Osama

by Chris Ryan

  Narinder glanced at the other two. The truth was that they were more interested in action than prayer. Back in the training camp, he had knelt towards Mecca because he’d been told to; his trips to the mosque were more social than religious. But he sensed that they were as unwilling as he was to disobey this strange, quiet man. And so all three knelt with him as he read in Arabic from his Koran, before intoning a familiar prayer. And once he had left the room, each went silently about his business, carefully cutting the slabs of Semtex as they had been taught into smaller, flatter rectangles, ready to accept a charge, ready to pack them into whatever housing they were eventually given.

  It was an hour later when Narinder suddenly scraped back his chair and got to his feet. Rakesh and Adi both looked up at him.

  ‘I need a slash, all right?’ he said.

  He left the room.

  The toilet was separate from the bathroom, and situated next to the locked bedroom. A piece of worn, grey vinyl flooring, curled at the edges, was covered with sticky yellow piss stains around the pan. Rakesh, Narinder had observed, was bastard filthy and couldn’t aim properly. He loosened himself from his fly and was about to empty his bladder when he heard something unusual. It came from his left, from the other side of the wall that separated the toilet from the locked bedroom. Narinder edged towards it, put his ear to the wall and held his breath so that he could hear better. It was white noise, like an untuned old-fashioned TV set. It meant nothing to Narinder, who just shrugged, stepped back to the toilet and pissed noisily into the water. Once he’d flushed, he waited for the cistern to refill before listening against the wall again. The noise was still there.

  Back out on the landing he stopped outside Mr Ashe’s door. He could hear the white noise more clearly from here. Again he wanted to knock, but there was something about Mr Ashe that made him feel nervous. His instructors at the camp in Pakistan had been brutal, and Narinder had been scared of them, but Mr Ashe didn’t need to threaten any of them with violence for them to do what he said.

  And so Narinder almost surprised himself when he found himself rapping his knuckles against the door.

  ‘Do come in.’

  Narinder opened up, and stepped inside.

  He hadn’t really known what to expect, it was true, but the room that had been locked these past three days was disappointingly bland. The curtains were closed and the light switched off. There was a camp bed, just like the ones the three of them had been sleeping on. Mr Ashe was sitting at what looked like an IKEA table. A laptop was open in front of him, and his face was bathed in the glow from its screen. Next to it was a handheld digital radio – it was this that was making the white noise – and his copy of the Koran, open about halfway through, and face downwards.

  ‘I’m glad you knocked, Narinder.’ Mr Ashe smiled, and Narinder flashed his yellow teeth at him in return.

  ‘Wicked,’ Narinder said, but his mouth was suddenly dry.

  ‘Please tell the others to stop work. You are needed elsewhere.’

  ‘What?’ Narinder shook his head in confusion. ‘But . . .’

  ‘Please, Narinder. I’ll explain everything when we’re all together.’ He gave him a meaningful look. ‘I can rely on you to organize the others?’

  ‘Yeah,’ he nodded. ‘Yeah, course. I’ll just . . .’ He jabbed his thumb over his shoulder and stepped backwards out of the room, closing the door as he went. He sniffed, then turned and re-entered the bedroom he shared with the others. They didn’t even look up as he walked in – they were too busy cutting out their rectangles of explosive. ‘OK, you two. On your feet.’

  Rakesh and Adi looked at him with scorn.

  ‘Whatever,’ Narinder shrugged. ‘If you don’t want to do what Mr Ashe says, that’s your bastard decision.’

  It was enough. The other two stood up with obvious reluctance. ‘What we doing?’ Rakesh asked.

  Narinder gave him what he hoped was an enigmatic smile. ‘Ah, you’ll find out, man,’ he said. ‘Mr Ashe, he’ll tell you what you need to know when you need to know it.’

  Before they could ask any more questions, Narinder left the room and stood in the hallway, waiting for the others to join him.

  Mr Ashe watched Narinder leave the room, and he continued to stare at the closed door for a full ten seconds after he was alone. Only then did he turn his attention back to the laptop.

  He was looking at a black and white image, rather grainy, of an ordinary street. Anybody would be able to tell from a glance that it was in the UK – there was a pillar box on the right, and the blur of a BT van driving out of the shot. Mr Ashe, however, knew a bit more than that. He knew, for example, the name of the road – Lancing Way – and that the street was located in the border town of Hereford. In the bottom-right corner of the screen was a time code. It read ‘10:58’, and indicated that this was the final frame in a stop-motion video lasting ten minutes and fifty-eight seconds. He pressed the laptop’s mouse button with his right thumb and, keeping it down, swiped the trackpad with a long-nailed forefinger. The video restarted and Mr Ashe watched it all through again.

  Time code 00:00: nothing but Lancing Way. No cars parked on either side, the pavements lined with temporary barriers indicating that roadworks were to take place soon.

  01:20: a man walks towards the camera with a black Labrador on a lead.

  05:26: a harassed mother ushers two children along the pavement in the opposite direction.

  08:41: a black Land Rover Discovery trundles slowly along the street towards the camera. It stops about fifty metres away in the middle of the road. The driver climbs out and opens the rear passenger door. A second man appears. He is wearing jeans and a hooded grey top, and has a black North Face bag slung over his right shoulder. He is half a head taller than the driver and has an unkempt black beard. Even with this low-quality footage, Mr Ashe can make out the dark rings around his eyes, and he observes the heavy slump in the man’s gait as he squeezes between two of the roadworks barriers separating the road from the pavement. The driver watches him go. When it becomes clear that he’s not going to get any acknowledgement from his passenger, he shrugs, climbs back into the Discovery and drives off out of view.

  08:44: the bearded passenger stops outside one of the houses. It has a neatly trimmed hedge at the front. He stares at the house for a minute before walking up to the front door and ringing the bell. Almost a minute passes.

  08:45: the door opens. Mr Ashe cannot see who is there, but he can sense the awkwardness as he or she stands back to let this bearded man enter. The door closes, and now the only thing moving on the screen is the time code, ticking down to the end of the video.

  A knock on the door. ‘Do come in,’ he said for the second time.

  It was Narinder.

  ‘They’re ready, Mr Ashe.’

  Mr Ashe smiled. ‘Do come in, all of you,’ he said. With a last glance at the screen, he shut the lid of the laptop, then looked up at his three young recruits. They seemed nervous, but eager to do well.

  Just the men for the job.

  SEVEN

  Hereford, UK. 1008 hours.

  The duty driver who drove Joe to Hereford had offered him a seat in the front. Joe had preferred to sit alone in the back of the black Discovery. That way it was easier not to talk.

  Bagram one day. Brize Norton the next. It was enough to fuck with anyone’s head. The sun had been rising over the English countryside as they came in to land. After nearly six months of seeing nothing but the yellows and browns of the desert, the green fields were almost blindingly intense. Joe supposed he should welcome them. For some reason, he didn’t. Now, though, clouds had rolled in and there was a chill in the air. A typical English May morning.

  He was standing on the ordinary pavement of this ordinary street. An empty street. No Humvees or MRAPS, nor even any Astras or Fiestas, their absence explained by a sign pinned to a lamppost: ‘4–6 May, roadworks, no parking’. Joe stood on the pavement for a full minute, listening to the s
ilence. It was something he had barely heard for months. In the Stan there was always the noise of a vehicle, or an artillery shell, or some squaddie shouting at his mates. He became aware of a tawny cat sitting on the pavement five metres away, staring at him with pale yellow eyes, and he remembered the lame cat that had limped over the minefield the previous day. ‘Fuck’s sake,’ he muttered as he pushed that picture from his mind, hitched his bag further up his shoulder and stepped in the direction of his own front door.

  Number 38 Lancing Way was a tiny two-bedroom terraced house, just big enough for Joe, his girlfriend Caitlin and their boy, Conor. Caitlin and Joe had met in Northern Ireland back in 1995, when he was a newbie to the Regiment and she was a local girl serving beers at Daft Eddy’s on Strangford Lough. What they’d both assumed would be a no-strings-attached Sunday-afternoon shag had turned into something more permanent, and Joe had got to know pretty well the route from the Regiment base at Aldergrove to the flat Caitlin shared with two other girls in central Belfast. He’d never told her that he’d run police checks on all three of them before seeing her for a second time. What she didn’t know couldn’t piss her off.

  When Joe was recalled to Hereford in the summer of ’97, he’d come clean to Caitlin that he wasn’t really working for British Telecom. She told him she’d politely pretended that she had believed his little deception, and agreed to come with him. They’d shacked up in army accommodation, and while Joe was hoovering up war criminals in the Balkans, or pulling Royal Irish Rangers out of enemy strongholds in Sierra Leone, Caitlin had seemed happy to play house. When she fell pregnant in ’00 – a surprise to both of them – she’d insisted that an army house was no longer good enough. Which was why Joe now found himself here, walking past the neatly maintained front garden, all shrubs and white gravel, and rapping a dirty fist on the red front door.

  He saw her approach through the two glass panels: the silhouette of her curly red hair, the gentle slope of her slim shoulders. He saw the way that she hesitated for a few seconds before opening up, doing something to her hair as she prepared to welcome home the man she hadn’t seen for six months.

  The door opened. Caitlin’s pretty face was midway between pleasure and nervousness.

  ‘Hi,’ she whispered.

  She wasn’t one for make-up. Her clear, delicately freckled skin had a beautiful, natural glow to it. Today, though, Joe noticed she was wearing lip gloss and mascara. She had on slim jeans and a halterneck top that clung slightly to her small breasts – the kind of clothes she normally wore on a night out, not at ten o’clock on a Wednesday morning. Some of the lads used to tell Joe that she looked like something out of the Corrs; no doubt they said other things behind his back.

  ‘Hi,’ he replied.

  Caitlin stepped back so he could cross the threshold. Only when he had shut the door behind him did she wrap her arms around his neck and give him a brief, awkward hug, before standing back again and brushing her fingertips against the wall. ‘I redecorated,’ she said.

  Joe blinked. The walls were powder blue, though what colour they’d been before, he had no idea. ‘Right,’ he replied.

  ‘Conor’s in his room. I said he didn’t have to go to school . . .’

  Joe glanced up the stairs. His boy was only nine years old. Or was it ten? He realized, in a moment of guilt, that he’d had a birthday in April that Joe hadn’t even acknowledged. Conor was a good kid, at least that’s what his teachers said. Privately, Joe wished he would spend a little less time with his nose in a book, or at a screen playing games. When Joe was Conor’s age, he’d spent every spare hour out of doors, getting muddy, playing imaginary versions of the war games that would become his life. Conor just didn’t seem interested in stuff like that.

  ‘He’s been looking forward to seeing you,’ Caitlin said.

  Joe dropped his bag on the hallway floor. When he looked at Caitlin again, he saw that her eyes were brimming with tears. ‘What’s the matter?’ he asked.

  Caitlin wiped the tears from her eyes. She looked angry with herself for crying. ‘Nothing,’ she said.

  ‘Christ, Caitlin, it’s been a long couple of—’

  ‘Two months,’ she interrupted, her voice cracking. ‘Two months, Joe.’

  ‘Since what?’

  ‘Since I heard from you.’

  Silence.

  ‘Right.’

  ‘Conor’s been asking every day when he’s going to see his dad. When he didn’t get a birthday letter from you, he asked me if you were . . .’ The tears had reappeared; she wiped them away again, this time smearing mascara over her stricken face. ‘Sorry . . . I’m sorry . . . I wasn’t going to . . .’

  ‘I’m going to get cleaned up,’ Joe said. He pushed past her, but then felt her hand grab his wrist.

  ‘I’ve missed you so much, Joe,’ she whispered. ‘We both have.’ She hugged him again, this time resting her head against his chest. Joe breathed in her perfume and allowed the warmth from her body to saturate his. In his six months away he had forgotten how good it felt.

  ‘I really need to wash,’ he said. Caitlin separated herself from him and squeezed his hand. He headed up the stairs.

  Conor’s room was at the top of the staircase on the right. The door, which had a tattered Spider-Man poster pinned to it, was closed. Joe put his ear to it and heard the beeping of his son’s DS. He tried to force his face into a look of pleasure. It didn’t come naturally. He was about to put his hand to the doorknob when he sensed that he was being watched. Looking over his shoulder, he saw Caitlin at the bottom of the stairs, staring up with swollen eyes. Joe lowered his hand, turned away and walked across the tiny landing into the double bedroom.

  Thick carpet. Flowery curtains. Neat bedspread. It couldn’t have been more different from the Portakabin he’d been sharing with Ricky and JJ in Bagram, and Joe didn’t even feel he belonged in this room. Like he dirtied it. He immediately returned to the landing, and from there went into the bathroom. He stripped naked, dumping his clothes on the ceramic tiles. Caitlin had laid out wash things for him: toothbrush, razor, shaving gel. She was a lot less keen on his beard than the ruperts were. Joe didn’t bother with the gel. He started hacking at his matted beard with the razor. Clumps of hair fell into the apricot-coloured basin; the blade became dull after about fifteen swipes. He changed it, and continued to swipe at his face until he felt the blunt steel against his skin.

  It took five minutes and three changes of blade to remove the beard. By the time he’d thrown the razor into the hair-filled basin, his face was bleeding in several places. Joe didn’t care. He stepped over the edge of the bath, pulled the opaque, floral shower curtain closed and turned on the water, maximum temperature. It was scalding, but Joe didn’t flinch as he held his face up to the shower head and allowed it to burn and soak him. He didn’t move for a minute. When he finally looked down, he saw that he was standing in an inch of dirty water, and still his skin wasn’t clean. He checked the thermostat, wanting to turn the heat higher. When a sharp twist confirmed that the water was as hot as it could be, he slammed his fist in anger against the wall tiles next to him. How the hell could he wash off six months of shit and death without . . .

  Now the water was freezing. His eyes were closed. He opened them to see that he was sitting in the bath, the shower pouring from a height over his head. The water that had collected in the bath was clean now, save for a layer of gritty silt sitting along the enamel. He had no memory of how he’d got down here, or how long he had been sitting.

  But it wasn’t that which scared him the most. What scared him were the shadows behind the shower curtain.

  Two people. One standing further back than the other.

  Joe slowed down his breathing to stop the panic rising in his chest, and moved his right hand to where the shower curtain was stuck to the inside of the bath. He carefully scrunched it in his palm and, with a sudden yank, ripped down the whole curtain, jumping to his feet at the same time.

  A scream. Caitli
n had her hand to her mouth, and little Conor, his russet hair scruffy and his face pale, edged backwards in alarm. Joe stared at them, naked and confused, as Caitlin ushered their son out of the bathroom before turning off the shower.

  Silence. Joe looked around the room, but couldn’t bring himself to catch Caitlin’s eye.

  ‘You’ve been in here over an hour, honey,’ she said. Her voice was full of concern.

  Joe looked down at his naked body, at the scars on his chest and the blisters on his feet. ‘I was dirty.’

  Caitlin looked like she wanted to say something else but was too nervous to do so. Joe stepped out of the bath. There was a white towel hanging on the back of the door. He wrapped it round his waist and walked into their bedroom, where he sat on the edge of the bed, staring at the striped wallpaper, and at a small picture Conor had drawn about a year ago, mounted in a cheap glass frame. It was a childishly drawn picture of Joe, dressed in what Conor called his ‘army clothes’ and wearing a Tommy Atkins hat with a strap under the chin that made him look like something out of the First World War. Not a laser marker or a flashbang in sight.

  After waiting outside for a minute or so, Caitlin entered the room. She stood with her back to the closed door, as if wary of intruding.

  ‘Why did you pull the shower curtain off like that?’ she asked.

  Joe sniffed. ‘I thought you were . . .’

  ‘What?’

  Yeah, Joe thought to himself. What? ‘Nothing,’ he said.

  ‘Come on, honey, what did you . . . ’

  ‘Leave it, all right?’

  Silence.

  ‘I heard about Ricky,’ she said.

  No surprise there. Nothing travelled faster than gossip among the Regiment wives and girlfriends. Caitlin sounded frail as she said it. She’d been fond of Ricky. He used to tease her, and her face would light up every time he did it.

  ‘I was with him.’