by Ed James
Mowat’s gaze settled on the flask as Terry passed it back to Hunter. ‘You boys looking forward to killing some of these pricks?’
‘That’s not what we’re there for, pipsqueak.’ Hunter sucked down more whisky. Felt half pissed already. ‘But I’m looking forward to getting back into action, if that’s what you mean.’ He lobbed the hip flask over. ‘Here.’
Mowat caught it and drank in the spirit’s aroma. ‘You boys were in Kandahar, right?’
‘Right.’ Hunter gripped the straps tight, the fabric digging into his hands. ‘This is supposed to be a breeze compared to that.’
The air was filled with the stench of burning opium poppies, bitter and dark, catching in the throat. Hunter tightened his mask around his mouth, but the taste and the reek still got through. Will smell it for weeks.
The Chinooks roared above them, their propellers lashing the rising sun into a nightclub strobe. Lashkar Gah gleamed in the near distance, the town’s lights flickering in the cold desert air.
Hunter rested against the ledge and looked down into the valley immediately below them. A small stone building sat alone. Looked like a goat hut, but there was no sign of any goats. He looked left, then right. Terry and Mowat looked like he felt — nervous, cold and wanting to get back to base. ‘You guys okay?’
‘Like shit, I am.’ Terry hefted up his SA80 and leaned back against the stone wall, older than time itself. ‘I’ve had enough of this bollocks.’ He yawned. ‘I want a pint of fizz and my bed.’
‘Last Afghan tour for us, mate.’ Hunter patted his arm. ‘Iraq will be a breeze after this.’
‘This was supposed to be a piece of piss.’ Terry peered through his rifle’s sights and swivelled it around the area. ‘Where is everyone?’
‘This is more like Operation Kitten’s Claw than Panther’s.’ Mowat slipped his goggles up onto his forehead. ‘The bloody brass must be loving— SHITE!’
The wall above them puffed up, the air exploding. A rifle report echoed around.
‘Get down!’ Mowat hauled them both to the stone floor. ‘Jesus Christ!’
More gunshots battered the wall, small fragments tipping down.
‘Have you got sight of them?’ Hunter put his binoculars to his eyes and scanned for insurgents. ‘Anything?’
‘Not a sausage.’
The wall exploded five, six, seven times, pebbles lashing down on their legs.
Hunter got up to a crouch. ‘We need to move.’
‘Where do we go?’ Mowat rested on his elbows, twisting his head around to Hunter. ‘Where the hell do we go, man?’
‘That hut.’ Hunter nodded into the valley. ‘Then down to the bottom.’ He slipped his binocs on. Yep, definitely a trail. ‘There’s a path down there. It’s got to lead to the town.’
Mowat shook his head. ‘No way, man.’
‘Private, we’re moving out and that’s an order.’ Hunter grabbed hold of Mowat’s sleeve and hauled him up to standing. Sheer terror in his eyes, frantically dancing around. He let Mowat go. ‘Terry, you okay to lead us down?’
‘Waiting to be asked.’ Terry bombed off along the stone pathway and stopped by the opening ten metres along. Then he swung down and scrambled across the scrubland.
Hunter followed Mowat, his gear rattling as he jogged down towards the shelter.
WOOOSH!
BOOM!
Hunter dived forward and rolled, tumbling arse over tit until his shoulder dug into a rock. He clenched his jaw and focused on the pain, trying to stop himself screaming. Pebbles rained down the slope. Back up the way, a huge hole smoked in the wall they’d been leaning against seconds ago. ‘What the hell was that?’
‘Rocket!’ Mowat stumbled towards him, sliding on the avalanche until he braced himself against a boulder. ‘They’ve got rockets!’
Midway to the bottom, Terry leaned against the stone hut’s front walls, puffing and panting. He shifted his rifle around, pointing above them. His free hand beckoned them to move on.
‘Come on.’ Hunter pulled himself up to standing and jogged. ‘Let’s go!’
‘No!’ Mowat hugged the boulder tight. ‘I’m not going anywhere!’
‘We’re sitting ducks here.’ Hunter stomped back up and grabbed Mowat’s jacket. The little bastard wasn’t budging. ‘We’re moving out, NOW.’ Another tug then he started running towards Terry and cut to the other side of the entrance, spinning round to face back up the way, his SA80 aiming up, ready to fire. All one movement. Like he’d been trained to do. Like he knew what he was doing. Like he could cope with this shit.
‘Shit!’ Mowat bombed towards them, his short legs pounding, and skidded between them into the hut.
Hunter shook his head at Terry and stepped inside. Half of the bottom right wall was open to whatever elements lived here, shards of light crawling across the scrub floor towards Mowat, lying in a heap, groaning.
‘Pipsqueak…’ Terry joined them inside as gunfire lashed the building. ‘You bleeding tit.’
Mowat pushed himself up to his feet. ‘Shut up!’ He pointed his gun at Terry. ‘Shut your face, you cockney arsehole!’
‘You what?’
Mowat lifted his rifle to point at Terry’s left eye. ‘I said, shut up!’
Terry raised his hands. ‘Calm down, Pips—’
‘Stop calling me that!’
‘Stop it!’ Hunter stepped between them. ‘Dave, you need to calm down, okay?’
‘How can I stay calm?’ Mowat switched his gun to focus on Hunter. ‘They’ve got rockets!’
Terry held up his hands to Mowat. ‘It’s okay. We can stay here for a bit. It’s cool.’
Mowat nodded slowly. ‘Thanks.’
‘This place is safe as houses.’ Terry waved a gloved hand around the hut. ‘Been standing since we were monkeys in the trees, I reckon.’
‘I’m not happy about this.’ Hunter pointed his rifle back out the door. ‘Like he said, they’ve got rockets and this place is falling apart.’
‘No!’ Mowat raised his rifle again. ‘I’m staying!’
Hunter tapped the wall with the butt of his rifle. ‘One lucky strike and this is coming down.’
Terry sucked in air and peered through the hole. Then back in with a grim look on his face. ‘He’s right, mate.’
Mowat’s breathing sped up. ‘I’m staying.’
‘Dave, we need to move out.’ Terry waved down the hill. ‘The path at the bottom of the slope will take us into Lashkar Gah. We’ll be okay from there.’
‘I’m not going. Send a chopper to pick me up.’
Terry looked lost and alone, his barrow boy cool missing. He frowned at Hunter. ‘Craig?’
Ranking soldier here, got to show leadership.
Hunter locked eyes with Terry then Mowat. ‘We’re moving out. No man left behind.’
Mowat threw his rifle on the floor. ‘Piss off.’
‘Dave.’ Hunter settled into a crouch. ‘We need to—’
BOOOM!
The ground shook. Hunter tumbled over, landing face first on the scrub. Dirt covered his teeth. He spat it out and rolled his tongue. Then he got to his feet and huffed out breath. ‘No questions, okay? We’re moving out.’
Mowat eased himself up to standing, shaking his head like he wanted to be back in his mummy’s arms.
Don’t we all…
Terry leaned against the wall, surveying the ground outside. ‘Looks clear this way.’ He waved off to the right. ‘The rocket came from over there.’ Then down to the bottom. ‘Those rocks will give us cover when we’re on the path.’
Hunter swung around to Mowat. ‘You hear that? One last push and we’re safe.’
Mowat nodded slowly. ‘Okay.’
‘On three.’ Terry counted on his thumb, then his forefinger. Then his middle finger. ‘Go.’ He clambered through the hole in the wall and hurtled down the hill, dust billowing up behind him.
Hunter climbed through the gap and jabbed a finger at Mowat. ‘Go!’ He ran. Much steep
er than it looked. He tripped and pushed himself up into a run, unable to do anything but keep going. It levelled out to a shallow bank near the bottom. He almost clattered into Terry.
WOOOSH!
A gust streaked across the sky from the left.
BOOM!
Pebbles and boulders scattered towards them. Hunter had to cover his face and wait. He pulled his arm away and scanned around the path.
Terry kicked away a pile of stones and picked up his rifle. ‘You okay, mate?’
‘I’m fine. Where’s— Shite.’
An SA80 skittered down the scrub towards them, the strap torn in half.
‘Where’s Mowat?’
A standard-issue boot rolled towards them, blood streaking the dusty ground as it trundled to a halt.
Terry swallowed hard, his eyes shut. ‘That’s Mowat.’
‘What?’ Hunter vomited, a half-digested sausage in amongst the carrots and bile. ‘Where is he?’
‘He’s gone, mate. Thin air now.’ Terry clapped his arm. ‘Come on. We’ll have a squad of Taliban on us before we know it.’
Hunter grabbed Terry’s fatigues. ‘You’re not listening to me! Where did—’
The office could’ve been anywhere. Painted concrete blocks, aluminium filing cabinets from floor to ceiling. The only window was open wide to let out the oppressive Afghan heat. In front, a giant desk the size of a family car, neatly ordered by a series of three trays. No computer, just a phone. Cutlery clattered as Captain William Morecambe tucked into a fry-up. A full plate of meat: four sausages, six rashers of bacon, tomato, fried bread, two eggs. It all looked overcooked. The aroma coiled around Hunter’s nose, the sweet burnt smell of the bacon.
Morecambe nibbled at the bottom of his lip, then reached up to flatten down his moustache. Then he sliced off some tomato and speared it with a doubled-over rasher of bacon. Left it hovering in front of his lips. ‘Lance Corporal, your actions were responsible for the death of a serving member of Her Majesty’s Armed Forces.’
Hunter stood to attention, waiting for Morecambe to let him stand at ease. Wasn’t happening. So he stared at him, long enough to show he wasn’t going to be messed about with, short enough to show some respect. ‘My actions were responsible for the safety of myself and Corporal Terence—’
‘You lost a soldier, Lance Corporal.’ Morecambe finished chewing and stabbed his fork into another rasher.
‘My actions were responsible for—’
‘Okay, I get it.’ Morecambe cut a sausage in half lengthways, the fat dripping out. ‘Someone’s trained you. Repeat that pat line over and over, eventually I’ll give up, right?’ He left a space.
Hunter didn’t fill it, had no intention of ever speaking again, especially to a monkey like him.
The cutlery clattered against the plate. Morecambe snapped at the Military Police armband on his arm. Bloody Monkeys. ‘Lance Corporal, need I remind you which function I work for?’
‘You’ve made that clear, sir. My actions were respons—’
‘Enough!’ Morecambe’s shout echoed around the room, slipped out of the crack in the window. Could hear it in Iraq. Probably hear it in Scotland. ‘Your actions impeded the prosecution!’
Hunter scratched at the scar on his cheek. ‘What are you talking about?’
‘You got in the way of justice, Lance Corporal.’
Hunter’s mouth was dry. He looked over at his glass of water. Already drunk it. He cleared his throat. ‘I’ve no idea what you’re talking about.’
‘Quit it.’ Morecambe sat back in his chair with a creak. ‘You know perfectly well what I’m talking about.’
‘I don’t.’
‘Lance Corporal, I can squeeze you and squeeze you until you pop. You will admit to—’
‘Are you threatening me?’
Morecambe ran his tongue around his teeth. Seemed to find something worth chewing on near the back left. ‘Are you telling me you had no inkling of—’
‘None. I swear.’ Hunter wanted to open the neck of his shirt. He left it. ‘What is he supposed to have done?’
Morecambe waved a hand across to the door. ‘Get out of my sight.’
‘Look, I led myself and Corporal—’
‘We’re watching you, Hunter.’ Morecambe went back to his breakfast, his cutlery chinking off the plate as he cut away at the fried bread. ‘Now, clear off.’
‘Sir.’ Hunter saluted and marched over to the door. One last look at him, hamster cheeks chewing as he chopped up more. The bacon smell everywhere in the room. Then he opened the door and left.
The corridor was baking hot. Hunter took his beret off and stuffed it under his arm, sweat trickling down his back now. That could’ve gone better.
‘He got you too?’ Terry was sitting outside the room, fingers splayed, eyebrows raised.
‘He got me.’ Hunter marched off down the corridor.
Terry caught up with him by the stairwell door. ‘What did he say?’
Hunter pushed through the door and let it rattle shut behind them. ‘Tried to haul me over the coals, but I kept to the party line.’
‘Good man.’ Terry grinned. ‘Good man.’
Hunter leaned against the wall, bare breeze blocks that had sucked in all the heat. ‘He said they’re investigating him.’
Terry swallowed, his Adam’s apple bobbing up and down.
‘You know why, don’t you?’
Terry nodded. ‘A little birdie told me something.’ He scratched at his cheek. ‘Said that little bastard killed a woman in Iraq.’
‘Iraq?’
‘Last tour over there. Local girl. And I mean girl. Fourteen. Shot her when he was pissed.’
Hunter slumped back against the wall. ‘You serious?’
‘Deadly, mate. They found this girl’s body, didn’t know it was him did it. Now someone can place him at the scene.’
‘He killed someone?’
‘Yup. Shitty business, mate.’
‘So why was he on duty?’
‘You know what they’re like.’ Terry thumbed behind him. ‘Most of what the monkeys get up to is political. If he’d done that back home, he’d be locked up. Out here? They’ll cover over anything they can.’
18
CHANTAL
* * *
‘—Dave go?!’ Hunter jolted forward, almost cracking his head off the seat in front.
What the hell?
Chantal stuffed her Kindle away and twisted round to face Hunter. His eyes were swivelling in his head, not focusing on anything. His breathing was out of control.
The guy next to Chantal looked up from pretending to read his Daily Mail. Bread churned around in his mouth, chewing his roll, his eyes wild. ‘Are you okay?’
‘We’re fine.’ Chantal smiled at him as she clutched a hand around Hunter’s. Are we fine? Jesus… ‘Craig, it’s okay.’
‘Where’s…’ Hunter was panting hard. ‘Where’s…’ He pinched his nose. ‘Shite.’
‘Did you have a flashback?’
They were over tall hills now, maybe even mountains. Was it the Pyrenees? Could even see the plane’s shadow on the green. The engine droned, the waft of bacon and coffee filling the pressurised air.
Hunter kept his silence.
‘Craig, who’s Dave?’
‘A squad mate.’ Hunter swallowed, his breathing still fast. ‘In Helmand. Private David Mowat. We were hiding in a hut and a rocket fired into it. He just blew up. Disappeared. I carried his rifle back to base. The only thing left of him was a boot with… with…’ Tears filled his eyes.
She tightened her grip, let him focus on it. Centre around it. ‘It’s okay, Craig, you’re safe now.’
Hunter ran a hand across his face. ‘What a bloody mess.’ He clenched his jaw tight. ‘Dave was a bit of a cock at times, but that shouldn’t happen to anyone.’
‘You poor thing…’
‘Christ, and I want you to commit to me?’
‘Hey, hey.’ She leaned over and kissed his lips
. ‘It’s okay, Craig. You’re with me. Okay?’
‘It was so real…’ Hunter stared over at Daily Mail man as he slapped at his last bite of roll. ‘Bloody bacon…’
‘So that’s definitely the trigger?’ She caressed his hand. ‘I’m going to get you through this, okay?’
‘You don’t have to.’
‘I want to.’ She reached over and ran a hand over his stubbled head. ‘That’s two flashbacks in two days. Do you need to call Dr Gold when we land?’
‘I’m fine, Chantal. I can keep my shit together.’ Their neighbour’s ears were burning. What’s going through his head? Hunter leaned over and kissed her cheek. ‘Such a bloody mess.’
‘We’ll get through this, Craig.’ She returned the kiss. ‘I love you.’
‘What?’ Hunter frowned. ‘You…’ He couldn’t help but grin. ‘Shite.’
‘We’re fine, Craig.’ She wrapped an arm around his and leaned in close. ‘I’m here for you.’
Hunter settled back and stroked her cheek. ‘Thank God…’
‘Thank you, madam. Have a nice day.’ The hostess’s smile looked chiselled into her face, repeated a hundred times a day. Doubt she ever meant it. The cockpit hissed behind them, radio chatter turned to noise. Another nod. ‘And you too, sir.’
Chantal nodded back as she gripped Hunter’s hand and stepped down the stairs. Cold air nibbled at her cheeks, wind clawing at her bare legs. Dots of rain turned into big splodges, the sort you saw on the west coast of Scotland.
‘Sure we’ve not landed back in Edinburgh?’ Hunter wrapped his coat around his shoulder.
Chantal reached into her bag for a cardigan and groaned. ‘Bloody typical.’ She clanked down the steps to the bus hissing and droning at the bottom, already half-filled. The distant airport was so far away that it looked like it was in Spain.
She marched across the tarmac and swung inside the bus, wrestling past the old couple hogging the entrance.
Hunter dropped his bag by a pole and grabbed her hand again. ‘Glad I wore my jeans.’
‘It’s supposed to be high twenties later today.’