She knew he was playing for time, trying to phrase the words correctly in his head and it scared her. It scared her a lot. ‘Well you are talking to me, so spit it out,’ she smiled, half joking.
‘I have made a few enquiries. I had an idea. I didn’t want to promise anything, but I was pretty sure that I could get us in front of the ZMO.’
‘Really? How?’ She was absolutely captivated; this was wonderful news, the first real glimmer of hope.
‘The award that I got last month…’
‘The one that Max is so sore about?’
‘Oh you noticed that too? Yes, that one. Well, basically I got it for an interview that I did with a well-known Taliban leader in the mountains in Pakistan. It was an amazing experience, blindfolded in and out to preserve their location, and an opportunity to sit face-to-face with one of the most politically influential men in the world at the moment. It was a once in a lifetime opportunity and I got lucky. These groups like my anti-invasion standpoint; the widely held view is that because I am so against this war, I’m in some way sympathetic to their cause…’ Miles was verbose and edgy.
‘That’s bloody brilliant! Yes, do it! Get us in front of them, Miles, and we can negotiate something, this is great!’ Poppy drew her clenched fists up under her chin, the anticipation was overwhelming.
He drew a deep breath. ‘I’m afraid that something has come to light and it’s something that has thrown me rather, and this is what I need to tell you.’
She nodded, silently anticipating what might come next.
‘I heard a rumour from a fairly reliable source, they had some news. It concerned Martin.’
‘What news?’ Her voice was a tiny whisper. She wasn’t sure if he had heard.
‘Sit down, Poppy.’
She sat. Miles bent low in front of the office swivel chair on which she perched and looked up into her face. ‘I started to make my enquiries about a possible meeting and was told that there was no point because things had developed, Poppy, and not in a good way…’
‘In what way then?’ This was worse than the knock on the door moment, far worse.
‘The rumour is that Martin may have been hurt.’ He bit his bottom lip.
‘Hurt badly?’ This time she knew her voice was too small to be heard.
‘Poppy, it is unsubstantiated, but I’ve been told that he may have been killed.’
Her breath came in huge gulps, too big for her aching lungs to cope with.
‘I’m sorry, Poppy, I really am.’
‘Who told you that? How would they know? They’re lying to you, Miles. They are bloody liars!’
‘They could be, but there is no value in them lying, Poppy, it’s what they believe and we have to consider the possibility that they might be telling the truth.’
‘No. No. No. No. That’s not it, that’s not what has happened. No. I’m sorry, but no.’ She shook her head, gasping for breath.
‘I understand that this is the worst thing for you to hear, but you are not alone, I will help you get home, we can make arrangements—’
‘I don’t want arrangements. I want Martin! I’ve come all this way to get my husband, Miles, I’ve come to take him home and whether I walk back with him holding my hand or I carry him in a box, this is what I am going to do. Do you understand? Do you bloody understand?’ Her voice was hoarse. Tears gathered around the corners of her mouth and nostrils. ‘I won’t leave this horrible place until I have him with me. I will not. It’s as simple as that.’ She leapt from the chair and made for the door.
‘Pop— Nina, please don’t run out, we need to talk about this!’ Miles called to her back as she ran from the building.
She found solace inside her sleeping bag, welcoming the dark that enveloped her. Hours slowly ticked by. There were no more tears, just a dark, cold stain of grief that spread until it filled her. She dozed in and out of sleep. Poppy remembered a time when they were about nine, sitting on the swings in the gloom. ‘You’re my best friend in the whole world, Martin…’ It was dark, but Poppy knew that he was smiling, ‘And I would be very sad if ever you moved away or couldn’t play with me any more.’
‘That’s never going to happen, Poppy. Where would I go?’
She had shrugged in response, unable to picture where he might disappear to.
‘I promise you, Poppy, that I will always be your best friend. It’s like we are joined together by invisible strings that join your heart to mine and if you need me, you just have to pull them and I’ll come to you…’
Poppy had laughed out loud, loving the idea of their invisible heartstrings, ‘… and if you pull yours, I will come to you, Martin. That way, I’ll always know if you need me.’
He reached out a hand in the dark until he found Poppy’s small fingers and he placed them inside his own.
Poppy sat up in her sleeping bag. Her heart strained inside her chest. She was grinning. Donning her shoes, she ran from the tent. Sod being low-key and elusive, this was important! She spotted Miles in the canteen at a far table and raced through the tray-wielding masses before crashing down into the chair opposite him. ‘Do it, Miles, organise your meeting if you can, get us in front of the ZMO. Martin is alive.’
‘Poppy, you don’t know that for sure—’
She interrupted him and raised her palm to stem any negative comments. ‘Oh, but I do. I do know it, Miles!’ She beamed at her friend and co-conspirator.
‘Who told you… how?’ His investigative brain wanted facts.
‘He did, Miles; Martin did, he pulled on my heartstrings!’
‘He what?’
‘It doesn’t matter, mate, and you wouldn’t understand even if I did try and explain. It would be like the whole Joan Collins thing, but I have never lied to you, Miles, and I am telling you that he is alive. I can feel it.’
‘Maybe, Poppy, that’s just what you want to feel…’
Again she raised her palm, there was no room for his doubt or hesitation. ‘Trust me, Miles, please trust me like I do you, he is alive!’ She swiped at the tears that splashed onto the table.
And for no other reason other than the conviction with which this extraordinary girl spoke, Miles believed her. He removed his specs and rubbed at his face.
‘How are you going to do it? Is there someone here that can help?’ Her energy was infectious.
‘Not exactly, but the point is, Poppy, that I am trusted and I’m current. If anyone can get in front of the ZMO it’s me. I have a contact that I was planning on seeing later today to try and organise a meeting, an audience if you like with the head honcho, Zelgai Mahmood himself.’
‘Oh my God! Oh my God, Miles. That is absolutely brilliant! Do it, Miles, meet him, make it happen!’ Poppy put her head forward and pushed the heels of her hands into her eyes, the tears sprang regardless. This was real, it was actually feasible.
‘Poppy, this is still only a possibility; it is not set in stone and it’s a bit of a long shot. We still don’t know for sure that Martin is with them or if he’s—’
‘Don’t say it.’ She placed her fingers over his lips. He resisted the temptation to kiss the soft pads of her hand, the exertion made him dizzy.
‘I just want you to understand that there are no guarantees, there are never any guarantees. These negotiations and plans can fall over at any point, at any time, so until we, you or I, get in front of the person that we need to, it is not a done deal. It is so important that you realise that, I don’t want you to be disappointed.’
‘I do understand, Miles, I do!’ she lied through her tears.
‘I don’t believe you, Poppy, but that’s OK. I will do my best. I’m not doing it for completely altruistic reasons – if I can pull this off then I will officially be THE Western voice of the terrorist. It will keep me in business for years! I’ll come and find you when I get back.’
‘Can I come with you?’
‘No. No you can’t. This is very risky and very dangerous…’
‘Miles, I do
n’t care! Let me come with you, please.’
‘No. One hundred per cent no. I will go alone and I’ll come and find you when I get back. Jesus, Poppy, does nothing scare you?’
She thought for a moment. ‘Yes, the idea of not seeing my husband alive again.’
That shut him up.
Poppy spent the day lying on her cot, waiting. The hours passed unbearably slowly. She listened to the daily bustle of the camp around her, catching snippets of conversation, the odd cough and at least three different songs being hummed. She looked at her watch every few minutes and was convinced that at one point time went backwards. Her mind started to wander down doom-filled alleyways and into booby-trapped corridors, imagining all sorts of frightening things. Supposing they kept Miles too? What if they hit a roadside bomb? She realised for the first time how much she had come to rely on Miles in a very short space of time. He wasn’t only her protector and advisor, but also the only person that actually had a plan, the only person who was giving her concrete hope.
To everyone else she was Nina Folkstok, but he knew who and what she was. Poppy realised that she drew enormous comfort from having one person that she could be herself with. She started to think about what would happen to her if he didn’t come back. She couldn’t visualise it, the prospect was too scary; doubt started to creep in. What was she doing? She was supposed to be in her flat in Walthamstow, cutting hair in Christine’s salon and visiting her nan. Instead she was in a tent, on an army base in Afghanistan, masquerading as a Danish journalist. It was so bizarre, it was almost funny.
Poppy would have sworn that she was awake for the whole day, but apparently she had fallen asleep because she was being woken up. Miles shook her shoulder. She sat upright, instantly alert. ‘Oh my God! Well?’
‘It’s nice to see you too, Poppy.’
‘Sorry, Miles. It’s just that I’ve been waiting for you all day! It’s been awful; I was really worried. I’ve imagined all sorts of terrible things. I thought you were never coming back.’
‘Well here I am. It’s been quite a journey in a slow and unreliable car, and then there was the wait for transport back. It’s been a very long day, I’m shattered.’
‘How did you get on? Are they going to see us?’
‘I don’t know yet. I met with a representative from the ZMO. He was there with an armed guard; luckily for him I hadn’t sharpened my pencil. He asked lots of questions about the other interview. They are interested in my credentials and my views on America.’
‘What did you tell him?’
‘What he wanted to hear, Poppy, and it seemed to work. He has taken away my request for contact. He’ll get word to me whether it is possible or not.’
‘When? When will he get word to you?’
‘Goodness, have you ever thought of becoming an editor? You are so demanding!’
‘I know I am. I’m sorry; it’s just that I am really impatient.’
‘I hadn’t noticed.’
‘You’re a funny guy!’
Poppy felt a surge of hope. Miles had made contact with someone that would know where her husband was and whether he was alive or… He had to be alive. No one would allow her to come that far only to discover that she had arrived too late. All they could do now was wait, wait and hope. Exactly as she had for the last couple of weeks, only now she had to wait in a sandier environment and without the means to make a decent cup of tea.
Three days later, Poppy’s whole world was turned upside down. Three days that felt like weeks. The worst thing about waiting was the interminable boredom. Her iPod had long since run out of charge and trying to pass time when there was absolutely nothing to do was torturous. She hid away during the day, unable to wander freely. The real journalists were conducting interviews, typing up copy, tip-tapping and sending it around the world on their laptops. Not Poppy, she was without laptop; instead she had her notebook and pencil for company. It was bloody boring and bloody hot.
She wished that she could have a gossip and a coffee with Jenna; she missed her mate, and her nan, for that matter. Poppy was desperate to know that she was OK and couldn’t bear the idea that Dorothea might think she had abandoned her.
It was a cold night in the desert. Poppy was initially thankful for the respite from the heat, but quickly became uncomfortable. She closed her eyes and envisaged their big, fat duvet on the bed at home. She wanted an extra blanket or thicker pyjamas, or ideally, her husband to snuggle up to. She hated being cold, it reminded her of her childhood.
Poppy never had a coat. When she’d asked for one, the response from Wally dozing in the chair of power had been, ‘Stop moaning, you’re waterproof. If you get wet, you’ll dry off soon enough.’ You know what? He was right! Clever old Wally, the sleeping, moaning dickhead.
What he didn’t understand was what it felt like for a little girl to get so wet on the way to school that she remained so for most of the day, shivering as her hair dripped onto her artwork, turning every poster paint creation into a smudged rainbow river. At the exact moment her wool and polyester jersey finished steaming, it would be time to go outside for break, where she would get wet again, remaining so until just before lunch when she would get rained on all over again.
Poppy spent hours shaking so hard that she couldn’t concentrate on what the teacher was saying. She could only hear the word ‘C… c… c… cold’ repeated over and over in her head, chattering through clenched teeth. In her mind, there were whole days, if not weeks, when she was permanently soggy. A small puddle would form under and around her chair. Her socks remained moist and her toes pruney-skinned inside them until she could get home and put the damp grey strips on the heater. This would fill her grotty bedroom with a damp, cheese-like smell. Her wet hair clung in thin, brown stripes across her pale face, which, for Poppy, seemed like prison bars. She felt isolated, trapped and bloody uncomfortable.
Poppy decided that when she had a little girl she’d buy her a big furry winter coat with a hood, a set of matching hat, scarf and gloves and a little cagoule folded up into a bag that she could carry around her waist for ‘just in case’.
It was the early hours of the morning in her desert home when she stopped shivering. It was maybe four or five a.m., someone was standing by her cot. Poppy gasped and jumped up, still inside the sleeping bag. She stood like a large green, padded slug, unable to run or move; a stationary target, trying to focus on the shadowy figure that loomed ahead of her.
‘It’s all right, Poppy; it’s me, its Miles.’ He put his hand on her shoulder. He was holding a piece of dark cloth.
She flinched. ‘Blimey, you scared me!’
‘I’m sorry. I didn’t want to call out and risk waking anyone else. Get dressed, Poppy, and put this headscarf on. We’re off.’
‘What do you mean? Off where? When?’
‘Now! We are off now. I’ve just had word from my contact and it’s on, but we have to go right now, to meet our lift. This isn’t unusual, Poppy; they often do it this way, not giving anyone a chance to plan, tell anyone or predict the outcome. Listen to me, and listen carefully: you are Nina Folkstok, don’t forget. Do not speak, Poppy, I am telling you this because it is really important that you understand. Don’t speak until I tell you that you can and let me handle everything. Do you understand?’
Poppy nodded, not trusting herself to speak anyway. This was it; she was being taken to the people that had her husband. She was going to get Martin. It was unbelievable, exciting and scary all at the same time. She didn’t know why she was scared, didn’t know why she should be scared. She would find out soon enough.
She had only once before felt this level of anticipation and that had been a long time ago for a very different trip; she prayed that the outcome of this adventure would be better. Poppy was six when she went on a school outing to London Zoo. Boy, was she excited, the anticipation was almost unbearable! The night before she couldn’t sleep and spent the hours jumping around the bed, her head full of all the possibilities o
f what the day might bring. It was to be an epic adventure; Poppy never went anywhere or did anything. She desperately wanted to study a sea horse, having only recently learnt they were not mythical creatures as she had believed. She pondered this fact every night leading up to the big day, promising herself to similarly investigate mermaids. She glued the typed out, photocopied note about it on the wall above her bed, reading it over and over:
The coach will leave from the main school gates at approximately 9 a.m. Children should bring a packed lunch and come equipped for rain…
Poppy could still recall it word for word. When the day of the big trip dawned, Poppy got up early to make her packed lunch. The distraction and excitement meant she didn’t notice the freezing air inside her bedroom, or the cold plastic of the bath against her skin, which, despite the warm water, did nothing to relieve her chills. In the tiny kitchen, she clambered onto the Formica work surface, rooting around in the cupboard to find something to take. The contents of that packed lunch would stay with her forever. Jam sandwiches – the standard two slices buttered, strawberry jam smeared then stuck together – were cut in half. The butter, too hard to spread, pulled the soft white dough into large holes, but she didn’t mind. There was a piece of cheese wrapped in foil and three cubes of uncooked jelly, lime flavoured.
Poppy put the whole lot inside an empty bread bag and set off. She was happy to be going to the zoo and just as excited to be in possession of a packed lunch. There were kids in school who enjoyed a packed lunch daily, but she couldn’t possibly have prepared food every morning as well as get her uniform ready and Dorothea up and into the bathroom. Besides, she was entitled to free school meals; buying supplies for a packed lunch every day would have been out of the question for her.
Poppy skipped, bread bag in hand, along the pavement, circumnavigating the dog poo and hopping over the cracks. Jenna was already sitting halfway up the coach with her brother. Poppy didn’t mind a bit, she was, at that tender age, already assured of her place in Jenna’s affections. Poppy placed the plastic bag on her lap. She ran her fingertips over the shiny seat next to her, feeling the smoothed surface where a million excited bottoms had wiggled away the nap of the once plush fabric. Harriet sidled into the space and sat next to her. The catchment area of Poppy’s school included the council estates and flats where she grew up, but also the big houses near the tube where the money brokers and city traders raised their families in seven-bedroomed Edwardian splendour. The children from this side of the street would leave the school at eight and dance off to fancy prep schools. This left holes in the violin teachers’ schedule and meant that the Harvest Festival offerings from the upper years was always pitiful. They were two completely different worlds, each equally fascinating to the other.
Poppy Day Page 23