Rain

by Barney Campbell

  Tom laughed, and soon they were both back in Afghan mode, joking and taking the mick out of each other.

  After twenty minutes they switched over and Tom went to talk to Scott, who had a wild look in his eyes as though he wasn’t yet accustomed to being back home. Tom realized it was probably the look they all had when they were out there. He must have had it himself. He might still have it.

  ‘Hi, bud. I’m so sorry. What happened?’

  ‘I got hit up near Jekyll, about half a K north of it, near the Farad gardens. AK round. In under the collarbone and out through the shoulder blade. No internal damage, clean through. So lucky. Hurt like fuck though. I passed out when it happened. Next thing I knew I was in a ditch with the boys after someone had dragged me back. The boys pumped me full of morphine, but it didn’t seem to work. I was in agony, mate. Promise me one thing.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Don’t get shot. Massively overrated.’

  ‘I’ll try to remember. Thanks for the tip. Why were you even up there? I thought you were meant to be on the wagons?’

  ‘We were. But the day after you boys went down to Bastion it all kicked off in the north. Every day Pilgrim up in Jekyll were getting whacked. Shoots and scoots, ambushes on their patrols, daisy chains, everything. Massively kicking off. They took a lot of casualties. There’s a few of them in here now, actually, in the other wards.’

  ‘What happened?’

  ‘Battle group think a shedload of out-of-area fighters came in, sort of mid-January time. Twenty or so of them, Pakistanis. Fucking good shots. And their IEDs are good too. There was a rumour that some of them were Chechens.’

  ‘Great.’

  ‘I know. Those lads are mentalists. So I went up with the troop to help out. We left the wagons at Newcastle and went out on our feet to bolster their patrols. We were doing OK as well. We’d been up there for four days and had five firefights, and then this happens. There was this contact and I ran out of a ditch where we were taking cover to try to get to Frenchie for a face-to-face as my comms didn’t work. And then some knobber shot me. The burst went all around me. I saw all the rounds kick up the dust, almost in slo-mo, and then the last one whacked into me. Like someone thumping you with a sledgehammer.’

  ‘And then?’

  ‘One of the boys – don’t know who – dragged me back into the ditch, and they casevaced me all the way back to Jekyll. They were amazing. Absolutely amazing. Before I knew it I was back in Bastion, and now I’m here.’ He looked around, his eyes shifting nervously. ‘Feels really strange, to be honest.’

  ‘Jeez, mate, I wish I’d known.’

  ‘The CO’s trying to get on to brigade to whack the area. Big op planned. And I mean big.’

  ‘When?’ Tom started feeling excited.

  ‘Dunno, not for a couple of weeks anyway. But definitely before the squadron goes home. Smash time, mate, proper smash. Plan is to push all the way up and clear the whole town. Apparently the brigade commander’s pretty keen for it.’

  ‘Yeah, he would be. Another chance to move his drinks cabinet closer to Russia. One step closer to his DSO,’ said Tom.

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘I dunno, mate. Just something that really gets me about tour.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Just that the more lads that die, the greater the chance the bigwigs get a medal at the end of it. It’s an unwritten rule, isn’t it? If the brigade gets fifty-plus KIA, the brigade commander gets a DSO, and climbs another rung to CGS. Forty-nine KIA and you only get a CBE. I thought that’s what everyone said. Brennan and Trueman say it the whole time.’

  ‘Well, he’ll get his casualties. If the op does go ahead it’s gonna go spastic up there. Those guys don’t muck around. They’ll fight tooth and nail.’

  ‘But there’s an appetite for it?’

  ‘Hell yeah. They’ve already got a name for the ops box – Ops Box Republic.’

  ‘Sounds like a nightclub. As in Plato’s Republic?’

  ‘No, as in “Battle Hymn of the”. Named by Jules, surprise surprise.’

  Tom looked away, remembering.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Nothing, mate. Just that hymn was my school song.’

  ‘Nice.’

  ‘Yeah, but you know the fifth verse? “As he died to make men holy, let us die to set them free.” ’

  ‘That sucks.’

  ‘Too right it sucks. How are the boys?’

  Scott ignored him and clicked himself with more morphine. He suddenly seemed far away but after a minute came back to Tom. ‘Sorry, mate. Sorry, had to get rid of some pain. That stuff is so good.’

  ‘Mate, you were saying about the op?’

  ‘The op? Oh yeah. Sorry, mate. All I know is they want to clear the whole village.’

  ‘But that’s two miles at least. And how many enemy? Twenty? Thirty?’

  ‘At least. God knows, really. But a lot. And they’re good too. I was in the open for all of about a second, and they got me.’

  Tom lowered his voice. ‘Did you tell Sergeant Trueman?’

  ‘Yeah. Was that wrong?’

  ‘No, no. I’d have told him myself. But it does mean it’ll be round the whole troop by tonight, if I know him. Bollocks. I thought we were going back to wind down and basically just hand over kit.’

  ‘Doesn’t look like it, bud. Is that bad?’

  ‘No, not bad, just … unexpected. I mean, I’m terrified, obviously. But, and I can’t believe I’m saying this, it sounds like an epic op.’

  ‘Too right, mate. Front-row ticket to the end of the world.’

  ‘All right, chill out. Christ, nothing like a smack addict for melodrama.’

  They stayed for a couple more hours and sought out the wounded guys from the company up in Jekyll to get any tips about what to expect. It was the one PB in the AO that 3 Troop hadn’t worked around yet. They found four of them, dotted over the ward. Three had their families beside them and so they didn’t interrupt. One was alone though, on his bed, pristine save for a bandage over his eyes. The lower part of his face was streaked with grazes and dried cuts. They sat next to him.

  Tom let Trueman do the talking. ‘Hi, fella, it’s two guys from Loy Kabir. Tomahawk callsigns. We’re on R & R and came to see some of our oppos here. We just want a favour.’

  ‘How can I help?’

  Tom watched the interchange with fascination. Trueman was a sergeant with ten years’ service but talked to this boy, no more than nineteen, as though they were exact contemporaries.

  ‘Yeah, no dramas. What d’you want to know? I’m Costello, by the way. Jordan Costello.’ He held out a hand and both of them shook it.

  Tom stepped in. ‘Just a bit about the AO north of Jekyll. When we get back there’s a big op planned in the north, and we want to know about the ground up there, what the local Taliban are like and stuff.’

  ‘You’re an officer, ain’t ya?’

  ‘Er, yep. How did you guess?’

  ‘Cos that is without doubt the dullest question I’ve had in my time here. Just kiddin’. No worries, boss. Nice to think back, in a way.’

  For half an hour he told them all about it: how he thought the Scimitars could be used, the tactics of the local Taliban, how the fighting had escalated massively at the end of January with the influx of foreign fighters. He was astonishingly lucid and spoke beyond his years, getting more and more into his role as storyteller, enjoying his audience’s attention.

  As they thanked him and got up to go he said, ‘You’re probably wondering what happened to me, aren’t ya?’

  Before they could answer he went on.

  ‘IED. Next to me. Got me mate. He’s in the operating theatre at the mo. Shredded his leg. But it’s still on; they say he’ll keep it. Got me in the eyes though. Not the shrapnel, just loads of grit. Wasn’t wearing my safety specs. Tell your lads to wear theirs.’

  Tom glanced at Trueman guiltily. Neither of them could be bothered with their protective glass
es.

  Trueman said, ‘Are you gonna be all right, mate?’

  He answered bloodlessly as if talking about someone else: ‘Dunno. Too early to say, the docs told me. They say a 20 per cent chance I’ll see again. But they don’t know the full damage yet.’

  ‘Mate, I cross my fingers. I really do.’

  ‘Ta. Well, see you later, I hope!’

  Trueman only managed to whisper back, ‘Yeah, mate, yeah. Get well soon.’

  ‘Cheers. Take care out there. You’re going into a shit storm if you try to clear the whole town. Rather you than me.’

  They left him, and with both Ransome and Scott now asleep escaped the ward and went back to the car. Tom was about to speak but glanced at Trueman and saw he was weeping, so he kept quiet. It was the first time Tom had ever seen any vulnerability in him, and he thought it must be like when a little boy sees his father cry for the first time. They got into the car and drove to a pub, and soon Trueman perked up and was back to normal. They had a drink and then drove to the station for Tom’s train back to London. He sat alone, watching out the window as the day faded into dark.

  He arrived in London during rush hour. On the Underground passengers crowded like cattle onto the platforms, jostling shoulder to shoulder in the fight to get on board. It took Tom three trains before he could get on to one.

  As the train headed south he wriggled himself away from the doors and into the middle of the carriage. He looked at the people who had managed to get a seat. Three in a row were youngish men. One was a builder, grizzly with days-old stubble, clothes flecked with paint and dirt, clearly exhausted. The middle one was a tourist, confused and obviously lost, his spectacles misted with the breath of those around him. The third was about Tom’s age, in a smart suit underneath a camel-coloured coat, plugged into his music. Tom immediately hated him. He looked around. An old man wearing a flat cap and a thin shabby grey jacket was standing, swaying into other passengers, too short to reach the rail above his head and clearly in need of a seat.

  Tom remembered something Frenchie had once told him. ‘Thing is, Tom, there are three things you need to do in life. First, never stand on an escalator; always walk up the bastard. Second, never unfurl an umbrella unless you are doing so to prevent a girl getting wet. Just man up; it’s dry between the drops. Step out, don’t open your brolly, take it on the chin. Heck of a lot smarter, and it confuses the hell out of people. Third, never let me catch you ever, and I mean ever, sitting on the Tube when it is more than half full. It is the most contemptible activity conceivable to humanity. Whenever I see some prat sitting on the Tube, especially when there’s a girl there, I go up to him and tell him to do one. Works every time. Sitting on the Tube is a plague on our society, Tom, and it must be crushed. Crushed.’

  Tom went for it. He stepped forward, bloody anger surging up his neck, and reached to tap the city slicker on the shoulder and tell him to move it, but something checked his arm at the last moment.

  No. No. Let it be. You cannot be this angry all the time. You cannot let it destroy you.

  He didn’t make his move. They pulled into Victoria, where he got out into the evening rain, cheerful. He was going to come out of this all right.

  And then, somehow, that night it all worked perfectly. He met Cassie for a drink at a bar on Pimlico Road, and afterwards they walked arm in arm to an Italian restaurant. In the soft light and with wine warming him Tom told her all about the day – about Ransome, about Scott, about Costello. He mentioned the Tube too, speaking about the quashing of his rage with the pride of a rehabilitated alcoholic.

  Cassie listened to all of this in silence and at the end she said, ‘So when you go back you’re going into a big battle.’

  ‘Yes.’ There was no point lying, not this late on.

  ‘And?’

  ‘And what?’

  ‘Are you excited?’

  He used the wine in his glass as a prism to look at her. ‘I think I am. Yes. I am excited about it. But also terrified. It’s always like that. There’s always this fight going on between these different parts of you.’ He paused and drank some wine, trying to savour every drop. ‘Basically, there’s three people in your brain, and they’re all scrapping for control. Stay with me on this; if it gets a bit weird then just say.’

  ‘OK.’ She smiled, tilted her head slightly and twirled her hair with her fingers.

  ‘So, these three people. First, you’ve got ten-year-old Tom, who just loves the fact he’s carrying a gun. He thinks the whole thing’s a dream come true. And then you’ve got the rough-tough army officer, who’s trained for this for two and half years now. He loves it too because he’s applying what he’s been trained to do to reality. He feels no fear, sees everything ruthlessly and bloodlessly. This guy can’t wait to get out there again. Believe me, he’s properly mental.’ He sipped from his glass again.

  ‘And the third?’

  ‘Well, the third is a twenty-six-year-old graduate who read poetry at university. He’s got a ma, who’s on her own. He’s not violent; he never even watches horror films. He still has his teddy bear on his bed. He finds any violence horrific. And he’s really squeamish; he hates blood. He looks at what’s happening around him and thinks it’s madness. Utterly horrendous; boys and girls getting turned into meat. And he wants to scream and run away. But he can’t because the other two guys are stopping him – the ten-year-old and the professional. So there’s this constant battle, but the third guy always loses. I wish I could pretend I hated it, I really do, and I do sort of hate it, massively hate it, but more of me loves it. Loves it. And I wish I could be ashamed of that. I know I should be ashamed of it. But I’m not. And that really scares me.’

  She sat back in her chair. ‘Thanks, Tommy. I’ve never heard anyone speak like that before.’

  ‘You must think I’m some kind of psycho.’

  ‘Yes, obviously. I’ve always thought that. But no, it’s incredible to hear you talk about yourself like that. I had no idea.’

  ‘I didn’t know I even thought like that myself until I was saying it. But it’s true. Weird but true.’

  Tom paid the bill and they went out into the drizzle. They were both wrapped up warm and went down to Chelsea Embankment to walk along the river. There was no traffic; they had the city to themselves. They didn’t talk, and walked along in silence. There was nothing that needed to be said. Tom clasped her hand and felt her fingers tighten around his through her soft woollen gloves. They passed the Albert Bridge and remembered their parting back in September, when neither of them knew what was going to happen. Cassie thought about telling him about her Friday-morning ritual, but decided not to. She didn’t want to somehow jinx it.

  They turned up towards her house and stopped at a bar for a final drink. At midnight they left and went to Cassie’s. She fumbled with the keys, and they giggled as she clumsily unlocked the door. They went up the stairs and then kissed again outside her room. This time she let him in.

  He had been awake for a few minutes and was examining her bare back. Her shoulder blade stretched her skin, tanned and freckled. He kissed her on the back of the neck and then put his arm over her and tried to coincide his breaths with hers so as not to wake her. She carried on sleeping, and he stayed there as the morning breached the curtains.

  He looked at his watch. Ten to eight. She needed to be at work for nine. He slinked out of bed as quietly as possible, pulled on his boxer shorts and eased open the door. He went down the stairs, the cold air goose-pimpling his chest, and in the kitchen switched on the kettle and rubbed his arms, trying to get warm.

  In the bedroom Cassie had pretended to be asleep and heard him leave. She lay still for a minute, lost in the fog of morning, and then reached over to her bedside table for her phone. It flashed with a new message, and she dragged herself up onto her elbows to read it. Straining her eyes at the screen, she discovered three missed calls and three messages. All the calls were from her mother’s mobile. So were the messages. She read
the most recent one: ‘At Heathrow. Now in taxi. Xxx.’ She flicked to the oldest one, sent last night at ten o’clock. ‘Hi Cass darling, we’ve had the most FANTASTIC time out here – wish you’d been with us. Dad just received news of a big case and has to come back to see big client tomorrow for emergency meeting. A day early – drat! Getting red-eye Geneva tomorrow morn; back 4 breakfast. Mummy xxxxx.’

  Cassie looked at her watch. Eight. She looked back to the message from Heathrow. Sent at 7.15. In a panic she ripped away the bedclothes, suddenly thinking completely clearly and her brain shedding the previous night in an instant. Still naked, she ran down the stairs to get Tom.

  Tom had finished making the coffee. One mug in each hand, he pulled open the kitchen door with his foot and, using his other heel to pivot, rocked himself forward through it. As he did so, to his left the front door opened and people started coming in. His momentum carried him out from the cover of the kitchen into the hall, where he stood framed in the light flooding through the open door. To his right Cassie was on the stairs for some reason, completely naked. He froze, his first thought being that he wasn’t wearing any boxer shorts. He remembered that he was, but his fear just transformed into something greater.

  The two figures in the doorway were looking at him, or at both of them. He glanced in horror back to Cassie, who shrieked and, rather skilfully Tom thought, used both her arms to cover herself up and then ran back up the stairs. That left him with her parents. Her father looked like a dying fish. Tom could have sworn that Lavinia was eyeing him up. No point denying it; well and truly caught red-handed. Drawing from the Frenchie school for these kinds of situations Tom beamed a thousand-watt smile and said, ‘Lavinia, Jeremy, welcome back. Welcome home. Here, coffee. Great to see you both again. Long time.’

  Four days later, at home, Tom’s alarm went off at 4.15, and after a cup of tea he and Constance got into the car to drive him back to Aldershot. He had to be there by seven to get the minibus with the troop up to Brize. In the darkness on the drive he felt fine, and he and Constance chatted happliy. He remembered when they had driven to Sandhurst and how nervous he’d been then. This drive seemed so much easier; he was going back to the familiar and, no matter how terrifying that was, at least he knew what its face looked like. Back then he had worried about the length of his hair; now he was proud of his shaggy, unkempt mane. He thought of the Grade 1 he’d had in Bastion at the start of tour; now he looked like a hippy. His sideburns were just within regulation length, but they were pushing it; he planned to grow them into mutton chops out on the ground.