Refuge (18 page)

How could they do this to me?

Just beyond the path, he sees a rabbit looking his way. He clambers to his feet and withdraws his gun. The rabbit cocks its head and hops onto the track. Tariq points the gun at it.

Come on.

It hops closer until it’s only a couple of feet away. Tariq pulls the trigger, and its head explodes in a mist of blood and brain.

NINETEEN

CHARLIE CRAWLS OUT
of his tent and draws in a lungful of crisp, chill air. He takes in the gold tipped mountains in the distance.

This is going to be a good day
.

They review the village at nine, which Dave and Mike claim for no better reason than to spite Charlie, and arrive at their second just past eleven o’clock. Unlike the other two, the mud homes here are whitewashed and sit perched on a steep hillside overlooking the river. At the bottom lies a flat communal area with broken fields on either side. An ancient truck is parked there with three beleaguered families camped around it. Shamsurahman goes over and talks to them. One of the boys catches Charlie’s eye. Charlie grabs his soccer ball.

“You play?” he says.

The boy grins. Charlie kicks it over to him, and the boy kicks it back.

“See you’re a natural,” Charlie says.

“And you’re a regular Bryan Robson,” Mike says.

Charlie ignores him. He and the boy continue to pass the ball back and forth. Shamsurahman returns.

“What’s their story?” the Colonel says.

“They come two days ago. They want to go back Pakistan; they remember it differently. I told them we all do.”

For a moment no one says anything, the Afghans lost in thoughts of better times.

“Well what do you say we take a look around?” the Colonel says.

Charlie stares up the steep street.

What’s the point? It’s not like Shamsurahman will give it to us..

“You know what, I’m going to pass on this one,” he says.

“Scared you won’t make it to the top?” Derek says.

“I think I will join you,” Wali says.

No one objects, and Shamsurahman leads the rest of the group up the village’s only street.

“Assholes,” Charlie says.

“Oh, I would not worry about them, Mr. Matthews,” Wali says. “Sticks and stones may break your bones—”

“I know, I know.”

“So now that’s settled pass me the ball.”

Charlie kicks the ball to Wali, and pulls his sketch pad out of his backpack. He sits with his back against a broken cart, the morning sun warming his face, and draws Wali and two of the boys kicking the ball back and forth. The village acts as his backdrop; it looks like a crumbling wedding cake. At its very top the rest of group stands on the roof of a house. Shamsurahman has a map open and is pointing out the minefields.

Maybe I should have gone?

Charlie shakes his head. It’s too late now. He looks down at his pad and puts the group in as stick figures. When he looks up again he sees that Wali and the boys have gotten further apart, requiring them to kick the ball ever harder. He gets a queasy feeling, and jumps to his feet.

“Hey guys.”

One of the boys kicks the ball to Wali, and Wali takes a wild swing at it. The ball rockets over the boys’ heads and into some undergrowth beyond. The two boys turn and race to retrieve it.

“Stop,” Charlie shouts. “Wali, stop them.”

Wali realizes what Charlie means and screams out in Pashtu. The boys cross into the undergrowth.

“Stop, goddamn it,” Charlie shouts.

He spies a mine detector leaning against one of the trucks, and runs over and grabs it. When he turns back he sees Wali racing into the undergrowth. The two boys have reached the ball and are fighting over it.

“Wali,” he screams.

Wali tramples through the stalks of wild grass.

“Wali.”

There’s a bright orange flash, and Wali is flung into the air. Before Wali can even fall back to the ground a cloud of dust obscures him.

And then there’s just silence, as if for a moment in time the soundtrack to the world got lost.

The boys begin to wail.

“Stay there,” Charlie screams. “Don’t fucking move.”

Charlie runs to the edge of the undergrowth and turns the mine detector on.

“Wali‌—‌you hear me?”

He waves the detector over the ground and hears nothing. He steps forward and waves it again. The detector beeps.

Fuck.

He turns to his right and sweeps again. When he hears no beep he steps forward and turns back in Wali’s direction.

“Wali!” he shouts. “Wali!”

He listens, hoping for at least a pained cry. Instead all he hears is the rustle of the wind as it weaves its way through the knee high stalks of grass.

“Oh God, oh God,” he says, “please let him be alive.”

He continues on, his route beginning to resemble that of a Pac-Man game as he alters his course whenever his detector beeps. By the time he’s halfway there, the cloud has dissipated and he can make out Wali lying on the ground like a piece of discarded trash.

“Wali! Wali!”

Charlie carries on sweeping until he comes to a point where there seems to be a mine on all three sides in front of him. He’s now so close he can touch Wali with the detector. Charlie looks down; shrapnel litters the ground.

They’ve got to be the reason.

Charlie places the detector on the ground, and steps forward. Nothing happens.

Thank you, God.

He kneels down beside Wali. Wali’s left leg looks like a steak that’s been left on the grill too long. Pieces of skin hang off of it and shards of white bone jut through its flesh. Charlie closes his eyes and takes a couple of breaths.

Remember your training.

He opens his eyes and places a finger on Wali’s neck. Wali’s pulse is weak but constant. He looks back. Shamsurahman is at the edge of the undergrowth, a mine detector in his hand, Derek and Mike behind him.

“He’s alive,” Charlie shouts.

Charlie sees one of the boys edging his way.

“Don’t move.”

The boy freezes. Charlie turns back to Wali.

“Hang in there, buddy. Help’s on the way.”

Charlie puts his hand underneath Wali’s right hamstring and finds that most of it’s gone. When he brings his hand back up it looks like he’s dipped it in paint. He examines the wound. A severed artery is spurting blood.

Remember your training.

He reaches in and pulls on the artery. It stretches like a rubber band and slips from his hand. He tries again and this time manages to keep a hold of it. With his other hand he fashions a knot and pulls it tight. The blood stops flowing. He looks back. Shamsurahman, Mike and Derek are halfway to him.

What next?

Charlie rips off his shirt. He tears off each of its arms, and stuffs the shirt into the leg’s gaping wound. He uses an arm to tie it in place and the other to tourniquet the left leg.

“How is he?” Shamsurahman says.

Charlie turns to find Shamsurahman and Mike at his side. Derek continues on with a second mine detector towards the boys.

“Not good,” Charlie says. “The femoral artery on his right leg is severed.”

“We gotta tie it off,” Mike says.

“Already did.”

Mike pulls the t-shirt away and examines the wound. He repacks it and nods at Shamsurahman.

“Lift him under arms,” Shamsurahman says. “I take other end.”

Charlie gets behind Wali’s head.

“One, two, three. Lift.”

With Mike guiding them, they carry Wali back to the village. Someone has lain a tarpaulin beside one of the Land Cruisers, and they place Wali on it. Charlie pulls the shirt away. It’s sodden with blood. With each of them working on one leg, Charlie and Shamsurahman clean Wali’s wounds before packing them with gauze. Charlie looks up and sees Derek reach the edge of the undergrowth with the two trembling boys.

“Ready?” Shamsurahman says.

Charlie nods. Mike opens the Land Cruiser’s trunk and drops the back seat. Charlie and Shamsurahman lift Wali up and place him on his side.

“I’ll drive,” Charlie says.

“No,” Mike says, “you get in with him.”

Charlie climbs in. He turns to see Kenneth standing there with his hands clasped in prayer.

“Kenneth,” he shouts. “I need you.”

Kenneth’s eyes snap open, and he jumps in beside him. Charlie grabs some sleeping bags and elevates Wali’s legs.

“Press on the end of his left leg,” Charlie says.

Kenneth does as he’s told. Charlie presses down on the wound on Wali’s right leg. The engine revs. The Colonel runs over.

“Good luck,” he says.

The Colonel slams the trunk door shut. Mike hits the gas, Shamsurahman in the passenger seat beside him. They speed along the dirt road, the speedometer rarely dipping below fifty. Mike does his best to steer around the road’s potholes and on the occasions he can’t, he shouts a warning, and Charlie and Kenneth hold Wali down as the SUV crashes up into the air. It takes forty minutes to get to the main road. Once on it Mike pushes the Land Cruiser over a hundred miles-an-hour.

Charlie puts a finger on Wali’s neck and feels his pulse. It’s weaker than before. He looks through the front windshield and sees the border at Torkham approaching.

“Don’t stop,” Charlie says.

“We have to,” Shamsurahman says.

The SUV screeches to a halt, and Mike and Shamsurahman jump out. The startled mujahideen guards wave their guns at them until they recognize Shamsurahman and start running up to the Pakistani side of the border. A group of Khyber police rush towards their pick-up. Mike and Shamsurahman sprint back to the Land Cruiser.

“Still with us?” Mike says.

“Just,” Charlie says.

“Do your job and he’ll make it.”

For the first mile Mike stays behind the police pick-up, but as soon as the climb begins the pick-up starts to labor.

“Fuck this,” Mike says and swings into the opposite lane.

The pick-up tries to match their speed. The two vehicles head side-by-side towards a blind corner. A train of camels come around it. Mike swings the wheel left barely missing them and slips in front of the pick-up. The pick-up soon disappears from view. Once past the high point of the pass they hurtle down other side, the bare, ominous Khyber mountains pressing in on them. Kenneth and Charlie do all they can to brace Wali as they careen around the slew of tight corners. And then just like that the road straightens up. If there’s a record for getting down the Khyber Pass, Mike has surely broken it.

“Want to take him to Red Crescent?” Mike says.

Shamsurahman nods. Mike cuts in and out of the afternoon traffic. Charlie checks Wali’s pulse for the hundredth time. He can’t feel one. He tries again. Still nothing. He twists Wali onto his back and puts his ear to Wali’s mouth.

“We’re losing him,” Charlie screams.

Charlie straddles Wali’s chest and tilts his head back. He gives him mouth-to-mouth and begins pushing down on his chest.

“You’re not dying on me now, motherfucker.”

Kenneth places his hand on Wali’s forehead.

“Dear Father, we pray that Jesus meets this man, Wali, in his moment of death just as He did the thief on the cross—”

Charlie shoves Kenneth’s hand away.

“What the fuck are you doing?” Charlie says.

The Land Cruiser screeches to a halt, and Charlie is flung into the back of the seats. The trunk door opens, and a couple of nurses lift Wali out. Kenneth gazes down at Charlie, his hands and shirt-sleeves drenched in blood.

“If that boy goes to hell he’ll have you to blame.”

Kenneth staggers away. Charlie stares at the ceiling of the SUV. In the distance a muezzin calls the faithful to prayer.

“You good?” Shamsurahman says.

Charlie gets up on one elbow. Shamsurahman stands there, a red neon crescent flickering behind him.

“Never better.”

Shamsurahman lights a cigarette for each of them, and they smoke as the light seeps from the sky. Mike comes out the hospital entrance. Shamsurahman extends his pack. Mike takes one.

“He’s a fighter, that’s for sure,” Mike says.

“He’s alive?” Charlie says.

“He’s in surgery. Best thing any of us can do is get a good night’s sleep and come back in the morning.”

“I’m going to wait.”

“Maybe hours before he gets out.”

Charlie stares at the both of them. Shamsurahman shrugs.

“Then I wait also,” Shamsurahman says.

It isn’t until nine that Charlie gets in to see Wali. At first glance he looks bizarrely normal with just a cotton wool patch taped over his right eye and some IVs snaking into his arm.

“Hey buddy,” Charlie says. “How you doing?”

His words seem ridiculous. Charlie edges closer and pulls back Wali’s blanket. Wali’s right leg is gone while his left looks like a bandaged baseball bat. Charlie backs out of the room and finds Shamsurahman in the corridor.

“Let’s go,” Charlie says.

TWENTY

NOOR SITS ON
the lowest bough of the oak tree and swings her legs back and forth. Through a gap in the leaves she spies her father in the sitting room. He reads under the warm glow of an antique, brass lamp, his feet resting on a well-worn ottoman, a glass of iced water and a bowl of almonds on the side table next to him. He looks so peaceful, she wishes he could stay there forever. She tiptoes along the bough and shinnies her way down the trunk. She walks across the lawn and into the house. Her father looks up.

“Ah, there you are,” he says, “I was wondering where you had gotten to.”

“You look so at home.”

“And so I am, at least for a couple more nights.”

Noor scans the book shelves. She sees a tatty old copy of Jane Eyre and pulls it out. She sits down and tries to focus on it. It’s impossible.

“Baba, why aren’t you more worried?”

“I think it was my old friend Mark Twain who once said ‘I am an old man and have known a great many troubles, but most of them never happened’.”

“You can stop trying to shield me from your fears. I saw how scared you were yesterday.”