The Right Reason

by Robert Enright

The driver cut the engine, and the man sat next to him slid from his seat. With a cocky swagger, he approached.

  He was a broad man, standing a little over six-foot-tall, with a thick, black beard. Behind his shades, his dark eyes locked onto Farhad like a lion stalking its prey and he shouldered his M4 Carbine rifle, adjusting the strap as a weak show of peace. He wore a white robe, with his red headscarf wrapped around his neck to shield it from the sun.

  A few of the other young men in the truck stood, one of them holding his rifle with itchy fingers and a sneer on his face.

  Behind them all, Tahir watched on, his eyes slowly filling with fear.

  Fear and the realisation of what he had done.

  The apparent leader of the group stepped past Farhad and regarded the small, run-down shack he called a home with a firm shake of his head.

  He proudly spoke in the native Pashto language.

  ‘Where is the soldier?’

  The man didn’t turn to Farhad, who gazed over at his son once more, then returned in kind.

  ‘There are no soldiers here, brother.’

  The leader turned on his heel and stared at the older gentleman before him. In an arrogant display of power, he lifted his right hand and clicked his fingers. With the obedience of attack dogs, two of his crew dropped from the truck and stomped towards the house. As they passed, Farhad held the man’s stare, only flinching slightly as he heard the thudding of his minimal possessions being turned inside out.

  A few moments later, the two men reappeared, their malnourished faces contorted in anger. One of them shook his head at the leader, who sighed.

  ‘Dr Nabizada. Please do not waste my time.’

  ‘Please, call me Farhad.’

  ‘Farhad? That was my grandfather’s name.’ The leader mused, before taking a step closer. Farhad caught the other two men slowly circling him in his peripheral. ‘Your son tells me that the shooter was here.’

  Farhad chuckled nervously.

  ‘Such stories. My son is a boy.’ He shot his son a pained look. ‘Nothing more than a boy.’

  ‘Yet, he would tell us these stories and put you in danger? I think not. I do not think these are stories.’

  Farhad shrugged.

  ‘He has an active imagination.’

  The leader stepped forward and in one swift movement, swung the gun from his shoulder and drove the butt of it straight into Farhad’s stomach. The sickening thud drove the air clean from his body and Farhad fell to his knees, clutching his mid-section and gasping for air. Tahir stood in panic, yelling for his father. One of the Taliban soldiers rose to his feet too, his hand menacingly falling on the young boy’s shoulder.

  Farhad shot a look to his son, gently shaking his head.

  He wanted Tahir to sit still.

  To stay safe.

  Whatever happened.

  In the darkness of the hideaway, Sam could feel Masood’s fear. As the sound of the engine drew nearer, the young lad squeezed Sam’s hand with all his might.

  Sam reciprocated, hoping to calm the poor boy down.

  His eyes had adjusted to the darkness and he could make out Masood’s face. The young boy was clearly afraid, but he looked around their dark confines with the oblivious innocence of a toddler.

  Outside, the boy’s father was walking headlong into oblivion.

  But Sam couldn’t do anything.

  As Farhad had stated, if they found him, then they would all be executed.

  Sam wasn’t afraid of death. It was a reality of his profession and although he was sure his death would be long and drawn out, he didn’t want the deaths of good people on his conscience.

  Farhad was a good man.

  So were his kids. Despite Tahir’s rebellion, the boy was just doing what he thought was right for his people.

  For his family.

  Sam respected it, but as he watched the truck come to a stop, with Tahir riding in the back with a squadron of armed extremists, he wished he was by Farhad’s side.

  A large man approached Farhad, his demeanor and movement told Sam he was clearly the leader, a man sent out by the Taliban to recruit young, angry men to join the cause. The man was roughly the same height as Sam, perhaps an inch taller with the same build. His thick, black beard hid his face, along with the red scarf that looped around him like a pet snake.

  The man spoke in the local dialect, the words holding little meaning to Sam.

  The tone, however, was heavy with menace.

  After Farhad calmly responded, the man snapped his fingers like a conductor and two of his goons leapt from the vehicle and headed towards the house. Sam held his breath, pressing his back against the cool, hard brick. Instinctively, he protectively placed a hand on Masood’s chest, guiding him back against the wall to.

  Masood looked up at Sam, his eyes searching for an explanation. Sam raised his finger to his lips and motioned for Masood to be quiet.

  On the other side of the wall, the two men wasted little time in ransacking Farhad’s home, deriving a sickening pleasure from sabotaging the man’s possessions. One of them entered the kitchen and less than a foot away, Sam could hear the man shoving the crockery to the floor.

  As it smashed, the man stomped out of the kitchen, following his partner back out into the heat.

  Sam finally breathed.

  Masood pressed against him, his body shaking.

  The tension was unbearable as Sam watched the leader of the group drive a rifle into Farhad’s stomach. His savior collapsed to the dirt, his body straining for air, and Sam felt his knuckles whiten.

  Farhad needed help.

  But Sam needed to keep the boys alive.

  Despite every fibre of his being begging him to race outside, Sam held the shaking child close and prayed to a god he didn’t believe in that they would make it quick.

  ‘I will only ask you one more time, Farhad,’ the leader said calmly. He nodded and one of his henchmen stepped forward and slammed his boot into Farhad’s ribs. His medical training told him the bone cracked as he spun on the ground, the pain pulsing through him. They had struck him four times, one of the kicks had caught him square on the jaw, derailing some teeth.

  Blood matted his beard, his white gown stained with dirt and blood.

  The leader stepped forward.

  ‘Where is the soldier?’

  Farhad began mumbling, his head was pounding from the pain and he tried to remember the words to his prayer. His hand grasped the small pendant that hung from a chain his wife had given him long ago. The leader sighed one final time and turned to the truck; his gaze fixated on Tahir.

  ‘Your father, he refuses to tell,’ he said with a shrug. ‘What does this make him?’

  All eyes landed on Tahir, who wiped away the tears that betrayed his anger. Watching his father being beaten had been hard to watch and with every strike they landed, Tahir felt himself disassociating from their cause. He was an angry boy, caught up in the glamour of the guns and the fear.

  The promises of glory.

  The notion of fighting back against the enemy.

  Of being a hero.

  But now, as he stood on the truck, with the armed terrorists waiting for him to condemn his father, the world suddenly began to blur. As a whirlwind of fear and guilt rushed through his body, he turned, hung his head over the side of the truck and vomited.

  The other passengers grumbled in disgust.

  The leader just shook his head.

  Another child he would have to break. Another man he would have to make.

  It was never something he enjoyed, but now and then, a young boy such as Tahir had to be shown what it was to be a man. To take what you want and to be strong enough to do so.

  Fear equaled power, and the leader knew a few choice ways to drill that into the child.

  Slowly, he turned his attention back to Farhad, who had finished his innate ramblings.

  ‘It makes you a traitor,’ he said coldly, answering his own question.

  Farh
ad tightened his grip on his pendant.

  Sam, watching the exchange and guessing the next moves, held Masood close to his body, covering the young boy’s ears.

  Tahir screamed in terror.

  The leader lined up his rifle and with a brisk, nonchalant flick of his index finger, pulled the trigger.

  The bullet drove through Farhad’s forehead like a nail, pinning him permanently to the afterlife. A spray of blood burst upwards, painting the stone and dirt a foul shade of maroon.

  Farhad went limp, a quick, pain-free death.

  His eyes stared vacantly towards the burning sun.

  His body motionless.

  A pool of blood quickly overpowering the surrounding dust.

  The leader stepped away, marching back towards the vehicle, his head held high.

  His men roared with approval.

  He had just demonstrated his power. His refusal to break from their ideals.

  They had just coldly murdered a man they suspected of treachery in front of his son.

  To them, it was necessary.

  To Tahir, it was world shattering.

  The leader motioned for Tahir and two of the men reached for him. He didn’t feel himself being lifted from the van. All he felt was the same, repetitive kick of guilt hitting him in the gut.

  He was plonked in front of the leader who revealed a crooked set of teeth as he grinned.

  He slid the round from the rifle and handed the empty weapon to the boy.

  ‘When you finally grow some hair on those balls, you come and see me.’ He sneered as he pulled himself into the vehicle. He shot Tahir one last glance. ‘Or do you have no fight in you, like your father?’

  With that, the engine roared back into life and the driver spun the wheel. A cloud of smoke whipped up from the ground and surrounded the murder scene, as the vehicle roared off into the distance.

  Tahir stood still, the heat slapping against him and he shook.

  First it was shock.

  Then it was rage.

  Pure rage.

  He dropped the empty rifle onto the ground, fell to his knees, and looked at the lifeless body of his father.

  In the house, Sam watched, his heart breaking.

  Tahir ignored the scrapes on his knees, arched his head towards the sky, and let out a blood-curdling scream of anguish.

  CHAPTER SIX

  ‘I’m sorry, son.’

  Every hospital had an overpowering smell of bleach. It was a stench that had stayed with Sam ever since he was a young child. He had gone on a tour of one of them when he’d joined his dad oversees. It had been a military base in the south of France and all Sam could recall of the whole trip was the beautiful sunshine, playing football with his father’s comrades, and the sense tingling smell of the hospital.

  Sam had always been content with his childhood.

  It wasn’t exactly ideal, or like the other kids he’d met whenever he stayed at a school long enough.

  His father was a high-ranking general within the British Armed Forces and was highly regarded by everyone he came into contact with.

  General William Pope.

  His bravery and compassion had garnered him respect..

  During his senior years of service, he stepped away from the battlefield, working diligently to break down the bureaucracy that dominated the institution to try to provide a better life for the brave men and women who dedicated their lives to protect their country.

  That meant moving. A lot.

  Sam’s education was a constant struggle. Every other term, his father would need to move to a new location, from the north-east of the UK, to the south of Germany. Sam followed, his mother leaving long before. Sam had always been cold to the thought of her, never having the inclination to look for her or reconnect. She had walked away from him, not the other way around and he had decided quite easily that he would never walk towards her.

  His father, despite his lack of free time, was a terrific parent. He had known their life had been hard on Sam growing up, alienating him from the other kids and never allowing him to develop meaningful friendships. He would have jacked it all in if Sam had asked, but there was something about his son that made him immensely proud.

  The fact that Sam could see the good his father did.

  It had always filled William with a sense of purpose. Sure, fighting side by side with some of the greatest people he would ever know was terrific.

  But to know his son believed in him, that his uncompromising virtues had been instilled in his son from a young age, had made it easier.

  It meant that when he died after a heart attack, he had passed knowing he’d left behind a good man.

  Sam had been pulled from an exam preparation class and driven quickly to the medical facility. The Queen Elizabeth Hospital in Birmingham had a dedicated Ministry of Defence Hospital Unit, which treated military officers. Public hospitals had taken over the responsibility of caring for the nation’s heroes when the special military hospitals were shut down.

  To Sam, it made little difference.

  A hospital was a hospital and they were all the same.

  White walls.

  Overworked staff.

  The heavy aroma of bleach.

  Now he sat in a waiting room on a semi-comfortable sofa, staring at the white table and the box of tissues placed before him. On the other side of the table, a young nurse sat, his face offering a warm smile. He had just told a fifteen-year-old boy that his only parent had passed away. Sam could see the man awkwardly trying to offer comfort, so offered him a smile of his own.

  ‘Did it hurt him?’ Sam asked.

  ‘Heart attacks are usually quick,’ the nurse said, trying to reassure Sam without revealing too many horrible details.

  ‘Did you know my father?’

  ‘Yes. He’d been in here a few times.’ The nurse nodded. ‘He was a good man.’

  Sam dabbed at the corner of his eyes with his sleeve, allowing the grief to flood forward with tears. The nurse was right, his father had been a good man. One who had taught Sam the meaning of right and wrong. That if you had the ability to help someone, then you should.

  For no other reason other than it was the right thing to do.

  At that moment, the door swung open and a large man stepped into the room, his polished shoes gleaming under the halogen bulbs above. His camo uniform was immaculately pressed and clung to his bulky frame, a small paunch gathering around the stomach. His clean-shaven face held an insincere look of pity, his mop of thinning brown hair fighting a losing battle. The nurse stood up.

  ‘Major,’ he addressed him with a nod, before turning back to Sam and patting him on the shoulder. ‘I’m sorry for your loss, son.’

  Sam acknowledged the act of kindness and watched as the nurse left, heading back to his thankless task of looking after the sick and needy. With a deep cough, the large man brought Sam’s attention back into the room.

  ‘It’s customary to greet a superior officer by standing up and showing him some respect.’

  The man’s voice carried a weight with it, one that was used to commanding. Sam scrambled to his feet.

  ‘But I’m not a soldier. Sir.’

  ‘Is that so?’ The man regarded Sam with a careful eye. Sam was athletic, the formation of an impressive physique beginning to emerge through puberty. The boy was the spitting image of his father, who the major had served alongside so diligently. ‘Your father told me many times that you dreamt of following in his footsteps. Is that correct?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Yes what?’

  ‘Yes, sir,’ Sam said sternly, already appreciating the chain of command.

  ‘Well, that is good news. God knows we need more young men such as yourself to step forward and fight the good fight.’ The man grinned and extended a meaty hand. ‘Major Ervin Wallace.’

  Sam took it, the clammy skin wrapping around his and squeezing. A sign of dominance and one which brought a smirk to the major’s face.

&
nbsp; ‘Sam. Sam Pope.’

  ‘Of course. Now, Sam, your father was a dear friend of mine. Family, even. In a few months, when you make that application, consider it a done deal.’ Wallace flashed his car salesman-esque grin again. ‘You will always have a family here.’

  Sam felt a few more tears trickle down his cheeks, embarrassed to cry in front of the senior officer. Wallace didn’t look amused and Sam took a deep breath.

  ‘Thank you, sir.’

  Sam extended his hand. Wallace gripped it tightly once more, exerting further power. His eyes glistened, like a wolf about to pick off the weakest member of the herd.

  ‘Welcome to the fight.’

  It had broken Sam’s heart to stay in the darkness of the hideaway. As soon as the gunshot had echoed through the sparse wastelands, Sam had watched the world crumble around Tahir. With his younger brother clutching Sam’s hand, Tahir had slowly dropped to his knees and leant over the motionless body of their father.

  Sam felt his eyes watering as the young boy trembled, his hands grasping his father’s shirt.

  A pain-stricken scream soon forced its way from Tahir’s throat, an agony that echoed for eternity.

  Once the dust cloud of the murderous vehicle had completely evaporated, Sam gently shuffled backwards to the loose wall panel and with a firm shunt of his right foot, dislodged it. It jostled the unit in front and after a few more swift punts, the fading daylight broke through the darkness. Masood slowly wandered out, rubbing his eyes as they adjusted to the light.

  Sam followed, ignoring the sudden sting of the light crashing into his eyes and he gingerly knelt down, the pain in his side reminding him of his injuries.

  There were worse things going on than his injuries.

  The two boys had lost their father.

  A good man had been murdered.

  Because of him.

  Sam offered the scared young boy a warm smile.

  ‘I need you to go and hide, okay?’ Sam said, his sadness betraying his grin. ‘I need you to go to your bed, get under the cover and hide. Can you do that for me?’

  Masood nodded. Sam ruffled his hair.

  ‘Atta boy.’ Sam pushed himself back up, groaning in pain. ‘I’ll be back in a couple of minutes, okay? Now go.’