The Book of Daniel

by Mat Ridley

  When I emerged back into the sunlight, there was no hint of regret at the impetuousness of it all. It felt right. If I had still retained any degree of faith, I might even have thought that my actions were divinely inspired, and that God had reached out to touch my life once again, this time setting it firmly back on track. But my former beliefs had died along with my mother and were long since buried, and both the young man walking back to his father’s house and the dead man observing him laughed at the idea. I was certain this wasn’t God’s doing—just a long overdue stroke of good luck.

  My father probably felt differently about God’s hand in all this, of course. To him, my request to leave home and join the Army must have seemed like the answer to years of prayers. Finally, the nightmare of having to share a house with his uncontrollable son was coming to an end, and he did a very poor job of hiding the relief that swept across his face when I told him of my plan. But that was okay with me; I had made no secret of my reasons for wanting to join the Army, either. It stuck in my throat to have to ask my father for his permission to pursue my sudden dream, but I knew that once I’d swallowed this bitter pill, I would be free of his hateful presence once and for all. Sure enough, he could scarcely contain his eagerness to sign the paperwork, and it seemed to me that I was in uniform almost before the ink had dried. I never looked back.

  You’ve probably seen enough cheap dramas about training in the Army to know roughly what to expect; even the least accurate of them holds a certain degree of truth about life as a new recruit. Early-morning runs and late-night exercises quickly became the routine, and there was little chance to get acquainted with the bunks in the barracks that I shared with the members of my new family. I had made the mistake of thinking that I was pretty fit before basic training commenced, but the throbbing aches I felt by the end of the first proper week mocked such a supposition ruthlessly. But it was a good feeling, a catharsis for my soul to finally have an outlet for all my frustrations at life, and to have a tangible goal to head towards, with visible daily progress.

  The days of crawling through the mud and being incessantly yelled at did a great job of not only making the recruits tough, but of forging bonds of brotherhood between us, just as I had dreamed. It was impossible not to make friends under those circumstances, but there was one guy in particular whom I really hit it off with: Lewis Sinclair. His upbringing couldn’t have been any more different from my own. He came from a large, rich family, with a long tradition of service in the officers’ corps, going right back to the Crimean War. In the face of such heritage, it would have been almost impossible for Lewis not to have felt a familial stirring in his blood; but unlike his ancestors, he had opted to join the regulars rather than go straight for officer training. His parents were distinctly cold towards their son’s plans to work his way up the ranks, but he was determined to prove to both them and himself what he was made of… and it was that determination that formed the basis of the bond between the two of us; I, too, had resolved that I was going to give my new family nothing less than one hundred per cent, and the years of hardship I’d had to endure provided me with a huge reserve of energy that I could draw upon.

  As Lewis and I both strove to be the best, a friendly rivalry quickly developed between us. By the end of the first two months’ training, it was clear that we were in a league of our own compared to the other recruits, and if I sound proud about that, it’s because I was. For the first time since my mother and father had left me—each in their own way—I was happy. And for the first time in my entire life, I had found something at which I excelled. Not only was that a joy in itself, but there was no unpleasant jealousy about it amongst the other recruits either, just plenty of good-natured leg-pulling. They were a good bunch of lads, and as time passed in their company, and Lewis and I grew stronger, I slowly began to forget about my former life, impossible as that may sound.

  By the time our training finished, I felt like a completely different person. Hell, I was a completely different person. I was a little apprehensive about having to part company with the people I had gotten to know over the course of our trials and tribulations at the hands of the drill instructors, but I needn’t have worried. Not only were the lads in my new unit just as easy to get on with as my other buddies, but also, to my great delight, I found that Lewis had been assigned there, too. We quickly settled in, and before too long, the familiar joy of life with my army brothers was further enhanced by the adventure and excitement that came from active service.

  If given a chance to savour those next few years again properly, I’d have gladly relived many experiences from that part of my life, but the unseen projectionist mercilessly chose to fast-forward through this period, and I could only catch occasional glimpses. One moment I was out on the town on my first weekend’s leave, three o’clock in the morning, my friends and I trying our best to find our way back to the barracks without running into the gang of local toughs who had followed us out of the bar; the next instant, I was in the midst of a firefight somewhere in Afghanistan, half-dragging, half-carrying Lewis back towards the medic as blood spouted from his leg. Before I knew what was happening, the scene changed again, and Lewis was suddenly crouched across from me. The sound of gunfire had been replaced with the cacophonous silence of a damp jungle. The next few hours were spent crouching there in absolute stillness, soaked to the skin with rain and sweat, waiting for an enemy convoy to turn up. It never did.

  The incidents whirled and blurred together, and I could feel and see the changes that were wrought in my mind as I grew and matured. I continued to put the past firmly behind me and focussed fully on the present. As for the future, I knew that that was already in the hands of an apparently uncaring God, and didn’t waste any time wringing my own hands over what may or may not happen there. Armed with both my rifle and this liberating attitude towards life, I continued to embrace all that the Army had to offer. The rivalry between Lewis and me remained as strong as ever, and as we served together and continued to try to outdo each other, we gained the attention of those further up the chain of command. Before my career in the service came to its sudden end, we had both been decorated and promoted several times. For eleven glorious years, I continued to treat every day like it was a video game in which I was trying to get the high score. And then, one day, the hand of God intervened once again, balled up into a fist, and came smashing down on my life.

  On the day in question, Lewis and I, together with the troops under our command, had been sent on patrol somewhere in Afghanistan. The place didn’t even have a name, it was so remote, not that it matters much; after a while, one rocky mountainside looks much the same as another. Despite the monotony of the landscape, we were still experienced enough not to let our collective guard down, but even with our senses on high alert, we didn’t spot the trap until we had walked right into it. One moment, the mournful silence of the mountains was disrupted only by the usual hushed banter that made such patrols bearable; the next, there was a huge explosion, and the two guys who had been walking along next to me suddenly disintegrated in a shower of bloody scraps.

  The force of the blast knocked those of us nearby to the ground, but before shock had a chance to set in, our military instincts had already taken over, and we scrambled for what little cover we could find. Those who hadn’t been hit by the explosion also sought cover, raising up their rifles to scan the mountainside, ready to defend the wounded. The echoes of the explosion slowly faded with no sign of further hostilities, and as the silence stretched out, we exchanged a flurry of fierce whispers. Was there actually anybody out there attacking us, or had we just been unfortunate enough to set off an old landmine? We soon got our answer; at the same moment I peered out over the top of the sun-baked rock I was sheltering behind, a lone shot rang out. A split second later, there was a ripping sensation in my left cheek, and then a red wave of pain engulfed me. Agonised, I half-ducked, half-collapsed back behind my cover, only dimly aware of other shots pinging off of the rocks
around us and the answering clatter of our own weapons. I tried to put pressure on the wound, but all the strength had gone out of my arms, and besides that, it hurt like buggery to do so. I began to pass out, and the pain started to recede… only to suddenly roar back to life again as someone clamped a field dressing down on the ruins of my face. I tried to yell out at whoever it was to stop, but all that came out was a half-strangled gurgling sound.

  “If you’re trying to say thank you, then you’re welcome,” said a familiar voice. The name of the owner took a few seconds to swim up through the pain. Lewis. “But you’re best off keeping your mouth shut, to be honest, or at least what’s left of it.” There was a slight pause as he jabbed a dose of morphine into my jaw. A blissful numbness descended almost immediately. “Someone up there must like you, Dan.” It was a good thing I was in no fit condition to respond to that allegation. “I think it’s just a flesh wound, but you’re going to have a cracking scar there, that’s for sure. The ladies will go wild for it, or at least the ones that aren’t more interested in me, as your noble rescuer. Come on, let’s see about getting you out of here.” He started to lift me to my feet, turning to yell over his shoulder as he did so. “What’s the latest on that backup, Henderson?”

  “They’re scrambling the choppers now, Captain. ETA fifteen minutes.”

  “Okay then. While we’re waiting, why don’t we see if we can teach these fuckers a bit of a lesson? Bailey, take Stokes and Jonesy and try to move up—”

  He never got to finish issuing the order. Another bullet, maybe even from the same sniper that had tagged me only a few moments earlier, suddenly ripped through his throat, and he collapsed on top of me in a shower of blood. The last thing I was aware of before I finally passed out was the confused shouting of the rest of my comrades as they tried to fight back against their unseen foe.

  Chapter 8

  Experiencing unconsciousness through the senses of a conscious person is a strange feeling, make no mistake. It’s even more unusual if you’re dead as well as conscious, but crazy as it might sound, I was beginning to get used to the curious nature of my journey through the afterlife. Perhaps ‘beginning’ is the wrong word to use; after all, I had so far already lived again through fourteen years of my life, but at the same time, it didn’t feel like fourteen years had passed. The pain of what had happened to Jo at Sam’s hands was still just as keen as it had been at the instant that I died, and although living through the other unpleasant incidents of my life was distressing, there was a soft layer of abstraction which took the edge off. Maybe that’s because I already knew how those things were going to turn out. But with Jo’s fate, I didn’t; and the anxiety—which had been kept in check thus far by watching reruns of The Adventures of Daniel Stein—flourished like a poisonous weed now that I was forced to sit through the emptiness of my unconsciousness. Whoever was in charge of controlling what I re-experienced had chosen, for some reason, not to speed through this part of my life. Thanks very much.

  This suspension in limbo was made all the more intolerable by the fact that I had no idea how much longer I would have to endure it. I remembered well enough that I had been unconscious for a couple of days, but it was impossible to keep track of time in the blackness. The anxiety I felt about Jo having been shot stole the focus of any concentration I tried to maintain, and I soon gave up. I shouted out into the darkness, or at least I thought I did; either way, nothing responded to my cries, and I eventually began to wonder if the lights would ever come back on again. Just because the second journey through my life hadn’t finished yet, that was no guarantee that the show would ever resume. Maybe this was it. Maybe death meant being trapped in this darkness for all eternity. Maybe this was Hell.

  Just as I was about to give up hope, a scene slowly faded into focus. My senses—or those of my old body, I should say—gradually re-awakened to their surroundings, greedily fixing onto anything they could detect. The first was the faint, clean smell of disinfectant, rapidly followed by the gentle feeling of cotton against my skin. Some of the other things that followed were less welcome—the deep throbbing in my cheek, for example—but the bright light of the sun streaming across my face felt so good after the endless blackness that I didn’t care.

  The confusion my young mind felt as it took in its unfamiliar surroundings overwhelmed the feelings of my present, dead consciousness, and I was demoted back to the role of spectator once again. I was in a medical facility of some kind, that much was obvious. The bed I occupied was of the large, sturdy-framed variety that is only ever assigned to the very ill, and a drip stand holding a bag of clear liquid stood guard over me, feeding something into my arm via a catheter. I strained to pick up any sound, but the place was as silent as the grave that I had so narrowly avoided. I started to look around, but my field of vision was restricted, and I became aware that the side of my head was heavily wrapped in bandages. I instinctively reached up to touch my face, but stopped when a voice said, “No, don’t do that.”

  I gingerly twisted my neck round and saw a nurse sitting beside my bed. The sun streamed around her silhouette, giving her an almost divine radiance. “I wouldn’t try to talk much, either, if I were you. Your cheek’s been torn to shreds, and if you’re not careful, you’ll work the stitches loose.”

  “Where am I?” I mumbled though clenched teeth, feeling like a bad ventriloquist.

  She stood up and moved out of the sun, towards the foot of the bed. “You’re in the Intensive Treatment Unit at Camp Bastion. You’ve been unconscious for almost forty-eight hours, some of them while you were undergoing surgery.” She picked up my chart from the end of the bed. “And judging by this, you’re lucky to be alive.”

  “I don’t feel particularly lucky. What happened to Lewis? Is he okay?”

  I already feared the worst, but a small voice of hope said that maybe I had only imagined his death, and that even now he was in a nearby bed, on the road to recovery. My question hung in the air, and then the nurse flicked her eyes downwards for an instant. That was enough to tell me all that I needed to know.

  “I’m sorry, but you were the only one they brought in. At least, the only one alive.” I caught her looking at me intently for a moment, and then she looked away and continued. “I know I’m supposed to try to be upbeat in front of the patients, but oh, it was horrible. So many bodies. I’m sorry. I’ve only been working here for two months. They told me it could be bad, but I never expected anything like this.”

  She made an effort to regain her professional air, and shook her head sadly. “The guys carrying the stretcher didn’t say much. They never do. I guess they’re under orders. But one of them came in here just before he left and gave me a message to pass on to you: ‘Sorry about your mates.’ That’s all he said, just as blunt as that, and then he went. No-one else has been in here to see you since.”

  So that was it then. ‘Sorry about your mates’ was the best epitaph anyone could manage for Lewis and the rest of my comrades, and the disappointment I felt was like a slap in the face. It was a sobering realisation to come to: that grunts like my fallen brothers and I were actually little more than cannon fodder in the grand scheme of things. As far as those higher up the chain of command were concerned, I was just a statistic, a resource that needed to be healed up and then reassigned elsewhere, repeat until death or retirement. The stretcher-bearer had summed it up perfectly. To the masters we served, I was just the latest in a line of faceless nobodies (in my case, now almost literally, ha ha), and those four words of human kindness, ‘sorry about your mates’, were all that one cog in the machine could spare for another. Of course I had known others who had died during my years in the Army, but none of their deaths had affected me so strongly, because being able to share their passing with my friends had always lessened the impact; only this time there was no-one left to share with. Up until that moment, I had thought of the Army as my family, but with Lewis and the others all dead, I realised that was wrong; they had been my family, not the
Army, and what was left after their deaths was almost as hollow and empty as my life with my father had been.

  “I’m sorry about your friends, too, really I am. It’s awful working here. I came here because I wanted to help people, but most of the people they bring in are already way beyond any kind of human help. I’m only glad that we were able to do something for you, or at least start to. I’m afraid you’re not in the clear yet, Captain Stein.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Well, the preliminary results indicate that you’ve got some kind of infection from your wound, but until we run a few more tests, we can’t tell for sure what it is. Your immune system’s going to kick in and try to fight it off in the next few days, and that could get a bit rough, I’m afraid. It’s happy hour for painkillers at the bar right now,” she said, indicating the bag on the drip stand, “and we’re dosing you up with a mixture of broad-spectrum antibiotics, too, but because we couldn’t get to work on treating you straight away, whatever it is has already got a foothold. It doesn’t help that you lost an awful lot of blood, either. All things considered, it’s a miracle you’re still alive.”

  “Thanks for the pep talk.”

  She blushed and looked down. “Sorry. Like I said, I don’t think I’m really cut out for working in a place like this. I…”

  “Hey, I was just kidding. I appreciate your honesty. And don’t worry, I’ll be fine. I’m a survivor.”

  She smiled gratefully at me, but hushed me nonetheless. She knew that I had done enough talking for the moment and needed to rest, and she was absolutely right. I felt exhausted. The loss of my comrades, the death of my closest friend, my injury, my polluted blood and my newfound despondency about the Army: each of these jigsaw pieces assembled into a larger image of fatigue, and I gladly relaxed back into the pillow, letting the mystery cocktail percolating into my arm carry me off into a dreamless sleep.