Martin nodded. ‘Where is my wife? Where’s Poppy?’ As the question left his lips, he felt fearful that he might have imagined the whole thing, that the medic might say, ‘Your wife? Oh mate, you’ve had a bump on the head…’
She didn’t. ‘Ah yes, Lara Croft. We haven’t seen her down here. I expect she is being debriefed, we can probably get a message to her if you like.’
‘Yes, can you tell her…? Can you tell her…?’ Martin couldn’t speak through his tears, she was real; he hadn’t imagined it. What did he want to tell her? There were no words that he could say to his amazing girl, nothing to begin to describe his gratitude. He would try to tell her in his own time, when they were alone, when they were home.
All personnel had been asked to go, leaving Anthony, Poppy and a Colonel Blakemore. Someone had given Poppy a cup of tea; it was the sweetest nectar, reminding her that she hadn’t eaten, drunk or slept in a very long time. It also reminded her of home. She thought about her nan, sitting in her little room with the telly turned up too loudly.
Anthony took control. Poppy hated the way he spoke to her as if she were stupid. She hated that from anyone, more than anything. ‘We find ourselves in a very delicate situation, Poppy. It is, of course, wonderful that Martin is back safe and relatively unharmed, that was always our sole objective…’
Poppy bit her tongue, said nothing.
‘…however, the British Army is so much more than its daily activity and its soldiers. Do you understand what I mean by that?’
She shook her head, thinking, ‘Sorry, Major; once again you’ve lost me.’
‘We have a reputation and it is our reputation that precedes us in every campaign that we enter into, every deployment we undertake. Our reputation is everything.’
Poppy nodded to show understanding; gotcha so far, Tony.
‘This war against terrorism and terrorists is different to any other war that we have been engaged in. On 9/11 our world changed, your world changed and what we have now is rarely a physical battle, but much more a battle of wits, if you will. It is a matter of intelligence and counter-intelligence, covert activity and high-tech endeavours, specialisms if you like. Gone are the days when brute force and who has the biggest guns equalled success. Above all, Poppy, it is about perceptions and belief…’
She was still listening.
‘… it’s not only about what our soldiers in theatre, and what the public at home perceive and believe, but also what our enemies perceive and believe. I cannot begin to describe the damage that your foray could do to our reputation and peoples’ perceptions if it were to become public information.’ Anthony was quiet, awaiting her response.
‘I can see that it would put you in a difficult position. If it was known that the Special Forces operation to rescue Mart failed because you got the wrong house, yet me, a twenty-two-year-old hairdresser, managed to breach every aspect of your security and meet with the head of the ZMO to bring my husband back. I guess it wouldn’t do much for your fearsome reputation and the perception that your force is a force of excellence.’
‘Quite.’ She noticed that a nerve twitched below his right eye.
‘So, what are you suggesting?’ Poppy wasn’t being clever; she was genuinely struggling to see where he was heading with his argument.
‘When we get back to the UK, there will be a press conference to announce that Martin is back and safe. We would like to confirm that it was a Special Forces operation after weeks of negotiation that made it possible. How do you feel about that?’ He looked at Colonel Blakemore.
Poppy watched them nervously awaiting her response. She was quiet for a while, thinking it through. She was tired and this made thinking about anything difficult. She closed her eyes and rubbed them with her fingertips. ‘I don’t really care how you say he was brought home. I don’t care because to me it isn’t important. I was only ever interested in getting him home, not in showing up your army, or for any personal glory.’
They both sighed, visibly relieved to hear this. ‘That’s good, Poppy. It would have been terrible for Martin to get home, only to have you imprisoned for the many violations that you have committed. The breaching of two countries’ immigration laws alone carries a custodial sentence, without even looking at the penalties for trespassing on an MoD airfield and stowing away on a military aircraft…’ Anthony finished on the threat, letting it hang in the air. The bastard.
It was some hours later before Martin was well enough to scan the out-of-date newspapers that someone placed in his hands. He couldn’t believe what Poppy had achieved. She was on the front page, asking for his release! He read every word over and over, wanting all the detail. It felt very strange to be reading about a situation that felt like a story, an awful, sad story, but just that. When he stopped to think about the fact that it was his story, their story, with Poppy’s picture staring back at him, it was surreal.
Poppy made her way to her tent. The little cot was there, just as she had left it. She ran her hand over its surface; it was a different person that had laid her head there so many hours before. She had been so preoccupied that she had managed to push what had happened out of her head, but as she sat on the end of the little bed all alone, she broke her heart. She thought about what Zelgai had done to her and she sobbed. Her skin prickled in revulsion and shame. What had she done? What on earth had she done?
A figure entered the tent. She sat up and tried to stop crying. It was Miles. Poppy was delighted to see him, delighted to see anyone at that point. She needed the comfort and reassuring presence of another human and she was so glad that it was him. Jumping up, she threw her arms around his neck and carried on crying. He held her close against him. She felt safe, protected and was so glad to see him alive and unharmed.
‘Oh Miles, I am so glad to see you! I had imagined all sorts. Jason told me that you were safe, but I knew that I wouldn’t be happy until I had seen you!’ Poppy looked up to see that he was crying too. ‘What’s the matter with you, you silly sod?’
Miles removed his glasses and pinched his nose as was his habit, trying to pull himself together. ‘You’ve been worried? Jesus, Poppy, you have no idea! I begged them to let me stay with you. I had no clue as to what they were going to do with you and it was entirely my fault. I took you there; I put you in that danger; I didn’t think it through. I was arrogant and selfish. I am so, so sorry…’
‘Don’t be daft! I insisted on you taking me with you; you gave me the solution! You have protected and helped me all the way along, Miles. I couldn’t have achieved anything without you. None of it would have been possible. I’d still be stood like a silly cow, trying to hitch a lift back to London from Brize bloody Norton, wherever that is. It has all been possible because of you, all of it, and I will never ever forget what you have done for me, what you have done for us!’
‘I could never have forgiven myself, Poppy, if anything bad had happened to you…’
Poppy shook her head and lied to her friend, her dear friend, ‘Well, Miles, nothing bad did happen to me so you are in the clear, mate, off the hook!’
He rubbed his palm over his stomach, trying to settle the swirl of emotion, a hurricane at his very core; it was relief and something else too. Miles recognised the stirring of a deep and unrequited love. He knew that the object of his desire was forever bound to a greater man than he. Their future and their history had been scripted and sealed, long before he arrived.
Martin’s visitors were restricted; he didn’t get the chance to catch up with many of his mates, which he would always regret. He was informed that Aaron’s body had been recovered and had, indeed, been given the burial that he deserved. Martin took great comfort from this, and hoped that Aaron’s family did too.
He was told the story that they were to stick to at the press conference. He agreed, but was suspicious of how something that everyone was talking about at Bastion was going to be contained, and how exactly they were going to prevent the truth from leaking out. He figured
that they knew more about it than he did, so kept quiet. He was so proud of his wife and that was all that mattered to him at that point.
By the time he got on the plane to travel to Brize Norton, Martin had been given a much needed haircut, a shave and generally cleaned up. He still looked rough and haunted, but a million times better than when Poppy had found him.
Martin couldn’t believe that he was actually travelling back to England, going home! It was the most wonderful feeling. There had been times in the previous weeks when he had felt sure that he was never going to get back there, or even if he would live to see another day, and there he was, in a clean uniform, with his beautiful wife by his side and he was going home.
It felt wonderful.
So many people in the camp wanted to shake his hand and wish him well. For some it was relief, glad that it hadn’t happened to them. You know; the whole statistic thing? If a soldier was taken hostage, let’s say once every three years, then they were safe.
Poppy and Martin were told there would be a press conference when they got back, that the media would probably be there, but they had no idea of the scale or the level of interest. The army had no clue either, no idea of exactly what they were dealing with, none at all. It was completely overwhelming.
Fifteen
POPPY BARELY REGISTERED the fact that she was flying; her fourth plane journey had quickly become the ‘usual drill’. She felt nothing but relief to be leaving the arid planes of Afghanistan. The touchdown on British soil was bumpy, nervous titters were audible as the plane skittered for a split second on the wet tarmac. Martin marvelled at the grey drizzle that greeted them, he had never seen weather so beautiful. The party were led off by Colonel Blakemore with Major Helm kowtowing behind him. The Crickets gripped each other’s hands as they walked down the steps to face a sea of people in the distance. Poppy wondered what they were waiting for. It didn’t occur to her that the reception might be for her and Martin.
A car met them on the tarmac. Their destination: a room in the main block that had been set up for the press conference. As the car drove along, flashes from cameras fired through the window, people were waving flags, hands, scarves, anything they had. Some were crying, others cheering. Hand-painted banners and posters read Welcome home! and Martin our Hero! It was complete madness. Martin was excited and overwhelmed by the reception. He closed his eyes; it smelt like England, felt like England. People cheered and clapped, they were going crazy. Children were hoisted up by the armpits to see and be seen. They were waving home-made placards as if greeting pop stars. It was incredible, ordinary people had turned out to say hello and wish them well. Martin was humbled by the outpouring; he wanted to thank them all. They were brilliant, every single one of them. The faces in the crowd were mainly service families, whose loved ones were on tour and who watched with heavy hearts from the same positions as the coffins returned home, flanked by comrades. For them, Martin was a symbol of hope, something to be thankful for and a reprieve from the burden of worry.
The car snaked its way through the masses. Anthony Helm seemed not to notice the celebration or the sheer numbers; he was distracted, fractious. The party eventually pulled up at the back door of a low building and were led through a narrow corridor. Even Brize Norton personnel craned their heads around office doors to catch a glimpse of the man that got away. They too were seemingly not immune to the furore surrounding the Crickets. Poppy wondered if a certain female security guard was around so she could get a glimpse of the girl that had travelled somewhere after all… At the end of the passageway, a door was held open and the two were led up the steps to a podium.
Martin, resplendent in freshly laundered desert fatigues was next to Poppy, with Anthony and the colonel on either side; like the top table they never had at a wedding beyond their means. There were at least eight microphones set up in front of them. Poppy was anxious, but this wasn’t about her; she was there to support her hero, her Martin, who looked pale. He reached for her hand under the table. They knew what was going to happen; Anthony was going to read out a prepared statement, Martin would then answer questions about it. He couldn’t imagine what he was going to say that would be of interest. He also felt like a fake. It was Aaron who was the real hero, and Poppy too; what she had achieved was unbelievable. He needn’t have worried.
It took a while to attain order in the room and for it to fall quiet. The small space was packed with people at different levels. Some stood at the back, the lucky few were on chairs, and even more were crouched down on the floor in front of the podium. All were holding microphones, mobile phones, tiny tape recorders or PDAs, some clutched old-fashioned spiral notepads and pens.
Anthony pulled his tunic taut and shot his cuffs before speaking. Poppy noticed that he was using a strange posher than usual voice, his telephone voice probably. ‘Ladies and gentlemen of the press, I thank you for coming here today on the wonderful occasion of welcoming Private Martin Cricket back home…’ He paused while there was an impromptu round of clapping and cheering. Martin squeezed his wife’s hand tighter, squashing her fingers.
‘…we are, of course, entirely grateful for the interest and immense support that the British public and media have shown for this story, and we are delighted that Martin is safe and well, here with us today. We would like to confirm that after weeks of negotiation, it was a Special Forces operation on the ground that made this remarkable rescue possible…’
Major Helm was part way through his statement. Martin was aware of a cheer every time his name was mentioned. He was busy thinking about the questions he might get asked, when utter chaos broke out.
It was as if someone had thrown an invisible switch. A hundred different voices were screaming and shouting at Poppy. Martin found it quite funny at first but this quickly turned to anxiety. The noise was deafening and Martin knew too well what an aggressive crowd was capable of. He couldn’t make out too much of what they were saying, but could clearly hear his wife’s name, ‘Poppy! Poppy!’ They were shouting it in every direction he looked.
Poppy wasn’t sure who yelled first, but it was as if someone had shouted ‘GO!’ There were screams and shouts from all corners of the room. The noise was thunderous. They surged forward, a seething mass, mouths opening and closing in an uproar of words and questions. It was impossible to decipher which words came from which person. Through the cacophony, she could distinctly make out the following:
‘Is it true, Poppy, that you went and got your husband back?’
‘Is it true, Poppy, that you masqueraded as a journalist to get into the country?’
‘Poppy! Poppy! Over here! What was Zelgai Mahmood like?’
‘Were you armed, Poppy?’
‘Do you like the nickname Lara Croft?’
‘Were you scared, Poppy?’
‘Do you think you will go back to hairdressing, or will that be too boring?’
‘Poppy, your mother has said that you were always adventurous. What are planning on next? Tackling Hamas, maybe?’
‘Martin, did you expect your wife to come and get you out?’
‘Poppy, what did you know that the British Army did not? How did you do it?’
The two were dumbfounded and shocked. Poppy couldn’t speak, couldn’t answer. The flashbulbs blinded her and the noise made it hard to think straight. She felt a hand on her shoulder; it was Major Helm. He was trying to make her stand, but was looking at Martin. His voice had lost its haughty tone. ‘Get her the fuck out of here. Now!’
Poppy wanted to say to him, don’t you talk to my husband like that! But it was pointless, no one would have heard, and she could see that Martin wanted to get out of the place, quickly.
Major Helm stood with his shoulders back, as if on parade. He looked ready to explode. Martin resisted the temptation to say I told you so. He’d known they wouldn’t be able to contain the news that his wife had been instrumental in his release; too many people at Bastion knew and it was too incredible. It was the sort of sto
ry that people would phone home to tell their families, who would then tell their mates, who would tell their families, who would then tell their mates… What Poppy did was a victory for everyone that has ever felt that the world was too big a place for them to make a difference in. She proved that it isn’t. It was the sort of story that newspapers would find irresistible, at least, that was what he thought and it turned out he was right.
They were ushered off the stage. Martin, Anthony and Poppy found themselves in a narrow corridor between the makeshift press conference room and some offices. The din next door had quietened. Martin turned to his wife and started laughing. She laughed back as he fell into her. The two slumped, weak-kneed against the wall, giggling into each other’s hair under the full glare of the fluorescent strip lights. It was partly nerves and partly because it was hilarious.
Poppy looked over Martin’s shoulder into Anthony’s face. He was staring at her with hatred in his eyes. She hadn’t done anything wrong and didn’t think she deserved to be looked at like that. ‘What?’ she asked him. It stopped her laughter.
‘What? What?’ His nostrils flared with each ‘t’.
Oh God, he was back to repeating everything. Poppy stared at him. ‘Tony, do you think that you were a parrot in a former life?’ She didn’t know why she said it, possibly to make Martin laugh more. It worked, he was near collapse, but this only made Anthony even more furious. Poppy, however, didn’t expect the tirade that followed, didn’t expect him to be so nasty.
‘I expect you think you are very clever. Did you have a word with your journalist friends, Poppy? Do you think this all some kind of fucking game?’ He was spitting at her, small gobs that hit her face and the wall behind her.
She shrank backwards, feeling frightened, unsure of what to do next. She hated the way that he spoke to her as if she was nothing, but was confused because they were on the same side; he was one of the goodies, supposedly.
Poppy Day Page 28