what if it was Turul, or worse still, Yad? The gravity of my situation began to dawn on me and I shivered with fear as well as cold.
I gasped as I heard a knock on the door.
“It’s James. I’ve brought you some clothes.”
“I … I’m naked,” I whispered.
“I thought you might be.”
The door opened and he thrust an arm through the gap, handing over a thick jumper, olive green Army trousers and a pair of flip-flops.
“Get dressed,” he ordered.
The jumper reached mid-thigh but the trousers only just fit over my hips, although they were big at the waist. The flip-flops were huge, like a pair of flippers on my feet. I’d thought that James was giving me Zada’s clothes—clearly these were his.
“I’m coming in,” he announced.
He pushed open the door, staring at me with a stern expression, his eyes drifting over my absurd outfit.
“What’s your problem with Yad?”
That wasn’t what I expected him to say. I shrugged half-heartedly.
“It’s nothing really. I just don’t like the way he watches me or the things he says. He hasn’t really done anything,” I admitted. “He gives me the creeps. Sorry.”
James frowned.
“Don’t be sorry. Go with your instinct—it’s probably right.”
“Oh!”
Again, not what I’d expected him to say.
I was still shivering, my bare feet turning blue and my hands shaking with cold. I’d never felt so low, so useless, so pointless, but then James took my comb from my trembling fingers, and started running it through my hair from the scalp to the tips, pausing occasionally to rinse off gunk.
Despite the freezing conditions, my cheeks flared with the heat of embarrassment. He stood with his chest pressed to my shoulder as he combed my hair thoroughly—presumably removing the lice and nits. God, that was disgusting! But he smelled lovely and his body was warm. It was the most comfort I’d felt in a long time.
When he’d finished, he washed the comb and poured bleach over it before handing it back to me.
“The laundry cycle finishes in 12 more minutes,” he said. “You’ve got time to go and wash your hair.” Then he pointed to the plastic bag he’d brought in with him. “There are more clean clothes in there—because now you’ll need to wash the ones you’re wearing.”
Bombshell - Jane Harvey-Berrick Page 9