by Anna Legat
SANDMAN
ANNA LEGAT
To Greg Rees, my brilliant dealmaker editor
I
A convoy of five jeeps cuts across the desert at blinding speed – a series of five bullets. The vehicles stir the eroded soil and a cloud of dust lifts and lingers, irritating the eyes and nostrils of the men inside. Haji is well used to desert sand, but some of the fighters – youngsters brought up in Europe’s wetlands – don’t have a clue. They haven’t learnt to cover their mouths, so their throats are dry, their voices gravelly and they grind sand between their teeth. They drink gallons of water from plastic bottles recovered from humanitarian relief drops, most of which never reach their intended recipients. The truth of the matter is that the intended recipients are either dead or have long evacuated this area. There is no point letting water go to waste. Water has the value of pure gold in these parts – you don’t say no to it when it falls from the sky free of charge. The youngsters waste it; Haji doesn’t. It would be a sacrilege. Saving water is in his blood. Besides, the more you drink, the more you need. Haji is like a camel – he can go without water for days. He is ready for when there is no water, and that time will come because this is desert.
The whites of the young men’s eyes and teeth flash in their sun-ripened faces as they laugh and make plans for their destiny. They’re excited to make war – they see it as an opportunity to earn glory. For Haji, war is an everyday necessity, like water is for them. In war there is no retirement, only death. You live war – you die war. No exceptions. Haji watches the blossoming youth, his hooded eyes narrowed as if he is dazzled by them. Their beards are black, his is laced with dusty grey – the colour of the desert sand. He has sand embedded in the pores of his skin. Back home, in Afghanistan, his brothers used to say Haji was made of sand, for he could disappear into it without a trace. He is even better at it now that he is sixty years of age, grey and musty – an invisible old man.
He tries to catch up on some sleep while his young comrades boast and joke, and issue bloody threats to Assad and the West as the convoy heads for the Iraqi border. What border, Ismail asks cockily, there are no borders. Show me the border, he shouts and waves his machine gun. The boy is twenty-five at the most, and he sounds the same as those British soldiers that Haji has come across in Helmand Province. Others call him Geordie-Is, and that is supposed to account for his accent. Something to do with where he comes from, not that it makes any difference here except when Geordie-Is gets to appear in a video to send a message – loud and clear – to the Infidels. He loves that. He can talk for Asia, and he takes credit for everything. He’s their PR man. Haji prefers to do his job and disappear into the sand. Loud talk isn’t his way, but to everyone his own...
He is dozing off, his chin bouncing on his chest as the jeep jerks and turns on the windy dirt road. His young comrades’ voices blend with the hum of the engine. Some of them follow Haji’s lead, go quiet and nod off. Like water, sleep is a rare commodity so you’re well advised to get it whenever you can.
Without a warning, Haji is thrown off the vehicle and the day turns to night in the thick black capsule of smoke and dust. He didn’t hear it coming – he didn’t sense it. It was one of those surreptitious drones that hit one of the jeeps in the convoy. The vehicle caught fire, which spread to the others, piled up on top of one another. Haji should consider himself lucky to have been catapulted out of the jeep and to remain alive; others have been crushed inside or torn to shreds on impact. A few bodies have been tossed up in the air and are scattered around. Haji knows they’re dead because they lie limp, awkward and bloodied, and aren’t wailing in pain, which they would be doing if they were alive.
He can’t see much in the black smoke but he hears something – a plaintive voice of a boy, pleading for help, in English. It must belong to Geordie-Is. Haji strains his eyes to discover the young man suspended between the burning jeep and the sandy floor at a strange angle, as if his body is pouring out of the vehicle, flaccid and covered in blood. The extremities are just charred stumps, but Geordie-Is is alive. Haji pulls himself up to his feet, but his left foot can’t take his weight – it must be broken or the ankle is twisted. Haji can only limp slowly towards Geordie-Is, which again is lucky because the jeep’s petrol tank explodes. A heatwave hits Haji in the face, and he flies back...
His brain leaps back too – back in time, back to the freezing December night of 1979. Haji doesn’t want to go there but he has no say in the matter – his brain is fractured and does its own thing. It throws up unwanted memories, and they fit in with the chaos of exploding petrol tanks and flying body parts.
Chaos. Confusion. Betrayal. Annihilation.
President Amin assures them the Soviets are here to help. Only a few hours ago they came for lunch, ate his food, accepted his hospitality. They are his guests. Yes, they have rolled in with heavy artillery and tanks, but the barrels of their tanks are pointed at the rebels – the enemies of the State. Haji believes the President’s every word. He has every reason to. The Russians are friends – comrades; they can be trusted. Haji knows that – he’s married to one of them. She is the light of his every day. Svetlana.
It is the revolt that has forced the President to hole up in this fortress and bring the Soviets to keep guard. The Shia elderly are stirring trouble, mobilising Mujahedin to take up arms. They stand no chance: Tajbek is a fortress manned with well-trained personnel and the Soviet army guarding it on the outside. The revolt will subside. Sooner rather than later, Haji hopes. He’d rather be with Svetlana.
The night is damned cold. He’s manning a machine gun, but his fingers are numb and would struggle with pulling the trigger. It won’t come to it. It will all blow over. He cups his hands and exhales warm air at them. The moisture in his breath turns into white mist. All is quiet until a mine goes off in the distance. They have mined the access road to the palace – the enemy is on the move. They wouldn’t dare unless they have a death wish. An outburst of gun shots contradicts him. It is a full blown offensive. His duty is to protect the President.
Chaos. Confusion. Betrayal. Annihilation.
Fighting outside. Shots fired. Series of shots. Explosions. It could be the mines. It could be the tanks firing.
The Mujahedin must have overcome the first line of defences. Sharp, staccato sounds grow in volume. Screams – starting abruptly and stopping even more suddenly. Footsteps, heavy boots, shots. Afghani soldiers from below are retreating to where Haji is stationed. And further beyond – they are running away.
Chaos. Confusion. Betrayal. Annihilation.
Haji hesitates. He can’t use his machine gun because of the retreating soldiers. He would be killing his own. He waits until the last of them – or so he hopes – stumbles by. He sees beams of white light crossing on the stairwell below, and he hears voices. His finger tightens on the trigger. His comrades on both sides are equally ready in position to receive the rebels with a firewall.
There are fewer shots now and more voices. He is beginning to recognise them. They aren’t Mujahedin – they are Russians! He can tell by the swearing. The curses that fly around in Russian are of the highest order. Haji exhales and loosens his finger from the trigger of his machine gun. The Russians are coming. They must have dealt with the rebels. He is almost smiling when he finally sees the first helmet with a red star wobble over the entrance. The Russian points his gun and shoots, aiming neatly at the man to Haji’s right. Haji drops to the floor and watches as the Soviets pour in, swearing and cursing in Russian to tell their own from the Afghans whom they are killing indiscriminately.
Chaos. Confusion. Betrayal. Annihilation.
Haji knows he is doomed. All of the other men from the Presidential Guard are dead without one shot being fired from their side. He picks up an abandone
d gun from the floor and joins the Soviets, shooting into the darkness, storming room after room, swearing heavily in Russian as well as they do. But his unruly tears argue with his actions – Haji is weeping for his fallen comrades as he tramples over their bodies. He must get out of this graveyard before it swallows him.
II
The Winterbournes’ flat is a miniature African dollhouse. It is brimming with artefacts: a leopard skin serves as a rug, primitive art made of straw and bamboo sticks adorns the walls, carvings of triumphant elephants with raised trunks are lined up on the windowsill, a native Zulu spear has been propped against a narrow, long shield, and photographs – dozens of framed photographs – occupy every inch of available space. The photographs belong to a different place and a different era, somewhere far away from Bath – somewhere in the heartland of Zimbabwe. There stands a colonial-style farmhouse wrapped in wide verandas, sprawled comfortably in splendid isolation from the civilised world, basking in the hot African sun. And there are its occupants, a family of four: a father leaning on a rifle, a mother raising a toast with a glass of what looks like cloudy lemonade, a barefoot teenage daughter in a straw hat, and a ruddy-faced son grinning proudly next to his Yamaha motorcycle. Only two of those four are in the room: the father and the mother, and they are hardly recognisable. Time, and something else – something with more bite to it than time – has taken its toll on them. The father, Harald, has lost his rifle, most of his hair, and the brazen spark in his eye. The mother, Pippa, looks a shadow of her former self, bereft of her curves, the glass of sugary lemonade missing from her hand, the tinge of copper-red washed away from her hair.
‘Read it to me, Harry,’ Pippa implores her husband, the sheet of paper shaking in her hand. She is sunken in her chair, curled up and hunched; only her trembling hand – with the letter – dares to reach out of her cocoon.
‘You read it, Pippa. We’ve read it together at least ten times now.’ It isn’t a complaint. Harald wouldn’t dream of being short with her, but she knows the letter by heart. She knows what it says – she just can’t believe it.
‘Read it again, will you? Maybe we missed something. I want to hear it. Sometimes you see what you want to see, not what’s really there. It’s different when someone else reads it to you, and you just listen. I’ll close my eyes and just listen.’
Harald sighs, but only imperceptibly. He doesn’t want her to feel silly. Truth is, he too wants to read the letter over and over again to reassure himself that his mind isn’t deceiving him. When they read the letter for the first time, their minds froze, like a fuse in a defective circuit, protecting it against a sudden surge of electric current. They read the letter and looked at each other, numb and disbelieving. Only when they read it again did Pippa clap her hands and Harald take her in his arms, even managing to lift her from the floor – despite his bad back – and sweep her through the air. She was as light as a feather.
‘Let me down!’ she laughed. ‘You’ll break your back, you daft oaf!’ They sat down, put their two grey heads together, and read the letter, first silently, each at a different speed, he waiting for her to finish before they read it again, out loud.
‘Are you sure it’s from Will?’ she asked.
‘Who else?’ he said. ‘It’s his name at the bottom.’ Her face crumpled in supplication.
‘It’s not a prank, then? Tell me!’
He shook his head. ‘No, it isn’t.’
Her eyes are closed, her face thrust up as if she has poised herself for sunbathing. The skin on her face is smooth. When was the last time he kissed her? ‘Are you reading it yet?’ she wants to know, without opening her eyes.
‘I am.’ He puts his glasses on, smoothes the lined paper out on the table, and inhales.
‘Dear Ma and Dad,’ Harald can hear Will say those two primary words, Ma and Dad – like the primary colours from which all other colours can be made – as he used to say them before his voice broke, a sweet, chiming voice. Harald’s voice on the other hand is weak and shaky; it falters.
‘Go on, Harry,’ Pippa urges him.
‘I got your address from Auntie Rose in Port Elizabeth. Don’t blame her for not telling you we were in touch – I made her promise. I wanted to contact you directly when I was ready. Sorry it’s been a while. I had to deal with it my way. I can’t say I’ve been successful – not entirely, but let’s not talk about that. Maybe one day. I know we’ll have to.
Auntie Rose tells me you’re both well, living in a nice part of England. She tells me you took us there when we were young, but in all honesty I can’t say I remember any of it. I would like to remember but I may have been too young, so it’s all gone. There are plenty of things I’d rather not remember, but I do. It’s never the way you’d like it to be, at least not for me.
I live in Sydney, as you may have gathered from my address on the envelope. At first I moved a lot from place to place, never settling down -1 guess I didn’t want to get used to anything or anybody. I found work in hotels, started at the bottom. I’m now Front Office Manager – would you ever think that that’s where I would wind up? Wearing a suit and a name tag? Not me. I always thought I’d run a tobacco farm. Remember?
Anyhow, drop me a line if you like. Love – ’
‘Your son, Will,’ Pippa says the last line of the letter together with Harald. They are smiling at each other, tentatively and silently, because they don’t want to snap out of this moment.
Ahmed takes off his soaked hoodie and hangs it on the hook by the front door. His trousers are wet too – it isn’t just the rain, but also the wind that rages in near-horizontal blasts, chucking water at him by the bucket-load. It wasn’t such a good idea to cycle to lectures this morning. Malik took a day off and stayed at home.
‘Bloody weather,’ Ahmed murmurs under his breath. Their basement flat is damp, cold, and crawling with woodlice. The central heating is on but it’s no defence against the wind blowing through the gaps in the flimsy windows. They aren’t double-glazed because the building is listed, so everything has to be the way it was two hundred years ago when the damned thing was first built.
‘Tea?’ Ahmed shouts towards the lounge where Malik is crouched in front of the computer screen. Without waiting for Malik’s response, which he knows isn’t forthcoming any time soon, Ahmed puts the kettle on and drops teabags into the mugs. Both mugs are dirty but so is every other dish and utensil in the kitchen – Malik hasn’t done any washing up, though it is his day. They have to have a chat about this, Ahmed makes a mental note, the place is a pigsty. Once the note is made, he puts it out of his mind. Ahmed shies away from confrontations with Malik – they inevitably lead to more obstinate derelictions of duty on Malik’s part.
Armed with the two teas, Ahmed heads for the lounge.
‘Thanks, matey,’ Malik cups his hands around the hot mug. ‘I think I’m coming down with something nasty,’ he informs Ahmed in his thick Geordie accent. He doesn’t look his best, that much is obvious. Dark rings under his eyes have deepened of late and the beard he’s been cultivating in the last nine months makes his face look rough and hollow. He yawns and stretches his neck. ‘This bloody damp will be the end of me.’ Another yawn. Ahmed has to bite his tongue – no use pointing out to Malik that all those long nights in front of the computer without seeing the light of day would run anyone into the ground. Malik is not a baby. He knows what’s bad for him and he chooses to go with it anyway.
‘Bumped into Pippa and Harry on the doorstep just as I was coming in. They were going out to celebrate.’
‘In this weather?’
‘I know. They don’t go out when the sun’s shining, but there they were, umbrella in hand, heading for Terry’s tearooms,’ Ahmed chuckles. ‘I told Harry to forget the umbrella – it’s blowing gales. Told them it wasn’t a good idea to go out in this weather, but there was no stopping the pair of them. Off they went!’
‘What’s the celebration all about?’
‘They got a letter from th
eir son in Australia.’
‘I thought both their kids were dead.’
‘So did I, but it wasn’t my place to remind them of that. We must’ve misunderstood. You don’t see their kids visit them, but that doesn’t mean they’re dead.’
‘It’s not that. I’m sure Harry mentioned once... the urn on the mantelpiece – isn’t that where they keep their kids’ ashes?’
‘That’s the soil from their farm.’
‘Both, I think – the ashes and the soil.’
‘Wasn’t it all ashes in the end?’ One thing Ahmed is sure of is that Harry and Pippa’s tobacco farm was burned to the ground. Sixteen years ago, because that’s when they say they came to Britain.
‘Maybe. Poor sods. I can’t help feeling sorry for them – they’re like the walking dead...’
‘Well, you don’t have to, not anymore. They’re different people now – joy to the world and all that lark... Invited us for Sunday lunch!’
‘Cool! We’ll have to get a bottle of wine, or something.’
‘Pippa likes her flowers -’
Malik cuts him short, putting his finger to his lips to shut him up and waving his hand to signal him to sit down. He turns up the volume on the so far mute television set. They are both gawping at a photograph of a young Asian man posing in front of a black flag, producing a V-sign and a wide smile. Behind the image, Fiona Bruce’s deep and considerate voice informs them that the man, Ismail Najafi, a British national, is believed to have been killed in a targeted drone strike by the Americans. He fled to fight in Syria over a year ago. His identity has been established via a complex and painstaking voice recognition and facial reconstruction process. The man’s most gruesome ISIS propaganda videos featuring decapitations and torture have been used in that process. His family in Newcastle are devastated. They had been calling upon him to give up fighting and return home, but their pleas fell on deaf ears. They are not ready to give interviews and have asked for their privacy to be respected, but issued a statement begging for the cycle of violence to end now – their son’s death is not to be avenged...