Bombshell - Jane Harvey-Berrick

by Harvey-Berrick, Jane

  “Lady Arabella! What a lovely surprise. Mr. Russell-Hyde didn’t tell me you were visiting. Let me help you with your bags, dear.”

  “Good heavens, no!” I smiled, hauling the two large suitcases into the entrance hall with me. “Alastair can do that. I’m not having you put your back out again, Mrs. E. Is he up yet?”

  “My dear, it’s six o’clock in the evening!”

  “And we both know that doesn’t necessarily mean that Alastair is awake, don’t we?”

  She gave me a conspiratorial smile, but didn’t answer.

  “Ally!” I bellowed up the stairs. “Get your skinny arse down here and help me with my luggage!”

  Alastair appeared at the top of the stairs in a striped dressing gown, his hair stuck to his head on one side, obviously only just awake.

  “Harry, what are you doing here scaring me half to death?” he grumbled. “I thought the bloody place was on fire.”

  “I’m staying for a few weeks and I need you to carry my bags upstairs. I’m not getting in that deathtrap you call a lift.”

  “Oh, right,” he sighed, making his way downstairs. “Hang on, why are you staying with me? What’s wrong with your place?”

  “My dad’s there,” I said flatly.

  He snickered like a horse.

  “Not too happy about the Hunt Ball, eh? I thought you were bloody marvellous.”

  “You are a dear,” I said, kissing him on the cheek. “I just need a place to stay for a while, and you owe me.”

  “Alrighty,” He said good-naturedly. “Don’t s’pose you’re up for a little poke for old times’ sake?”

  “It only ever was a little poke, Alastair,” I said, marching up the stairs while he wheezed behind me with my suitcases.

  “God, I’d forgotten what a bitch you are!”

  “Don’t whine, Ally. Am I in the blue room?”

  “Yes, fine,” he sighed again. “Whichever you like. Anyway, the yellow room is being redecorated.” He paused. “Or it might be the Chinese room. I can’t remember. Blue’s fine, I think.”

  The blue room was my favourite when I’d stayed there before. The pretty four-poster bed was swathed in duck-egg blue drapes at each post which could be pulled together if wanted; the wallpaper was handmade in imitation of the original Georgian style that had once covered the walls; and the ceiling was painted to look like dawn on a summer’s day, with the dark blue of night fading to palest blue.

  I collapsed backwards onto the four-poster and stared up at the ceiling. I loved lying in bed here like this. It felt so peaceful.

  “Up for a quickie?” Alastair asked again with a hopeful expression.

  “Don’t be silly. Now fetch me a glass of bubbly and put some clothes on. Wait, put some clothes on and then fetch me a glass of bubbly. We have work to do.”

  “I don’t like the sound of that,” he said glumly.

  “Ally, you’ve never worked a day in your whole life, but this you’re going to enjoy, I promise. We’re going to make a list of all our acquaintances and think of ways to put the squeeze on them all.”

  “Oh, that sounds more like it,” he said cheerfully. “Bubbly on the way. Oh, and how about a bit of Bolivian marching powder to see us through?”

  I shook my head, not even a little bit tempted.

  He started to leave, then poked his head back around the door.

  “Um, Harry?”

  “What?”

  “Your solider friend, the scary good-looking fellow … he’s not going to come charging over to beat me up ‘cause you’re living here, is he?”

  “Probably not,” I smiled awkwardly.

  “Right-o,” he said.

  My high spirits evaporated. No, James wouldn’t be charging over to rescue me—not this time.

  Determination settled over me, driving back the tears. No more white knights in my life, but maybe I could do something for him.

  No. No maybe about it. I was going to make this happen.

  Alastair returned with a bottle of vintage Moët & Chandon, and we started work, making a list of promising people whom we could plead with, persuade or pressure into helping us. Since Alastair’s father was a Peer in the House of Lords, he knew a lot of MPs on both sides of the House, as well as in the Commons.

  “You know, Harry,” he said thoughtfully, “if you want to get noticed, you have to make waves. You’ve made a good start at the Hunt Ball, impressive PR and all that, but you’ve got to keep up the pressure: keep the hits coming so that they can’t cool off or back down.”

  “Makes sense,” I agreed, flipping through our list.

  “But what people really want to see is the man of the hour himself. Get your soldier to come to London and meet all the great and the good—they’ll be falling over themselves to be associated with a hero.”

  I sighed.

  “He won’t come,” I said glumly. “He hates all the razzmatazz and publicity. He wouldn’t do it.”

  Alastair’s eyes widened.

  “Then why are we breaking our balls to help him out?”

  Anger flared inside me.

  “Because what they did to him was wrong,” I said sharply. “He’s saved so many lives and they treated him like rubbish.”

  “Oh, you really meant what you said at the Ball?”

  My eyebrows shot up.

  “Of course I meant what I said! Wait, what did you think I meant?”

  He shrugged uncomfortably.

  “Well, we just sort of assumed that you wanted to give him a leg up after a leg over, so to speak.”

  My mouth dropped open.

  “You really thought that? And who’s ‘we’, by the way?”

  He cringed.

  “Well, come on, Harry! Don’t forget we know you, all your old chums, even if you’ve forgotten us. It was a fair assumption. Look, I’m really sorry, old thing, but let’s face it—the Harry we know and love would think it was a laugh to pull off a stunt like that.”

  My anger deflated.

  It was true, everything he said was true. I felt ashamed. I gathered a few shreds of pride and turned back to my laptop.

  “That’s the old Harry. I’ve changed since then.”

  Alastair patted my shoulder awkwardly.

  “I can see that. Sorry, darling.”

  “You’re forgiven,” I sighed.

  We began work on our second list: influential party-goers.

  I’d been to enough fundraisers to know that the best ones had the perfect blend of the great, the good and the infamous: ideally, blue bloods from the UK with some European royalty added in, wanker-bankers who actually had money to throw around and other well-heeled but otherwise dull individuals, then sprinkle a little Hollywood stardust with some A-listers plus a couple of badly-behaved B-listers—shaken not stirred—and that equalled maximum cash and maximum press coverage.

  “You know,” said Alastair after we’d been sitting in comfortable silence for half an hour, your soldier friend…”

  “His name is James.”

  “Yes, well, your soldier friend James is best known for what he did in New York, correct?”

  “Yeah, so?”

  “So why not get in touch with the Ambassador at the US Embassy? He’s an awfully nice chap, pretty decent wine cellar, too.”

  I looked up from my laptop, my eyes widening.

  “Oh my God, Alastair!”

  “Sorry, stupid idea,” he mumbled.

  “No!” I said, springing to my feet and pacing up and down the room. “It’s bloody brilliant! Why didn’t I think of that?”

  Alastair’s eyes brightened.

  “Did I just have another good idea?”

  “Darling, Ally! You absolutely did!”

  “Marvellous!” he grinned. “Any chance of a shag, then?”

  “None whatsoever, but I love you anyway.”

  I gave him a quick hug then went back to work.

  Alastair was the perfect accomplice, and we plotted late into the night.
>
  AS CHRISTMAS LOOMED, the campaign grew and grew, questions were even asked in Parliament about the way veterans were treated, and a whole section of Prime Minister’s Question Time was devoted to the subject.

  The Press ate it up, with many column inches, particularly about anything to do with the men and women working in bomb disposal.

  And the hastily put together parties I threw were a great success, raising lots of lovely cash and maximum publicity for the Halo Trust. They were delighted with my work and talked about sending me abroad as an ambassador for them.

  It was all wonderful and energizing, but the one person I never heard from was James. Clay emailed me from time to time, and even Zada returned the single message that I’d sent her. But from James, there was only silence.

  Clay’s emails were full of fascinating details about the Tasks in Angola which I carefully worked into Press Releases, but he generally avoided mentioning James. I knew he was working with Clay, but that was about all. It hurt. I longed for his forgiveness, but I still had so much to prove.

  Gray’s voice sounded subdued when I answered his phone call, two days before Christmas.

  “I’m sorry, Harry, but Spears doesn’t want anything to do with the campaign. I’ve tried talking to him several times, but he’s determined: he won’t come back to the UK to be your, um, our show pony.”

  “Did he actually say that?” I asked, my voice sharper than I would have liked.

  Gray cleared his throat.

  “Words to that effect. I even tried to get Clay Williams to persuade him, since he’s Spears’ Head of Operations, but he’s not had any luck either.” He paused. “I think you might have to let this one go, Harry.”

  My chin went up.

  “No, absolutely not. Fine, well, if he won’t come to the UK, send a camera crew out to Angola to film him at work.”

  Gray was silent for several seconds.

  “Yes! That’s a great idea, Harry. And now we’ve got some extra funds, we can afford to do it.” He hesitated. “Do you want to be part of the team that goes?”

  I shivered with longing, my heart at war with my head. Then I sighed.

  “No, it’ll go better if I’m not there.”

  “Okay,” said Gray quietly. “Your decision.”

  I lay awake that night, full of regrets for what could have been.

  But a week later, just in time to ring in the New Year, I received a message that changed everything.

  James

  “A FUCKING FILM crew? Are you shitting me?”

  Clay grinned.

  “No, sir! I shit you not. Meet your new best friends, Jay and Danny. They’ll be following you from the moment you open your eyes in the morning to the second your ugly mug hits the pillow at night.”

  “After a couple of days, you won’t even notice that we’re here,” said Jay, or maybe it was Danny.

  “Great,” I snarled. “I’m going to the shitter. Want to follow me there?”

  I stomped off, leaving Clay to do what he did best and make apologies for the fact that he worked with a miserable bastard.

  I knew I was acting like a dickhead, and I knew that the publicity was great for the Trust, which meant more staff, better equipment—things that made life that little bit safer for everyone. It was the fact that she was behind it, her fucking ladyship.

  I’d spent a lot of energy not thinking about her, because when I did, I’d get this hollow feeling inside my chest. I was pretty certain that if I ever keeled over on the job, a surgeon would open me up and find that a miracle had happened—I’d been walking around without a heart.

  Jesus, what a crappy start to the day. Taking a dump was the highlight.

  But over the next few days, Jay proved to be right: I did forget the film crew were there for large chunks of time. They were careful not to get in my way or impede the work in any way. It turned out that they were both ex-Army so knew enough about which orders had to be followed, and which you could be more creative with.

  Clay liked having them around, and he was good at explaining the work and the processes. They filmed life in the compound, and Yamba had them grinning like idiots as he told his jokes and tall stories. I may have smiled, as well, but only once.

  We’d only been at this location a couple of weeks, so they had a lot of footage of the training sessions, starting in the classroom but quickly moving to the training fields. That’s when shit got serious and the jokes were dark ones.

  Zada set up a kids’ clinic at the compound, too. I wasn’t very happy about that, not because what she was doing wasn’t important, but because minefields and children weren’t a good mix, but at least Yamba and me could do some improvised lessons on mine risk education.

  It wasn’t enough, it was never enough.

  Maybe the pressure was beginning to get to me—I could feel it building inside me, a rising rage and fury that everything took so long to do: every piece of equipment had to be begged for, a case made, a proposition written, even now with the extra income the charity was benefitting from.

  Then one day, I lost it.

  The crew had been filming me all day, keeping their distance as I became surlier by the second.

  All the searchers in the demining team had put in long hours in the relentless heat, flagging up a massive minefield and we were still only halfway through. It would take weeks to neutralize everything we’d found so far.

  Sweat glued the dust to our bodies, making everything raw as if we were wearing sandpaper, but it was my nerves that were being worn down.

  Zada was standing outside her makeshift clinic, cradling a smiling girl with red ribbons in her hair.

  “This is Nzingha. She’s named for a warrior princess. Hey, baby, say hello to Uncle James.”

  Her voice was soft and happy, and the little girl waved back, giggling.

  I stopped and stared, my eyes transfixed on her small hand waving at me, then the gap where her other arm should be.

  My eyes travelled down to her legs but she didn’t have any.

  I met Zada’s eyes, pulled down with sadness.

  “She was playing in the fields outside her home. Her mother had told her not to go there, but she saw a butterfly with pretty colours and she was following it. James, I know…”

  I turned furiously, my fists clenched, my throat choking with fury, and I strode towards to Jay and Danny who’d been following me as usual.

  “Why are you filming me?” I raged. “She’s the story right there! This little girl! These fucking landmines were laid over 35 years ago, but the war here has been over since 2002. What the fuck have people been doing since then? Nothing! That’s what! While children are being killed or getting their arms and legs blown off. Why aren’t more people out here helping? Why is it left to charities to sort out the shit that armies leave behind? When the fuck will we learn?”

  My voice had risen to an incoherent scream and I realized that my face was wet. I swiped at my skin in disbelief as tears streamed down my face.

  I was crying? I was actually crying.

  I turned away in disgust, knowing that I’d just given them great footage. I didn’t blame Jay and Danny—they were decent blokes and family men themselves; they’d been just as affected by what they’d seen.

  I strode away, leaving them standing, needing to be alone.

  Crouched in the shadows on the floor of my hut, my head fell to my hands. All the grief and all the loss had finally caught up with me, and there was nothing I could do to control it anymore. I couldn’t hold it back.

  All the darkness poured out of me in a continuing stream; all the hopelessness, the helplessness, and I couldn’t stop it.

  My body shook uncontrollably, all the emotions slamming into me, again and again and again.

  I didn’t know how long I’d been crouched in the dark, but I wasn’t surprised when my door opened and Clay entered. Dirt on the floor and heat in the air, he sat with me in silence, just being there.

  I cried fo
r everything I’d lost, gained and lost again; for all the injustices that left a playful, inquisitive child with three limbs torn away; for a world where we spent more on weapons that we did on aid; where wars that had ended decades ago could still inflict terrible injuries. And I cried because I was needed here and I had to go on, I just didn’t know how anymore.

  Finally, spent and ashamed, I ran out of tears. The emotional well was empty again.

  I’d almost forgotten that Clay was there, but then he began to speak.

  “With every mine that you neutralize, you’re saving another child like that little girl from a lifetime of struggle; you’re saving a woman like her mother from a lifetime of worry that she’ll die before a daughter who needs her; you’re saving a man like me from blisters and calluses because prosthetics aren’t as good as the real thing. With every mine that’s taken out of the equation, you’re saving families from loss and trauma. With every mine that’s cleared, that’s a win for the good guys. That’s you, James. One of the good guys. Never forget that.”

  He stood up awkwardly, his tall silhouette framed in the doorway.

  “You’re not the only one who has dark nights, bad dreams, and darker days. You wouldn’t be human if you didn’t. I’m proud to know you, brother.”

  I sat alone in my hut, listening to the world beyond the thin, plywood door. I heard Clay and Zada’s voices, talking to people who’d visited the clinic that day and to the teams who’d been on Task with me. I heard Jay and Danny talk about the footage that they’d got and how they were ready to go home and start editing it, that they’d caught some incredible moments to show the world. I wondered bleakly if I was one of those ‘golden moments’ that filmmakers talked about.

  I was too tired to care anymore, because they were right. If my rant made someone else sit up and take notice, or put their hands in the pockets to make a donation, then it was job done, right?

  My head pounded with a dull ache, but I couldn’t be bothered to get up, didn’t want to face the others, couldn’t care enough to eat or drink or move.

  I thought about Amira, her strength, her fears, her sadness, her smiles. I finally understood the choice she’d made to go back to Syria; I finally understood why she couldn’t, wouldn’t wait for me to go with her. She couldn’t because there was so much need, so much to do. I could spend three lifetimes clearing minefields around the world and the work would never be done, never be finished, never be over.