Poppy Day (30 page)

Poppy watched him survey the damage as she leaned against the wall; there was nothing that she could say, no words of solace. Martin could see the reality before him, any condolence would only have served to patronise.

‘Look at the bloody state of me, Pop.’ His voice was still a hoarse mumble. His tears fell again unchecked. He ran his hand over his face and head, his tears abated as anger took over. He was mad that his wife had to witness him like this. It was no accident, someone had made him look this way, someone had so changed his life and his luck that he looked into the mirror and didn’t know who he was.

‘What have they done to me, Pop?’ There were other, endless questions. What right did someone have to do this to a human being? What right did anyone have to bend a human being to their will, to deny them freedom and play with their mind? Why had it happened to him? To them?

Martin knew that as far as his captors were concerned, he wasn’t a person and if he wasn’t a person, then what was he? What was less than a person? When he thought about the answer to that question, he wasn’t just angry, but filled with frustration and rage.

‘Baby, I don’t want to rush you, but we have to get going, we have to get out of here.’ Her tone was urgent, despite her attempt to soothe.

Martin was embarrassed to be so weak; he stumbled and teetered like a toddler. Poppy had to prop him up. He found it hard to accept that she was there. He had a fear that at any moment he might open his eyes from a drug-induced state and she would be gone, and he would be back on that mattress. He shook his head as though this would help clear the fog, help him find the reality.

Martin’s eyes darted around, trying to take in every small detail; it was the novelty of not having his eyes covered as he moved. He tried to memorise the layout, any detail that might help identify where he had been held and by whom; his training kicked in.

Poppy thought about the last time she had trod the stairs, she had been different. It had been before… before… There was no time to think about it, to mourn or reflect; they weren’t safe yet.

The two ventured out into the hallway, fake Zelgai and one of the guards from the previous day were waiting with
blindfolds
. Once again they were marched conga-style, with Martin leaning heavily on Poppy’s frame, until they were guided into a car, which, by the echo of their footsteps, sounded as though it was parked in a garage. Poppy couldn’t be sure, but it felt like the same car that had delivered her and Miles the previous day. She couldn’t believe that it was only the day before – it felt like a lifetime ago. Poppy thought about Miles then, praying that he was OK. She said a lot of prayers over that twenty-four-hour period, not all of them were answered.

Martin and his wife sat close together on the back seat. Poppy was comforted by the fact that she could feel his thigh against hers. She thought about the times they had sat on their sofa watching the telly with their legs touching, at home, safe and sound. Twenty minutes passed and their blindfolds were removed. It was the first proper opportunity they had to look at each other in the light. Poppy was newly shocked by her
husband’s
deterioration; he looked like an old man or a tramp, someone that you wouldn’t choose to sit in close proximity to. He kept shaking his head, as though he couldn’t believe that she was there. Every time he did this, she gripped his hand as if to confirm that she was real, by his side and that she always would be. His eyes screwed shut every time she squeezed. She thought it was high emotion, unaware that his finger was broken and every time she applied pressure he was in agony.

Despite having so many unanswered questions, the two were strangely quiet, both acutely aware that they were in the custody of his captors, more specifically,
their
captors, with their big guns. Although unspoken, both shared the fear that they would not be delivered safely to the base, anything could still happen.

Poppy didn’t fear death at that moment. If those were to be her last minutes, then she was glad to have had the chance to see Martin and feel his arms around her one last time. She figured that if her one last act had been to show her husband how much she loved him by attempting his rescue, then that would be no bad thing.

Martin, although outwardly calm, was gripped by a new terror. What if they didn’t take them back? What if they were driving them into the desert to kill them? He thought of Aaron, he pictured what they did to his friend and he pictured them doing it to Poppy. Aaron’s last moments were vivid in his mind, but it was Poppy’s face that stared back at him, her expression pleading with him to do something, anything to help her… His stomach lurched. He knew it would be his own private hell on earth. He couldn’t stand the thought of it. He would have pleaded, begged, he would have done anything. Courage and dignity in death would not have entered his head; it would all have been about saving his Poppy. They could do what they liked to him, but he couldn’t let anyone lay a finger on Poppy.

The silence was a welcome balm.

The road started to look familiar and, sure enough, as Poppy squinted into the daylight, she could see the edge of the camp. It was tiny and high up in the distance, reminding her of
mud-coloured
Lego. It looked wonderful. She felt a surge of hope and relief that they were going to make it. They were going home.

When Martin saw the camp in the distance he knew that it was nearly over. He felt himself breathe for the first time. His muscles started to unclench.

The car slowed and stopped some way outside the base. The guards were almost polite, opening the doors and standing aside, before driving off without a word. Martin thought it strange, after all that they had done to him, all he had been through, they simply got into the car and left. Naively, he would have liked some reconciliation or explanation. There they stood, husband and wife, not speaking, not moving. It was a mixture of shock and relief. It was surreal.

They stood for a minute or two, until Poppy put her arms around Martin’s waist and held him tight. They enjoyed being able to touch without being watched.

‘How did they do it, Poppy? How did the army get you to me? Why did they risk using you? It doesn’t make any sense to me.’

‘They didn’t, Mart. They don’t even know that I’m here.’

‘What d’you mean?’

‘I mean, Mart, that I came by myself. The only people that know I am here are a journalist that helped me, and my nan.’

Martin was thoroughly confused. ‘How? How, Poppy?’ He wobbled again and nearly fell.

‘Don’t worry about it now baby. We have all the time in the world for questions; let’s just concentrate on getting you to a doctor.’

‘Poppy?’

‘Yes, baby?’

He held his hand out towards her. Pinched between his thumb and forefinger was a tiny white feather. ‘I got your feather; it gave me so much hope. Can you look after it for me?’

‘Of course I will.’ She popped it inside the fabric of her jeans pocket. Poppy didn’t fully understand the significance of the talisman, but it had been important enough for Martin to keep and that made it special to her too. Martin’s relief was evident, he could now relax knowing that his feather was in safe hands, her little calling card that she had sent to him when he needed her the most.

The duo was spotted by one of the cameras placed around the edge of the base. A soldier in the observation station alerted his superior. It was an extraordinary conversation that would be traded over a cup of coffee more than once.

‘I think you should take a look at this, sir.’

‘Take a look at what?’ the officer snapped at the young soldier, who seemed intent on disturbing his reading.

‘It appears to be a young white male, in Afghan dress,
supported
by a young white female, in jeans and sweatshirt. They look like they might be dancing or swaying, but certainly laughing…’

The officer abandoned his flask and reluctantly swung his boots off the desk and onto the floor. ‘Swaying and laughing in the middle of the desert, dressed in jeans and a sweatshirt?’

‘Y…Yes, sir, I think…’ The officer’s tone sufficiently filled his subordinate with enough fear to doubt his own judgement.

‘I think you need a better pair of binoculars, soldier!’

‘Yes, sir.’

The officer grabbed the glasses and trained them in the middle distance. ‘What the…?’ It wasn’t often that he was lost for words. ‘Get the quick reaction force out there in the Snatches, immediately.’

The first Land Rover approached them at high speed, slowing as it got closer. Two men, with SA80 rifles trained on them, jumped out of the vehicle and another four took up positions behind them. As they got closer, one of them shouted out, ‘Stop! Stand still and show us your hands! Do not run! Do not move!’

Adrenalin coursed through Poppy’s veins. The soldiers had come out of nowhere, British soldiers, which she assumed meant a friendly welcome. She couldn’t believe that she was at the wrong end of yet another gun.

The soldier shouted again, ‘Do not move! Show your hands!’

Martin fainted. Poppy felt it was her time to respond. ‘Don’t move? You’re having a laugh! Where the bloody hell do you think I’m going to go? I’m stood in the middle of the sodding desert, my husband has fainted and I’m trying to hold him up!’

The two soldiers at the front of the group looked at each other. ‘Who are you?’

‘I am Poppy Day. This is my husband Martin Cricket. I’ve just gone and got him from the ZMO and he is getting very heavy.’

There was a pause while they spoke into their radios. Poppy listened to the crackle and response of distorted voices as she lost her grip on Martin; he started to slip to the ground. One of the soldiers ran forward. The others remained stationary with guns trained over their colleague’s back. ‘Martin Cricket?’ He looked alternately between Poppy and Martin, his expression one of sheer disbelief.

‘Yes, Martin Cricket. I think he’s fainted; he’s not in good shape. Can we get him to a doctor, please?’

The soldier signalled over his shoulder, two of his colleagues ran forward. The pair lifted Martin from her arms and carried him to their vehicle. ‘Did you say you are his wife?’

‘Yep.’

‘His wife?’ he repeated.

Poppy placed her hands on her hips. ‘Yes, I am Poppy, his wife. I came to get him and bring him home because you lot sure as hell can’t be trusted to look after him, look at the state of him!’

‘Are you hurt?’

Was she hurt? She didn’t know what to say, her heart was ripped in two at the sight of her husband. Her spirit had been rendered numb by what she had endured. The state of extreme fear that she had been forced to live in over the last few hours had taken its toll. With the adrenalin subsiding, she was
mentally
exhausted, thirsty and confused.

‘I’m fine.’

‘Stay close to me.’

Poppy walked very close to her armed soldier and smiled. She had been alone and unarmed with a murderer for a number of hours, while his knife smiled at her from the pillow. She had travelled in cars with gunmen capable of killing in remote deserts and he was worried about her walking four feet into an armoured car, whilst surrounded by armed British soldiers.

The two men carrying Martin placed him on the back seat; he was slumped, still unconscious. They were squashed into the first vehicle. One of the soldiers smiled at Poppy. ‘I’m a mate of Martin’s; it’s brilliant to have him back. I can’t believe it.’

‘Did you know Aaron too?’ Poppy didn’t know why she asked. She wasn’t thinking straight.

He nodded.

The vehicle trundled over the sand in silence, all occupants lost in memories, apart from Martin, who hadn’t yet woken up. Poppy almost envied him.

As soon as the Snatch had cleared security, they were driven further into the compound. Martin was rushed off to the medical centre. Poppy ambled from the car to find herself surrounded by people. It was hard to assess the numbers in such a confined space, but it felt to her as if hundreds of people were
approaching
her, all with questions or some just wanting to have a look. She spied Jason Mullen among the crowd. ‘Jason! Is Miles here? Is he OK?’

‘He is OK, Freckles; worried about you, but fine!’

Poppy wanted to cry, but couldn’t, not with all those people around her. She was relieved and so happy, Miles was safe. ‘Will you tell him I’m fine, Jason? And tell him thank you!’

‘I will, Nina!’ He winked at her, any subterfuge clearly forgiven.

This was the point at which Poppy felt most like she had succeeded, mission accomplished. Martin was safe, she was back and Miles was OK. It was wonderful news, the best.

Someone placed their arm on her back and seemed to be pushing her in a particular direction, a soldier leant towards her. ‘Come with me, we will get you checked over and then there are a few people that would like a chat with you.’

‘Sure.’

They entered a large building that still had the air of Portakabin, but was clearly some sort of high-tech
communication
headquarters. There was a bank of computers and large screens on the wall showing Sky news, below them sat rows of telephones. Seven people sat at various desks. One of them she recognised instantly.

Major Anthony Helm was angry. Poppy could tell by the way his face was red and blotchy. She noted how he bit into his lip to stop himself from saying something that he would regret. She did that too and recognised the trick. ‘Mrs Cricket.’

‘I’ve already told you to call me Poppy.’

He ignored her. ‘Are you hurt or injured in any way? Do you need medical attention?’

His clipped tone told her that he didn’t care whether she was hurt or not.

‘No, I am fine. How is Mart?’ As usual she couldn’t give a stuff if she’d offended the major; her only concern was for her husband and his well-being.

‘He is dehydrated, his ribs are badly bruised, he’s broken a finger and cheekbone, but he will live.’

Poppy knew that he meant this literally and not in the way that a civilian might use it. Once again she was relieved. ‘Can I go and see him?’