Sandman

by Anna Legat

  The only difference was the omnipotent weapons. Almost every male guest carried one, mainly machine guns, but also smaller pistols. Guns had become a way of life, so when some of them were discharged into the sky for a salute to the bride and groom, no one batted an eyelid. It was a celebration – exuberant, bubbly rat-tat-tat of machine guns drumming for joy. They flared in the night sky like fireworks.

  The planes arrived within seconds. It was as if they were hidden nearby, waiting for an excuse to strike. There was no prior warning. Bombs rained on the kishlak for a few seconds, which seemed like an eternity. Though people ran, there was no escape. Splinters of homes, appliances and body parts flew in the air. And on it went, just as Haji thought that it could go no longer, that there was nothing left to destroy. After that it was just the ground and the rubble spewed onto it that was battered some more and bombed for good measure, in case there was a grain of resistance buried in it.

  When it was over and only silence was left to drill into his brain, he crawled out from a collapsed well where he had been weathering the carnage. Like after the defeat at Tajbek Palace, he dared not stand up and walk; he shuffled instead, on his knees and elbows, searching for survivors. Anoosha, his little sister, the golden bride, was lying, half buried in the rubble, half bathed in her own blood. Her skin was still warm when he closed her eyes and stroked her cheek.

  The soldiers came at dawn: two armed vehicles and no ambulance. They knew there was no point in bringing medics. Medics were a commodity reserved for the Allied Forces, not the natives. Not to mention that they didn’t expect to find any survivors. They were quite surprised to discover Haji hunched over his dead sister’s body – stiff and cold by then.

  He asked why; it was just a wedding... no Taliban here, only his little sister in her wedding robes... he wasn’t making sense.

  The American officer was at pains to explain. He didn’t even look at Haji, but over his shoulder, into the dusty horizon. A big man he towered over Haji, his legs wide apart, arms folded on his chest, while Haji pulled himself up to his feet to identify himself and to stand to attention as a good soldier should. Once again, Haji was an inconvenient witness. Once again, he would be better off dead. And he was asking questions. Damned Haji!

  ‘It’s a war! Collateral damage, tragic as it is,’ the officer closed the dialogue. He had wasted enough time talking to this inconsequential individual. It was a war.

  Haji understood. He knew war better than anyone, better than the American officer, better than any Westerner. It was time to take that war to them. And it was down to Haji to give them a taste of collateral damage.

  Despite the unexpected demolition of the Jungle, where Haji was to find Ferryman, he has no difficulty establishing contact with him in Calais. They have been expecting him to get in touch electronically, through the emergency channels. From then on it is business as usual. Ferryman appears to be a fully Westernised individual, though he says he is from Algeria. His reasons for helping Haji bring war to the West remain obscure throughout the duration of their Channel crossing. He talks mainly about his love of sailing and food. He also loves music. He shows Haji how to do the Moonwalk like Michael Jackson while they’re listening to the album called Thriller and eating couscous with lamb.

  The cutter is a single-mast boat, sleek and fast, and very luxurious. It bears no comparison with the glorified dinghy that brought Haji to Italy. Haji is the only passenger. No more refugees, no Boys with big, curious eyes that are willing to scan the night sky with Haji. No mothers with half-dead babies cuddling up to their barren breasts. Things are changing for the better the closer Haji gets to the UK. Now, it is just him, Ferryman, and Michael Jackson, travelling in style.

  To stay under the radar and evade the ever more vigilant coastguards, they are planning to land in Cornwall.

  ‘There are old smuggling routes through Cornwall, going back like hundreds of years,’ Ferryman shares his historical knowledge with Haji. ‘That’s the best chance we have of sneaking in unnoticed.’

  XVI

  Tara and Charlie are sitting on the sofa, holding hands. Gillian sits there too, but no-one’s holding her hand. The sofa is the centrepiece of her parents’ reception room, as they call it. Soft and comfortable, it is meant for guests, its only purpose being to make people want to stay. Gillian’s mother has baked a cake, lemon drizzle because it is Tara’s favourite. Time stands still in this house; there never is much rush.

  ‘How big a piece do you want?’ Mother asks Tara, suggesting with her knife a decent slice.

  Tara nods. ‘I am a pig, aren’t I? But I love your lemon drizzle, Gran!’

  ‘Who doesn’t?’ Father chimes in. ‘I married your gran for her lemon drizzle!’

  ‘I must get that recipe off you,’ Gillian remembers.

  ‘Whenever would you have the time to bake cakes!’ Father laughs. ‘Just come over here – that’s your best bet at getting a slice.’

  ‘I might yet surprise you. I’m thinking of quitting the Force and baking cakes.’ Gillian says it matter-of-factly. She expects a shocked reaction, but to her surprise, everyone takes her announcement in their stride.

  Tara says, ‘I’ll believe it when I see it.’

  ‘Your mum has always been a bit of a hot-head. You never know... Once she gets something into that head of hers...’

  ‘It’d be nice, though.’

  Gillian is pleased to hear that: it’d be nice though... It means she is still considered viable mother material. And one day, a grandmother. ‘I could look after my grandchildren – for a fee, of course.’

  Charlie chokes on his tea. Tara laughs. Father says, ‘That’ll be our job, your mother’s and mine.’

  ‘When it comes to it.’

  ‘I’ll be onto it, then,’ Charlie recovers from his bout of coughs. Gillian is sure that will make her parents blush, but they chuckle approvingly. Mother offers Charlie more cake for stamina.

  When she stops laughing, Tara waves her arms, ‘Calm down everyone! One thing at a time. We need to get married first!’

  On the doorstep, Gillian’s parents hug Tara and Charlie. The boy is already a family member, adoption papers and all. Gillian wishes she could be as natural and easy going with him as they are. She truly wants him to feel welcome in her life, despite their original stand-off. Wanting it is a start. She, too, gets a kiss from her mother and a bear hug from her father. It isn’t often that she does – it’s her own fault, really. She usually just flies in and out of their house, giving them no opportunity to as much as get up and walk her to the front door. Life can be so sweet when you slow down and let yourself watch it unfold. Living on the go is only half the fun, like having your cake without eating it. She could get used to it. The life of leisure has its advantages. This stroll in Sexton’s Wood is one of them. It’s a chilly morning; frost has bitten into the undergrowth good and solid. The autumnal colours of the wood are misted by the frost. Mud is frozen into foot and tyre prints. With her hands in the pockets of her jacket, Gillian is treading deeper and deeper into the forest. She kicks leaves and they are briefly airborne, and then they float to the ground in a sweeping motion. Corky tries to catch them; manages to get a mouthful of them and spits them out fussily. He jumps onto his front paws – he looks comical, and maybe he means to. He is inviting her to play. Her mind is free of inventorising, free of thought. It’s a liberating feeling. She could get used to it. The idea of returning to work fills her with dread. She clenches her stomach and suppresses the trepidation inside it. She can always give her notice, and walk away. She will.

  She climbs the steep slope where the trees lean close to the ground as if they are hanging onto it for dear life. As she reaches the south facing ledge that overlooks the farmlands below, she comes across a bench. It wasn’t there when Gillian was a child; when she used to come here with her father. Corky gives out a snap of a bark – a woman is sitting on the bench, scanning the view. She turns rapidly – an involuntary reaction to the dog’s
bark. It’s the woman from the homeless colony, Isabella Butler – Izzie.

  She eyes Gillian with suspicion, almost hostility. ‘What now?’ she snaps.

  ‘Nothing,’ Gillian shrugs her shoulders. ‘Mind if I sit with you? There aren’t any other seats around.’

  ‘If you must.’ Izzie reciprocates the shrug.

  Gillian sits next to her, while Corky starts running circles around them.

  ‘Your dog, I take it.’

  ‘Friend’s... Mine, really,’ Gillian reflects. By the time Sean is out, Corky will be dead. He is her dog now.

  ‘Nice. Always wanted to have a dog.’

  ‘What stopped you?’

  Isabella rounds on her with a stern gaze. ‘Why do you want to know that?’

  ‘Curiosity... Striking a friendly conversation,’ Gillian scowls. She knows that striking a friendly conversation isn’t quite her strength. She is rubbish at it and the woman can be excused for being suspicious of her intentions. ‘Look, I’m not here on police business. I’m just taking a stroll in the wood, taking a dog for a walk...’ She points to Corky.

  ‘OK. Then you don’t need to ask questions.’

  ‘I guess I don’t.’

  They sit in silence for a few minutes, feasting on the view. It is breath-taking: rolling fields, pastures, small patches of hedge here and there, and far in the distance the roofs of the Weston Estate. Fed up with relentless tail-chasing, or perhaps dizzy, Corky settles at Gillian’s feet, panting.

  ‘I used to come here with my father when I was a little girl,’ she tells the woman. It feels awkward – telling her that. Gillian is more in her element asking questions. But her questions are usually intrusive; she has just proven how unwelcome they are. ‘It’s been thirty-odd years since I came here the last time. I must have been eight. My dad and I built a shelter, out of branches and leaves. It was about the same time of year. We built a fire and sat around it, telling each other scary stories.’

  ‘My father died before I was born. The Falklands... How is that for a scary story?’ Isabella gets up from the bench. ‘See you around.’

  ‘You never told me anything about a day out with that boy.I’d have preferred it if you had told me first, before you made any promises. You put me on the spot,’ Heather sounds hurt. She has been sounding hurt for years, and Oscar has learned to side-step her resentments.

  He stops eating and is watching her as she stabs with her fork at the fishcake on her plate. He could put the straight facts to her: that if he had forewarned her, she would have said no; she would’ve cried and thrown tantrums to stop him. Putting her on the spot was part of the plan. Oscar, the cunning military strategist, has put his best foot forward, and now she has no choice but to live with it. And what is there to live with: a day fishing trip with a ten-year-old boy! Get over it! Naturally, Oscar isn’t going to tell her any of that. ‘I wasn’t thinking, sorry, love... but what’s done is done,’ he says – philosophically and non-confrontationally – and gets on with his lunch.

  He has a sneaky suspicion Heather won’t let him get away with it. And she doesn’t. ‘You never think about me. About how it makes me feel! Your constant visits to see that woman! How you ingratiate yourself with her! Do you really think I didn’t notice how you looked at her?’

  Here we go! Oscar has lost his appetite. He has to think on his feet; he can’t let her drag him onto this slippery trajectory. He puts his fork down, accepts Heather’s challenging glare head-on, and says, looking her straight in the eye, without flinching, ‘I’m responsible for her, for both of them. This is how it is, and how it will stay! Cut her some slack, Heather, for God’s sake! She’s lost her husband, lost her daughter, and I am to blame!’

  ‘You think you are, but -’

  ‘I’m not going to debate this with you.’ More and more often, she drives him ballistic. What the hell does she know about anything! Has she ever lost anyone she loved? Has the rug ever been pulled out from under her feet?

  ‘Of course not!’ Her face and neck flush dark-red, as they always do when her blood pressure goes up. ‘I don’t want to talk about it, anyway! I can tell how you look at her. It’s nothing to do with guilt. And that boy... What is he to you? You’re not his family! You’re not his grandfather! Stop acting like one!’

  ‘He doesn’t have any other family. He doesn’t have a grandfather, nor a father. In case you haven’t noticed, I’m the only male figure in that boy’s life.’ He is glad he is able to deflect her attention away from Katie.

  ‘The same male figure you were in Isabella’s life? What good did that do for her? She still ran off; she was still a junkie!’

  She knows how to strike where it really hurts. Bitch!

  ‘I can only but try,’ Oscar says calmly.

  ‘Try? You’ve stopped trying for me years ago! You’re obsessed with that woman. I prohibit you -’

  He won’t have it. He won’t hear it. He puts his arms around her. ‘I don’t have to keep trying with you! I love you, Heather. You are my wife, and I adore you. When will you finally accept that?’

  ‘Oh, I don’t know...’ She hangs her head down, a sign of acquiescence. He can see the skin of her skull through her thinning hair. He thwarts a shudder, and kisses the top of her head.

  ‘I do! I do know, you silly girl!’ But he doesn’t – he doesn’t know when he started telling her all these lies. All he knows is that he wants to see Katie on Saturday, and take Tommy fishing. Heather can go to hell.

  Wanda knows how to make him do things he doesn’t want to do. She has always had him eating from the palm of her hand. And she has succeeded once again: two wretched weeks of absolute silence on her part, and Andrzej is in pieces. He is lost. He has no purpose. He cries at night, pushing his face into the pillow – the pillow that she has left behind, by his side. A reminder of her absence.

  She has not allowed Paulina to speak to her dad, either. He keeps calling, Skyping, sending text messages every day, twice, thrice a day, only to face a wall of silence.

  She has won. This afternoon, after work, after he spoke to Paul and apologised for pushing him from pillar to post in the last few weeks, he gave her what she wanted. He sent her a text: Gave my month’s notice. Be back home for Xmas. For good. X

  She replied instantly, as if she’d been sitting there with her mobile in hand, waiting for this moment, her response pre-typed, only one single button to be pressed: Put on your computer. We’ll Skype you. Now. X

  He throws himself at his laptop. Skype takes for ever to load – sometimes, when you most need it, the reception is shit. He urges the bloody thing to come on, pushes his fist between his teeth, ‘Come on, you bastard!’

  The ethereal sound of the ringtone ripples out, and here they are: his two angels.

  ‘Daddy? Why are you crying?’ Paulina is peering into the screen, having brought her little face right into the camera. It distorts her features, making her eyes bulge, her nose enormous and her lips like a fish-mouth. He sniffles, and laughs, then wipes his nose.

  ‘Crying? Who’s crying?’ Bloody hell, he has to do something about all that crying!

  ‘Mummy says I can make a wish for Christmas! That you will bring me whatever I wish for... Is that true?’

  ‘Would Mummy ever lie to you?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘So it must be true! What is it, then? Shoot!’

  ‘I can’t think of anything,’ her little face looks troubled, ‘but you mustn’t forget to come home, like you did before. You forgot... I didn’t like that... You will remember this year, won’t you?’

  ‘OK.’ Yes, he is crying. He is turning into an old woman. ‘I’ll bring you a little surprise.’

  ‘Or a big surprise. I think I’d prefer a big one.’

  Pippa is a little girl all over again. Age, worries and the tragedies of past years have peeled away from her one by one, and all that’s left is sheer, child-like delight. She is twirling across the room, barefoot, having abandoned her slippers under th
e chair. Will’s letter is pressed to her chest, held tight with both her hands. She is surprisingly light on her feet, considering her age and frailty, and those nasty varicose veins. The hem of her cotton dress is airborne. It nearly catches on the red-hot bars of the electric fire. Harald has to catch her in mid-flight and pull her away from it and into his arms. ‘Come here, missy! You’ll go up in smoke if you aren’t careful! You skirt has almost caught fire!’ He kisses her and feels her heart beat fast. Cuddled between them is the letter – Will’s reply. It is like holding a newborn baby.

  ‘Oh, I still can’t believe it, Harry! He’s coming! He’s coming to us!’ She is drunk on the news. Her eyes shine.

  ‘You’d better believe it. Saturday night he’ll be sat here in this room, having a chat with us. I bet you’ll grill him about everything and anything – every girlfriend, every job he held, every place -’ His voice snaps in half. All the things they have missed. Sixteen years of silence to be filled with words. Still, it won’t be the same...

  Pippa frees herself from his embrace. She can’t stay still. She paces now, rubbing her hands, conniving a plan, ‘You must stop me if I talk too much! Do you promise?’ She doesn’t even look at him or wait for his assurances; she presses on, ‘I’ll wait with the supper... Ah, something he used to love! Remember lamb chops? He used to love his chops! Mint sauce, baby potatoes. Oh, will they have new potatoes at this time of year? Are they in season?’

  ‘The supermarket will have everything, don’t worry.’

  ‘I want to put the dinner on the table the moment he arrives, steaming hot... what time will that be?’

  ‘The train will pull into the station at quarter to nine, precisely,’ he reminds her for an umpteenth time. She will forget in the next few minutes, and will, no doubt, ask him again.