by M. R. Hall
As she summed up the evidence to the jury, Jenny stressed that Bryant’s refusal to answer the allegations Private Roberts had made against him was not to be considered as evidence. They had heard his account of the events in Shalan-Gar and they had heard that of Private Roberts. It was up to them to weigh these accounts together with all the surrounding evidence and to decide, if they were able, how Private Green met his death. Likewise, they had to balance what Privates Danny Marsh and Lee Roberts had told them about the circumstances of Private Lyons’s disappearance against what all the other members of the platoon had said. Did the others have a motive to lie? Were Marsh and Roberts the only ones telling the truth? These were key questions they would have to answer. That was a matter entirely for them to decide. They had a grave responsibility to discharge, and they must take as long as they needed to arrive at their verdicts. If, having arrived at verdicts, they felt that one or either needed further explanation, they were entitled to include a short narrative. Their task was nothing more or less than to determine the truth insofar as they were able on the evidence they had heard. If they couldn’t be sure of the truth then they must return an open verdict; they must not, on any account, feel obliged to reach a decision of which they were not certain.
The knock on Jenny’s chambers door came at four thirty that afternoon.
‘They’re ready, Mrs Cooper,’ Alison said.
Jenny looked for any sign or indication of what the verdicts might be, but Alison shook her head. They had gone about their business quietly and deliberately and were holding their cards close to their chests.
The courtroom was heavy with anticipation. The absolute quiet was disturbed only by the sound of the jury’s shuffling feet as they returned to their chairs.
‘Would the foreman or woman please stand?’ Jenny said.
To her surprise, it was the large, tattooed and bearded man who rose. It occurred to her for the very first time that he might have been a retired soldier. The confidence with which he delivered his answers confirmed her suspicion that this was probably so.
‘Mr Foreman, in the case of Private Peter Lyons, have you reached a unanimous decision to all the questions on the form of inquisition and have you put your signatures to the same?’
‘We have.’
‘Can you please state your finding on the injury causing his death?’
‘Decapitation.’
‘Time and place in which the injury was sustained.’
‘The early hours of August the twenty-second in the Shalan-Gar valley, Helmand Province, Afghanistan.’
‘Your conclusions as to the cause of death.’
Jenny broke one of her cardinal rules and glanced at Kathleen Lyons as the foreman read out their finding. ‘Private Lyons was kidnapped and unlawfully killed by Taliban insurgents. We do not find that anyone in his platoon was individually to blame. We do, however, find that Private Lyons was not yet mature enough for the role he was expected to fulfil and should not have been placed on front-line duty.’
Kathleen’s face barely showed a flicker of emotion, though inside she was dying with grief and guilt and shame. The jury had told her what she already knew: the blame was hers as much as the army’s. She had known he was still just a boy. She should never have let him go.
Jenny pressed on to the second verdict. The foreman again confirmed that they were unanimously agreed and had signed the form of inquisition.
‘Can you please state your finding on the injury causing his death?’
‘A bullet wound to the back of the head.’
‘Time and place in which the injury was sustained.’
‘At approximately seven forty-five a.m. in the village of Shalan-Gar, Helmand Province, Afghanistan.’
‘Your conclusions as to the cause of death.’
‘Private Green was unlawfully killed by Sergeant Alan Bryant whilst trying to prevent Major Christopher Norton from shooting unarmed and defenceless civilians. We also find that as a result of extreme stress causing mental illness, Major Norton was, in all likelihood, not in control of his actions.’
As Claydon White folded a tearful Sarah Tanner in a hug and Rachel Green sobbed into her husband’s shoulder, Jenny thanked the jury for their efforts and told them that in the light of their verdicts she would be passing the file in Private Green’s case to the prosecuting authorities with a recommendation that Sergeant Bryant be charged with his murder. She would also be writing to the Ministry of Defence informing them of their verdict in the case of Private Lyons and asking them to act to prevent the deaths of more boy soldiers. She hoped they would respond, but feared they would not.
Jenny turned to Robert Heaton and the lawyers sitting uncomfortably behind him for her final remark: ‘Thank you for your assistance, gentlemen – you have reminded me of all the reasons I became a coroner.’
THIRTY-SEVEN
Jenny made her way along the gravel path through the churchyard. There was a snap in the morning air and the first fallen leaves crunched underfoot. She wasn’t an official guest but had nevertheless come to pay her respects at the joint funerals taking place at the small church on the outskirts of Highcliffe on this, the last Saturday in September. She stayed away from the main party already gathered at the graveside, and watched from a distance as the minister intoned, ‘Man that is born of a woman hath but a short time to live . . .’ His voice carried clearly through the stillness, competing with the raucous song of an irreverent blackbird. In amongst the mourners she spotted Melanie Norton, her face covered by a black lace veil. Standing alongside her was Anna Roberts. Lee Roberts was seated in a wheelchair next to his wife with his daughter on his lap. As Melanie cried, Anna touched a hand to her back in sympathy. There had been no military honours for Major Christopher Norton. His passing had been marked only by the briefest unannounced service at the local crematorium. There would be no headstone or name carved into a list of the fallen. Over years to come, he would be quietly erased from the records. A forgotten casualty of a dubious war.
Paul and Rachel Green, surrounded by extended family, were still keeping their distance from the now extremely pregnant Sarah Tanner, who, like Kathleen Lyons, was bearing her grief alone. Thanks to the jury’s verdicts the two of them would be well compensated by means of discreet and confidential out-of-court settlements wrung out of the MOD by Claydon White. Money would help, but would do little to ease the pain of loss and the nagging guilt at the small parts they had played in the extinguishing of two young lives. Any comfort, if comfort was to be had, would come from these solemn ceremonial moments that would remain scored forever in their memories: ranks of soldiers standing to attention, saluting the descending coffins and honouring their fallen comrades with that strangely moving inward gaze that men in uniform adopt when fending off emotion.
A military funeral was like no other. Jenny watched, captivated, consumed by alternate waves of pride and sadness.
The orderly progress of the service stood in stark contrast to the uncertainty that had raged since Jenny’s jury had delivered their verdicts. The Defence Chiefs had spun the outcome as proof that their overstretched personnel had been pushed beyond endurance by tight-fisted politicians. Their detractors claimed it as evidence that the army really was as barbaric and archaic as they had feared. The government seized the opportunity to wield the knife and weeded out their most entrenched opponents in the MOD. Closer to home, Simon Moreton had been furious with the outcome. ‘Heads will roll, Jenny. And if mine’s one of them, yours will be, too,’ he had threatened ominously before disappearing behind the tinted windows of his government car.
Alison had phoned early that morning with the news that Simon’s name was all across the papers. His twenty-six-year-old former lover had broken cover and spilled her story to a tabloid. Passionate encounters in civil service offices and taxpayer-funded trysts in smart hotels were set out in toe-curling detail. His career lay in tatters and no doubt his marriage, too. Jenny had tried to call him but he didn’t pi
ck up. Instead, he had replied with a text that she was left free to interpret: ‘Thank you for your loyalty.’ It was very Simon. How deep his bitterness would run, whether he would turn the page or choose instead to make good on his threat, she couldn’t say. There was no predicting how a man whose thirty-five years of public service was ending in ignominy would respond.
The minister recited the closing grace and uttered the final ‘Amen’. There was a pause; a moment of terrible silence before the regimental bugler sounded ‘The Last Post’. Its haunting notes travelled up to a brightening sky. Jenny listened with new ears. The simple melody captured both the depth of loss and, in its final two ascending notes, the pinnacle of hope. For a passing moment she glimpsed what led young men to offer their lives in wars the reasons for which they could not possibly understand. Then, as with a fleeting glimpse of sunlight between clouds, she lost sight of it again.
Drifting back to her car some distance ahead of the mourners, Jenny felt a tap on her shoulder.
‘Sorry. I didn’t mean to startle you.’ It was Gallagher. She hadn’t spotted him among the identically dressed officers at the graveside. ‘How are things?’
‘Only a little crazier than usual,’ Jenny said, sparing him the details. ‘You must be off to Kenya soon?’
‘Monday. Can’t wait. Any news on Hastings – is he out of the woods?’
‘So my officer tells me,’ Jenny said, ‘but he suffered a lot of damage. He probably won’t walk again. I wouldn’t count on him ever coming back.’
‘I would. He’s lucky and a bastard – the perfect combination.’ He glanced over his shoulder. They were still out of earshot of their nearest followers. ‘What about Bryant? Are they really going to court martial him for murder?’
‘They’ll go through the motions.’
‘He should have put his bullet in Norton. Still, I can’t say I wouldn’t have done the same in his shoes.’
Jenny looked at him. ‘You play the part well.’
‘What part’s that?’
‘The tough-guy soldier.’
‘Maybe that’s what I am.’
‘Maybe.’
They passed the crooked lychgate and emerged onto the pavement, where they stopped and faced each other for the awkward moment of goodbye.
‘Well, good luck,’ Jenny said. ‘Look after yourself.’ She offered him her hand.
Gallagher took it and pressed it between his. ‘I really hoped you’d call me, Jenny. There’s just something about you . . .’
Before she could reply he leaned forward and kissed her softly on the mouth. It was so sudden and unexpected that it took her breath away.
‘I’m sorry,’ Gallagher said, ‘I had to kiss you once.’
Jenny shook her head. ‘There’s no need to be sorry . . .’
‘Thank you.’ He smiled into her eyes. ‘I’ll take it with me. Goodbye, Jenny.’
And then, as if deliberately saving her from what she might so easily have done, he turned and went.
Jenny returned home to an empty house. She had agreed with Michael that it would be best if he were to collect his belongings while she was out, and he had done as he had promised. His key lay on the doormat and he had left a note on the kitchen table. The inquiry into the incident in Iraq looked like clearing him of all blame, he assured her, and a second consultant had declared him fit to fly. He would soon be getting his pilot’s licence back. There was light at the end of the tunnel, but even so, and as much as he had loved her, he felt that the time was right for them both to move on.
As hard as she tried, Jenny couldn’t find it in herself to disagree. Two complicated souls under one roof had, in the end, proved one too many. They had seen too deeply into each other – that was their problem. Sometimes life was better lived closer to the surface and away from the things that haunt us. She drifted around the newly uncluttered rooms and began to find her sadness at his going giving way to the possibility of new beginnings. She hoped that he felt the same.
Jenny changed out of her funeral clothes and went outside into her garden. Untended for weeks, it had grown as unruly as the rest of her life, but the bolting grass and overgrown borders had become a haven for butterflies and were humming with bees and overhead, the last remaining swallows swooped and dived, enjoying the feast of insects her neglect had unwittingly provided for them.
She was alone again, but not unhappy. It was a beautiful Indian summer’s afternoon, her long-delayed holiday beckoned and a young man’s kiss still lingered on her lips. It would be selfish to wish for anything more.
THIRTY-EIGHT
A week before Christmas, Kathleen Lyons set eyes on her daughter, Holly, for the first time in more than three years. With her lawyers’ help, she had finally tracked her down to an address in south London. They arranged to meet in a cafe on the concourse at Paddington station. Holly was sketchy on the details of where she had been and what she had been doing, but her shabby appearance told a story of hard times and disappointed dreams. If Kathleen hadn’t initiated the encounter, she doubted if she would ever have seen her daughter again.
Reading between the lines, it soon became clear that Holly had somehow managed neither to read nor hear about her son’s death. A crowded railway station was no place to break such news but Kathleen found herself with little choice. She did what she could to lessen the blow. She had brought two envelopes. Before she had mentioned Pete’s fate, she passed her daughter the first. Holly opened it with a suspicious expression which turned to one of disbelief as she saw that it contained a cheque made out in her name for £50,000.
‘What’s this for?’ Holly said. ‘Is it a joke?’
Kathleen shook her head and asked her to open the second.
It contained a photocopy of a letter written on two small sheets of lined notepaper.
Dear Nan,
It’s not long now till we’ll be on our way home. We’ll be the last lads out of here, which is something to be proud of. But if you’re reading this, well, I guess I haven’t made it.
Please don’t waste your time crying. Ever since Mum went, you did your best for me. I know I caused you heartache, especially when I joined up, but never, ever blame yourself – being a soldier was all I ever wanted and no one could have stopped me.
My only regret is that you’ve worked so hard to bring me up and you’ll think it was all for nothing. Believe me, it wasn’t. It doesn’t matter how long you live, it’s how you live.
The other lads will tell you how I’ve done out here and I hope it makes you proud.
If you ever see Mum again, and I pray that you do, I want you to show her this and to let her know that I forgive her for everything and that I’ll always love her and you, from wherever I am.
Be happy and remember the good times.
Love you always,
Pete
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
A little under two years ago I was due to give a talk at the Bookmark bookshop in Spalding, Lincolnshire, a town on the far side of the country from my home. It involved such a long drive for a brief appearance (and I was to be only one of three writers speaking that evening) that I almost cancelled, but thankfully I stuck to my maxim of ‘turn no opportunity down’.
When I arrived, late and saucer-eyed from many hours at the wheel, the owner of the shop handed me a note. It had been left for me by one of her customers – someone I hadn’t seen in over twenty years. His name is Frank Ledwidge. In the academic year 1989–90 we had been at Bar School together in Gray’s Inn, London. I remembered Frank as a friendly and irreverent young man with the stubborn and tenacious streak that all good advocates require. After being called to the Bar he went to practise law in Liverpool, and that is where I assumed he had spent his career.
Frank’s note, apologizing for not being able to attend my talk, included his phone number and an invitation to get in touch. I called him the very next day, eager for two decades’ worth of news. It turned out that, like me, he had dabbled in the law for a few
years before wondering if there was more to life. Unlike me, he had been a member of the Naval Reserve and in the late 1990s spent some time as an observer during the conflict in the Balkans. The experience seemed to light a spark in him. He turned his part-time military career into a permanent one. Soon afterwards he became part of the futile and evidently often comical effort to detect weapons of mass destruction in Iraq.
Following Iraq, Frank was deployed to Afghanistan, where he ended up in charge of justice in the British-occupied territory of Helmand. To say that his experiences left him less than impressed with the effects of British and US foreign policy would be an understatement. He emerged disillusioned and critical of politicians and military leaders who failed to understand the complex consequences of their actions on the ground. It would have helped, for example, to understand that many Afghans still bear the British a deep grudge dating back to their previous occupation of that country in the late nineteenth century. To such people, all foreign occupiers, whether British, American or Russian, are one and the same. Frank has written three seminal works of non-fiction based on his personal knowledge and experience, each of which I recommend. They are: Losing Small Wars: British Military Failure in Iraq and Afghanistan; Punching Above Our Weight: How Inter-Service Rivalry Has Damaged the British Armed Forces and Investment in Blood: The True Cost of Britain’s Afghan War.
Frank also introduced me to a young man called Ed, who had recently returned from commanding a platoon in Helmand. Ed gave me a very detailed and candid account of day-to-day life in a forward command post. Much of what he told me was revelatory. What struck me most powerfully was just how young our front-line soldiers are. Our wars are being fought by teenagers and very young men who, while they may be technically described as volunteers, are in reality just ordinary lads often from the most challenging and deprived of backgrounds. The officers who command them can be as young as twenty-one.