Poppy Day (29 page)

He spoke so quietly that his words were barely audible; she had to really concentrate to hear. ‘If you say his name, speak again, cry or flinch, I will cut you.’ He then reached into the top of his pyjama bottoms and pulled out a very shiny,
silver-coloured
knife with an ivory handle. He placed it on the pillow and told her to lie down.

Poppy couldn’t breathe properly. She could only breathe in shallow pants; unable to get a lung full of air. It was as if he was lying heavily on her chest, crushing the air from her, but he wasn’t, not at that point. It was her very own, personal,
made-to
-measure torture. Poppy wondered whether he could read her mind, see her fear.

He kissed her neck and stroked her face with his elegant fingernails. He kissed her for what felt like an eternity. It made her feel nauseous. She had to fight back the tears and
concentrate
on breathing. She didn’t want to be cut. Then she prayed again, inside her head of course, ‘Please, please help me’. But nothing happened. She pictured her heartstrings and she
mentally
pulled them as hard as she could…

Zelgai reached over for his knife; with one hand he held Poppy’s wrists over her head, and with the other he used the blade to cut away the thin fabric of the nightdress. The material fell against her naked skin in ribbons. She was trembling. It was worse than Poppy could have imagined. Her nudity, the feel of his hands and face against her skin was more of an ordeal than what came next, much worse. The worst of it was the
combination
of intimacy and close contact, her greatest fears brought to fruition, her nakedness, his hands on her skin and his mouth against her neck…

Poppy didn’t sleep at all that night. Not once did she close her eyes, the pull of the moon could not lull her into slumber. She was wide awake, alert and yet strangely vacant. Zelgai left at some point. He crept from the darkness, furtive, rat-like, but Poppy couldn’t have told you when. She thought he might have set a trap and was waiting for her to fall into it. She was
paralysed
and lay unmoving, expecting him to come back, dreading him coming back; yet if he was coming back, wanting it to be soon to get it over and done with, anything to take her closer to the morning.

P
OPPY HAD WATCHED
the purple bruise of night fade to the softer, pinky hue of daylight. The door opened, indicating morning. A flunky came in carrying a silver tray with a drink and bread roll on it. Poppy didn’t want anything, only the chance to leave and to take Martin with her. It was a strange reversal for Poppy. She had wanted nothing more than to see her husband for so long, yet, at that point in time, the idea of Martin seeing her was horrific. She felt sure that she was changed, physically marked in some way. The man also carried her clothes which had been washed and dried. Poppy looked at the pile of her possessions, the jeans and sweatshirt, items that reminded her of her life, clothes that had felt the touch of her nan’s hand, soaked up the spills and splashes of food cooked in their home and bore the sweat of every mile she had walked in pursuit of her husband. They were now tainted. She knew that as soon as she was able, she would throw them away; the very sight of them offended her. Where they had been, and who had handled them, was ingrained in the fabric and would always be enough to transport her back to that room.

He placed everything on the table without acknowledging Poppy. She swung her leaden limbs from the bed and slipped into the bathroom. She ran the shower, watching the water cascade, listening to the sound of it hitting the tiled floor. She looked down at her body and knew that she was altered. It was as if part of her had been taken, a vital piece that made her the shape she was, that made her Poppy Day. It was gone forever. This made her so sad. She was broken. Poppy knew that no matter what happened from then on, those hands and that face against her skin would always be but a blink away in her thoughts. Without warning she threw up, her vomit splattered into the shower tray. At that moment, Poppy truly would not have cared if he had come back and killed her. She felt like she had died inside.

Standing under the shower, her shock subsided somewhat and she cried. She had been spoiled for Martin. She had done it for him, without option or consent, but these facts seemed
irrelevant
, she had the most awful feeling that the cost had been too high.

It occurred to Poppy as she scrubbed at the stain of Zelgai’s violation, that she had often spoken and thought about the cost of getting Martin safely back. In the most bitter and ironic of twists, she had become the currency. She was the price that had been paid.

Poppy sat on the bed in her freshly laundered jeans, trying to gather her thoughts, trying to hold it all together. Her tears stopped eventually. The tray man came back, gesturing with a flick of his head that she should follow him.

Poppy was shown along a corridor to a wooden door that looked like all the others apart from the two guards outside, both armed. One of the men she recognised as the fake Zelgai from yesterday. She bit the inside of her mouth to stop from quizzing him about Miles, still unaware of his fate. She couldn’t look at him directly, figuring he would know where and how she had spent the night; yet, he seemed totally disinterested in her.

Tray man stopped outside the door. Fake Zelgai nodded to him before turning to Poppy. ‘Your husband is in here. Be ready to go in half an hour.’ He delivered his words above her head into the middle distance, as if she was dirty, contaminated. She wanted to say to him, ‘You are right, I am both!’

Poppy stared at the door handle. Could this really be it? Was it possible that there was only four or five centimetres of wood separating her and her husband? She felt a swell of excitement in her stomach, despite the tempest that raged inside her. The fake Zelgai said something to the guard; he opened the door, stepping aside to let her pass. Poppy flattened her fringe against her head and pulled her sweatshirt down; she wanted to look as nice as she possibly could for Martin.

The room was dim and smelt fusty, as if men had slept in it for a while with all the windows shut. Poppy fought the desire to gag. There was another armed guard on the other side of the door, which made her smile; the situation was absurd. Martin had never been a scrapper; even she could wrestle all five foot seven of him to the floor and get him to submit with some
strategic
tickling. What did they think he was going to do against at least two armed guards? Poppy looked around the room. It was sparse but clean enough; not quite the bug-infested hellhole that she had pictured and for that she was relieved and grateful.

Her eyes were drawn to a man asleep on a bare mattress. Poppy studied him in the shadowy light. She didn’t recognise him. He was skinnier than Martin, had the beard growth of a man that hadn’t shaved for a month, and when she got closer his stench was overwhelming. It was a combination of sweat, faeces and the acrid nasal sting of ammonia. She was now inches from the face, a face that was smashed, covered with blood, crusted sores and pus. It was disgusting, but it was, at close range, unmistakably the face of her beloved husband.

His mouth was swollen, bloody and open slightly. His breath was a rattly snore. Poppy could see that some of his teeth were missing. This made Jenna flash into her mind: ‘See, Pop, should have gone for that insurance. I told you that his teeth would be buggered.’

Dried blood filled his nostrils, his eyes were a mess. Her heart jumped in her chest, he was hurt, injured. Her poor man, her baby. What had they done to him?

Poppy hadn’t planned what she would say or how she would say it. Thoughts rushed into her mind at that point. Had he been drugged? Would he recognise her? How badly was he hurt? Had he broken anything? Would it be too much of a shock? She had no option other than to trust her instinct. She sat gently on the edge of the bed. His mouth closed slightly; his profile, while battered, was that of the face that she’d loved since she was a little girl.

She put her hand out and stroked his hair away from his forehead. It was hard and sticky, a combination of blood and sweat. Her voice was almost a whisper, ‘It’s OK, baby. I am here, Mart, and I have come to take you home.’

As he slept, his mouth twitched into the beginnings of a smile. Still he didn’t move. Poppy spoke a little louder, aware that they had to leave in half an hour. ‘Mart, it’s me, it’s Poppy. We are going home, baby.’

Poppy hoped her words would filter through and be real to him. She touched his beard, which seemed to be full of scabs; it hurt him slightly, causing him to flinch.

Martin had slept quite soundly, which was unusual. The guards, which they doubled up at night, had thankfully been quiet. Some evenings they would gabble away, or take it in turns to sleep, which was even worse; a couple of them were real snorers that kept him awake with their wheezing and snorting. To get lumbered with that at night when you were tired was bloody awful.

Martin had his favourite dream. He dreamt that he was woken by Poppy. He could tell it was Poppy by her touch and smell. She was stroking the hair away from his forehead and saying his name. He could hear her gentle voice, ‘Mart… Mart… It’s OK, I’m here, I’m right here.’

The sound of her voice and the touch of her fingers against his skin made him so happy. It felt so real, he could feel her, sense her. It made him miss her so much that he wanted to cry. He didn’t want to open his eyes and lose the image. It usually ended there, but today it was different. ‘Open your eyes, baby. It’s all over, I am here and I have come to take you home.’

Martin didn’t open his eyes because he didn’t want to lose her. The words, the very idea was so wonderful that he wanted to hang on to her for as long as possible. He would then spend the whole day remembering every little aspect of the dream. He felt her hand on his face; his beard was pulling on his skin where she was stroking it. It hurt. Martin thought it was odd, he didn’t usually feel this irritation in his dream. It made it feel even more real.

Martin opened his eyes slowly and it was as if she was right there! He could see her so clearly perched on the edge of the bed, her beautiful freckles and her toffee-coloured hair. She was in her sweatshirt and jeans. ‘I’ve come to get you, baby; it’s all over.’

Martin thought he was mad. He considered his hallucination and the realisation scared him. He thought that he’d finally lost the plot. He could see and feel her, but it wasn’t possible, he knew it wasn’t possible, so the only other possibility was that he had finally lost his mind. He looked at the guard who raised his hand and then stepped outside the door, leaving them alone.

The vision spoke to him again, ‘It’s all right, baby… It’s all over, I’ve come to take you home.’

He looked at Poppy, but didn’t see her; he was in fact looking through her. Poppy was unnerved by his expression, it was a look of madness and the look of someone that was unsure of what was reality. A person that had seen too much.

The two sat for a couple of minutes; he staring in disbelief and she cooing and stroking his skin, coaxing and reassuring. Martin tentatively reached out, like a small child, enraptured by the thrill of bubbles blown for their amusement. He blinked and it was as if something clicked. He sat up, and with trembling fingertips ran them over the curve of her jaw, her lips.

‘Aaaaaaagh!’ His release was a guttural, primal wail.

He allowed himself to believe that she was real. He
continued
to howl in a loud cry that seemed to go on forever; he couldn’t help it. He sat looking at her with tears running down his face and into his mouth. He made the most awful sobbing noise, a cross between a scream and a gurgle. He was a
drowning
man; he couldn’t stop it.

He pulled her into his chest and held her as tightly as his unconditioned arms would allow. Poppy lay her head in the curve of his shoulder, it felt like Martin, it felt like her husband. He crushed her to him and the two sat locked together. He cried into her hair. Martin knew that he would never fully be able to describe exactly what it felt like to feel her body against his, to smell her, to hear her voice, it was… magic.

Martin couldn’t stop the tears that soaked into her hair and clothes. She too cried with unrestrained emotion. They sat like that for some minutes, trying to fully comprehend that they were together, that it was all nearly over.

Poppy drew away and looked into his face.

‘Help me, Poppy, help me.’ His voice was cracked, his tone beaten.

Poppy knew there and then that she had done the right thing. She knew that, in spite of everything, in spite of
everything
, she had been right to go and get her husband.

Martin could hardly speak. He kept repeating her name, ‘Poppy… Poppy…’ and then ‘Help me… help me, Poppy.’

She could only respond with, ‘It’s OK, baby, I have come to take you home.’ He believed her, without question, he believed her. She was real and he knew that she had come to take him away from this prison.

Poppy was desperate to be out of that house and heading back to safety. She was conscious of not hurrying Martin too much, but also didn’t want there to be hitches. She had been told that there was transport leaving in half an hour and, no matter what, they were going to be in it, on it, or riding it, whatever it was.

She helped Martin walk into the bathroom adjacent to the room. He was wobbly on his legs, as weak as a lamb. She hated seeing him like that, but was glad that she was the one there to help him. She thought about the vows that they had giggled through, ‘in sickness and in health’. Martin shook his head at her, they laughed at the ludicrous situation and it was good to see him smile. His breath, however, was disgusting, reminding her of rotting meat, but with a sickly sweet undertone; it was repellent. Poppy did her best not to show him.

She hated the fact that he was wearing traditional Afghan clothing. It made him look like them. She knew that it was a small point, not one to be discussed; her priority was to get him to safety, to medical care and then home. When they got home, he could tell the army what they could do with their job and they would start over. She had it figured out, a plan for their future.

She thought about the green spaces that she had seen around Brize Norton; it was another world and one that she wanted them to explore. It was just what they needed, a new start in the countryside where they could have babies and keep them all safe, a good place to make their little family.

Martin was still amused by the novelty of a bathroom. Poppy had no idea that he had only been moved there recently and couldn’t understand how excited he was to see that room. There was a proper loo, which Martin found painful to sit on. He had been kicked and smacked across the buttocks and lower back, his bones still ached. He’d lost a lot of weight and sitting on the porcelain, with his weight pushing down on his bony bottom, felt quite painful. He smiled; after spending so long dreaming about sitting on a proper loo it hurt so much that he almost longed for his trusty bucket.

Ordinarily, this small disappointment would have further broken his spirit, but not today, today was one of joy. Martin walked over to the little sink in the corner. There was a small rectangular mirror screwed to the wall. He glanced into it and physically jumped backwards. He looked behind him to see who had come into the bathroom, but there was no other man there. He looked back slowly – it took a second or two for him to realise that it was his own face that he was looking at. He could never have imagined looking into a mirror and not recognising his own face; the idea and the reality were both shocking.

He had a thick beard. Having only ever had a weekend’s worth of stubble at most, he looked unkempt. His long whiskers held both sores and food. His mouth was a swollen mess, bloody and misshapen, thanks to the butt of the Kalashnikov and the hard floor. The teeth that hadn’t fallen, or been knocked out, were stained and vile. His left eye drooped slightly. Martin was blissfully unaware that the infection he had contracted would permanently damage his sight. He ran his fingertips over the eyes that were red and oozing; one was bruised black and yellow, another memento from his recent fall. His hair was longer than he was used to seeing it and stood on end like tiny rats’ tails; it, like the rest of him, needed a good wash.