This might be the most Kate has ever heard me speak at any one time since the day we met.
The Forward Operating Base at Sharista, I tell her, was huge – a maze of shipping containers, Humvees and B huts. It was an insanely elaborate ecosystem teeming within a heavily fortified perimeter of Hesco barriers and wire-mesh fencing. My job as an assistant kitchen coordinator at the main DFAC was to oversee a turnover of between five hundred to a thousand covers on any given day. This meant working twelve-hour shifts, six days a week, sometimes seven. It meant rotating crews in a mechanised system that was less about real cooking and more about defrosting, heating, and reheating, about moving shit along a conveyor belt and making sure that the ex-flow of meals and the in-flow of diners aligned, like some sort of celestial eclipse.
There were a few other guys, nearly all ex-servicemen, doing the same thing I was, which was basically shift supervision, but since we were also on rotation there wasn’t much time for hanging out or getting to know each other. The vast majority of the kitchen staff – the preppers, line cooks, servers, cleaners – these were all TCNs, i.e. Filipinos, Nepalese, Bangladeshis, Kenyans, Nigerians, most of them with no English, most of them trafficked in by small recruiting agencies that wouldn’t know a basic wage or welfare regulation if it came up and bit them in the ass.
Now, I was exhausted most of the time, so it took me a while to start paying attention to this stuff and to realise that these people working under me were being treated like shit. Their living conditions were awful, they weren’t paid anything like what they’d been promised, and some of the women (if I understood correctly what I was hearing) had routinely been victims of sexual harassment, if not outright assault. And something else: there often wasn’t enough food to go around their compound at designated mealtimes.
I look at Kate directly now. She’s staring back at me with a shocked expression in her eyes, one that tells me I need to explain this, I need to make it make sense, and fast.
But I can’t.
Because apart from anything else, I haven’t told her what happened yet.
*
During my time in Afghanistan, Kate and I kept our communications to one quick phone call a week. It was easier that way. Long emails or Facebook posts aren’t my thing, and in a five-minute call I could keep it breezy. Even if conditions at the FOB had been ideal, hearing about my routine there still would have been depressing, or at the very least boring, so I tended to let Kate do most of the talking.
What she’s hearing now, therefore, is definitely new to her, and if she’s wondering why I’ve kept it to myself for the past three weeks, she doesn’t let on.
‘There was this one guy,’ I tell her, ‘from Nepal, Sajit something. He was skinny, like a stick insect. He worked one of the walk-in freezer units, loaded it, unloaded it, twelve hours a day. He spoke English, enough anyway to hold a decent conversation, and he was funny too – I liked him. It was Sajit who told me what was going on in the compound, Gideon security guys showing up at night, picking out girls, then stories about a trade in fake documents, about intimidation, about people getting cheated out of whatever small amounts of cash they’d managed to save. I brought this up one day with a Gideon manager. I asked him if he knew what conditions were like for the TCNs, but he laughed in my face, told me to shut the fuck up and get back to work. An hour later, as if he’d been thinking about it, he showed up again, walked right over to me and said I needed to mind my own business if I knew what was good for me. Then, like a good cop, bad cop rolled into one, he tried to confide in me, said, “Look, what do you want, these people are animals, you know, you should see how they live, how they choose to live, it’s disgusting.” Before I could come up with an answer, he’d moved on, but I don’t know if there’d’ve been much point in speaking up anyway. I don’t think Sajit would have thanked me, or any of the others. Conditions were bad enough without dragging my stupid shit into the equation. But let me tell you, with two months down, and nearly twenty-two to go, I was sick to my stomach of the whole fucking place.’
‘Jesus, Danny . . .’
I say nothing for a moment. Funny how two little words can be so loaded, so nuanced, so ambiguous – there is sympathy in them, of course, but also confusion, and not a little dread. Kate isn’t going to judge me for not speaking up, not yet. She knows how to hold her own counsel. It’s in her head, though. I can see it in her eyes.
‘It went on the same way for a while,’ I say, ‘weeks and weeks. Sajit would talk to me, or I’d hear stuff from some of the others, a couple of the line cooks, Kenyan guys I’d bullshit around with when there was a break in service. Technically, it was none of my business, and there wasn’t much I could do about it anyway, but it bugged me. I suppose it’s naive to think of war as anything other than a form of business, but this particular war seemed to be run exclusively by pricks at head office with boxes to tick and targets to meet – like how many people you can fit into a fucking shipping container at night, for instance, or what’s the least amount of rice you can distribute to the maximum number of mouths.’ I pause at this point, and glance down at my shoes. I guess I’m stalling. ‘So about a month ago,’ I go on, looking up again, ‘there was . . . well, there was a riot at the base.’
‘A riot?’
‘Yeah, more or less. No other word for it. Three hundred people were lined up for dinner in this compound at the rear of the base, and about halfway through they just ran out of food – that was it, there was nothing left, and it was apparently the second or third time it had happened in the space of a few weeks, so . . . empty plates, empty bellies, no prize for guessing what comes next.’
Kate leans forward, eyebrows furrowed. ‘Let me get this straight, this wasn’t the main dining place, right, where you worked, this was their—’
‘Yeah, it was a separate facility, a separate arrangement, but that’s what it’s like there, the whole base, it’s a fucking patchwork of subcontracts and outsourcing. What probably happened is that someone at a computer terminal somewhere three thousand miles away basically made a mistake filling out an order form for supplies. Now we had plenty of food in our stores, it’s just that—’
‘Oh Jesus.’
‘—Gideon weren’t about to simply hand their shit out like they were a relief agency or something. So about eight or ten of the TCNs – to start with, anyway – stormed into the manager’s office and demanded more rice, or bread, or whatever the fuck was available. The manager flipped, said they had no right to demand anything. He started screaming, soon they were screaming, it went back and forth, then someone got pushed, and it just erupted. In less than a minute, half a dozen young guys were smashing the place up, furniture, desks, filing cabinets, windows, computers. More joined in, and it spilled outside, where there were now at least a hundred others lined up waiting. Then it spread throughout the camp, all of these hungry fucking people rampaging around, throwing rocks and swinging lead pipes they’d found. A bunch of them, including Sajit, broke into the main DFAC storerooms and started taking stuff and passing it along a chain to the outside. Then Sajit, with two others, managed to get one of the big walk-in freezers open, which didn’t make any sense, because all the stuff in there was frozen, obviously, by definition, so what use was that going to be, but I guess by this stage it was more frustration and rage running the show than actual hunger.’
‘Where were you during this? Did you see everything?’
‘At the start of it I was half asleep in my little B hut listening to music. Then I heard noises outside, screams, glass breaking. I got up, headed out and made straight for the kitchens, and just as I was getting there, to the storerooms, to the walk-in freezer, several heavily armed guards, Gideon security guys, were also showing up. At first, it was chaotic and confusing, but with Sajit and the other two now more or less cornered, backed all the way into this freezer, the situation very quickly got very fucking tense.’
Standing now in our small apartment on 10th Street, looking directly into Kate’s eyes, I feel something pulse through my body – a mild electric current, like a push notification on vibrate.
Am I really going to do this?
‘Sajit . . .’ I say, and hesitate, but there’s no turning back. ‘Sajit was the freezer guy, okay, and because it was, I don’t know, his domain, he stood out a little from the other two, like he was a ringleader or something. He definitely wasn’t, though, and in fact at the end there, I’m not sure, he may even have been trying to protect the place.’
But suddenly this seems implausible to me, like a self-serving rationalisation, and I hope Kate doesn’t pick up on it. ‘Anyway, I was standing there at the entrance to the freezer, all these security guys in front of me, in pairs, three deep, with M4s and body armour on, full battle rattle, and there was this thick odour, as well, Kevlar and refrigerator coolant . . . it was awful.’ I exhale loudly at this point, and shake my head. ‘I couldn’t catch Sajit’s eye from where I was standing, and when I eventually called out his name, one of the Gideon security guys turned to look at me like I was insane. And after that, with a terrible inevitability to it, there was this lightning-quick sequence of movements that just played out in front of everyone’s eyes . . .’
Avoiding Kate’s gaze now, I stare at the floor, my voice barely above a whisper.
‘One of the two guys with Sajit lifted a box of frozen burger patties from a pallet next to him and raised it above his head. There was a lot of shouting. Sajit turned as if he was going to pick up another of the frozen boxes, at which point two of the security guys rushed him. There was more pushing and shoving, and it was hard to make out what was going on, to make out who had the frozen box in their hands at any given moment, but then suddenly I had this clear view for a few seconds of the first Gideon guy bringing the box down right onto Sajit’s head, knocking him to the floor, raising the box and hitting him with it again and again.’
‘Oh fuck.’ Kate covers her face with her hands.
I swallow hard, my throat dry and raspy. ‘When the two Gideon guys stood up and moved back, you could see it, everything, Sajit and the second guy on the floor, both dead, skulls cracked, Sajit’s totally smashed in on one side . . . and his face . . .’
‘STOP.’
I do, but only for a moment. ‘The third guy was against the back wall of the freezer unit, cowering between two pallets. The guards quickly cleared everyone out of the storerooms, herding us out with their rifle butts, and then they sealed the whole place off. When word of what happened spread throughout the camp, instead of inflaming the situation, as it might have done, it knocked the riot stone cold dead. A lot of damage had been inflicted, mainly to property, and in a very short space of time, but no one had been hurt, not physically.’ I hear myself saying this, and then add, ‘Well, no one else, that is . . . apart from . . .’
But this time I really can’t go on.
*
What I do instead is pick the letter up from the table and reread it, study it line by line, not because I didn’t understand it the first time but as a way of avoiding eye contact with Kate.
There wasn’t anything I could have done to prevent what happened, so maybe the guilt I’m feeling over it is irrational, like a form of survivor guilt, but it’s certainly real, and it’s all I’ve been able to think about since I got back. It’s also very clear to me that even though there really wasn’t anything I could have done, it’d be hard for someone who wasn’t there to see it that way.
So I guess I’m surprised at how Kate eventually reacts. No indictment is handed down, nor does she say ‘I told you so’. She reaches across the table, puts her hand on mine, and squeezes gently.
I feel like a jerk for having expected anything different. At the same time, I hope what I’ve just told her goes some way towards explaining why I’ve been so moody and difficult these past three weeks. Or at least moodier and more difficult than usual. Not to mention distant and unavailable. I know it’s been hard on her, there’s been a lot of tension. We had sex the night I got back, but not since. I don’t particularly care right now (which has to indicate something), but I know for sure that Kate does. She’s had to put up with a lot of things from me in our time, but withholding has never been one of them. Sex means something as far as she’s concerned, it’s a form of communication, it’s a language. And when we’re not talking, we’re not talking.
She squeezes my hand again now. ‘Danny. My God. Why didn’t you tell me about this?’ I try to formulate an answer, but before I can get a word out, she’s shaking her head. ‘You know what, don’t answer that. It’s a stupid question. Anyway, you did tell me. You told me just now. And it can’t have been easy.’ She runs a hand through her hair. ‘Jesus.’
She goes silent for a bit, staring into space, and I can see what she’s doing, what she can’t help doing – visualising it, a human skull being bashed in with something like a solid block of ice, the repeated blows, the cracking of bone, the crunching sounds, the blood, the tissue . . .
‘Kate, please . . . don’t.’
She gets up, comes around to where I’m sitting, and we embrace, tightly, taking in each other’s tension, neutralising it. This is a relief, and a step forward – but I know we’re not done yet. There are still unanswered questions, things to be explained. There is still this letter from Gideon Logistics.
Kate pulls away, flicks her hair back and adjusts her glasses. Then, as if on cue, she points at the letter. ‘So I still don’t get it. I don’t get what they’re up to. You were a witness to this murder, right, this double murder. Presumably they’re going to need you for that, to testify. Why are they threatening you?’
I take a deep breath. ‘I don’t really know, but I think it’s because, okay, yes, I was a witness to what happened, but . . . maybe that’s the problem.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘This riot went unreported, Kate, completely, did you read anything about it, hear any mention of it online? Anywhere? No. Which means it didn’t happen, which means no one is getting charged.’
‘What?’
I look at a granola box on the shelf behind Kate, focus on it as I speak. ‘They emptied the place out. They removed the bodies. They cleaned up. The next morning it was as if nothing had happened. So I went and asked around, asked where the bodies were being kept, what the arrangements were, who was going to inform the families. Then I asked about the two security guys, the ones who did it. And you know what? I was met with a brick fucking wall. About all of it. They told me to go back to work. To mind my own business.’
‘I don’t—’ Kate throws her hands up. ‘This is unbelievable. What did you do?’
Here comes the hard part.
‘I stood there like an idiot for ten minutes and then went back to work.’
‘What?’
‘Kate, this is a military base. In a war zone. Mortar shells are going off. There’s artillery fire. Meanwhile, I work in the kitchen.’
This elicits an elaborate gesture of incredulity. ‘So?’
‘I was powerless. There were no authorities I could go to, because I was already talking to them. You want a definition of powerless, that’s it right there.’ I look at her now. ‘So tell me, what was I supposed to do? What was my next move?’
She shrugs. ‘I . . . but—’
‘What I did . . .’ I pause here for a second to catch my breath. ‘What I did, and without delay, was go and speak to some of the line cooks, some of the servers and cleaners. I was expecting real anger, and plans for . . . I don’t know, a fucking armed rebellion or something, but what I got instead, weirdly, was another wall of silence. They were too scared to speak, because already, within hours, the intimidation had kicked in, the checking of papers, talk of visa irregularities, breaches of contract, fines, deportation, this, that, whatever. Then, after a couple of days, word came through that there was going to be a huge Gideon shake-up anyway, that a thousand people at Sharista and a second base nearby were being let go. It was a numbers thing and had to do with this pending DoD case. Supposedly. But anyone connected to Sajit and the other two? Sent off back to wherever. That meant me as well, and God knows know who else. It was a clean sweep.’
Kate just stares at me.
I stare back.
‘I tried again,’ I continue after a bit. ‘Couple of times. Once at the base, before shipping out, but all I got was, “What are you talking about? We don’t know what you’re talking about.” And then at the airport, at Kandahar. There was a congressman, in the departure lounge, Jack Gwynne, a New Jersey guy, I recognised him from a thing I saw once on TV. He was with a delegation, I think, and had quite an entourage, aides and personal assistants and shit, but I just walked right up and started talking to him.’ I pause here, remembering the incident. ‘I talked for maybe twenty seconds, really fast, trying to get it out, with him just looking at me, before I realised, damn, he’s not listening to a word I’m saying, all he’s doing is waiting for one of his fucking aides to come and rescue him, because I’m that guy, I’m the nutjob, the deranged person that people like him have to put up with all the time, but that he can’t be rude to in case I have a vote. Well, one of his aides, big guy in an Italian suit, did rescue him, and was subsequently very rude to me. This was five minutes later in the men’s room, when he had me pinned against a wall. “Pull something like that again, cocksucker,” he told me, “and my Christ, the fucking shit that will rain down on you.”’
Kate flinches. ‘Oh my God, Danny.’
‘I know. And all this guy was referring to was me talking to his stupid boss without an appointment. It was insane. Anyway, fifteen hours later and I’m back in JFK.’
‘But . . . Danny . . .’
She doesn’t know where to begin is my guess. ‘Yeah?’
I guessed wrong.
‘We can’t let these bastards get away with this. We have to do something, we have to fight them.’
‘Jesus . . . fight them with what?’
‘I don’t know, how about,’ she waves a speculative hand in the air, ‘how about with everything we’ve got.’
‘Come on, Kate, we’re not in Zuccotti Park now.’
She glares at me. ‘I’m a little confused here, Danny, you don’t think this is awful, what you saw, what these people are doing?’
‘Of course I do. But—’
‘But what?’
‘I’m not in a position to do anything about it. I can’t prove it happened, there’s no record of it, no evidence, and even if there was, how would I get access to that? Gideon has closed ranks.’ I point at the letter on the table. ‘And it’s pretty clear they’re now on the attack as well. This is a massive corporation, Kate, with massive financial resources.’
‘All the more reason why they shouldn’t be allowed to get away with this.’
‘Yeah, but,’ – it’s hard not to bang my fist on the table here – ‘shouldn’t be allowed how?’
Kate gets up, stands at the window looking out. There’s nothing to see except the back of another apartment building – other windows, other lives.
‘This shit’s been in my head since it happened, Kate, every single day. I’ve replayed it a thousand times, rearranged it. I have versions where I intervene, versions where it still plays out but afterwards I’m listened to, versions where what you want to happen happens. They’re not real, though. What’s real is that I’m actually powerless to do anything.’
She turns around. ‘But the law, Danny—’
‘The law? The law is what shuts it all down. Let’s say I go to someone with these accusations, the cops, a media outlet even. Fine. But they’re going to bring in legal counsel, and believe me, ten minutes of that and we’re done. Sajit? Sajit who? I don’t know the guy’s full name, don’t know anything about him. End of story. Say it goes further, though. How long you think before Gideon comes out with claims that I’m unstable, that I have a history of so-called mental problems?’ I pick the letter up again from the table. ‘This is the law. I mean, look, GO-1C? You know what that is? Prohibited activities for military personnel within a US Central Command zone. But it also applies to civilian contractors. And that’s me. So participating in a fucking riot? Which I guarantee is how they’ll frame it? I wouldn’t stand a chance. The law is all on their side, Kate.’ I shake the letter. ‘And this is a pre-emptive strike.’
‘What . . . you mean you could face charges?’
‘In theory.’
‘Jesus.’
‘If they push it. If I push them. Which is probably what this is really about.’
‘Well . . . couldn’t . . .’
I wait, but she caves in, sits down again. She puts her head in her hands and sighs. ‘This is fucking horrible, Danny.’
‘I know.’
I look at the open laptop in front of her, the notebook beside it, her neat handwriting, the coffee mug. I shouldn’t have come back and disturbed her. I should have just let her be.
‘Look, Kate,’ I say, ‘losing my last pay cheque is bad enough, but if I get tied up in legal shit with these people, I’ll never get out from under it. And if I get charged? There’s no telling where that goes, and no fucking end to the collateral consequences either – if I ever need to take out a mortgage, or look for certain kinds of work, or, I don’t know, apply for stuff . . .’ I pause, feeling anxious about everything now, even the pronouns I’m using. ‘So, maybe . . .’
She looks up. ‘Yeah?’
‘So maybe what I have to do is make contact here, and . . . let them know I’m not a threat.’
There it is. Capitulation, surrender, the exact opposite of what Kate was proposing two minutes ago.
But I’ve said it, and now it’s out in the open.
I lay the letter on the table and smooth the edges flat with my hand. ‘There’s a phone number,’ I say. ‘They have offices on Third Avenue. I could call them. I might not get through to anyone who’ll talk to me, but it’s worth a shot.’
Kate is struggling. I can see it. She wants to be sympathetic, to be reasonable, but she can’t quite get there – can’t quite get with the capitulation and the surrender. And I don’t blame her. I was never in Zuccotti Park, but she actually was, and although that’s a long time ago now, and she’s been through a lot since, the experience of being down there left its mark. To a certain degree, it still informs the way she thinks.
So it’s hardly a surprise if she finds this shit hard to take.
I get my phone out and stand up. I take the letter from the table. ‘Okay,’ I say, not looking at her. ‘I’ll do it in the bedroom.’