by M. R. Hall
‘I am asking about the risk to the men you took with you.’
‘We each risked our lives every time we set foot outside the post. That is the nature of war. That is what it means to be a soldier. Civilians will find that hard to understand – they live with the illusion of peace and the values that accompany it.’
Jenny felt crushed by his response. It was impossible not to feel as if one were in the presence of a superior being. Her questions felt spiteful and petty. With each one, she felt as if she were demeaning herself further. Nevertheless, she ploughed on and asked him to describe his recollection of events inside Shalan-Gar.
‘I have nothing to add to Sergeant Bryant’s account,’ Norton said.
‘Nevertheless, I am sure the jury would like to hear it in your words.’
‘We arrived. We came under fire. The exchange lasted a minute or two. In such a situation the mind, in my experience, concentrates its attention on the task in hand. My focus was on neutralizing our attackers. I was not aware of Private Green’s position until the firing ceased.’
‘You have no recollection of ordering him to stay where he was, behind a tree?’
‘None.’
‘Were you aware that two men were brought down by the first grenade?’
‘No.’
‘What do you recall?’
‘Musa Sarabi’s eyes. A sense of his panic. An explosion. A burst of gunfire . . .’ He stopped and seemed to search his memory, a curious expression on his face. ‘No. Nothing. The dust clearing. Bodies on the ground. Women shrieking from inside a building. Then our attempts to keep Carter and Roberts alive . . . And a sense of deep regret that we had lost Green. I knew his father, you see.’ He looked across at Paul Green. ‘We served together in Iraq. I felt especially responsible.’ For a moment the stiff upper lip seemed in danger of quivering. ‘If you have to die in combat, then attempting to save a life is the way to do it.’
Norton’s final words prompted simultaneous tears from both Sarah Tanner and Rachel Green and yet more in sympathy from the grandmother on the jury.
Responding to the sombre, mawkish mood, neither Robert Heaton nor Claydon White troubled Major Norton with more than a few questions. Jenny assumed that each had their own reasons to leave well alone. Heaton would be more than satisfied that Norton had presented himself in the best possible light, and White would know better than to take on a man who might just get the better of him. Besides, it appeared to be Bryant, not Norton, that he was gunning for.
Jenny ended the day by reminding the jury to avoid news reports and to resist all temptation to conduct any research of their own and adjourned until the following morning. Taking refuge in her chambers, she waited for the building to empty and the journalists to disperse.
She turned through her notebook and looked again at the evidence which had changed the course of the day. Claydon White’s cross-examination of Sergeant Bryant had been textbook. Seemingly from nowhere, he had uncovered facts which seemed to unlock the sequence of previously inexplicable events that had led to Private Lyons’s disappearance. There was no doubting that he was a skilful advocate, but it was also true that the mark of the very best advocates was that they seldom, if ever, asked a question to which they didn’t know the answer. White had admitted in court that his team had been making inquiries and had surfaced with rumours that Sergeant Bryant was a known bully. That was the sort of gossip that was easy to pick up from anyone in the regiment, or even from a family member. But if he had been tipped off about the night-vision goggles, that would have to have come from someone inside the platoon, or at least someone very close to them.
That fact wouldn’t be lost on either Heaton and his team or on Colonel Hastings and the faceless powers-that-be he was reporting to. Jenny imagined that a mole hunt would already be in full swing. If Claydon White had a plan to back up his narrative, it would have to involve one or more members of the platoon speaking up against Sergeant Bryant, but the more she thought about it, the less likely that seemed. The men of 2 Platoon were as tightly bound together as a group of soldiers could be. Stepping forward to commit what would be seen by their comrades as an act of the utmost betrayal would take either extreme bravery or a very large inducement. Jenny couldn’t imagine that Claydon White, sharp operator as he was, was stupid or criminal enough to buy witnesses.
She took a sip of tea and mentally ran through the members of the platoon waiting to give evidence. There were fifteen soldiers. All had given virtually identical statements. The only one who had shown any signs of independence was Danny Marsh – one of the three from B Section who had been posted outside Shalan-Gar when the ambush took place. Could he have cracked? Jenny put a mark next to his name. She didn’t like to think what might happen to him if he did implicate Bryant, but she had no choice. She had to push at the points of weakness. Just as in war, the search for truth inevitably involved collateral damage.
It was with this depressing thought that she scooped her papers into her briefcase and uncovered the good-luck note that Lieutenant Gallagher had sent her that morning. She recalled his expression across the courtroom at the close of Sergeant Bryant’s evidence – his refusal to be swayed by the assurance that Green had died a hero’s death. Then she remembered their brief meeting in the upstairs office at Highcliffe – he had mentioned a phone call from someone fishing on behalf of Claydon White’s team. The detail of what he had said was obscured by the cringeworthy memory of his clumsy pass and her even more awkward response. She looked again at the note. It was written on his regimental headed notepaper, but alongside his office extension he had written his mobile number in neat black print that on first glance had been almost indistinguishable from the type.
She fetched out her phone and switched it on, feeling stupidly self-conscious. Why did there always have to be strings attached?
Gallagher answered on the third ring. ‘Jenny! I was hoping you’d call.’
‘I was wondering if we might have a quick chat?’ she said, trying to sound as businesslike as possible.
‘Do you know the Ship Inn, further along the front?’
‘I’m sure I can find it.’
‘It’s got a car park at the back. Pick me up from there in ten minutes and we’ll go somewhere. It’s probably best if we’re not seen together – wouldn’t you agree?’
‘Yes. Probably.’
She had no sooner rung off than there was a knock at the door. Alison entered.
‘All clear, Mrs Cooper. I’m sure you’ll be wanting to go home now after such a long day.’ Her voice was peculiar and exaggerated and seemed to be trying to convey a warning of some sort.
Simon Moreton stepped in behind her. From his cheerful expression Jenny could guess that his worst fears about what might emerge in court hadn’t come to pass.
‘Ah, Jenny. Not a bad day’s work.’ He waited for Alison to take the hint and leave, but instead she bustled over to Jenny’s desk and found something to tidy. ‘I thought you might be in the mood for a spot of early dinner. I’m staying at the Angel – know it? Not at all bad for the sticks.’
‘Sorry, Simon. I’ve got to go.’
‘Surely you can manage a quick drink?’
‘I don’t mind keeping you company,’ Alison said, flashing Jenny a mischievous smile.
‘Oh . . .’ Simon said, casting Jenny a desperate, rescue-me look.
‘I’ll leave you two to it.’
Simon looked at her pleadingly as she stepped past and out of the door.
Jenny smiled, all innocence. ‘Another time. Enjoy your drink.’
THIRTY-ONE
Jenny didn’t at first recognize the slim, relaxed figure in sunglasses and faded jeans with a crumpled linen jacket slung over his shoulder. From behind the wheel of her car, she scanned the car park of the sea-front pub, looking for a military uniform. Only when the young man started to stroll towards her did she recognize the lazy gait and air of indifference – or was it acceptance? – that accompanied his
unhurried movements. He strolled around to the passenger door and climbed in.
‘Didn’t recognize me in civvies?’ He smiled behind the glasses. ‘I’ve got a flat in town – living in camp never agreed with me. Where shall we go?’
‘Before we go anywhere I need to know there’s no danger of you becoming a witness. It wouldn’t be right . . .’
‘I’m not a witness. Does anyone know you’re meeting me?’
‘No.’
He nodded. ‘Actually, I know a place – about five miles from here. I’ll give you directions. Back out onto the road; turn left.’ As she swung the car round, he reached into his jacket and pulled out a baseball cap. ‘Sorry about this.’ He put it on and pulled the brim down over his glasses. ‘It’s a small town.’
Jenny followed his directions. They headed inland for a mile or two, then turned onto a side lane that followed the ancient boundaries between golden brown wheat fields on the cusp of harvest. Satisfied that they were no longer in any danger of being seen, Gallagher was relieved to lose the cap and glasses.
‘Not my usual style,’ he joked. ‘It must suck, being a spy.’
Eventually they crossed a narrow stone bridge over a small river and arrived in a hamlet of a dozen or so sandstone houses arranged around a crossroads. In amongst them was the Sedford Inn. It looked like a place that was hanging on by its fingernails: a faded sign swung from a rusted bracket; the wooden bench tables arranged at the front had been crudely patched up by an amateur carpenter. ‘Authentic’ was the most generous description Jenny could think of.
‘No mineral water. Sorry – too fancy for this place. Got you lime and soda.’
Gallagher set their drinks down on the table in the small, secluded garden at the rear of the pub. The grass was uncut and the beds needed weeding, but it caught the sun and was brought to life by the presence of two talkative hens and an elderly ginger tom, which sat watching them with inscrutable yellow eyes.
Jenny took a sip of her green drink. ‘Wow. Fourteen again.’
‘The beer’s not much better.’ Gallagher took a mouthful from a pint glass filled with a dark, cloudy ale. ‘But still, it’s the sort of thing I was dreaming about a couple of weeks ago. Cheers.’ He forced some more down.
Without any alcohol to smooth away her inhibitions, Jenny found herself tongue-tied. As she groped for where to start, an awkward silence opened up.
Gallagher was good enough to save her. ‘I found this place when I was out walking one day. I was with a girl, actually – we were engaged for a while, went to university together. We came here a few times one summer. Didn’t work out.’
‘What happened?’
‘She was nice enough, but the kind who wants life to be over before its begun. Job, kids, house, Sunday with the in-laws. I suppose I must have given out that sort of vibe at one time.’ He smiled at the absurdity of it.
‘You were studying theology, you said?’
He nodded. ‘Cambridge. Thought I had a calling.’
‘What gave you that idea?’
‘I had an identical twin brother, Harry. He died when we were sixteen. Lymphoma. Identical DNA but he was the unlucky one. My parents did their best but they couldn’t accept what was happening. They lied to him, and to me, and to themselves. They couldn’t tell him he was going to die. No one prepared him. Even when he was in a hospice they kept telling him he’d be coming home soon. It was cowardice – they preferred their version of reality to his . . . In the end, I had to do it. I could see he was scared. Terrified. I could feel it. You know they say this peace descends on the dying? Maybe on some – not on him. I mean, he was fighting, and he was furious with me that he was the one who was going, and I just had to tell him to let go and that I’d see him again soon. Something like that . . . It seemed to take those words, from me, for him to die. And so I’m looking at a dead body that’s identical to mine – and I feel this thought crystallizing . . . I felt myself thinking that we began as one life that split into two, we’re two halves of a whole, so if I’m still here, in some sense the whole must still exist. You can tie yourself in philosophical knots, but you get the idea – I felt a greater power at work, trying to tell me something.’
Gallagher smiled, as if vaguely amused by his teenage self.
‘What do you think it was saying?’
‘It was saying that life is like invisible water. It gets poured into you and at a certain point it drains away. But like water, it never vanishes. It merely changes form. And that’s what we call God – the breath of life and all the unknown rules that govern it.’
‘That’s quite a thought.’
‘It was more a feeling than a thought. A useful one. It carried me through a few tough years.’ He took another drink from his glass.
‘What ended it?’
Gallagher shrugged. ‘I just woke up one day and the fuzzy feeling had gone. I was angry as hell about it. Suddenly I was down there in the pit with everyone else, caught up in the brutal struggle for survival.’
‘Angry enough to go to war.’
‘I guess.’
‘Do you still want it back – the fuzzy feeling?’
‘Do I think this is all part of the spiritual journey – the wilderness years?’
‘What do you think?’
‘Who knows? These days I try to stick with the here and now.’
‘I’m not sure what kind of conversation I was expecting, but it wasn’t this kind,’ Jenny said.
‘You asked for it.’
‘Only because I got the feeling you were trying to tell me something.’ She met Gallagher’s gaze, overcoming her earlier embarrassment. ‘Was it you who gave Claydon White the idea about the goggles?’
Gallagher glanced away.
‘It was, wasn’t it?’
‘It was just a guess. Happened to be a good one, that’s all.’
‘Based on Bryant’s reputation?’
‘I’ve never worked with him.’
‘That’s not what I asked.’
‘You saw his reaction. He was gobsmacked. He had no idea Lyons might have gone out looking for his bloody goggles. He may be a bastard, but there’s no way he would have sent a man over the wall.’
Jenny checked herself. She was in danger of doing just what she had told herself she mustn’t – taking evidence by the back door. She proceeded with caution, ready to stop if Gallagher offered any more than an opinion.
‘I saw you looking at me when Bryant said Green died like a hero. You were the only one in the room who wasn’t buying it.’
Gallagher glanced away. ‘Just a feeling, that’s all.’
‘Based on what?’
‘The fact that he had a baby on the way, that he was due to get married in two weeks, that it was the last day of tour, that if you’re pinned down in a close-quarters firefight you want to hold on to life with every last fibre of your being.’
‘A selfless act of courage? You must have seen them.’
‘They’re rarer than you’d think, especially from men with as much to lose as he did.’
‘Don’t people who get decorated for bravery always say they didn’t give it a second thought?’
‘Jumping out in front of three gunmen goes against the laws of nature, that’s all I’m saying. Scratch beneath the surface of a man who does that and in most cases you’ll find a death-wish. I’d met Green a few times, and he didn’t strike me as that sort. That’s just my opinion.’
Jenny was sceptical. ‘This is all just instinct?’
‘And a measure of suspicion.’ His eyes looked directly into hers. There was something about them. Perhaps it was just having heard his story, but he felt like a man with no reason to waste her time with empty theories. ‘Think about it, Jenny. What else do you know about him?’
She cast her mind back over the evidence, such as it was. ‘Two bullets bounced off his vest . . .’ Gallagher shrugged as if to say that was of little significance. ‘No notebook, and some fragments of glass in hi
s tunic pocket.’
‘There are a lot of hours to kill out there, and not much to fill them with. Guys write things down. In your shoes I’d like to know where it’s gone. If he’d left a letter it’d be nice for his family to have it. Personally, I keep mine in that pocket – top left.’
Jenny felt an unwelcome return of the sensation of dread that had ebbed and flowed throughout the day. Gallagher seemed to sense it in her.
‘Everything all right?’
‘Why are you doing this?’ Jenny asked. ‘What would Colonel Hastings say if he knew you were here talking to me?’
‘I don’t have a problem with war,’ Gallagher said, ‘just with dressing it up as something it isn’t. Tell it like it is – blood, shit and pain.’ He smiled apologetically. ‘Sorry. Is that it? Are we finished with business now?’
‘Yes. I’ll run you back to Highcliffe.’ She took a final gulp of her lime and soda.
‘There’s no hurry,’ Gallagher said. ‘Why don’t you tell me your story. I’d like to hear it.’
He met her eyes again, and for a moment she forgot they belonged to such a young man. They seemed to see right inside her and Jenny felt that fleeting, dangerous thrill of connection far beyond physical attraction, that could so easily explode into something uncontrollable. He had felt it too. In the space of a second and without any intent, they had touched without touching; kissed without kissing.
She drew back and tried not to let him see how startled she was. ‘Maybe after the inquest.’
‘I’ll look forward to it.’ Gallagher smiled. ‘It’s a date.’
What have you done, Jenny? This, along with many other questions, swirled around her mind as the clock at her bedside moved inexorably towards two a.m. The young officer was missing something in his life. He was still grieving for his brother. He had fixed on her as an older, reassuring presence. It was nothing to do with genuine attraction, and besides, even if she weren’t already in a relationship, rocky as it was, she would not under any circumstances be in the market for a twenty-three-year-old soldier. Her rational mind worked hard to assert itself over a confusion of conflicting emotions with only limited success.