It drove me crazy, repeating myself over and over, especially since all the information was going one way. I kept asking if they’d caught Umar, Munassar and the others, but they never answered.
I was also encouraged to have daily meetings with a therapist: some sessions were long, some short, and we talked about everything that I’d been through—not just the rapes, but the stress of the last year. She was an army doctor as well as a psychiatrist, so she had a lot of experience in combat stress. That’s what she told me. It seemed odd at first to think that the nightmares I suffered were considered combat stress, but she was right. I had been in combat, I had been a soldier.
I shivered when she said that. It reminded me too much of Umar’s final words to me: Time to become a soldier of ISIS.
They brought an Imam in to see me, as well. It was comforting to talk to him. He was nearing ninety years of age, calm and wise.
“You have been through much, daughter,” he said, his cheeks hollow and his hands as frail as a bird’s wing. “I will pray with you—but let me give you this piece of advice. I am an old man, but the years have taught me this one thing I know to be true: do not hold hatred in your heart, because hatred will destroy you. Love, daughter, love—that is the real strength in this world. As the Holy Book says, ‘Stand out firmly for Allah … and let not the enmity and hatred of others make you avoid justice. Be just, that is nearer to piety’.”
We talked about what had happened to me and to Karam. He talked with me, prayed with me, and even cried with me. I thought I’d cried enough tears, but these were precious.
And then there was James.
He came to the hospital every day, awkward and sad, beautiful and lost, unable to say what he wanted to say, but I caught him watching me, his eyes always on me.
“Hey, Amira.”
He was back again and I wasn’t sure why.
I closed the book I’d been reading and for a second, he hovered uncertainly, then he pulled a chair next to my bed and sat down.
“How are you?”
I almost laughed. How could I possibly answer that question? So I gave him the simplest reply.
“I’m healing. How are you?”
He gave a small smile and gestured at the sling.
“I’ll be able to get rid of this in a couple of days,” then he frowned. “They’ll be sending me home soon.”
“Me, too.”
He nodded slowly, then took a deep breath, but I spoke first.
“My parents are looking forward to me going home. They talk about ‘getting back to normal’ but I don’t know what that is anymore.”
James nodded as if he understood.
“I think we all feel like that,” he said slowly, “when you’ve seen combat. Civilian life seems … out of focus, somehow. Less real. I don’t know how to explain it.”
I thought about that and it made sense. The sheer intensity of the past few weeks was in sharp focus, so clear in my mind, all those tiny details imprinted. In comparison, my time as a nurse seemed very long ago.
“I don’t know how to go back,” I said simply.
“Maybe you need to do something new,” he said, speaking slowly as if he was choosing his words carefully.
“Maybe, but I don’t know what.”
“I’ve been thinking a lot, while Smith had me locked up and…”
“What? Smith did what?!”
His words had taken me by surprise, and I didn’t think he’d meant to tell me that because I saw his grimace.
“Um, yeah. I guess you didn’t know that part.”
“Why on earth would Smith lock you up?”
Colour rose in his cheeks and he looked embarrassed.
“After that last night,” he cleared his throat as I looked away. “When we were together. After you said what happened to your brother, you said, ‘I really hate them’.”
“I remember,” I said softly, painfully aware of his eyes on me.
“I, well, I thought you meant that you hated Americans, because of the bombs dropped by American drones. I was worried…”
I stared at him, comprehension dawning slowly.
“You thought I was a traitor?!”
He winced but didn’t look away.
“I thought it was a possibility. And I thought Clay should know what had happened to your brother, so I tried to discuss it with Smith.”
“I’m assuming it didn’t go well…”
He gave a grim smile.
“You could say that. Larson put me in a choke hold until I was unconscious, then they tied me up and chucked me in the back of Smith’s truck. When I came to, I was on my way to some spook safe house in New York. They locked me in a room for the next three weeks. I didn’t know what was going on. I didn’t know if you were okay, if Clay was okay, if the world had ended—nothing. When Smith finally came back, it was to ask me to help with the terror attacks.”
I was having difficulty absorbing everything he said.
“You came to help me even though you thought I was a double-agent?”
He shook his head at my sharp words.
“I’m sorry about that, more sorry than I can tell you. After three weeks of being locked up, I was past trusting anyone, but when I thought about you…” his voice lowered. “I thought about the night we spent together.” When I didn’t speak, he eventually continued. “I didn’t have the full story, but Smith filled me in. Finally.” He met my eyes. “I’m so sorry that I ever doubted you—I feel sick about that.”
“I can’t believe you thought that about me,” I said, confused and upset.
“I can’t believe I ever thought it either,” he said, his voice pained. “After what we’d shared…”
If he meant to talk about the night I’d spent in his arms, he didn’t, and I definitely wasn’t going to start that conversation. It was too much right now. I couldn’t carry his pain as well as my own.
“Don’t, James. I can’t think about that now.”
He sighed and we sat in silence for several minutes.
“When are you going home?” I asked at last.
“I don’t know exactly. Although there’s no point leaving until I’m fully fit,” and he gestured at his sling. “Soon, I guess.” He looked out of the window, his gaze lost in the distance. “It’ll be weird going back.” Then he glanced up at me. “Maybe I could call you some time?”
I couldn’t cope with this. I had to steer this conversation in a different direction.
“Maybe you could email me,” I said, too brightly. “Since we’re friends.”
“Friends?”
He rolled the word around slowly, and I saw some of the light in his eyes fade.
“Sure,” he said at last. “Friends. Yeah, I’ll email you.”
He left soon after that, but every morning, he was there at the hospital again. But with each day that passed, the distance between us increased.
It sometimes felt like he wanted to say more, but the words never made it past his lips, and he’d leave, sadder and more defeated.
Sometimes, I wished he would say what was really on his mind, but in other ways I shrank from him.
My therapist said I should only talk to him when I was ready. But I never was. I wasn’t sure I’d ever be ready to talk about that night. Maybe if I didn’t feel so ugly, so dirty…
I touched the scar on my cheek. I’d seen it in a mirror and nearly been sick. It was ugly and raw, U-shaped where a chunk of metal had torn open a flap of skin and removed some of the muscle and fat underneath. My mouth drooped slightly on one side, and my cheek was lumpy and uneven. The surgeon said that implants or collagen injections could help in the future, but first I had to heal.
I also had a gap in my bottom teeth where a tooth had been knocked out.
My body had was healing inside, too, where those monsters had ripped me apart.
I was ashamed for James to see me, and always sat with my unscarred side facing him. Stupid, I know, because he’d seen my scar
s, all of them, but it was hard to face him when I was so disfigured, and he was so heartbreakingly handsome.
I saw the nurses flirting with him, smiling at him, wanting those blue eyes all to themselves, but when he acknowledged them, his gaze seemed to float through them, seeking me out instead. Even now, he watched me, just like when we were at our cabin and he was training me, he watched.
But he’d risked his life to save mine, and I needed to talk to him.
Maybe tomorrow.
Or the day after.
Or next week.
Next month.
Since he mostly visited Clay in the mornings, I went in the afternoons.
“Are you avoiding him?” Clay asked me abruptly, one day. “I mean, I know he sees you, but he says you never want to really talk to him.”
I didn’t even bother pretending I didn’t know who he meant.
“Is that obvious?”
“Pretty much. But I don’t know why, and he doesn’t either.”
I sighed.
“It’s all so complicated. I just want us to be friends.”
“Hmm, well, if that’s how you really feel,” and he paused on the word for emphasis, “you should tell him that. Just be sure it’s what you want.”
I knew he was right. I was being unfair, but the thought of talking to James was too much to handle. I had so many thoughts and feelings whirling around in my head.
One day, Smith came to see me, and I begged him to tell me the truth, everything that had been kept from me so far.
He shrugged.
“Umar is contained, his network finished.”
I stared at him and doubted.
“What does ‘contained’ mean? You’ve caught him, right? He’s not going to come after me, after my family?”
He started to lay his hand on my shoulder, but I flinched away from him. I couldn’t bear anyone to touch me—not even the nurses or the doctors. I was pathological about being touched.
He pulled up a chair so that he sat close to me, but not too close. Even so, I inched back on the hospital bed. I knew theoretically that I had nothing to fear from Smith, but my body didn’t know that.
“I promise you, Amira. He’ll never touch you again, none of them will.”
“Are they in jail? Will they be tried for what they did?”
He rubbed his fingers over the scruff on his chin and it was only then I noticed how tired he looked, his expression haunted. And I remembered that Larson had been his friend. I closed my eyes—we’d all lost so much.
“I can’t answer that,” he said finally. “Let’s just say, they’ll never hurt anyone again.”
I didn’t know what that meant. Were they dead? In some secret prison? Being reprogrammed? Maybe even tortured?
I shuddered.
“Surely it will just make the men who follow him more desperate?”
Smith gave his usual half-answer.
“He only has power when people fear him—he no longer has power.”
But that just makes his followers more dangerous¸ I thought. When a man has nothing to lose…
I had to accept that I’d never know the whole truth, that I’d never see justice for the men who’d raped me, who’d tried to kill me, who’d plotted to use me to kill others. But just because I couldn’t see justice, it didn’t mean it wasn’t happening. Rightly or wrongly, foolish or not, I still trusted Smith. He said the men were ‘contained’, and that had to be enough for me. Maybe it was better that way. Maybe.
“Did you find the mole in your department?” I asked, wondering if he’d answer honestly. “Did they tell Umar about my brother, my real name? Is my family at risk?”
He smiled grimly.
“Because of what we’ve learned,” and he pointed at me, “we were able to close in.”
“And arrest the asshole?”
He cocked his head on one side.
“That’s not the way we do things, Amira, you know that. But believe me when I say that finding who was leaking intel has been invaluable. And we’ll put that knowledge to good use.”
I sighed, defeated, because I did know that. If the mole could be useful, he or she would be an asset. Just like I’d been an asset.
A knock on the door interrupted my grim thoughts and my doctor walked in, tall and austere, his steel-coloured hair reassuring.
“I have good news. You’re doing really well, so we’re going to be sending you home soon, Amira. Now, let’s take this dressing off your cheek and take a look. Yes, that’s healing nicely.”
Dr. Walden’s words scared me. I wasn’t ready to go home.
“Your punctured lung has healed well, so it’s safe for you to travel by air now.” He smiled kindly. “And I know your parents want you home.”
I nodded, not knowing what to say, or how to express how unready I was to face life again.
Smith was watching intently, but he didn’t smile. And when the doctor left, he leaned forwards, spearing me with the severity of his gaze.
“I won’t tell you it’s going to be okay because I know you have a lot of shit to deal with, but you will deal with it,” he said firmly. “You’re not broken, Amira. You’re very far from broken, and you still have a lot of living to do.”
He sounded so certain. But then again, he would, wouldn’t he.
“Come on,” he said, standing up and giving me a small smile. “Let’s go see Clay.”
I’d visited Clay many more times during the last few weeks, most days in fact, but often he was heavily medicated and in a lot of pain, so we hadn’t spoken much again. I’d sat with him and held his hand because he was the one person, the one man I could touch without flinching.
But when we arrived, Clay was sitting up in bed, smiling tiredly, and the bandages covering his eyes had been removed.
He was talking to James.
“Hey, girl!” said Clay cheerfully. “You’re a sight for sore eyes.”
I froze on the spot, horrified by his comment, and he grimaced, his chagrin clear.
“Aw, heck. I’d say I’d put my foot in my mouth, but now I’ve only got one, that’s not such a good idea, huh?”
I laughed abruptly, shocked out of my stupor, and Clay grinned at me.
“I got a ton of one-legged jokes. You want to hear them?”
“Not really,” I answered truthfully.
But Clay ignored me and cheerfully ploughed on.
“What do you say to a one-legged hitchhiker? Hop in! Aw, come on, that was funny! Wait, this is better … what’s my favourite restaurant? IHOP! No, okay, how about this … what do you call a sheep with no legs? A cloud!”
I started to giggle, and even though it tugged the stitches in my cheek, I couldn’t stop.
“Those are so lame!” and then I clapped my hand over my mouth in horror.
Clay stared then slapped the sheets on the bed, howling with laughter.
James grinned at him, and Smith shook his head, a smile creeping across his face.
And suddenly, it was just us again, back at the cabin, the four of us, laughing at Clay being ridiculous.
As the laughter died away, Clay reached for my hand. I didn’t flinch, instead accepting his warm touch.
“It’s good to see you today. I was too drugged up to appreciate it much before.” Then he squeezed my hand. “You look good—I didn’t know you had hair. I thought you were bald like this dude,” and he jerked his head at James.
I touched my hair self-consciously. For the first few days without a head-covering, I’d felt very exposed, but I was getting used to it again now, even though people stared at my scar. I’d honestly even considered wearing the niqab again to avoid that. But no, that wasn’t who I was.
James was watching me again, and I had to turn away from the intensity of his gaze.
Clay sighed and tugged the end of my hair, bringing my attention back to him.
“It’s great to see you guys.”
“How are you really?” I asked tentatively.
&n
bsp; He shrugged, his hand dropping to the sheets as if the movement had exhausted him.
“Well, my leg isn’t going to grow back, but they said they’ll fix me up with a new one. Something cool, like Steve Austin.”
I blinked, puzzled.
“Who?”
It was James who answered.
“Pop culture reference if you’re into old sh— stuff. Steve Austin was the Six Million Dollar Man, like in that TV programme from the seventies.”
“Uh-huh! Mark Wahlberg is starring in the remake!” said Clay. “Current affairs, my friend!”
We all stared at him.
“What?”
It was so normal, so bizarrely normal. My heart cracked open and the tears began to flow—ugly, salty rivers turned my eyes red and made my nose run. Smith passed me a tissue.
“Aw, honey, my jokes aren’t that bad,” Clay said, his voice kind and sad.
“I’m sorry,” I hiccupped. “I’m sorry!”
His face crumpled.
“Damn! I’d give you a hug right now but I kind of can’t move. James, dude! Give the girl a hug!”
I looked away because I couldn’t bear to see James’ face, but then I felt his touch, light and tentative, and with a piercing wail, I fell against his chest, huge quivering sobs tearing out of me.
His good arm tightened and he murmured softly against my hair.
I couldn’t hear what he was saying and I didn’t care.
He was holding me, and I wasn’t scared.
James
IT WAS THE first real emotion I’d seen from Amira.
I held her as choking tears tore through her thin body. She’d lost a lot of weight since I’d first met her, and I could feel her ribs against my arms. I held her tighter, sharing a look of concern with Clay until he coughed and glanced away, while Smith discreetly exited the room.
It took an excruciating ten minutes of her crying her guts out and me feeling like a complete twat because I couldn’t help her.
TICK TOCK (EOD (Explosive Ordnance Disposal) Book 1) Page 19