by Anna Legat
Gillian’s eyes travel to the couple at the far end of the table. She instantly knows who they may be. ‘Mr and Mrs Outhwaite?’ she ventures an educated guess. It doesn’t take a genius to work out the red-headed man with a long face, both physically and metaphorically, is Charlie’s close blood relation. The woman looks nothing like her son – assuming she is Charlie’s mother. She sports a smooth complexion, wide jawline and deep chestnut-coloured hair, but that’s just Nice ‘n‘ Easy. Her face is bland and open, her eyes pale – too bland and too pale for her dark hair. She is wearing a scarf wrapped in multiple layers around her neck, swallowing it whole, so that it seems that her face sprouts straight out of her torso.
‘Call me Theresa,’ she waves from her distant seat. ‘You must be Tara’s mum. We’ve heard a lot about you.’
Gillian manages a faint smile and looks pointedly at her daughter.
‘They didn’t hear it from me,’ Tara shrugs, a spark of mischief in her eye. ‘Talk to Charlie.’
‘We’ve heard lots of good things, too,’ Charlie’s father attempts to save the day with this lame diplomacy. Charlie grins stupidly.
‘Gill, is that right?’ Theresa wants to know. Gillian hates this abridged version of her name, but she nods. ‘Yes, Gill... Gillian, but you can call me – Well, call me Gillian, actually.’
‘Jerry, Jerry Outhwaite. Nice to meet you at long last.’ The forlorn, unsmiling expression on the man’s face contradicts his words.
‘You too. Glad you could make it...’ Since nobody means what they say, Gillian lies, too. What she really wants is for all these people to go away. It’s one thing to have Charlie in unlawful occupation of her house – quite another to throw his entire family into the mix. This borders on an invasion!
‘And this is Rhys’s mum – Lorna.’ Tara points vaguely towards a slim blonde woman lurking over Rhys’s shoulder. What she is doing here is beyond Gillian’s powers of deduction. She smiles at her nevertheless, and the woman – Lorna – smiles back, looking painfully uncomfortable. She must be wondering herself what the hell she’s doing here in this woman’s house, sitting at her table with a bunch of total strangers. The gathering of disconcerted individuals was beginning to resemble one of those assemblies of suspects in an Agatha Christie novel, just as Hercule Poirot is about to unmask the real killer. Gillian puts on a brave face and takes her seat. She knows she is innocent and yet she is anxious. What the hell is going on?
An all-pervading silence follows after the initial ritual of greetings and salutations. The suspects eye each other warily, each pondering the others’ potential sins. Polite smiles are quivering on their lips. Gillian has no other wish than for all these people to go away. Something brushes by her leg under the table. She looks down. It’s Fritz. He doesn’t seem to have any answers either – he remains silent. Not a single yodel. Poor thing, must be in shock.
‘We may as well get on with the main course,’ Tara says, glaring resentfully at her mother. ‘It isn’t quite how we planned it, but we can’t overcook the fish. Everything else will have to wait.’
‘White wine for you, Gillian?’ Charlie attempts to disarm the animosity hanging in the air. Gillian thanks him most profusely, even though she doesn’t drink white wine, not even with fish, and even though she has been at the red for the first part of the evening and is bound to end up with a nasty hangover tomorrow morning for all that mixing.
The food is served by Sasha and Tara. Gillian tucks in. How does steak and kidney pie go with sea bass? She should find out soon enough...
‘This fish is delicious,’ Grace enthuses. ‘I’m not a fish person, but this is... it’s epic!’ The word sits oddly on her lips, not quite age-appropriate, like a pair of jeans two sizes too small. ‘I didn’t know you girls could cook! I bet it was Tara!’
‘We made it together, Mum. Charlie brought the recipe.’
‘It’s my gran’s recipe,’ Charlie says. ‘When I told her the occasion she said only the best would do. Best cook in the world, my gran!’
‘So what is the occasion?’ Gillian is glad Grace asked the question. It proves that Gillian isn’t the only one at the table who hasn’t got a clue what’s going on.
‘Our engagement!’ Sasha says. ‘Double-engagement: me and Rhys, Tara and Charlie. We’re having a surprise engagement party, ta-da!’ She throws her arms up in the air and assumes a gold-medallist’s pose.
‘Bloody hell, you can’t possibly mean it!’ It isn’t the most appropriate reaction to the announcement, but it is too late when Gillian realises that – she’s already said it.
‘That’s my mum for you!’ Tara declares, her left eyebrow elevated with sarcasm.
‘Congratulations are in order?’ Theresa looks like she’s bitten into a lemon. Jerry is still looking morose – no change there. Grace starts to cry and asks her husband if he has a handkerchief. He doesn’t. Lorna has temporarily vanished behind her son. Has she fallen off her chair? It is at this point that Fritz gives out a harrowing yodel and shoots from under the table. Someone must have stepped on him.
‘Is the cat all right?’ asks Nathaniel Garland.
‘You’re too young,’ Gillian persists with her hostilities. ‘You don’t know what you’re doing. You have uni and... All of you need to think it through -’
‘Mum,’ Tara has fixed her with a stern gaze, ‘just stop there. Don’t say another word.’
IV
The vessel is called Afzal3. It’s a small fishing boat cracked open by rust. In places the rust has cut through metal like acid and created burned out holes of various shapes and sizes. The bigger of them have been patched up with whatever unlikely materials could be found prior to their departure. The salty Mediterranean water has been seeping through those holes since the day the boat left the Libyan coast. Every morning the passengers wake up to more and more water. At the start of the voyage it was just the wet floor under their feet, now the level has risen to above their ankles. It is even higher at the stern and, because of that, the boat’s tail is sinking and dragging them down. The boat is losing speed.
People from the back are pushing towards the bow. If the boat was packed to the brim at the start of this voyage, it was nothing compared to the conditions now. Standing room only. You can sit if you pull your knees high up to your chin. The stench of human sweat and excrement is suffocating. People are moaning, but feebly – they have no strength left to make noise. Even babies have stopped crying. They just whimper. Nothing brings relief. There is nothing on-board to offer hope. Hope lies beyond the horizon. They are trying to get there fast, before water runs out. But since they are slowed down by the weighty stern, water rations have been cut to less than a bare minimum. Haji can live on that – he is a desert camel after all – but others are dying. The Italian shore must come soon, but so far there is nothing in sight but the empty, flat horizon. It is like they are already dead.
Haji is staring out into the sea. With the night approaching, the sea has lost its colour. It is just a darkening grey, like a rapidly fading monochrome photograph. The merciless sun has dipped behind the horizon, taking the heat with it. It may be colder but that doesn’t help with the thirst. He can feel Boy’s eyes on him: large, round eyes of a child. As the boy is losing weight, his eyes seem to be growing. He is about six or seven, the oldest child in that family. Haji doesn’t know where they’re from or where exactly they’re going – you don’t ask questions you wouldn’t like to be answering yourself. They are North Africans and are heading for Europe. Some things go without saying. There are five of them: the parents and three children, Boy and his two younger siblings. One, about four, is a girl. She is slumped in her father’s lap, her head flopped onto his chest. Her eyes are closed, her mouth gaping open, her bloated lips cracked and drained of colour. She’s been sleeping a lot without waking. Maybe it is a blessing, maybe it’s some kind of a coma. The other child is just a baby. It is nestling in a shawl tied around the mother – you can only see the top of its head, th
e black twirls of hair. She – the mother – hasn’t fed it in the last twenty-four hours. Her milk must’ve dried up. She’s asleep too. The whole family are hunched and curled into each other, their heads dropped to their chests. Only Boy stays wide awake; those large, round eyes fixed on Haji. He must be finding Haji fascinating. With his wide Asiatic cheekbones, his comparatively light skin and heavily hooded eyes, Haji is a curiosity. He definitely isn’t the typical African man Boy is accustomed to.
The sun is gone; darkness is upon them. It has shrouded their misery and muffled those few plaintive cries some people still have the strength to utter. Haji returns Boy’s attention, nods to him and points to the sky above them. It is punctured with stars, many distant stars, calm and indifferent, but beautiful. Haji hopes Boy will see their beauty. He does – he has lifted his head and is gazing at the sky. So is Haji. Stars bring peace upon him.
On the night the Russians took Tajbek there were no stars. He saw no stars. Most of his comrades from the Presidential Guard were dead. As he was running alongside the Russian soldiers, the air blue with curses, he tripped over many bodies. Once, he fell – his face levelled momentarily with Ismail’s face. His eyes were open but unseeing. A bullet hole was stamped on his head – right in the middle. It had taken a skilful marksman to make that hole. Haji got to his feet and ran, then, as he got to the gate, he started crawling. Each time he heard voices he would freeze and play dead. He crawled and didn’t dare to get up to his feet for so long that the fabric on his sleeves and trouser legs wore off and his knees and elbows bled. When he finally made it to the microrayon, he stood and looked up, and saw no stars.
Svetlana hadn’t fled with the other Russians – she was waiting for him to come home. She ran into his arms and kissed him all over, gibbering so fast in Russian that he couldn’t make it out. His blood – and perhaps the blood of his dead comrades – stained her dress and her skin. ‘I didn’t believe you were dead, Haji... I didn’t believe them,’ she whispered, her hot breath on his frozen face. He can feel the warmth of her breath on his face to this day. He can feel her plump lips melting his. He can feel her lips on his eyelids and in his hair.
‘We must go! Take only the basics, and we must run,’ he told her, and he didn’t have to explain any further. She knew too: they would be after him, he survived the mutiny, he was a witness. They couldn’t afford to leave any witnesses behind. He was a marked man.
She washed and dressed his scuffed knees and elbows, put him in civilian clothes: a shirt and a long Afghan robe, a headdress the tying of which he had to help her with – her hands were shaking, and she was weeping like an old woman. She then covered her short fair hair with a veil, and they left under cover of night, heading for Haji’s kishlak in the easternmost part of the Pandsher Valley...
There is shouting on the boat. Commotion. Men and women, encouraged by each other, stronger en masse, pushed against the wall, are demanding water. Haji doesn’t know what started the riot. It could’ve been that more people had pushed up from the stern, escaping the flooding. They were being squashed and have grown desperate. Despair breeds defiance.
Two of the smugglers come down to deal with the situation, both armed. They brandish their weapons in a display of might. Haji sighs. They are deluding themselves if they think they have the monopoly on killing. Despite their guns and their theatrics, Haji reads fear in their faces. People are screaming, waving their fists.
‘No water! No water left!’ The older one of the smugglers presents his empty hands in a gesture of helplessness. He turns and points towards the dark horizon. ‘Italia! Wait! Italia close! Europa!’ The sun rising in front of him hits the metal of his automatic pistol. It shines in Haji’s eyes. People aren’t listening or they don’t believe the smuggler’s assurances. The shouting intensifies and, when that happens, children begin to cry. It’s mayhem. Some passengers have risen to their feet and are approaching their minders, fearless and furious. Demanding water. Pleading for water. The younger of the two smugglers loses his footing and slips. He is angry for his humiliation and to cover up for it he grabs a shabby man closest to him and pushes him down towards the stern. The shabby man falls to his knees, splashing water around him. Another person is thrust on top of him. And another one. The smuggler is throwing people across the deck into the flooded stern. ‘You want water?’ he yells, his voice high with irritation. ‘You got water – down there!’ He kicks another person – it’s a woman. Her companion hurls himself at the assailant, but the older smuggler reaches for his pistol and shoots the man.
Silence.
Dead silence. And then the widowed woman starts wailing and scrambles towards her husband’s body. Others join her and the boat begins to sink.
It was inevitable.
Large bubbles, swollen with air, boil over – the stern submerges within seconds. Everyone presses to the bow, but it’s no good. The bow is going to go, too. Someone, the skipper, rushes out of the cabin and sends a flare into the sky. It explodes, red illuminations in the grey morning sky.
People are jumping off the boat before its mass drags them into the depths. The family of five – Haji’s neighbours – are in disarray. The father and Boy have dived in, the father with the four-year-old girl in his arms. The mother and the baby just fell into the sea, and gave in to it without a fight. They went down like a smashed block of concrete. Boy is splashing haplessly, screaming, choking on water. Haji realises Boy cannot swim. He dives in and searches for him in the whirlpool of sinking bodies; his fingers meet Boy’s arm, and they claw at it. He pushes him up towards the light of the rising sun.
It is a matter of seconds for the boat to vanish from sight and a matter of half an hour before the sea swarming with people becomes calm and still. Haji and Boy are treading water, waiting for a miracle. Haji isn’t one to let go and he is right not to – he hears a distant buzz of a helicopter. He recognises it instantly. He knows the slashing of the air with the rotating blades. He points to Boy, ‘Rescue,’ he says. ‘Wave arms!’
They both wave them, and they shout.
The helicopter pauses over their heads. Water ripples around them, unsettling Boy. Haji has to grab hold of him again. A harness on a rope is being lowered from the helicopter and when it hits the surface it is dragged along it, close enough for Haji to get hold of it. He fastens it under Boy’s arms and watches him being lifted to safety. Then he dives between the waves, and swims away. The land – Italy – cannot be too far. He knows helicopters can’t fly far and he can see the outline of the coast. And even if he doesn’t make it to the shore, he’d rather die free than be captured.
V
It is Oscar’s purgatory. He can’t escape it and he no longer tries. He has to cover the distance again, do the excruciating five-hour advance up Mount Langdon. He will be doing it until the Judgment Day, and then – who knows? Will that be the end of it? He is praying for it to end, like he did on that day.
That day, as they embarked on the ascent, he thought he’d rather be up there on the summit, face to face with the enemy, in hand-to-hand combat – get the job done and go home to Heather. It was the plants underfoot that made him think of his young wife back home. Wet heather and gorse.
He has to do it again; he knows there is no escaping it. Huge white boulders provide little shelter from the punishing wind. It is cutting horizontally and drives freezing rain into his face, and into the faces of his men. The temperature has fallen below minus 35. The visibility is limited not only because it is night-time but also because of the weather conditions. That is a big problem: they are sitting ducks. The Argentines could be hiding behind those boulders. They could be in gaps and crags, waiting for him and his men. He is straining his eyes to look into those crags and to spy out the enemy. His heart is pounding with the effort, and with the sheer fucking fear of the invisible bastards hiding somewhere there. And they are there, waiting, holding their nerve. Lieutenant Oscar Arthur Holt is holding his nerve, too. But his heart is pounding in his rib
cage like a fucking four-pound sledgehammer. No-one can hear it because of the blistering naval bombardment from HMS Avenger. It is to soften up the Argentines, but in the end it isn’t just the Argentines who go weak in their knees. Everyone does, including Oscar. The shellfire is fucking relentless. Missiles are whistling over their heads, aiming for the crags up high, hitting hard rocks and ricocheting at random angles. He should know his men are safe but knowing is not the same as believing. Under the heavy artillery barrage the whole mountain erupts in flames, and he is taking his men directly into that inferno.
He doesn’t want to go there – he knows what awaits him and that he must avoid it at any cost, he’s been there so many fucking times, over and over again the same upward path into the heart of Purgatory, but his legs do their job of taking him there. Despite the cold wind and lashing rain. Despite the exhausting trek. Despite the bombs and the fires. Despite the horror that awaits him there.
When his paras are too close for comfort to the Argentine positions, the artillery offensive stops. The silence that follows is deafening. After listening to the barrage of shellfire, you can’t hear a thing. And you can’t see a thing – the night takes over. The night becomes a friend – it offers cover. He looks at the men around him: hunched, some weighed down by the heavy night-vision or radio equipment, treading stealthily in silence. Upwards. Sergeant Butler and Corporal Walsh have attached bayonets to their rifles. He can see their faces only because they are the two men closest to him. They are already drained of blood, white as ghosts. Already. He wants to tell them to stop and retreat. He knows what awaits up there, and he doesn’t want to go any further. But this is his purgatory. He isn’t really in charge. He is only pretending to be to keep the morale up.