Rain (24 page)

She was buckled over with laughter. ‘Go on, crack it open.’

He took out the bottle, ripped the foil and cage off, aimed the cork at a passing seagull and tried to hit it. He thought back to Afghan almost a month ago, when Dusty had shot a Taliban on a moving motorbike with the Rarden. It had been a hell of a shot. But he put that thought away.

She produced two glasses from the cabin and he poured. And then they were kissing. Tom missed her mouth completely on the first go, but then his lips hit hers.

That night they went to a pizza place for supper and then to the cinema. They walked back, and Tom tentatively held her hand, and she didn’t take it away. When they got inside the house they sat on the sofa, pretending to be interested by the telly. Cassie got up to go to bed and they tidied up downstairs and went up. She stopped outside her bedroom and turned to kiss him again. They stayed there for a minute, and Tom made to step into her room.

‘No, Tom, no. Not tonight.’

‘OK, no probs, no probs.’ He sounded hurt.

‘Just not tonight. It’s too …’

‘Strange.’

‘Yeah. It’s just quite a lot to take on board, having you back. I’m so sorry.’

‘No, no. No problem at all,’ he said earnestly. ‘I don’t want you to feel under any pressure at all.’ He went on: ‘But you don’t mind if I stay again tomorrow, do you? I promise you, I don’t want to make you feel uneasy.’

‘Of course you can stay.’ She was whispering now. ‘Just not in my bed.’

‘I understand. Besides, my snoring is horrendous at the mo, so you’ve got off lightly.’

‘Thanks, Tommy. I knew you’d understand.’ She kissed him again, this time on the cheek, and shut the door behind her.

He remained in the corridor, smiled wryly and padded down to the spare room.

The next morning they had a quick breakfast and left the house, she for work and he for Euston. It felt like they were a married couple as they walked together to the Tube. When they parted at Sloane Square she kissed him again, and as she did so he relished the envious glances of the passing commuters.
Jog on,
REMF
s
. He made sure he held the kiss that little bit longer to rub it in.

He walked all the way north to Euston, slowly getting used to the city and starting to resent it less. On the train to Birmingham he read a newspaper, drank some coffee and then watched the countryside speed past the window as he enjoyed the feeling of being at ease with home again.

As he went through the barrier at Birmingham New Street a familiar voice greeted him: ‘Oi, fancy-pants! Nice coat. Where d’you get it from? A polar bear?’

Trueman.

‘It’s actually my bird’s father’s.’

‘What, he give it you?’

‘No. I sort of nicked it.’

‘Nice touch. Come on, boss, get to the car. If anyone sees me hanging out with you in that coat they’ll think I’m a raving bender.’

Tom laughed. They did indeed make for an odd couple as they walked through the station, he in his ridiculous coat and Trueman in his jeans and tracksuit top.

In the car they couldn’t stop talking, catching up on what they’d done in the last few days. It was great to see him. Tom
remembered that back in the desert he had thought that when they met up it might be a bit awkward, like when holiday friends find that when they meet afterwards they have lost the one thing that they had in common. It wasn’t like that at all.

As they got close to Selly Oak Trueman said, ‘Right, boss, how do you think we play it?’

‘Who are we seeing?’

‘Ransome, definitely. Yam-Yam’s in Headley now, though. And Mr Lanyon obviously.’

‘What?’

‘Mr Lanyon. What, did you not hear?’

Scott
. ‘No, what happened?’ Tom had no idea, and his mouth was dry.

‘He got hit a couple of days ago.’

‘IED?’

‘No, shot. Through the shoulder, I think. Not dead anyway. Cat B though.’

‘How did you hear?’

‘Just through the grapevine. I’m sorry, sir; I thought you’d know. I’d have said before otherwise.’

‘No. No probs. Just a bit of a shock, that’s all.’

As they pulled into the car park Tom’s jolliness left him and he was very nervous. Trueman sensed it and said, ‘Don’t worry, sir; you get used to it after a couple of minutes. Won’t lie though; your first time in here’s a hell of a shock. Just remember, don’t stare at their injuries. That’s exactly what they hate. Just look them in the eye and talk to them like they ain’t got anything wrong with them. That is, if they still got eyes. If they don’t, it doesn’t matter where you look, I suppose.’

Tom laughed.

‘And don’t say you feel sorry for them. They fucking hate
that. Just treat them like they’ve got flu. That’s what I always do, anyway. It seems to work OK. If it all gets too much, then we’ll go and get some fresh air.’

‘Thanks.’

They approached the hospital in the midday sunshine, frost icing the grass around them. Tom felt scared. ‘Here you go, sir; the famous Ward S4. Operating theatre of dreams. Come on, ain’t that bad. Christ, it’s like trying to get my little girls onto a roller coaster!’

At the entrance to the hospital there was a boy in a wheelchair. He had only one leg and one arm, and with his good hand was lifting a cigarette to his mouth. His face was bandaged heavily, and with his one visible eye he looked at Tom, his lips curled contemptuously. Tom smiled back awkwardly, mumbled, ‘Good morning,’ and hurried past him, heart racing.

They were directed up the stairs to S4 and booked in as visitors. As Tom handed his coat to one of the nurses, he had to press himself against the wall as a trolley shot past him surrounded by a cluster of doctors. ‘Out the way, out the way – just in from Bastion.’ They rushed the stretcher into an operating room, and Tom peered after it.

One of the nurses in its wake said, ‘No hope, I’m afraid. All gone below the navel. He’ll probably go tonight.’ Tom felt sick.

Trueman grasped his shoulder. ‘All right, sir, this way.’

They went further into the ward, all around them boys in wheelchairs, limping down the ward or lying on their beds. Some had families and friends around them, some were conscious, others comatose, others tripping in and out of morphine doses. Often the families were laughing with the boys; some were crying. There was one boy lying unconscious draped in a sheet that was much flatter than it should
have been. He looked peaceful. Above his bed were all sorts of get-well cards and drawings. He was surrounded by flowers, and a middle-aged woman sat reading him a story, now and again leaning forward to wipe away dribble from his mouth, just as she had sat by him when he was a child and in bed with a cold. As Trueman guided him down the ward Tom couldn’t speak. All he wanted to do was to get out. He had no idea this was the cost. In Afghan every night over the net he heard the casualties from the rest of theatre but had never translated them into this butcher’s bill.

They came to the end of the ward, and there were Ransome and Scott, in opposite beds. Both looked up with sheepish grins. Tom saw with relief that Scott did still have all four limbs. His left arm was in a sling, and his upper torso was swathed in bandages. Ransome’s stumps in the other bed looked just like Will had said they would, as though they had always been there, neat and permanent.

Tom went to sit by Ransome and Trueman turned to Scott. Tom pulled up a chair and took a box of chocolates from a carrier bag with some magazines he’d bought at the station. ‘Here you go, Ransome. Thought you might like these. Usual stuff, I’m afraid.
Zoo
,
Nuts
,
GQ
.’

‘Cheers, sir.’

‘How are you?’

‘So so. Could be worse, I suppose.’

Tom looked at his stumps, ending cleanly about six inches below his hips, and wondered how it could possibly be worse. He didn’t answer, and Ransome, sensing his discomfort, eased him into it. ‘I mean, still got my arms. And my bollocks. Still gonna slay all the birds. And the nurses here are hot.’

Tom laughed, and soon they were both back in Afghan mode, joking and taking the mick out of each other.

After twenty minutes they switched over and Tom went to talk to Scott, who had a wild look in his eyes as though he wasn’t yet accustomed to being back home. Tom realized it was probably the look they all had when they were out there. He must have had it himself. He might still have it.

‘Hi, bud. I’m so sorry. What happened?’

‘I got hit up near Jekyll, about half a K north of it, near the Farad gardens. AK round. In under the collarbone and out through the shoulder blade. No internal damage, clean through. So lucky. Hurt like fuck though. I passed out when it happened. Next thing I knew I was in a ditch with the boys after someone had dragged me back. The boys pumped me full of morphine, but it didn’t seem to work. I was in agony, mate. Promise me one thing.’

‘What?’

‘Don’t get shot. Massively overrated.’

‘I’ll try to remember. Thanks for the tip. Why were you even up there? I thought you were meant to be on the wagons?’

‘We were. But the day after you boys went down to Bastion it all kicked off in the north. Every day Pilgrim up in Jekyll were getting whacked. Shoots and scoots, ambushes on their patrols,
daisy chains
, everything. Massively kicking off. They took a lot of casualties. There’s a few of them in here now, actually, in the other wards.’

‘What happened?’

‘Battle group think a shedload of out-of-area fighters came in, sort of mid-January time. Twenty or so of them, Pakistanis. Fucking good shots. And their IEDs are good too. There was a rumour that some of them were Chechens.’

‘Great.’

‘I know. Those lads are mentalists. So I went up with the troop to help out. We left the wagons at Newcastle and went
out on our feet to bolster their patrols. We were doing OK as well. We’d been up there for four days and had five firefights, and then this happens. There was this contact and I ran out of a ditch where we were taking cover to try to get to Frenchie for a face-to-face as my comms didn’t work. And then some knobber shot me. The burst went all around me. I saw all the rounds kick up the dust, almost in slo-mo, and then the last one whacked into me. Like someone thumping you with a sledgehammer.’

‘And then?’

‘One of the boys – don’t know who – dragged me back into the ditch, and they casevaced me all the way back to Jekyll. They were amazing. Absolutely amazing. Before I knew it I was back in Bastion, and now I’m here.’ He looked around, his eyes shifting nervously. ‘Feels really strange, to be honest.’

‘Jeez, mate, I wish I’d known.’

‘The CO’s trying to get on to brigade to whack the area. Big op planned. And I mean big.’

‘When?’ Tom started feeling excited.

‘Dunno, not for a couple of weeks anyway. But definitely before the squadron goes home. Smash time, mate, proper smash. Plan is to push all the way up and clear the whole town. Apparently the brigade commander’s pretty keen for it.’

‘Yeah, he would be. Another chance to move his drinks cabinet closer to Russia. One step closer to his
DSO
,’ said Tom.

‘What do you mean?’

‘I dunno, mate. Just something that really gets me about tour.’

‘What?’

‘Just that the more lads that die, the greater the chance the
bigwigs get a medal at the end of it. It’s an unwritten rule, isn’t it? If the brigade gets fifty-plus KIA, the brigade commander gets a DSO, and climbs another rung to
CGS
. Forty-nine KIA and you only get a CBE. I thought that’s what everyone said. Brennan and Trueman say it the whole time.’

‘Well, he’ll get his casualties. If the op does go ahead it’s gonna go spastic up there. Those guys don’t muck around. They’ll fight tooth and nail.’

‘But there’s an appetite for it?’

‘Hell yeah. They’ve already got a name for the ops box – Ops Box Republic.’

‘Sounds like a nightclub. As in Plato’s
Republic
?’

‘No, as in “Battle Hymn of the”. Named by Jules, surprise surprise.’

Tom looked away, remembering.

‘What?’

‘Nothing, mate. Just that hymn was my school song.’

‘Nice.’

‘Yeah, but you know the fifth verse? “As he died to make men holy, let us die to set them free.” ’

‘That sucks.’

‘Too right it sucks. How are the boys?’

Scott ignored him and clicked himself with more morphine. He suddenly seemed far away but after a minute came back to Tom. ‘Sorry, mate. Sorry, had to get rid of some pain. That stuff is so good.’

‘Mate, you were saying about the op?’

‘The op? Oh yeah. Sorry, mate. All I know is they want to clear the whole village.’

‘But that’s two miles at least. And how many enemy? Twenty? Thirty?’

‘At least. God knows, really. But a lot. And they’re good
too. I was in the open for all of about a second, and they got me.’

Tom lowered his voice. ‘Did you tell Sergeant Trueman?’

‘Yeah. Was that wrong?’

‘No, no. I’d have told him myself. But it does mean it’ll be round the whole troop by tonight, if I know him. Bollocks. I thought we were going back to wind down and basically just hand over kit.’

‘Doesn’t look like it, bud. Is that bad?’

‘No, not bad, just … unexpected. I mean, I’m terrified, obviously. But, and I can’t believe I’m saying this, it sounds like an epic op.’

‘Too right, mate. Front-row ticket to the end of the world.’

‘All right, chill out. Christ, nothing like a smack addict for melodrama.’

They stayed for a couple more hours and sought out the wounded guys from the company up in Jekyll to get any tips about what to expect. It was the one PB in the AO that 3 Troop hadn’t worked around yet. They found four of them, dotted over the ward. Three had their families beside them and so they didn’t interrupt. One was alone though, on his bed, pristine save for a bandage over his eyes. The lower part of his face was streaked with grazes and dried cuts. They sat next to him.

Tom let Trueman do the talking. ‘Hi, fella, it’s two guys from Loy Kabir. Tomahawk callsigns. We’re on R & R and came to see some of our oppos here. We just want a favour.’

‘How can I help?’

Tom watched the interchange with fascination. Trueman was a sergeant with ten years’ service but talked to this boy, no more than nineteen, as though they were exact contemporaries.

‘Yeah, no dramas. What d’you want to know? I’m Costello, by the way. Jordan Costello.’ He held out a hand and both of them shook it.

Tom stepped in. ‘Just a bit about the AO north of Jekyll. When we get back there’s a big op planned in the north, and we want to know about the ground up there, what the local Taliban are like and stuff.’

‘You’re an officer, ain’t ya?’

‘Er, yep. How did you guess?’

‘Cos that is without doubt the dullest question I’ve had in my time here. Just kiddin’. No worries, boss. Nice to think back, in a way.’

For half an hour he told them all about it: how he thought the Scimitars could be used, the tactics of the local Taliban, how the fighting had escalated massively at the end of January with the influx of foreign fighters. He was astonishingly lucid and spoke beyond his years, getting more and more into his role as storyteller, enjoying his audience’s attention.

As they thanked him and got up to go he said, ‘You’re probably wondering what happened to me, aren’t ya?’

Before they could answer he went on.

‘IED. Next to me. Got me mate. He’s in the operating theatre at the mo. Shredded his leg. But it’s still on; they say he’ll keep it. Got me in the eyes though. Not the shrapnel, just loads of grit. Wasn’t wearing my safety specs. Tell your lads to wear theirs.’

Tom glanced at Trueman guiltily. Neither of them could be bothered with their protective glasses.

Trueman said, ‘Are you gonna be all right, mate?’

He answered bloodlessly as if talking about someone else: ‘Dunno. Too early to say, the docs told me. They say a 20 per cent chance I’ll see again. But they don’t know the full damage yet.’