Love Patterns

by Michael B. Malone

  “Brothers,” he began. “We came to Basra to rescue one of our villagers who’d been kidnapped by the looters. We have no quarrel with the government.”

  Some shouts of dissent interrupted him. He waited for quiet, then continued. “You will be massacred, it will not be your kind of war. You will be up against tanks, helicopter gunships, artillery and trained soldiers.” He noticed a few nods from the older warriors.

  Encouraged, he went on. “You have all seen the destruction caused by just three machine guns.” He opened his arms wide as if to include everyone in the square. “All of you would be massacred in minutes if the machine-guns were used again.” He waited but the sea of faces looked at him in silence.

  He pleaded. “Go home to your wives and families. We will be leaving tomorrow morning before we are cut off by the Republican Guard.”

  There were some shouts of disagreement from the younger warriors, but they’d all, heard of Alan’s courage and knew he wasn’t speaking out of cowardice. Many thought about his words and the older men and the leaders who’d been dragged along by the euphoria of the younger men, and who’d already seen the destruction of modern warfare in the Iran/Iraq war, took their opportunity and supported Alan’s assessment. The crowd split up into arguing factions and tribal groups. Alan turned wearily to meet the level gaze of Professor Suleman who said nothing, but whose approval was apparent in his eyes. To Alan the approval of this wise, gentle man was worth far more than the adulation of thousands of screaming youths.

  He started preparing for the return to the village, collecting the captured weapons that couldn’t be fitted into the mashhufs, for transport in the launch. Early the following day the Madan loaded their booty into their boats with most of it piled high in the launch. Alan retrieved the machine guns, the ammunition and what petrol was left and had them loaded. Before leaving, he stopped to say goodbye to Professor Suleman and was taken to the rooms set aside for the refugees and saw the women and their children happily playing and starting to smile again. The Professor gripped Alan by the shoulders, kissed him on the lips and thanked him, promising.

  “We will meet again in calmer times.”

  Alan overcome, thanked him in his turn for his efforts on behalf of his colleagues when they were held captive in the fort.

  With a last wave, he climbed into the launch with Warid and Ajram and set off, accompanied by the flotilla of mashhufs. As they passed through the canals of Basra he saw that many of the boats of the Madan tribes had gone, although Warid told him that some fierce tribes remained who had revolted against the government in the past.

  Ajram commented. “Even the hotheads among the young men of our own village were shocked by the destructive power of the machine-guns. You were right, it would not be our kind of war, it would be suicide.”

  Halfway across the Haur al Hamar Alan suggested ditching the machine-guns. Ajram and Warid agreed, realizing that even if the guns proved useful against an attacking helicopter, their use would attract unwelcome attention to their village and they would eventually pay dearly for it. In a deep part of the lake they heaved the guns and ammunition overboard and watched them spiralling down to the depths. Alan breathed a sigh of relief, as if the action signalled the end of a distasteful period in his life

  They arrived back at the village late that evening to the shrill welcoming cries of the females of the village. As Alan saw the female heads bobbing, searching anxiously, then beaming when they found their own, he felt warm inside, glad that he’d been able to keep casualties to zero. The young men collected their weapons and stocks of ammunition. Alan hid the launch in the reeds then went back to Ajram’s house. Celebrations went on long into the night, with parties moving from house to house. Alan didn’t get to bed until late the next morning, as everyone demanded his presence while they told the tale of how he’d shot the leader of the looters and how the Madan warriors had defeated a force five times their size. Reluctant to disappoint anyone, he spent a little time in each house, listening to the stories which grew in the telling, until he found he’d defeated the looters almost single-handedly. He basked in the admiring flashing smiles of the Madan maidens and when he eventually got to bed, the thought stirred within him that he could do worse than marry one of these happy dusky maids, settle down and live the rest of his life here. His thoughts turned to Shatha. Fragmented memories of their lovemaking aroused him. Kirsty was only a dim memory.

  The next evening when he woke he had a long discussion with Ajram and Warid. They decided it was too dangerous to keep the launch in the village so the next morning, Alan and Warid took the boat back to the Haur al Hamar, scuttled it in deep water and returned in their mashhufs. Alan settled back into the peaceful everyday life of the village, embarrassed at the deference shown to him by young and old alike. He was constantly aware of dark languorous female eyes eyeing him speculatively and the young women, if they caught his glance, became quite brazen; posturing so that their ankles and lower legs were available for his scrutiny. He was often invited to villager’s homes where as soon as they decently could the family retired to leave him to be entertained by their pretty daughters. Alan didn’t realize it, but the change was in himself. Something had crystalized inside him. The power in his glance was enough to turn the young women’s stomachs to jelly and set their thighs quivering. Alan however, put it down to the fight in Basra. All he’d done was kill one man in cold blood. He puzzled about it, thinking that he should feel some regret or shame about killing a fellow human being. But he didn’t, and as the peace of the marshes permeated his soul, he dismissed thoughts of the killing from his mind, decided that he’d done something that had to be done and took comfort from his memory of the smiling children and their mothers.

  Over the next few weeks he found that he’d started a new fashion, as many of the adolescent boys were copying him and wearing purple kefiyahs. He felt amused at the notion that anthropologists in the future might spend time trying to discover why one small village wore the only purple kefiyahs in Iraq, not knowing it was all because of a dish towel.

  Kirsty continued at the university right up to the end of February, then she arranged for books and notes to be sent to her for the next few weeks, so she could keep up with her studies at home. When Claire came in from work each night she pampered Kirsty and fussed around her. Even when Kirsty went to bed Claire kept looking in and asking if there was anything she could do. After a week of this, Kirsty, although grateful, felt suffocated. She arranged to visit Alan’s parents for a few days. They came for her in the car. In Edinburgh Kirsty found the situation even worse, for Isobel bustled around her as if she was an invalid and wouldn’t even let her go for a walk by herself. Kirsty felt irritated. At home she at least got some peace when Claire was at work. She tried not to let her feelings show, but found it infuriating, because the more irritable she was, the more understanding lsobel became. She couldn’t even have the satisfaction of a row. She wished that Alan was with her. He would understand. He’d be even more attentive than Isobel and Claire, but at least she could have shouted at him and let her pent-up emotions out. How fantastic it was for a woman to have a man who loved her, she thought. She could let herself go in a way she couldn’t with anyone else. She could scream and even throw things at him and he would still love her. She smiled at her thoughts, looked inside herself and felt Alan’s faint reassuring presence. She felt calmer and wondered what he was doing.

  One morning she heard Isobel come running up the stairs, knocking on her door and bursting in without waiting for an answer. Clutching the morning newspaper she pushed it at her with the words.

  “Kirsty read this,” and she pointed to a column headed “Brit leads rebellion in Iraq.”

  Kirsty read the article and could hardly believe her eyes. It told how a Scot called Alan Balfour was one of the leaders of the rebellion against Saddam Hussein’s government in Basra and how he had single-handedly faced down a mob, shot the ringleader and saved Basra university staff fro
m being executed. Kirsty glowed with pride, which was quickly replaced with fear that Alan was putting himself in danger and might be killed. Later, when she went down for breakfast, she found Isobel watching for any news on the television. Kirsty adjusted her radio to try to get Radio Tay, the local station for the Dundee area but didn’t succeed and guessed that she was too far away.

  “Try the local station, Radio Forth,” suggested Isobel. They found it and stayed tuned with the tape recorder ready for any news about Iraq.

  They also kept the television on with the volume turned low and a tape in the video recorder prepared for any news flashes. Satisfied that they were well prepared, Kirsty eventually had breakfast.

  They waited impatiently for the nine o’clock news and while Isobel looked at the television, Kirsty started the tape recorder. Sure enough, when the local news came on, a mention was made of Alan and his adventures, and to Kirsty’s horror it was mentioned that he had a fiancé, Kirsty Gillespie who was expecting a baby soon. She replayed the tape to Isobel and they concluded the reporters must have got their information from students at Dundee University. Isobel replayed the video of the news which said that republican guards had recaptured many towns and were brutally suppressing the rebellion using tanks and artillery, with great loss of life, and were about to move on Basra, showing pictures of rioters in the city. Kirsty replayed the pictures of the rioters but could see no one who looked even vaguely like Alan. The two women tried to comfort each other, hoping and praying that nothing would happen to him.

  The telephone startled them. It was Claire phoning from the nursing home, to tell them that there was a big write up about Alan in the local paper, with a picture of him, and a mention of Kirsty.

  “I’ve even had reporters phoning me at the hospital,” she complained. “What do you want me to say to them?”

  “I’ll ring back,” Kirsty promised.

  After a discussion with Isobel, she decided that Claire should tell them some of the truth or they would keep pestering her. She could say that Alan had been trapped in Iraq, had managed to escape into the marshes and that they’d had no information from him since. When Kirsty phoned back, Claire agreed to the suggested statement, and advised Kirsty to stay in Edinburgh for a few more days until the interest had died down.

  lsobel decided to take her car to Waverley Station to buy a copy of the Dundee local paper, and any other papers that might mention the incident. She flatly refused to take Kirsty, however, concerned about her safety, with the roads icy and blanketed with snow.

  “You ought to stay here in case there is any more news,” was her excuse.

  Isobel returned with a pile of newspapers. Kirsty looked through the Dundee Courier and found a photo picture of Alan on the third page. She stared at it incredulously, her heart giving a leap as she recognized Alan despite the moustache and the Arab head-dress. They both read the column, then scanned the rest of the papers. They stayed near the television and radio all day but there was only a brief mention of Alan. The media attention was now focused on the flight of the Kurds into the snow-covered mountains of north Iraq, with reports of hundreds of children and old people dying on the trek north. There was a “Protection Zone” declared and appeals for food, blankets and tents. The next day, they heard that Basra had been retaken with fierce brutality, and thousands were dead, and a reporter had seen about two hundred machine-gunned bodies dumped near the highway south of the city.

  There were reports of the Marsh Arabs being persecuted with systematic savagery. Kirsty was deathly afraid for Alan. Towards the end of the week David suggested that they’d better get Kirsty back to Dundee, as the baby was due within a few days. He’d arranged a week away from his work so that he and Isobel could stay with Kirsty and Claire until the baby arrived.

  The day before they were due to leave, a letter came in the morning post in Alan’s handwriting, postmarked Kuwait. lsobel read it then burst in to Kirsty’s bedroom without knocking, and thrust it on Kirsty, who was still rubbing the sleep from her eyes. Kirsty eagerly read the letter, which was a very brief description of Alan’s adventures. The two women built up each other’s hopes that Alan was not in Basra where the fierce fighting had taken place and would return as soon as he could travel through the country safely. Kirsty wondered if there was a letter waiting for her in Dundee.

  They left for Dundee the next day, with David driving extra carefully up the motorway in the middle of a snow storm. They arrived without incident. Kirsty was bitterly disappointed to find that there was no letter from Alan and she wondered why.

  Worry gnawed at her. Two days later, her contractions began and David, took them all to Ninewells Hospital on the outskirts of Dundee.

  After waiting around for a while Claire was called, outfitted in sterile mask and gown, and in a daze, was seated beside Kirsty. As Claire took her hand, Kirsty gave a fierce grin cut off by a gasp as another contraction hit her. The contractions came faster and fiercer. Nurses started to gather around unhurriedly. Soon she was moaning and gasping and being told to push. Claire tightened her grip on Kirsty’s hand.

  A nurse smiled reassuringly. “He’s coming, not long now.”

  Claire felt her own muscles straining and pushing in sympathy.

  “There’s a good girl,” one of the nurses coaxed, as Kirsty groaned with the pain.

  Drawing on all her resources, she gave one final push crying out to Alan from the depths of her soul. The pain seemed to recede for an instant. She felt Alan’s presence as if he was beside her. She could even feel his awareness of her. She imagined that he had shouted, “I’m coming!” She held on to the connection through the last flare of agony. Her body felt as if it was tearing apart, then miraculously, relief, and she heard the thin cry of the new-born baby.

  Chapter 46

  Alan shot bolt upright. He felt Kirsty’s pain, her desperate need of him.

  “I’m coming!” he shouted.

  He pulled on his shift, his eyes and ears struggling to make sense of the darkness and the strange smells around him, then he realized where he was, stopped, and tried to get his mind working. Her cry was like a switch being thrown. The emotions suppressed for so long surged back and recoloured his sterilized memories. With startling clarity, he could see her, as if she was standing in front of him. Her elfin features, her eyes, her hair, her smile. He was appalled at the way he had forgotten her. She was in pain. What was wrong? Her need galvanized him. He started to work out the quickest way of getting back to her. He could give himself up to the authorities, but he might be held for months or even years, or even executed, if they found out he’d been involved in the attack on the fort. Travel south by road? No! the army was back in control and martial law was in effect. There would be road blocks. The only way out seemed to be by boat. It would be a risky journey by mashhuf down the Shatt al Arab waterway, as it would be turbulent just now, swollen by the melting snow from the mountains, but he felt confident of his prowess handling the craft. He would try it, and even if he did have an accident he was a strong swimmer. He could surely get to the shore and right the boat. He could be in Kuwait in two or three days and maybe back with Kirsty within the week.

  Claire gripped Kirsty’s hand as if her life depended on it and only when her sister relaxed, exhausted did she relax her hold. One of the nurses took charge of the baby and soon laid the little bundle in Kirsty’s arms. Claire’s heart swelled at the expression of sheer rapt wonder on her sister’s face as she gazed down at the helpless mite snuggled against her.

  “Is he, all right?” she heard Kirsty ask in alarm.

  The nurse smiled reassuringly. “He’s perfect, and a good weight, seven pounds eight ounces.”

  At that moment young David opened his mouth wide and roared.

  “You see,” laughed the nurse. “He’s going to be a baritone.”

  Kirsty smiled radiantly then reluctantly surrendered her baby to the nurse, who allowed Claire to hold him for a moment before she was ushered out o
f the delivery room, and Kirsty was wheeled to a side ward for a well-earned rest.

  Alan dug out his maps from his kitbag and by torchlight examined the route he should take. Along the lower branch of the Euphrates, past the outskirts of Basra, and down the Shatt al Arab. He roughly estimated the distance as forty miles from where he was to Basra, and then the same distance until he got to Fao, the port at the mouth of the Shatt al Arab. which he knew was occupied by allies. He could make it in a day! No, he might be stopped near Basra. It would be safer to stay in the marshes as near as he could get to Basra, then go past at night, camp somewhere, and continue the journey early in the morning. He remembered Kirsty’s lock of hair, hunted in his kitbag for the sealed packet, and opened it. Perhaps it was just his imagination, but he thought that he detected a faint vestige of her fragrance. He felt the texture, holding the strands against his lips. A wild excitement gripped him. He could be running his fingers through the real thing in a few days.

  Kirsty brushed her hair back from her face as she lay propped up on her pillows holding David, just basking in her awareness of how beautiful he was, touching him, smelling him and feeling the softness of him. She unwrapped the blanket and examined every inch of him, smiling and stroking his skin and touching him with her lips. She wrapped him up again and lay gazing at the tiny face. His mouth opened, and he began to cry, she tried to rock him back to sleep but the yells got louder and more frantic. His face turned purple. She pushed the bell for the nurse.

  “There is something wrong!” she cried, near to hysteria when the nurse appeared.

  The nurse reassured her with a smile. “He’s just hungry.”

  “What must I do?” Kirsty beseeched her.

  The, nurse laughed. “You don’t have to do anything but hold him up, he knows what to do.”

  Kirsty was speedily initiated into the primitive rite of breast feeding. When the nurse came back later to settle the replete baby in his cot, Kirsty was radiant. She was a real mother now, she thought, as she lay back on her pillows for a rest.