Poppy Day (32 page)

Martin’s visitors were restricted; he didn’t get the chance to catch up with many of his mates, which he would always regret. He was informed that Aaron’s body had been recovered and had, indeed, been given the burial that he deserved. Martin took great comfort from this, and hoped that Aaron’s family did too.

He was told the story that they were to stick to at the press conference. He agreed, but was suspicious of how something that everyone was talking about at Bastion was going to be contained, and how exactly they were going to prevent the truth from leaking out. He figured that they knew more about it than he did, so kept quiet. He was so proud of his wife and that was all that mattered to him at that point.

By the time he got on the plane to travel to Brize Norton, Martin had been given a much needed haircut, a shave and
generally
cleaned up. He still looked rough and haunted, but a million times better than when Poppy had found him.

Martin couldn’t believe that he was actually travelling back to England, going home! It was the most wonderful feeling. There had been times in the previous weeks when he had felt sure that he was never going to get back there, or even if he would live to see another day, and there he was, in a clean uniform, with his beautiful wife by his side and he was going home.

It felt wonderful.

So many people in the camp wanted to shake his hand and wish him well. For some it was relief, glad that it hadn’t
happened
to them. You know; the whole statistic thing? If a soldier was taken hostage, let’s say once every three years, then they were safe.

Poppy and Martin were told there would be a press
conference
when they got back, that the media would probably be there, but they had no idea of the scale or the level of interest. The army had no clue either, no idea of exactly what they were dealing with, none at all. It was completely overwhelming.

P
OPPY BARELY REGISTERED
the fact that she was flying; her fourth plane journey had quickly become the ‘usual drill’. She felt nothing but relief to be leaving the arid planes of Afghanistan. The touchdown on British soil was bumpy, nervous titters were audible as the plane skittered for a split second on the wet tarmac. Martin marvelled at the grey drizzle that greeted them, he had never seen weather so beautiful. The party were led off by Colonel Blakemore with Major Helm kowtowing behind him. The Crickets gripped each other’s hands as they walked down the steps to face a sea of people in the distance. Poppy wondered what they were waiting for. It didn’t occur to her that the reception might be for her and Martin.

A car met them on the tarmac. Their destination: a room in the main block that had been set up for the press conference. As the car drove along, flashes from cameras fired through the window, people were waving flags, hands, scarves, anything they had. Some were crying, others cheering. Hand-painted banners and posters read
Welcome home
!
and
Martin our Hero
!
It was complete madness. Martin was excited and
overwhelmed
by the reception. He closed his eyes; it smelt like England, felt like England. People cheered and clapped, they were going crazy. Children were hoisted up by the armpits to see and be seen. They were waving home-made placards as if greeting pop stars. It was incredible, ordinary people had turned out to say hello and wish them well. Martin was humbled by the outpouring; he wanted to thank them all. They were
brilliant
, every single one of them. The faces in the crowd were mainly service families, whose loved ones were on tour and who watched with heavy hearts from the same positions as the coffins returned home, flanked by comrades. For them, Martin was a symbol of hope, something to be thankful for and a reprieve from the burden of worry.

The car snaked its way through the masses. Anthony Helm seemed not to notice the celebration or the sheer numbers; he was distracted, fractious. The party eventually pulled up at the back door of a low building and were led through a narrow corridor. Even Brize Norton personnel craned their heads around office doors to catch a glimpse of the man that got away. They too were seemingly not immune to the furore surrounding the Crickets. Poppy wondered if a certain female security guard was around so she could get a glimpse of the girl that had
travelled
somewhere after all… At the end of the passageway, a door was held open and the two were led up the steps to a podium.

Martin, resplendent in freshly laundered desert fatigues was next to Poppy, with Anthony and the colonel on either side; like the top table they never had at a wedding beyond their means. There were at least eight microphones set up in front of them. Poppy was anxious, but this wasn’t about her; she was there to support her hero, her Martin, who looked pale. He reached for her hand under the table. They knew what was going to happen; Anthony was going to read out a prepared statement, Martin would then answer questions about it. He couldn’t imagine what he was going to say that would be of interest. He also felt like a fake. It was Aaron who was the real hero, and Poppy too; what she had achieved was unbelievable. He needn’t have worried.

It took a while to attain order in the room and for it to fall quiet. The small space was packed with people at different levels. Some stood at the back, the lucky few were on chairs, and even more were crouched down on the floor in front of the podium. All were holding microphones, mobile phones, tiny tape recorders or PDAs, some clutched old-fashioned spiral notepads and pens.

Anthony pulled his tunic taut and shot his cuffs before speaking. Poppy noticed that he was using a strange posher than usual voice, his telephone voice probably. ‘Ladies and gentlemen of the press, I thank you for coming here today on the wonderful occasion of welcoming Private Martin Cricket back home…’ He paused while there was an impromptu round of clapping and cheering. Martin squeezed his wife’s hand tighter, squashing her fingers.

‘…we are, of course, entirely grateful for the interest and immense support that the British public and media have shown for this story, and we are delighted that Martin is safe and well, here with us today. We would like to confirm that after weeks of negotiation, it was a Special Forces operation on the ground that made this remarkable rescue possible…’

Major Helm was part way through his statement. Martin was aware of a cheer every time his name was mentioned. He was busy thinking about the questions he might get asked, when utter chaos broke out.

It was as if someone had thrown an invisible switch. A hundred different voices were screaming and shouting at Poppy. Martin found it quite funny at first but this quickly turned to anxiety. The noise was deafening and Martin knew too well what an aggressive crowd was capable of. He couldn’t make out too much of what they were saying, but could clearly hear his wife’s name, ‘Poppy! Poppy!’ They were shouting it in every direction he looked.

Poppy wasn’t sure who yelled first, but it was as if someone had shouted ‘GO!’ There were screams and shouts from all corners of the room. The noise was thunderous. They surged forward, a seething mass, mouths opening and closing in an uproar of words and questions. It was impossible to decipher which words came from which person. Through the
cacophony
, she could distinctly make out the following:

‘Is it true, Poppy, that you went and got your husband back?’

‘Is it true, Poppy, that you masqueraded as a journalist to get into the country?’

‘Poppy! Poppy! Over here! What was Zelgai Mahmood like?’

‘Were you armed, Poppy?’

‘Do you like the nickname Lara Croft?’

‘Were you scared, Poppy?’

‘Do you think you will go back to hairdressing, or will that be too boring?’

‘Poppy, your mother has said that you were always
adventurous
. What are planning on next? Tackling Hamas, maybe?’

‘Martin, did you expect your wife to come and get you out?’

‘Poppy, what did you know that the British Army did not? How did you do it?’

The two were dumbfounded and shocked. Poppy couldn’t speak, couldn’t answer. The flashbulbs blinded her and the noise made it hard to think straight. She felt a hand on her shoulder; it was Major Helm. He was trying to make her stand, but was looking at Martin. His voice had lost its haughty tone. ‘Get her the fuck out of here. Now!’

Poppy wanted to say to him, don’t you talk to my husband like that! But it was pointless, no one would have heard, and she could see that Martin wanted to get out of the place, quickly.

Major Helm stood with his shoulders back, as if on parade. He looked ready to explode. Martin resisted the temptation to say I told you so. He’d known they wouldn’t be able to contain the news that his wife had been instrumental in his release; too many people at Bastion knew and it was too incredible. It was the sort of story that people would phone home to tell their families, who would then tell their mates, who would tell their families, who would then tell their mates… What Poppy did was a victory for everyone that has ever felt that the world was too big a place for them to make a difference in. She proved that it isn’t. It was the sort of story that newspapers would find irresistible, at least, that was what he thought and it turned out he was right.

They were ushered off the stage. Martin, Anthony and Poppy found themselves in a narrow corridor between the makeshift press conference room and some offices. The din next door had quietened. Martin turned to his wife and started laughing. She laughed back as he fell into her. The two slumped, weak-kneed against the wall, giggling into each other’s hair under the full glare of the fluorescent strip lights. It was partly nerves and partly because it was hilarious.

Poppy looked over Martin’s shoulder into Anthony’s face. He was staring at her with hatred in his eyes. She hadn’t done anything wrong and didn’t think she deserved to be looked at like that. ‘What?’ she asked him. It stopped her laughter.

‘What?
What?
’ His nostrils flared with each ‘t’.

Oh God, he was back to repeating everything. Poppy stared at him. ‘Tony, do you think that you were a parrot in a former life?’ She didn’t know why she said it, possibly to make Martin laugh more. It worked, he was near collapse, but this only made Anthony even more furious. Poppy, however, didn’t expect the tirade that followed, didn’t expect him to be so nasty.

‘I expect you think you are very clever. Did you have a word with your journalist friends, Poppy? Do you think this all some kind of fucking game?’ He was spitting at her, small gobs that hit her face and the wall behind her.

She shrank backwards, feeling frightened, unsure of what to do next. She hated the way that he spoke to her as if she was nothing, but was confused because they were on the same side; he was one of the goodies, supposedly.

‘Do you recall nothing about the conversation we had in Bastion? Do I need to spell it out to you? You want to be very careful, Poppy Day, because you do not know who you are messing with…’

Martin was shaken sober from his laughing fit. He caught the major by the lapel. ‘What do you mean she doesn’t know who she is messing with? If you’re threatening my wife, sir, it will be you that needs to be careful!’

‘Remove your hand from me, soldier!’ he shouted loudly. Martin stood rigid. He was caught between wanting to sort the bloke out and the fact that the major was his superior officer. He had to act in accordance with that. It was unbelievable to him that this man threatened Poppy. Martin wasn’t going to let him talk to his wife like that; he wouldn’t let anyone talk to his wife like that. Mindful of Helm’s position, he faced a horrible dilemma – any other bloke on any other day and he would have socked him one.

It was as if someone had held a touchpaper to them. One minute they had been euphoric with a feeling of real
excitement
, then suddenly, the anger and venom. Major Helm continued to stare at Poppy as if she was responsible, but it wasn’t her fault; she had only done what she needed to do to get her husband home. Poppy considered the smiling, waving faces of the people outside. Why couldn’t he be like them? Why did he treat her as if she was in some way deceitful, guilty?

Colonel Blakemore popped his head into the corridor, having heard the kerfuffle. He addressed the major. ‘All OK?’ and then continued without waiting for a response, ‘They are not going to settle or be satisfied until they have asked her some questions, or she has at least given a statement.’ He spoke directly to Major Helm, as though the ‘she’ in question was not present.

With his hands on his hips, the major turned to Poppy. ‘Well, it looks like you get your fifteen minutes anyway.’ This made Martin furious all over again, as if Poppy had done it for the fame and the attention.

She looked at her husband. ‘What shall I say, Mart?’

‘The truth, baby, tell them the truth.’

The major jumped in. ‘The truth?’

Martin was glad Poppy didn’t start with the parrot thing again.

‘She can’t just go out there and tell the truth! We will be a laughing stock!’ He was quiet then, cupping his chin,
contemplating
the best angle for damage limitation. ‘Right, you get out there and you tell them the watered-down truth. You say that there was a wider Special Forces operation that you were part of, and success was down to detailed local intelligence gained on the ground after a covert operation. OK?’

He spoke to her as if she were one of his soldiers. She squeezed past him, still holding her husband’s hand. They made their way back up onto the podium.

It seemed more ordered the second time, as though the
collective
media had been reprimanded and were on their best behaviour. Poppy could tell by the eyes trained on her, fingers and pens poised, that it was her that they wanted to talk to. She hoped Martin didn’t notice.

The colonel spoke, ‘Questions from the floor, please.’

It seemed like a million hands went up in the air and about a dozen shouts of, ‘Poppy! Over here! Poppy!’

The colonel pointed at a reporter in the front row. ‘Martin, what did you think when the rescue party turned out to be your wife?’ It was strange for him to hear someone that he had never met using his name like he was an old mate. It was weird that so many people seemed to know all about his life, or, at least, about a bit of his life and he didn’t know anything at all about them.

Martin was more nervous than he realised. His tongue stuck to the roof of his mouth, he mumbled his response. ‘She’s amazing and nothing surprises me when it comes to Poppy.’

Instantly another voice shouted out and Martin’s response was all but swallowed in the fray. ‘Poppy, Poppy! Did you see any evidence of anyone else that had been taken? Did they discuss or acknowledge that they had murdered Aaron Sotherby?’

She bit her lip. ‘I didn’t see very much at all. I only discussed what the army had told me to…’ She had been coached well and did Major Helm proud.

Martin got the feeling that no one had any real interest in what had happened to him or to Aaron, it was all about Poppy. After one quick question, it was whoosh! straight on to the matter in hand. He felt like the support act.

The crowd were baying to get at her, although now quieter, their collective stance was still one of impatient confrontation. She was the one with the story, the one that would sell their papers. Martin didn’t mind that he was surplus to
requirements
, but he was bothered that a good man, a father, had been murdered, yet it didn’t seem to be that important. He was also worried about the level of attention that Poppy was getting, as usual putting her welfare first. There was no jealousy on his part; he was, instead, proud and very glad to be safe, home.

Poppy didn’t want to talk about Aaron, and by the way Anthony glared at her across the podium, she figured that he didn’t want her to either. She answered the question in the way that she had been told.