Dan could hardly contain his excitement. ‘You can come too,’ he told Jemma. ‘That’s the beauty of it. They’ll pay for you to fly out. And Honey.’
‘Really?’ Jemma stood very still. ‘That’s amazing.’ He could see that she was struggling. ‘It’s an actual offer then?’
‘Look, you don’t have to come for the whole time.’ Dan peered into the Moses basket where their daughter lay, a centrepiece of exquisite fascination on the kitchen table. ‘Fly out in the middle, for a month, or a couple of weeks. Whatever you want.’
Jemma nodded, but she didn’t speak.
‘Come on, Jem, I haven’t worked since February. I turned down that ITV drama because they couldn’t promise to release me for the birth. And I know it’s not great, location-wise, with Honey so little and everything, and it’s winter there, but . . .’ he needed her to understand. ‘It’s a properly exciting job, something relevant, and anyway, I’ve already said yes.’
There was silence while Dan filled the kettle.
‘So,’ Jemma lifted their sleeping girl and held her against her shoulder, ‘what’s it about, then?’
‘It’s set in the Gulf War. The SAS. Hard men, behaving heroically, or not so heroically at times. I expect there’ll be lots of young actors, flexing their muscles. I thought I’d grow a moustache.’
‘No women?’
‘Just one. I don’t know who they’ve cast yet.’ He turned away to pour water into a cup, scalding the tea bag so that it swelled and floated to the top.
Jemma was swaying from side to side, her head turned to stare into Honey’s squashed asleep face. ‘I’ll have a read of it later,’ she said softly.
‘OK, but I’d better warn you. I get captured, and tortured. And there’s . . .’ he sloshed in milk, ‘a bit of sex.’
‘Really?’ Their eyes met. They hadn’t managed sex yet since the baby, or, in fact for some long months before, and just saying the word felt fraught. ‘Tea?’ he offered, realising he’d only made one cup. Jemma nodded quietly.
‘So, what . . .’ she began once she’d taken a precarious sip. ‘You’re beaten and in prison and they smuggle this woman in to you, or how does it work? Or are you having homoerotic sex with the other inmates?’
‘No,’ Dan laughed. ‘I’m having a perfectly straightforward affair, back at base camp, with Sergeant T.P. Miller, and she’s the one who sends out the search parties, and then of course there’s the reunion . . .’ Dan blushed in spite of himself. ‘Read it if you really want,’ he shrugged. ‘I’ll get it for you before I go out.’
‘Where are you going?’ Her voice rose in alarm.
‘To the gym. Where else? And by the way, from today I’m on a diet. Nothing white, and nothing that grows underground.’
‘Oh, come on. Fat, puny people have sex as well, you know.’
‘Maybe. But not in the SAS. And anyway, what are you saying?’
Jemma laughed. ‘Dan, that’s the most ridiculous diet I’ve ever heard of. Not even carrots?’
Dan stared at her supercilious face. ‘Not even carrots. Not even radishes. Not even onions.’ He felt prepared to fight for his diet to the last.
‘What else is there?’ She flung open the fridge.
‘I don’t know.’ All he could think of was salami. ‘Spinach,’ he offered gratefully. ‘Lentils. Don’t worry, I’ll do some shopping on my way home.’ Dan grabbed a towel from a pile of washing and stuffed it into his bag. ‘Don’t worry about it.’
‘Can you buy Pampers? Newborn,’ she called as he headed for the door, ‘or are they too white?’ and then a moment later she was in his arms. ‘Sweetheart. I’m sorry.’ She stretched up, tearful, for a kiss. ‘Congratulations. Really. It’s great. I’m glad you’ve got work.’
That afternoon the gym was full of actors, and whereas last week Dan had imagined them watching him, pityingly, his presence there proof that he was unemployed, now he felt euphoric. He nodded to Declan McCloud, who he’d last seen at an audition for a new detective series which neither of them had got, and stepped on to the running machine. ‘Why don’t you jog round the park?’ Jemma had once asked him, but he didn’t like jogging round the park. He felt bored by it, and self-conscious, aware of his imperfect technique, whereas on the treadmill, with the music playing and the screens alive, he could slip into a pounding kind of trance. He wondered if Declan had been up for his job. He’d have been perfect for one of the parts. He’d have been perfect for his part. He glanced across at Declan now, his neck straining, his biceps bulging as he lifted an inordinately heavy set of weights above his head. He hoped he had, and hadn’t got it. Or maybe Declan was already busy. Maybe he’d been offered it, and turned it down. Dan ran faster. Maybe everyone had been offered it. Was that why the producer was so pleased when he said yes? Sweat darkened his T-shirt. He was panting, running for his life, keeping his elbows by his side, his hands like scissors, hareing like James Bond across the tarmac. Stop it, he told himself. It’s my job now. And as he readied himself to leap into the open door of a helicopter before it soared away, he had one last flashing thought: now all he had to do was be the best.
Alice Montgomery wasn’t a name Dan knew. The director had seen her in an independent film and decided she was perfect for the part of Sergeant T.P. Miller. Strong, charismatic, and totally unselfconscious. But Lenny, Dan’s agent, had better news than that. He’d heard that the director had a new baby, born around the same time as Honey, and his wife was planning to be out on location for at least some of the shoot.
Dan burst in with the news.
‘Born the same day?’ Jemma looked amazed, and Dan tried to remember exactly what Lenny had said.
‘The same week. The same time. That’s good, isn’t it? You’ll have someone to keep you company.’
‘Yes,’ Jemma agreed. ‘That is good. Look, I’ve decided. I might as well come out with you and make the best of it. I’m sure their winter isn’t actually that cold. And at least we can travel together.’
‘Really?’ Dan looked at the pages of the script, spread over the kitchen table. ‘Are you sure? It’ll be pretty barren. The location is doubling as the site of the Gulf War, don’t forget.’
‘That’s not what you were saying this morning.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Well, I got the impression you wanted me to buckle down and get on with it. I mean people must live there. Real people. With babies, and nappies, and kettles.’
‘No. I just meant, let me go out there first and get settled. Then come out, maybe a couple of weeks later, when I know what I’m doing.’
‘And the journey? With bags and a pushchair and Honey.’ She picked up a stray page of the script and began to read. ‘I mean. Is the flight straight through? Or will I have to change?’
Dan longed to tell her it was straight through. All she would have to do was get herself on the plane, and he’d be there to meet her at the other end, but he knew she’d have to change, wait for eight hours at Johannesburg airport, and then take a smaller plane west over the mining land to Upington, where she’d arrive twenty-four hours after leaving Britain.
‘Look, it’s brilliant that you’re coming out,’ he put his arm around her, ‘but let me see if there’s a schedule. See what scenes I’ll be doing the first week. And then we’ll sort out the practicalities. The arrangements for travel and everything. All right?’
Jemma stood stiffly beside him. ‘All right.’ She knew what he was saying. ‘So . . . have they cast everyone yet?’
‘Not sure.’ He kissed the top of her head.
‘Have they cast your Love Interest?’
‘Umm,’ he moved away to unpack the shopping, ‘there’s a shortlist, I think. No one I’ve heard of. Right. Sea bass. Brown rice. Salad. Shall I make supper?’
‘OK. But I have to point out, unless you’ve moved on to a new diet, fish is white.’
Dan unrolled the dense paper packet, releasing the slimy dark grey scales of the fish. ‘Not on the outside, it isn’t.’
‘True. But you’re not planning on eating the skin.’
Dan shot her an irritable look. ‘It’s only for a couple of weeks. As soon as I arrive on set I’ll be living on location food with the odd strip of biltong. So let me do this. The trainer at the gym says it works brilliantly.’
‘Fine.’ Jemma set the table. ‘Maybe I’ll lose some weight too.’ She thumped down a glass, and just in time Dan remembered: ‘Don’t be silly. You look great. And anyway, Honey’s only six weeks old, you’re meant to be a little . . . bigger.’
Jemma filled a jug of water. Dan could see her smiling to herself as she put the salt to one side.
‘Would you mind,’ he said when they were halfway through their meal, ‘if I went to a film later? There’s something this director thinks I should see, and it’s only on for a couple more nights. I thought it might be helpful, you know, get an idea of his style . . .’
Jemma looked over at Honey, a brand-new smile lifting the corner of her sleeping mouth.
‘Maybe,’ Jemma slid her finger into the curl of their daughter’s tiny palm, ‘we could all go. She’s been so good today. She might sleep through.’
Dan bit his lip. ‘We could . . . But I think it’s quite a violent film. Vietnam. I’m not sure if her ears could take it.’
‘Or mine.’
‘Sorry. It’s just . . .’
‘It’s fine.’
‘I’ll try not to wake you when I get home.’ And he turned his full attention to his fish.
The film was actually set in Tuscany, at the house of an English professor, and could have done with some bombs and a few helicopters to liven up the action. He felt uncomfortable about lying, but then it was him who had to show his arse – literally – to millions of people, and he’d never have been able to concentrate with Jemma there.
The girl, Alice, who was to be T.P. Miller, reminded him of a white version of Charlie. She was tall and angular and there was a light in her eyes, sly as a fox. The professor and his son were both in love with her, and she played them, one against the other, with enviable skill. Late one night, after a scene of competitive charades, she peeled off her dress and dived naked into the pool. Her body was lean, an arc in the moonlight, leaving barely a ripple on the surface, and as the two men tore at their own clothes, both struggling to be the first to leap in after her, she clung to the rail at the side of the pool and watched them, her eyes glinting, her mouth curved in an impenetrable smile.
Yes, Dan thought. She’s good, she’s very good, and he began to play the scenes they were in together over in his head. Alice Montgomery in army fatigues, leaping into jeeps, barking out orders, unfazed as the enemy approached.
Towards the end of the film, the professor’s son caught sight of her in the shower, head thrown back, water pouring off her lint-white body. Dan sank deeper in his chair. He alone in that small cinema had a future with her. He, of all the other faceless men in the seats around him, would soon hold that fierce, slippery woman in his arms. He would have to kiss that mouth, stroke her hair back from her face, wrap his arms around her slender body when the trials and strictures of the SAS became too much for her. Yes, he imagined himself in character, for ever in uniform, his body toughened by training and the challenges of war. That’s it, he murmured to himself, and for an instant, he knew who he was.
‘Right,’ he told Jemma the next day, ‘I’ve got the schedule and we’re actually going to be in the desert, in a different location for the first two weeks, and then again at the end. It’s very remote, we’ll be sleeping in tents, apparently, it’s where we’ll be shooting the combat scenes, but then in the middle we’ll be in a small town, and we’ll be based in a hotel. I’ve asked for the biggest room they have,’ he didn’t stop for questions, ‘but I don’t know what that really means. And the director’s wife will be coming for the middle bit too, so they’ll probably get the biggest room, if there is such a thing, and we’ll . . .’ he’d done it. ‘We’ll just have to manage.’
That night they lay in bed, Honey stretched like a starfish between them. Dan put his arm across and felt for Jemma. ‘Will you be all right?’
‘When?’ she asked.
‘On your own, here?’
‘Yes,’ she paused. ‘I’m not sure what I’ll do for eight hours at Johannesburg airport though,’ and Dan squeezed her hand and held it there until she fell asleep.
Dan lay in his bed in the narrow hotel bedroom, the cot already set up in one corner, and fumbled for the off-switch on the alarm. A faint grey light crept in around the edges of the curtains, but outside it was silent. This time tomorrow there would be a little hump of baby in that cot and Jemma, leaky and inquisitive, would be beside him. As if in practice for their arrival he tiptoed to the bathroom, showered with the door shut, and then, still in darkness, pulled on his clothes. He’d have breakfast in the dining tent on set, the smell of rope and canvas and fresh air obliterating the usual fried odour of food, and then, most probably, he’d wait around for several hours before he was used.
It was still dark as they drove towards the outskirts of the town, past the signpost to Namibia, which always made him smile, and out into the desert. The set was an encampment of its own, with trucks and jeeps and army camouflage everywhere you looked. He felt a keen stab of excitement. There was nowhere he’d prefer to be. To be working, to be part of a unit, a cog in the wheel of something exciting and new.
‘Bloody freezing today,’ the make-up woman, Hilda, shivered. She pulled a hand-knitted shawl over her shoulders. Through the door of the make-up wagon Dan could see the sun rising, the air lifting from the grit of dawn, burning orange as the whole sky lightened.
It was always cold here in the mornings. An ice breeze that cut through the day, underlying even the brightest sunshine, deceiving you, hardening your skin. If you were lucky you could find a sheltered spot and bask in the bright sunlight, but usually they were out in the open, toiling through barren country, or crawling on their hands and knees over the bare terrain. They hadn’t done any of their interiors yet. The capture, the torture and interrogation were all to come. They had filmed one sex scene, though. Outside, at night, against a wall, when T.P. Miller, or Tippy, as he called her in their more intimate moments, had caught up with him, and although his character was meant to be on duty, he’d lost control of himself and seized her in a frenzy, pushing her back, not unwillingly, against the splintered planks of the barrack wall. Alice had asked for a closed set. No extras hovering, no unnecessary assistants, stunt men or runners. But after the eighth take, when he’d grappled her, pulled open her flak jacket and unfastened his belt, those spare sparks who’d declared themselves invaluable wandered off anyway of their own accord. Dan had never been involved in a sex scene before. He’d kissed. On stage and on television, but never had to perform. He didn’t mention this to Alice, in awe as he was at the way she had so effortlessly seduced both father and son (and the director too, if gossip was to be believed) in her last film. She’d done it all with such an air of professionalism that it seemed almost as if it wasn’t her. But in reality she was jumpy. ‘Christ,’ she kept saying, ‘I hate these scenes,’ and he’d smiled manfully and tried to keep himself calm.
‘Right,’ the director approached them. ‘Take her in your arms, move in against her, hand under her shirt. And thrust.’
Thrust? He pressed his body against Alice. She felt cold, her flesh retreating. Nervously he fumbled with her jacket. It wasn’t so easy. Not the fluid movement of desire he had imagined. ‘Faster. Right. Great. We’ll go for a take this time.’
Alice’s make-up woman dashed forward and dusted her with a coat of powder, while Hilda gave a quick tweak to Dan’s moustache.
‘Ready. Quiet on set.’ Dan felt his heart thumping. He swallowed, tried to put the terrible thought of an erection out of his mind, although never in his life had he felt less aroused. But then the lights needed adjusting, and in a burst of sudden noise and movement everything came to a halt. ‘Are you all right?’ he whispered to Alice, the cold feel of her skin still lingering. Alice nodded, and took out a can of breath spray. She squirted some into her mouth. ‘Bloody hotel,’ she whispered as she offered it to him. ‘I tried to sleep this afternoon but there was a fucking baby crying.’
Dan made a sympathetic face. Did Alice know it was the director’s baby? His wife had arrived a couple of days before and he’d seen her, hovering on the edge of the set, the baby in a pink bonnet against the sun, a dummy in its mouth to keep it quiet. Twice she’d approached him and asked when Jemma would be arriving, and he’d admired her baby, asked how old it was, what it was called, information he’d immediately forgotten and then failed to pass to Jemma in adequate detail in his calls home. ‘Honestly,’ Alice shivered, ‘I can’t wait for this job to be over. Bloody awful goddamn place. What are you up to next?’
‘Not sure.’ Dan looked around. He wanted to use this lull to make a plan. Strike up a deal with her. Should I grab your breast under the jacket? When we kiss, will we use tongues? But Alice kept on talking. ‘I’m going to fly from here straight to LA to try out for pilot season. Have you ever tried it? I mean, LA?’
Dan shook his head. He’d heard too many stories of British actors lost out there in a sea of castings, demoralised, desperate, working as doormen, scrabbling together the money to survive. ‘Great,’ he smiled. ‘Good luck. Have you got somewhere to stay?’
‘OK. Ready to go. Silence.’ The assistant director spread his arms and Alice’s make-up woman was between them again, dusting and preening in the gloom.
‘And . . . Action!’ For a second Dan’s eyes met Alice’s and he moved in for a kiss. He held her head and pressed her backwards, the new moustache tickling his own nose, the spearmint flavour of their saliva mingling together as he fumbled with her jacket. Belt, he remembered, belt. He had his mouth still glued to hers, as he tugged at the belt, almost ripping the buckle off in his need to free himself and get through all the moves before the director called ‘Cut’.
‘And cut.’ Gasping, Dan pulled away.
‘Bloody hell,’ Alice put a hand up to her face. ‘When did you last shave?’
‘This morning.’ Dan hoiked his trousers up and re-fastened the buckle.
The make-up woman was patting the skin around Alice’s mouth, blotting it with foundation. Dan put his hand up to his own face. His chin did feel rough. Of course. He should have waited and shaved this afternoon. Idiot – he cursed himself. But before he could apologise the set fell silent.
By the time they next broke Alice’s poor face was blotched with red.
‘What does your girlfriend say about that moustache?’ She eyed him sceptically.
All he could remember was Jemma laughing as the sharp hairs tickled her face.
‘I could never go out with a man with facial hair. Really.’ Alice rolled her eyes. ‘I’d have to give up my career.’
They broke for supper, although now it was one in the morning, and after a quick dash to his caravan to brush his teeth, Dan prepared himself to film the scene from T.P. Miller’s point of view. The cameras were behind him now and Alice’s eyes were lively in the light. Her hand went up and caressed his cheek, her leg slid between his and he realised momentarily before he was subsumed by his tasks how much easier everything was now that she was responding. Kiss, jacket, fumble. Her flesh was warm and willing. She even smiled as he jolted her up against the wall. He tugged at his belt buckle, ‘Thrust’, he heard the director in his ear, and aware of the camera, trained on his backside, he lifted Alice off the ground and holding her tight he moved in, grinding against her narrow camouflaged pelvis, eyes closed, panting, waiting for that most magical of words, ‘Cut.’
Alice pulled away from him. ‘Good work.’ Her gaze was steady.
‘Great,’ the director called. ‘Five minutes and we’ll go again.’
‘Did you get an erection?’ Jemma wanted to know, and he told her in all honesty that it was the un-sexiest night of his life. ‘I can’t wait to see you,’ her words soothed him down the line, ‘I wish I was there,’ and he closed his eyes and imagined her warm, yielding body, the smell of her, the fine gold chain that creased into her skin as she slept. ‘Oh Jem,’ he could have cried for something that was real. ‘I wish you were here too.’
‘So when’s your family coming out?’ Hilda asked him. She was still working on his scar.
‘Today.’ Dan looked at his watch. ‘They’ll be here about seven. They’re flying now.’
‘You’ve got a baby.’ Hilda smiled, indulgent. ‘How old?’
‘She’s . . . I think about twelve weeks now. All I know is that I’ve been away for a third of her life.’
‘Wait till they get bigger.’ Hilda shook her head. ‘That’s when travelling gets really tough.’
‘Have you got kids?’ He looked at the make-up woman with new eyes. Friendly, middle-aged Hilda, always ready for a chat.
‘I’ve got a boy of twelve. It’s bad timing for him, this job. I’m away his entire summer holiday. But I had to take it. A big film I was meant to do earlier in the year fell apart.’
‘What happened?’
‘Some of the investment disappeared, and the studio let it go. They’d already spent half a million on pre-production. It’s beyond belief. And it would have been so perfect. All in London. Anyway . . .’ she shrugged, ‘I’m doing this.’
‘So who’s he with?’
‘My sister. And a few weeks on one of those Woodcraft camps. He’ll be all right. He’s a good boy.’
Dan nodded. He wondered where the boy’s father was, but he didn’t like to ask. Jemma would have asked. She would have opened her blue eyes in compassionate inquisition and found out everything there was to know. He smiled. By this time next week he’d be privy to the most intimate secrets of the entire cast and crew.
‘Right,’ Hilda straightened up. ‘That’s you done.’
‘Thanks. See you later.’ He moved along the trailer to where Pam from Hair was waiting to check his moustache against a batch of Polaroids to see if it had grown.
That morning involved relentless hours of surveillance. Dan and two soldiers stood with binoculars, looking out over the glaring sand. The other actors had been out drinking the night before and the alcohol wafted off them poisonously. They talked between takes about a feud building up between the British and South African actors, about a local girl, Chantelle, who was throwing herself at Steve, who played an officer. In lowered tones they discussed Matt Wilkinson, who was up at five every morning, lifting weights, doing press-ups, and when he had to make an entrance, he insisted on running twice around the perimeter of the set so that he could arrive genuinely out of breath. ‘Drama Arts,’ one of the soldiers scoffed, and Dan secretly worried that Matt, who’d been two years below him at college, would transpire to be the real star. Matt had remained loyal to Patrick and Silvio’s teachings, and when Dan watched him he could see the spark of genius – or was it madness? – in everything he did. There’d been one scene where he and Dan had had to fight, and as they’d wrestled, Dan had looked into his eyes and seen nothing there but hate. ‘Pervert,’ Matt had hissed once he’d pummelled Dan’s character unconscious to the ground, and eyes closed, breath still, Dan had felt a gob of spit land on his cheek. A searing heat rose up in him. ‘You fucking moron,’ he’d leapt up, cursing himself for accepting the more passive role, and he’d grabbed hold of Matt Wilkinson’s shirt and punched him in the ear. Matt responded no less viciously, in or out of character, Dan never knew, and they’d grappled and thrashed, and thrown punches at each other until three members of the crew had had to wrench them apart. They’d avoided each other since then, much as their characters were inclined to do, and the night before when things began to get raucous, Dan had slipped off back to the hotel. It wasn’t just Matt, Dan told himself, he didn’t want to risk being hung over the day Jemma arrived, and he imagined her now, getting off her plane in Johannesburg, Honey up against her shoulder, the pushchair folded into mechanical knots. His heart tightened. He hoped they’d be all right. He glanced at his watch to see how long it would be before he could get back to the trailer to check his mobile phone in the unlikely event that she would have called. He’d only bought a mobile a few months before in case Jemma went into labour when he wasn’t there. But now he couldn’t imagine how he’d managed without one. No more dashing in to check the answerphone, no more calling his agent at the end of every day. It was a liberation and he loved it. But Jemma was against one, for herself. We can’t afford it, she insisted, and anyway she wanted to be left alone, to work on her Russian coursework – she was in the second year of a degree. ‘And who would call me anyway?’ she challenged. ‘I don’t have an agent, remember?’
‘I would,’ he told her.
‘Sure. Call me at home. I’m usually there.’
But when Dan did get back to the trailer just before lunch, to his surprise there was a message. She must have negotiated the myriad complexities of a foreign phone box, changed money, found the right coins.
‘Hi darling. We landed. All fine. I’m at . . .’ there was a pause while she turned to talk to someone, ‘I’m somewhere in Johannesburg, on the outskirts. Don’t worry. I met this nice man on the plane and he said we could spend the day with him. I was just so tired. I had to find somewhere to lie down. He’s going to drive me back to the airport later when I’ve had a sleep. Don’t worry.’ There was a small muffled shriek from Honey. ‘I’d better go. See you later. Bye love. Oh dear.’ There seemed to be some kind of scuffle. ‘Bye.’
Dan’s heart beat so hard he had to double over.
He flicked to missed calls to trace the number but it hadn’t registered. No number, it said. He pressed it anyway, hoping that it might connect, but the line was dead. Fuck. He stared at the phone. He felt like throwing it down and stamping on it. It was only twelve o’clock and he’d have to wait another seven hours to know if they were ever going to arrive. He replayed her message. ‘Hi darling . . . All fine. I’m at . . . Somewhere in Johannesburg. On the outskirts . . .’ What was she thinking? Going off into one of the most violent cities in the world, with a nice man. He sat down on the floor. Kidnappings. Car chases. Honey’s neck jolting dangerously as Jemma fled down an empty road.
‘You all right?’ It was the runner, come to fetch him for his next scene.
‘Sure.’ Dan smiled grimly. He’d forgotten, momentarily, they were about to do the stunt. At least he had no lines. He splashed his face with cold water and then remembered make-up and stared into the mirror. The water ran off the greased surface of his skin, dampening his collar, distracting him, if briefly, from thoughts of Jemma.
Dan had offered to do his own stunt. ‘Are you sure?’ the director asked him, and Dan insisted he knew what he was doing. They’d done a fight workshop at Drama Arts in their second year: flinching away from the point of contact, working with your partner to make the moves convincing, rolling and reacting as the boot went in. He remembered Pierre’s thin arm shooting out and catching Eshkol on the nose. There had been blood and foundation and some hysteria, and the fight teacher who’d been drafted in for the day had stood back amused as girls ran to and from the toilets with tissues.
Dan mimicked what the stunt man had done in rehearsal, standing on the flatbed of the lorry, jumping forward, twisting, landing on his back, while three extras moved in for the attack, kicking the ground around his body, their boots stopping just short of his groin. ‘Great.’ The director nodded, and Dan stood up, and waited while wardrobe, hair and make-up dusted him down. ‘We’ll go for a take.’ The cameras rolled, the truck started and Dan leapt to the ground. But this time there was no holding back. The first man got him in the stomach. Bloody hell, Dan was too winded to protest, and anyway he was down now, his face in the dirt, and the kicks were coming at him quick and sharp. Fuck! A boot caught him in the arse, and another, sharp across his shin, but he didn’t dare raise his head to call for help. ‘All right, boys. Cut. I said CUT.’ A murmur of chatter broke out around him. ‘You all right?’ Someone was bending down.
‘Yeah, sure.’ He tried not to wince as he stood up. ‘I think so, anyway.’ He looked over at the men, smirking as they leant against the truck.
‘It’s the stunt man,’ Steve said, as Dan examined his wounds. ‘He’s pissed off because you took his job. Now he won’t be paid his rate.’
‘What?’ Dan shifted his weight. ‘Someone could have warned me.’ His coccyx was bruised and it was painful to walk. ‘Bastards,’ he muttered, and he checked his phone again. Jemma would be on the plane soon, if she was getting on it, if she wasn’t someone’s prisoner, if she wasn’t . . . He closed his eyes and mumbled a prayer. Please, he directed his thoughts towards the harsh blue cloudless sky, beyond which he hoped a white-bearded God was listening. Please let them be all right. Look after my baby, and I promise . . . what would he promise? That he’d never take another job away from home? That he’d . . .
‘Dan?’ It was a woman’s voice. Dan snapped open his eyes. ‘Sorry to interrupt but I just wanted to let you know, it’s fine to take the Land Rover if you want to pick Jemma up from the airport yourself.’ It was the director’s wife and she had her baby in a pushchair. ‘Here are the keys,’ she dangled them for him, ‘and tell her, well, I’m just along the corridor from you, so I’m sure we’ll meet.’
Dan nearly put his arms around her. ‘Thanks so much.’ He took the keys.‘I can’t believe . . . I mean . . . it’s hard to imagine them actually arriving. You know what I mean?’
‘I know,’ she laughed. She bent down to adjust her baby’s bonnet. It was white today with an embroidered trim. ‘Sometimes I can’t really believe we’re here.’
She pointed across the tented city. ‘The car’s over there. The green one. I put a baby seat in the back. See it?’
‘Yes.’ Dan thanked her again. He’d have liked to have stayed talking but he couldn’t think of anything else to say. He couldn’t tell her about the phone call. Didn’t dare see her reaction in case it was bad. ‘What?’ Her eyes might fly open, and his bruised body would turn to jelly and his hands, already trembling, would begin to shake.
The car jumped forward when he turned the ignition. Some idiot had left it in gear. He tried to breathe, steering the four-wheel drive slowly past the maze of other vehicles, tanks and props and trailers. Eventually he was out through the gates and on to the dirt track that turned to tarmac and led onwards to the airport. It was half past six and the town was already closed. The shops, which seemed mostly to sell furniture, cheap wardrobes and three-piece suites, were all shut up. There was nowhere to buy clothes, or food, that he could see, and only three places to eat. A glass-and-steel coffee shop that sold fizzy drinks and waffles, a dingy pizza place where he’d waited an hour once while they defrosted some fish, and one smart restaurant where every dish came with a ‘panache’ of vegetables and a ‘drizzle’ of extra virgin olive oil, and even the bread was baked with paprika and garlic. Maybe he’d take Jemma there, and they could laugh over the menu. Maybe . . . There were very few cars on the road. He was still in his uniform. He hadn’t had time to change, but it felt good to drive without a camera trained on him. Maybe he and Jemma could hire a car one Sunday and set off on a trip. They could get a baby seat of their own and head out across the desert. Dan turned off the road and pulled up in the car park. There were a few other cars already there and a scattering of people waiting in the oblong building. The runway stretched before them and he remembered how surprised he’d been four weeks before, getting off his plane and finding the mini-van that was there to collect him parked just yards away. He breathed in the sharp air. Dust and cold and space. Africa. He could feel the vastness of the continent stretching away on every side. A speck appeared in the distance. Everyone tensed, squinting, shading their eyes as it turned into a plane. Soon the roar of its engines could be heard as it rattled through the sky. Its wheels were out, its nose pointed earthward, and for a moment the plane seemed to be racing towards them, suicidal, as they stood huddled together at the glass. But just in time it landed, screaming as it hit the ground.
Dan forgot about his bruised leg, the possible cracked rib, the ache in his coccyx as he rushed out on to the runway. The staircase was attached, the door was opening, and the passengers began to appear. Three African businessmen, a big raw Boer, a family with teenage children and then Jemma, Honey in a sling, her eyes fixed on the metal steps as she climbed down.
Dan stood where he was. He saw her look around, take in the dome of the darkening sky, the low arrivals hall, their bags already being unloaded onto the ground. He took a step forward, but she didn’t recognise him. ‘Jem,’ he called, and he saw her start, and imagined for a moment what she must be seeing. A soldier in brown camouflage, his face smeared with real and fake blood, the edges of his moustache hanging down like a bedraggled moon. ‘Dan?’ And she was in his arms.
‘You’re all right,’ he held her. ‘Thank God, you’re all right.’
‘But you . . .’ she put a hand up to his face. ‘What happened? What happened to you?’
‘Shhhh.’ He kept her close, their baby’s warm, padded body between them, and they stood there on the tarmac as the last of the passengers trailed by.