Poppy Day (24 page)

Kuwait was hot and smelt foreign, different. Despite having seen hundreds of men dressed in every type of regional costume from all over the world within five feet of her own front door, Poppy found the men in Arabic garb fascinating. It was the first time that she had been the foreigner.

Miles checked regularly on his charge, assuming a brotherly role that both were comfortable with. It made her feel safe. This was a feeling that was not to last much past the next
twenty-four
hours. They boarded the Hercules in full body armour and helmets, which for Poppy felt bizarre, uncomfortable and restrictive; as though she was dressing up or playing a part, which was funny because, of course, that was exactly what she was doing. She may have looked like Nina Folkstok, hardened war journalist on the outside, but on the inside she was most definitely Poppy Day, shit-scared hairdresser from Walthamstow.

I
T SUDDENLY WENT
dark, not pitch black, but the light was minimal, just enough to make out shadow and form. Poppy felt a new level of scared, she was terrified. She had a scale for fear that was concerned, alarmed, scared, frightened, terrified and petrified. She thought she was as scared as she possibly could be, but within a few days of her arrival, would discover a whole new level of fear, where you almost wished for death because the escape would be better than the degree of terror you were experiencing.

They were packed like lambs in transit, only they weren’t standing on the slippery floor of a moving truck, but were instead strapped into seats. The seatbelts were woven canvas, harness-like; the sort of thing Poppy could imagine wearing if she were parachuting. Poppy and Miles were clad in body armour and helmets as per their instructions. Those that carried weapons had them clamped between their knees or placed in the racks behind the seating that lined the walls. Poppy hated seeing the guns, being so close to them.

She closed her eyes and once again had the vision of when Martin was taken. She saw it quite clearly, his tanned face, his desperate tone, ‘Over here! Jonesy! I’m over here!’ His eyes wide, with the whites around his iris exposed. He looked
petrified
. Again she saw the blow to the stomach, and then nothing but darkness and quiet. Poppy was jolted back to the present. She didn’t want to picture his capture, not then.

At the back of the plane were two large metal pallets on rails, with bags and equipment strapped under taut cargo nets. They looked like captured beasts; irregular shapes straining under their ropes, two giant bundles waiting to be launched. The plane suddenly jerked to the right, then immediately to the left and then back to the right, zigzagging in the air in a jumpy, uncontrolled way. It was, of course, neither of these things, not jumpy or random in any way, but carefully planned in its
execution
. It took a huge amount of skill to fly the cumbersome behemoth in that way.

Miles reached across and took her hand. Despite her dislike of physical contact from strangers, she was very glad to know that there was someone else there in the dark. There were nearly a hundred or so occupants being thrown this way and that, but despite being in a large group, Poppy felt alone. She felt lonely as well as scared.

He squeezed her hand slightly in a very reassuring way and she smiled in the darkness. The plane was silent, apart from the obvious engine noise and the creaks and groans of the metal. There were no human noises, no talking, no moving and hardly any breathing. The atmosphere was electric. It was better that Poppy was unaware that the darkness and manoeuvring were to avoid any insurgent’s tracking device that may be watching and waiting for their arrival.

Poppy considered the silence and how it felt. It’s easy to be silent when you are alone, but she had never been in a situation before where there was a communal silence; it made it more eerie, more special. She suspected that mass worship must be similar, but the only sombre service she had ever attended was on Remembrance Day and her experience was very different. It was never solemn, meaningful or an opportunity to ‘
remember
’. It was always, always more about avoiding the comments, waiting for the next joker to say something that she had heard a million times before. It was always far from special and was completely crap for her, actually.

The mass hush was for a number of reasons. It was certainly the first time that the situation became real, dropping and swerving in a dark plane over a war zone. For those that had never been on tour before it was a sobering moment, realisation that there was no going back. They had arrived, but were they ready?

For those that had experienced it before, the banter and excitement of the travelling was over as realisation dawned that it would be a very long time before they were on a plane heading in the opposite direction, back towards their family and loved ones. This was the primary reason for the noiseless reflection; the collective visualising of those that had been left behind. The wives, husbands, children and parents, the girlfriends and
boyfriends
; all were being missed. The longing had started. It was a dull ache that no letters, emails or phone calls could cure. This was quickly followed by the ‘what if?’ thoughts: ‘What if I don’t get home alive? What if I am home soon but injured? What if something happens while I am away? What if no one misses me or, worse still, fills the gap that I have left? What if I am replaced or forgotten?’

When they disembarked from the Hercules, Poppy was overwhelmed by strong emotions. She was euphoric, wide awake, excited, nervous and full of energy. She had to stop herself from running forward and shouting at the top of her voice, ‘I am coming, Mart! Hang in there, baby, I am on my way!’ She felt so close that he would be able to hear her. She had done it; she had managed to get to Afbloodyghanistan!

She put her hand in her mouth to stop the shouts and whoops from escaping; such was her joy and excitement. She wanted to run up to every soldier and say, ‘Do you know Martin Cricket? Do you know where he is? It’s all right, you can tell me what you know, I’m his wife!’ It was still a few hours before she realised that she didn’t have a plan and that she was in danger, but in those first few hours of arrival, it was really incredible.

When Poppy had sat in The Unpopulars with her nan,
thinking
that she should go and get her husband back, she didn’t think beyond getting to the country in which he was being held. If she was being totally honest, she didn’t think that she’d get that far. How would she? No passport, no money, no transport, no friends and no legitimate reason to be there. It was such a huge and impossible task that she daren’t believe that she would arrive. Yet there she was, only eighteen hours after closing her front door.

She shook her head and thought about her achievement; she had got through passport control and security with an assumed identity, been given food, drink and protection, had flown there on a military plane and made a friend who would help her in ways that she couldn’t even begin to imagine. As for a
legitimate
reason, what better reason could there be other than to bring her husband home?

Poppy wanted to see everything; wanted to ask a million questions. She was abroad, she was in a war zone, but, most critically, she was in the place where her husband had lived and worked up until a couple of weeks before. It was all-consuming; amazing and scary all at the same time. She desperately wanted to see where Martin had slept. She would have liked to touch his things, place her head on his pillow or against his clothing to see if she could smell him, but of course she could do none of these things because she was Nina Folkstok, impartial
journalist
from Denmark.

Minutes after leaving the plane, things happened very quickly. It felt like organised chaos. Poppy’s nostrils filled with the smell of jet wash and the baked clay of the earth. Despite the hour of the night, it was still uncomfortably hot. Hundreds of people milled around, yet the groupings were not
indiscriminate
, there were queues of sorts. Poppy and her party were whisked into the terminal. Large groups of soldiers were taken off into side rooms, briefed then shipped from the airport to the base in buses, like the ultimate school trip. Civilians were being met by minibus or private cars. Some of them were contractors, working for security companies, or engineers off to help with the infrastructure, logistics or military support. Poppy stared after them, truly unable to understand why they would go out to a place like that unless they absolutely had to. The money was good, agreed, but the possibility that they too might be forced to go through what she and Martin were going through was a price that was too high. What amount of money was worth losing your life or liberty for?

Poppy shadowed Miles like a child nervous of being
separated
from its mum.

He turned to her. ‘Are you all right, Nina?’

She nodded, knowing that he was checking she was OK, but also reminding her to stay in character.

The journalists were taken into a room for a briefing; the soldier that delivered the session seemed tired, fed up at having to repeat the same information on a daily basis. His voice was flat, he sounded bored and uninterested. He informed them if the siren sounded, when it sounded, they should respond by getting as flat as they could on the ground as quickly as
possible
. Body armour and helmets, if not being worn, were to be kept to hand at all times. Poppy listened intently to the fact that they would receive daily briefings and military personnel would be made available who would act as their media buddies, guides and protectors. Poppy prayed that none of them would be Danish nationals; she knew she couldn’t get by for long by repeating West Jutland and nodding.

The journalists were a group to which Poppy started to mentally align, believing her assumed role, although her mission was slightly different to everyone else’s. The group was herded on to a separate bus and taken into the camp. The Media Centre was where they would live and work for the duration of their trip.

Miles sat next to her on the bus. ‘How are you doing?’

‘I’m all right, actually. A bit nervous, but I’m fine.’

He smiled his lovely open smile that crinkled up his eyes and changed his whole face from serious to happy. ‘That’s good to hear. There are a couple of things that I wanted to say. Firstly, don’t talk to too many people, far better they think you are serious and aloof than blow your cover.’

Poppy laughed out loud because he had said ‘blow your cover’. It sounded so hilarious and, once again, she felt as if she was in some crappy spy movie.

‘Poppy, this is not a joke, you will be in serious danger if you do not do and say exactly what I tell you. Do you understand?’

His reprimand made her tears gather. Her emotions were extreme, strong feelings at either end of the spectrum hovered near the surface, one minute laughter, the next crying. Poppy was unaware of how much danger she was in and didn’t fully appreciate how much danger she was placing others in. It still felt like a spontaneous adventure, making her sound naive, juvenile and, with the glorious gift of hindsight, she would admit she was a bit of both. OK, a lot of both.

‘I’m sorry, Miles. I promise I will do what you tell me. I’m grateful for all your help.’

‘As I’ve said, don’t talk to too many people and, secondly, when you encounter anyone new, tell them you were a student in London and that’s where your accent comes from, OK?’

Poppy nodded. ‘OK.’

‘Good. Finally, keep close to me and keep in regular contact because that’s how you will keep safe and that is how we will get you close to your husband. I’ll be the catalyst, Poppy, but if anyone, anyone at all gets a sniff that all is not as it should be, we are both on the first plane out of here and my career is in the shredder. Do you understand?’

‘Yes.’ Although she wasn’t sure that she did fully
understand
, not at that point.

She was waiting for him to tell her more; having hinted that he had the semblance of a plan, she was intrigued when Max Holman and Jason Mullen appeared in the aisle.

‘Hey, aren’t you that award-winning journalist that I read about? Can I have your autograph?’ Max delivered this with a slight American twang.

‘Are you never going to let it drop, Max?’

‘Sure I am, big shot, in about twenty years’ time…’

‘Oh, when you get recognised, you mean?’ Jason quipped in defence of his friend; Max clearly needled him as much as he did Miles.

Jason addressed them both, ‘Well, young lovers, here we are back in theatre. Ah the smell of the greasepaint! The roar of the crowd! Wouldn’t you simply die without Marlowe?’ He
collapsed
onto the empty chair to the other side of the aisle in a mock faint.

Miles laughed, ‘He’s nuts.’

Poppy had turned her attentions to the other side of the window. It was dark, but she could make out rows of tents and makeshift buildings all the colour of dung. Then, beyond the perimeter fence; nothing. Not just a little bit of nothing either, but nothing as far as you could see, they were in the middle of nowhere.

The journos were shepherded off the bus and taken to their accommodation. Poppy’s gait was lumbered; she was still unused to the body armour and helmet that would be her constant companions. The Media Centre was actually just a group of tents. Poppy was freezing; she hadn’t known that as the sun went down and the day slipped into night it would be so cold. She had always pictured this landscape with camels, hot sun and sand. Her teeth chattered in her gums, you would think being born and raised in Denmark she would have been more accustomed to the sub-zero temperatures…

There were approximately ten tents grouped together; each one slept up to five people, although they weren’t full. Poppy was shown to her accommodation. Inside, the tent was divided by what looked like thick mosquito netting, more to give each occupant some private space than to offer any protection. Within each netted area was a cot; a rickety camp bed with a sleeping bag and a pillow folded neatly on the end. To the left of the bed was a hanging canvas rectangle, which unzipped to reveal shelves and a small mirror; Poppy’s own personal space for her meagre belongings. Had she thought about it with any level of sense, she would have packed very differently. It was another subconscious gesture, illustrating the doubt that she wouldn’t get further than the North Circular.

The other beds in the tent were bare and unoccupied; this she registered with a mixture of relief and disappointment. Poppy didn’t want to have to talk to anyone, remembering Miles’s instructions; similarly she hated the idea of sleeping alone, especially in such a strange environment. Miles, Jason and a couple of the others were in the tent opposite. She was glad of their physical proximity, figuring they were only a shout away from coming to the rescue, should the need arise.