Chapter Two

DAVE WAS THINKING that if he stayed at the pub late with the lads then by the time he got home Jenny would be asleep and he would find the bedroom dark and her back turned silently towards him and their stupid row would hang around in the air all day tomorrow. He decided to finish his pint and then slither home along the icy streets to make his peace.

But before he could gulp it down, the atmosphere in the pub changed suddenly. All movement stopped.

‘Shhhhh!’ people were hissing.

Then someone roared: ‘Quiet!’

Even the pool game paused so that every neck could wind around towards the big screen on the wall. Usually it showed sports but now there was a news programme. The pub fell completely silent as everyone watched men in desert camouflage jumping into wagons and screaming out of a base somewhere in Afghanistan. Every man in the room recognized, the way he recognized his oldest friend, the Hesco, the wheels turning in hot dust, the contained, focused energy visible on the faces of the soldiers who were leaving base to confront an enemy. Watching them, Dave could almost feel the Osprey on his back.

‘… Prime Minister has given an undertaking to the American President to supply temporary reinforcement from the UK to help tackle the problem. The UK hasn’t yet committed on numbers but it is expected that further troops will be arriving in Helmand within the next few weeks. Meanwhile, despite American efforts, the Taliban is increasing its hold on the area.’

Dave glanced around. All eyes were fixed on the screen. Every man suddenly looked sharp and alert.

‘The reason is clear to see …’ announced the journalist. The picture flickered and suddenly they were in the Green Zone, flying low over huge, irrigated fields.

‘Poppies. Afghanistan is the world’s biggest poppy producer and the resin from these plants will find its way on to the world’s streets, particularly those of Europe and America, as heroin. There is no other crop Afghan farmers can produce which will give them a return like this one, even though growing it is illegal and the risks are high.’

Poppy flowers, blazing red, a few white, filled the screen as though it was on fire.

‘Despite attempts to sabotage it, the indications are that this year’s poppy harvest in Helmand Province will be a bumper one. And that means bumper profits not just for the farmer but for the Taliban, who rely on it for much of their funding. No wonder, then, that the American President sees the war on poppies as a double war – against the illegal drugs industry and against the insurgents.

‘Britain does not take part in the poppy-eradication programme. But while America does so, the Prime Minister has pledged further support by temporarily increasing troop numbers.’

The screen flickered to the next story. A new report suggested that British teenagers were leaving school with a low reading age and a grave-faced journalist stood outside a school gate to discuss this with a head teacher. The soldiers did not move, not even to drink. They remained silent, watching the screen as though hanging on the head teacher’s every word. But not one of them was listening to her. They were all rooted to the spot by the same amazing thought.

‘I’m going to get a job!’ announced Leanne excitedly.

‘Oh! What kind of job?’ asked Jenny. She didn’t want to ruin Leanne’s news by saying that she was looking for a job too.

‘Anything. My favourite is one at the garden centre. I applied for it last week. And the company which makes ammo over by the helicopter base is taking shift workers …’ She took an enormous gulp of wine. ‘Because I’ve made a decision. I don’t have to stay at home and get yelled at by Steve all the time. I can make my own money and spend it how I like. Got any crisps, Jenn?’

Jenny rummaged in a cupboard. At the back she found a bag of spicy tortilla chips and threw them over to Leanne.

‘What about the boys?’ asked Rose. ‘Will you send them to nursery?’

‘Nah, not if you mean that new place everyone’s drooling over. The Magic Cottage. Called that because they magic so much money out of your account into theirs.’ Leanne opened the chips and stuffed some into her mouth. ‘There’s the camp nursery and I’ll pay Adi to take them as well and Steve’s not going off on training like he used to so he might be able to help.’

‘Have you told him?’ asked Jenny.

Leanne shook her head.

‘Nah. I’m going to get a job first and then he won’t have much choice.’

‘But Steve’s not staying in Stores,’ Rose said. ‘He’s telling everyone he’s going back into 1 Platoon.’

‘They’ll never let him with one leg,’ said Leanne. She glanced down at her own hand, full of chips, powdery with spices, as if it belonged to someone else. ‘Eat some, girls!’ she cried. ‘Save me from myself.’

She relinquished the bag only long enough for Rose to dip into it once. Then she grabbed it back again.

‘They might be stale,’ said Jenny apologetically. Leanne did not hear her.

‘Steve’s driving me crazy. He’s always angry about something and mostly he’s angry with the army for not putting him back in the platoon with the other lads. I mean, he’s fucking good with his prosthetic leg, and he’s probably fitter than most of them. But they’re not going to let a P3 go and fight.’

Rose and Jenny looked at each other.

‘Our boys probably won’t be fighting again,’ said Jenny. ‘They’ve only just come back so they’re not supposed to go out there for another two years. And by that time it’ll all have wound down in Afghanistan.’

Leanne was munching chips non-stop. Her hand was on a continuous loop between the bag and her mouth. ‘Yeah, well, they’re all hoping they’ll go back, aren’t they? And they’re soon on spearhead.’

Rose and Jenny looked at each other again. It was one of the most bruising aspects of the men’s return: that within a few weeks they were restless to go back.

‘Spearhead doesn’t mean a thing,’ said Rose. ‘No one ever gets called back out when they’re on spearhead.’

‘It’s only used for emergencies,’ Jenny said.

‘But the army’s really stretched these days,’ Leanne insisted. ‘Steve reckons there’s a possibility the boys’ll go back into theatre. And he thinks he’s going with them, the idiot.’

Jenny shook her head. She knew that companies which had just returned from theatre were given a break and then held on standby to fly back out while they were still a fit, fighting unit. But they were seldom called and she preferred to think the impossible wouldn’t happen.

Rose leaned forward. Her red hair was loosely plaited this evening and the plait flopped forward too. Her face was pink. She spoke in a low, confessional voice.

‘There’s some days I wish they bloody well would go back.’ She looked shocked at her own words but Leanne nodded encouragingly. ‘I mean, Gerry’s been horrible since he got home. Nothing’s good enough. He goes to Tesco for ten minutes and then complains about it for the next three hours. He wears me out. Everything’s more difficult when he’s around. I’d rather just get on and do things for myself now.’

‘Yeah, Steve’s a complete shit nearly all the time these days,’ said Leanne. ‘That’s why I want out of the house.’ She poured more wine. ‘And if they tell him he can go back to the front line, that’s fine by me.’

‘You always said you wouldn’t let him!’ exclaimed Jenny, remembering the couple’s fierce rows when he first returned from hospital.

‘Well, now I have to live with him, I’m more than happy for him to go back into theatre.’

Jenny said: ‘You don’t mean that. You’ve already forgotten what it’s like when they’re away. I wake up every day and know Dave could be coming back in a body bag. Before I even open my eyes I think: Is this the day I’ll get bad news?’

There was a silence.

‘Jenny, we can’t afford to do that,’ said Rose. ‘Or we’d all go mad.’

‘We are all going mad!’

‘Nah! When they get home is when we go mad,’ said Leanne.

Jenny felt herself reddening now. ‘We just hide how we feel when they’re away. We get on with our lives and keep cheerful and chatter to our men on the satellite phone when they ring. But all the time we’re scared. We’re so scared we can hardly look at Agnieszka when we pass her in the car. Because we don’t want to be reminded of what we’re really feeling.’

At the very mention of Agnieszka’s name Jenny felt the atmosphere in the room change subtly. The women had been listening to her words with reluctant recognition but now Rose leaned back, her plait flopping over her shoulder, and Leanne’s face seemed to grow larger as she pressed her chins into her neck with disapproval.

‘No one ever sees Agnieszka,’ said Rose stiffly.

Jenny persisted: ‘Just driving past her house reminds me. Just glimpsing her door, or her car, or Luke’s buggy left in front …’

‘She’s a bitch,’ said Leanne. ‘I don’t want to see her.’

Agnieszka was Jamie Dermott’s widow. Her body all angles, movements swift, head down, she was sometimes spotted at the supermarket early in the morning. Otherwise, she had become invisible. How did she manage this in camp, where everyone watched everyone else all the time? Was it because she reminded people that some husbands don’t come back?

‘Does Dave visit her?’ asked Rose.

‘Tried to. But she wouldn’t let him in.’

‘Typical,’ said Leanne, tutting.

‘So we sat down and wrote her a letter. Dave knocked and gave it to her by hand.’

Leanne looked surprised. ‘She answered the door?’

‘Yeah and she took it but she still wouldn’t let him in.’

‘What did it say?’

‘All about how Jamie died in a really brave way …’ Jenny swallowed. ‘And how it matters a lot that we named the baby after him …’ She felt hot suddenly, as though she was going to cry. She had helped Dave with the letter and even he had fought tears as they worked on it. That was the first time, the only time, Dave had tried to tell her what Afghanistan had been like. And for a few moments she had understood. Briefly, she had experienced it: the heat; the hostility of the terrain; the sullen silence of the people; the fear; the knowledge that a formidable enemy was always there but never seen. An enemy which was fast, merciless and focused on killing someone she loved.

Rose and Leanne watched her closely. Rose swallowed. ‘But Jamie was killed by an RPG. So he must have died really quickly …?’

‘Not quickly enough,’ whispered Jenny. And she took a big, big gulp of wine, throwing back her head so that the others couldn’t see her face.

Leanne said: ‘The rumour is that Agnieszka’s moving back to Poland with her compensation. One hundred and fifty grand. That sort of money’ll go a long way there.’

‘But what about Jamie’s parents?’ asked Rose. ‘They’ll want to know their grandson.’

‘Well, Luke’s never going to be like Jamie, is he? There’s something wrong with that kid and as far as Jamie’s mum and dad are concerned, it’s because Luke’s mum is a slag from Poland.’

Jenny blinked at Leanne.

‘I’m not saying anyone’s told them about that other bloke,’ added Leanne quickly. ‘I’m just saying that they saw her for what she was right from the start.’

Jenny said: ‘We don’t know for a fact that Agnieszka was playing around.’

‘Why are you trying to protect her?’ demanded Leanne. She got up and opened the second bottle, which was waiting in the fridge. Jenny looked at Leanne’s face, redder, rounder and, now, angrier. And Rose’s cheeks looked like bright red apples too, as though something was making her furious or embarrassed or both. That’s how everyone at the camp seemed to feel about Agnieszka. Maybe it was just as well that the Polish girl had decided not to talk to anyone; it had deprived many people of the opportunity to show that they were ignoring her.

Leanne said: ‘She was cheating on her husband while he lay dying, the slag. And no one loved a woman more than Jamie loved her!’

Rose nodded agreement while Leanne finished the tortilla chips and scrunched up the bag in one hand. When she opened her fingers it crackled back to its original shape.

Jenny heard the bitterness in Leanne’s voice. She thought of the way Steve shouted at his wife these days, as though some of his love for her had been blown away with his leg. She remembered how she and Dave had snarled at each other in angry whispers tonight and how the house had rattled as he slammed the door. Gerry and Rose evidently weren’t getting on and even Adi had looked tearful earlier as she pushed the kids through the snow to the playground. And Adi and Sol were a close, loving couple. It was Afghanistan which had done this to them all, as though the fighting hadn’t ended in that faraway, foreign place but had come home with their men.

Angus and Mal did some gaming and had some more beer. Angus was quiet. Then suddenly he said: ‘I’ve got it all worked out, mate.’

Mal waited, watching as Angus’s enormous cheeks narrowed when he pulled on the roll-up. Then he breathed out smoke but he still did not speak.

‘What have you worked out, Angry?’ Mal prompted.

‘How we’re going to deal with your little problem up in Wythenshawe.’

Mal cleared his throat.

‘I told you. They’ve asked me not to do anything and I’m into respecting my parents so …’

‘… so you won’t be doing nothing,’ said Angus.

Mal looked at him and waited while Angus drew on the cigarette again. At last Angry said: ‘You won’t be doing nothing. ’Cos I’ll be doing it.’

‘Eh?’

‘Just listen to it, Mal. There’s some new sprogs starting and they won’t know nothing. I wait until one’s on duty in the guardroom. And then I check a sniper rifle out for cleaning. He won’t know any better. I get up to Wythenshawe, locate the target and do a quick job, and no one guesses there’s a bloke sharpshooting a kilometre from the target.’

Mal stared at him in silence.

‘Well, don’t you want that bastard Aamir dead?’ said Angus.

‘Yeah. But—’

‘They’ll think he’s had a fit or something like that geezer in 3 Platoon last week. So they call an ambulance. Sirens, blue lights. An hour later three doctors are scratching their heads over him before they take him down to the hospital morgue. They finally find the wound and they call the police and the police are still wondering where to start on this one when I’m back in barracks and the weapon’s hanging in the guardroom.’

There was a long silence.

‘Shit,’ said Mal. His face was darkening. ‘Angry, you can’t do that.’

‘Why not? You said you’d go up there and fight him if you could, right? You said you’d like to kill him, right?’

Silence. Then: ‘But I—’

‘Mal, don’t go chicken on me, I’ve thought it all out.’

‘I’m not chicken. But it won’t work.’

‘Why?’

‘Well, first because you can’t get a clear fucking one-kilometre shot at World in your Lounge even if the target’s right outside, because there’s going to be too many cars and people and shops and things in the way.’

Angus frowned. ‘Well, I don’t have to be so far from the target.’

‘And the next thing is that they’ll call the police as soon as they see the blood. It won’t take three doctors in white coats half a day to work that one out.’

‘Yeah, but there’ll be confusion and mayhem and by the time they’re looking for a man with a weapon, I’ll be far away and getting farther every fucking minute.’

‘You’ll be inching down the motorway in a traffic jam at one mile per hour. You can only check weapons out of the guardroom for six hours. Fuck it, Angry, it can take more than six hours just to get up the M6 sometimes, let alone back again.’

‘That’s why we need a new sprog on duty. We tell him I’ve forgotten to clean the weapon and I’m out for a run and he has to cover for me until I can get it back. And new sprogs can’t argue with us.’

‘No! It still won’t work!’ Mal was breathless. His skin colour had changed again and now was several shades whiter than usual. ‘If they find the round then they can identify you.’

Angus shook his head. ‘No fucking way!’

‘It’s true! Every round tells a story. That monkey woman who was out at FOB Senzhiri told me that. She’s investigated a shitload of deaths and they get ballistics guys in who work out which weapon it was fired from. The barrel of your weapon marks the round. That’s how they ID them.’

Angry knitted his brows together.

‘Hmmm. Well, we could throw the weapon in the river and then say it got nicked.’

‘No, no, no! Because if they traced the round to the weapon and it had been checked out for cleaning, they’d link you to me and me to Aamir … Fuck! Shit! Angry, it’s a crazy idea!’

He saw his friend’s face fall.

‘Although,’ Mal added, ‘it’s brilliant. And only like …’ He faltered. ‘Only … like … a really good friend would offer to do that for someone. But it’s too fucking risky. You could spend the rest of your life in jail. A really good friend wouldn’t let you take that risk.’

‘Listen, mate,’ said Angus. ‘This Aamir bloke could kill your brother and your mum and dad. If I get the plan right, he’s out of the way, your family’s safe, and no one knows who sorted it. The plan’s basically sound, it just needs a few modifications.’

Mal started to protest again but at that moment someone came in. Streaky Bacon stood in the doorway, grinning at them broadly.

‘Man, where did you come from?’ they asked.

‘Got a train, got a bus, walked up here from the village, nearly got my dick frozen off so I stopped at the pub.’

‘Have a tin, mate!’ Angus reached under his bed for a lager and then handed another to Mal. Streaky threw down his kit and sat on Angus’s bed. He opened the can and took a long swig in one swift, fluid movement.

‘Binman due back soon?’ Mal asked. Rifleman Jack Binns was Streaky’s closest mate.

‘Nah, he’s sunning himself on some beach with his bird.’

‘Didn’t think you were here for another week either,’ said Mal. ‘Bust up with your girl?’

They watched the smile fade from Streaky’s face. ‘Well, she’s not exactly how I remember. Wolverhampton’s changed since I went away. My bredren are still my bredren but … they’re different, too.’

‘Maybe they’re the same and you’re different,’ suggested Mal.

‘They’ve got, like, really into crack. My girl’s buying it and selling it, even, and she never used to do that. So I’m thinking that she’s doing this thing maybe just so she can get more of it. And then I’m asking myself: What else is she buying and selling for crack?’

For a brief moment Streaky’s features twisted themselves into a rapid caricature of pain and confusion.

‘You do crack, too, Streaky?’ Mal asked.

Streaky nodded.

‘A bit with my girl when I first get home but I’ll be honest, that crack don’t do a lot for me.’

Angus said: ‘I just do booze, me.’

‘I like a bit of weed, though,’ said Mal.

‘Well, yeah,’ Streaky said, ‘but weed’s not a drug, it’s a way of life where I come from. Even my mum likes a nice weed tea.’

Angus said: ‘My mum likes whisky and ginger.’

Mal said: ‘My mum’s a good Muslim. She likes PG Tips and she prays five times a day, and mostly she’s praying that I don’t go back to Afghanistan.’

Streaky’s eyes widened and he looked from Mal to Angus and back again. ‘You two not been watching the TV tonight?’ he asked.

They shook their heads.

‘You don’t know, then? About the troop reinforcements?’

‘What reinforcements?’

Streaky said: ‘We’re on spearhead next month. Right?’

Angus and Mal waited and froze. They couldn’t nod. They couldn’t even blink.

‘Well, the Prime Minister’s promised the President of America to send a load more extra troops because there’s some big fighting on now. To do with the poppies.’

‘More troops? To Afghanistan?’ muttered Mal.

‘And we’re on spearhead?’ murmured Angus.

‘You got it, dudes.’ Streaky smiled happily. ‘It could be us.’

Billy Finn was about to get in his car and drive away from Surrey when the old man offered to buy him a pint.

‘What are you having, lad? It’s not every day I have a winner at sixty-six to one,’ he cackled.

It took a while to order because two blonde women had just walked up to the bar. They were probably race-goers; they didn’t belong in the place. Finny watched them with interest. Middle-aged, probably married to well-off men. But not too old to be attractive.

‘Evening, ladies,’ he said charmingly. ‘Had a good day at the races?’

They muttered something polite.

‘I had a terrible day, didn’t pick a single winner.’ He knew he sounded smooth. The women would never guess he had been born in a caravan.

One of the women, the prettier of the two, was looking sympathetic. ‘Neither did I,’ she said.

‘Did you see the two thirty?’ asked Finn. ‘Wish I’d had a fiver on Asbo Boy. And guess what, my friend here did!’

Now the women looked impressed. The old man grinned toothlessly.

‘I’ve got an eye for a good horse,’ he boasted.

‘Well done,’ said one of the women. ‘Asbo Boy just powered his way through the field.’

‘Wasn’t he sixty-six to one?’ asked the other and the old man nodded in reply.

The barman delivered the women’s drinks.

‘That’s why I insist on paying for your drinks,’ said the old man gallantly, just as Finn had intended him to. Now the women would have to talk to them.

‘How long have you been interested in racing?’ he asked.

‘My ex-husband had a stake in a racehorse,’ the prettier one replied. ‘When we divorced I decided I could do without the husband but not without the horses!’ She laughed and the other woman joined in; she wore a lot of make-up, but she had a hard face and could not hide it. Finny felt his fingers itch. These were wealthy, betting women.

‘You don’t look old enough to be married, let alone divorced,’ the man said, still grinning, still gallant.

‘Maybe the lady was a child bride,’ suggested Finn.

Bull’s-eye. The woman reddened and smiled and looked pleased. ‘I’m no spring chicken,’ she said.

‘I know exactly how old you are,’ Finn told her. His heart was thumping now. The conversation had gone his way even faster than he had hoped.

‘How?’ asked the woman. She had a nice smile.

‘It’s a special gift of mine,’ Finn said.

‘What, telling women their age?’ demanded the old man. ‘I hope you’re better at that than you are picking a horse.’

‘I’m seldom wrong,’ Finn told the pretty woman, just as he had heard his grandfather say to many pretty women many times. ‘A tenner says I can tell your age spot on.’ He turned to the hard-faced woman: ‘And another tenner says I can tell yours.’

Billy Finn’s grandfather worked for a fair and sometimes, as a child, Finn had travelled with him. If his grandfather was short of money he set up a stall and bet women he could guess their age. If he got it wrong he paid up willingly, but he seldom did.

Finny could never understand why so many women played the game. Were they all so desperate for a fiver? Then his grandfather explained that mostly they played because they hoped he would underestimate their age.

He had handed on his tricks to Finn, and whenever Finn needed money, this was a reliable way of obtaining it. But today he didn’t need money. After a bad day at the races, he just wanted the thrill of winning something. And now here was the thrill, here was the heartbeat. He recognized it from Helmand Province.

‘Let’s get this straight. You’ll guess our ages and you’ll pay up if you’re wrong. We pay up if you’re right,’ said the hard-faced woman.

‘That’s about it,’ said Finn.

‘But how do you know we’ll tell the truth?’

‘I’m trusting you.’

There was a pause.

‘Go on then, guess my age,’ said the hard one, and Finn could tell that his grandfather was right; this woman wanted him to underestimate.

He stared hard at her, pretending to study her closely, acting as if this was difficult. When in fact he had already looked at her neck and around her eyes.

After making a show of considering, he decided to flatter her. He said: ‘You only look thirty. But you’re thirty-eight.’

The woman’s face flashed surprise and anger at the same time and with such intensity that he knew he was right. He could feel his face twisting itself into a smile. He tried to repress the grin but it just twisted right out again like a trout from a net.

‘Am I correct?’ he asked the woman politely.

She rolled her eyes and reached for her purse. Finn had been unaware that the whole bar was watching, but now they burst into applause. Finn enjoyed being a showman and he took a bow.

‘Me next,’ said the prettier woman.

The bar fell silent again. Everyone watched him. Finny really did scrutinize this woman, because he wasn’t sure. When he looked at her carefully she seemed very like the other woman, but less worn: he realized for the first time that they must be sisters. The other one had been out there fighting her corner for years; this was the sister who had stayed at home.

Tension grew as he stared at her. The woman’s eyes and neck were giving him different messages. She watched him with a half-smile. He became aware, out of the corner of his eye, that her sister was watching with the same half-smile. There was something about these two that they weren’t saying …

‘You’re not just sisters, you’re twins. So you’re thirty-eight too,’ he heard himself say, before he had time to think about it.

The expression on the women’s faces told him he was right again. Finn felt relief well up inside him and escape as a broad smile. Because his luck had changed. He had lost every bet at the races but now he was winning again. His luck had wheeled around in a sudden, tight circle like the roller coaster where he had sold tickets as a lad.

The bar broke into spontaneous applause, the pretty twin gave him ten pounds and a sweet smile and he decided to use it to buy them both a drink.

He was doing so when he felt his phone ring in his pocket. It was a message.

Get ready you son of a gun looks like we’re fucking out there again! Yes, that’s right lol lol lol

Angus McCall. What was he on about now? If he had to guess, Finn would have thought Angry was trying to tell him they were going back to the FOB in Helmand. He felt his heart thud for a moment. Then common sense got the better of him. Nah. Probably Angry was just texting meaningless, drunken shit.

As he waited for the barman, Finn’s phone rang again, a call this time. He didn’t bother to check who the caller was. It would be Angus, raving incoherently. But he answered it anyway, not liking to admit his longing to hear a familiar voice, even Angry’s.

‘Is that Billy Finn?’

It was someone loud and male, but it wasn’t Angus. Finn was cautious.

‘Maybe it is. Maybe it isn’t.’

‘Doncha know who’s calling you, Billy Boy? And you’re the guy who saved my life!’

It was Martyn! Martyn Robertson! A few months ago the oilman had been one of the most famous faces in the world, flashing up behind newsreaders everywhere. Then, he had been held hostage by the Taliban and with the clock ticking towards his execution, his rescue had been widely credited to the SAS. Luckily Martyn knew whom he really had to thank.

‘I recognized you the moment I heard your voice, Martyn. Are you calling from Texas?’

‘Right now I’m in Texas but soon I’ll be in London staying at the Dorrr-chester Hotel. And you and me and your boys are going to have a wild time. I know I owe you my life and I’m going to show how I grateful I am. I want you to come to London with Dave and Angry and Mal and Streaky and … all of you. The whole section, the whole platoon, all the boys who were out at Senzhiri with me. I’ll be calling your commanding officer and arranging it.’

Amazing how luck worked. You changed one thing and everything changed. Women smiled, you started winning bets, you suddenly got invited to parties at the Dorchester. Maybe England wasn’t so dull after all.

As he delivered some more drinks to the twins, Finn remembered Angry’s mad text. For a minute there he had believed that they were actually going back to Afghanistan and the thought had made his heart leap. Now that would be a real change in his luck. But Angry was probably just trying to tell him about the party in London.