The Poppy Factory (7 page)

It seemed to work: she passed the exams with flying colours. Nate took her out to dinner to celebrate, and they ended up back at his flat for the first time since the party. They were tentative at first, circling each other warily as he made coffee and she wandered around, checking to see what had changed, looking for clues about the life he had spent without her, these past months.

But it was still the same old bachelor pad, with the broken blinds, the brimming waste bins, DVDs and Xbox paraphernalia scattered around the giant television. In the bathroom cabinet were shaving cream, deodorant, his familiar brand of cologne and a packet of paracetamol but, to her relief, no sign of any female occupation.

The wariness lasted only as long as it took them to finish their coffee and have their first proper kiss, and after that the weekend passed in making up for lost time. They left the bedroom only to eat and watch a bit of tv, and Nate dragged on a tracksuit once in a while to go out for takeaways and bottles of wine. He poured her drinks without a single enquiring glance, and she made sure that two glasses were her top limit – this weekend was too precious to spoil.

She knew she had to wait for him to say it, but she longed for him to reassure her, to talk about their future together once more. It wasn’t until Sunday evening was drawing on and she was preparing to leave, that he finally said, ‘I think we’re okay again, J. Don’t you?’

‘God, I love it when you get all romantic,’ she laughed, hugging him. ‘But “okay” will do me, for now.’

It started as a normal shift: 6am to 6pm, on the van with Dave and a new Emergency Care Assistant, a sweet kid called Emma. It was a blustery day with towering cumulus clouds like fantasy castles in the sky. Emma remarked how lucky they were, driving around the countryside amid the beauty of the autumn colours, and the two others agreed.

By coffee time they’d dealt with four shouts including one of their regulars, an old boy called Bert who kept a garrulous and foul-mouthed parrot. He’d fallen on the way to the toilet, so they just checked him out, cleaned him up and waited for the district nurse to arrive while the parrot hurled abuse from its cage: ‘ge’ me out of here, you ’uckers,’ it squawked, interspersed with a repetitive refrain of ‘stupid old git, stupid old git’. Emma giggled and blushed but Jess and Dave took it in their stride. They’d heard the parrot say much worse things in their time.

‘Let’s hope we get a decent break,’ Dave said, more in hope than expectation, as they pulled into the ambulance station. As usual, they’d just sat down when the next call came in: ‘Emergency RTC High Street. Two life-threatening, two walking wounded. Police on scene.’

Jess felt the welcome surge of adrenaline, more powerful than any caffeine rush, as they clambered back on board and the siren started its familiar wail. The incident was only ten minutes away but a sudden heavy downpour made the traffic even more of a nightmare than usual, with dopey drivers taking an age to move aside and let them past. When they reached the lights at the top of the High Street, it was jammed and at a standstill. Dave whooped the siren a couple of times but it made little difference – nothing was moving. In the distance, they could see the flashing blue lights of a police car.

‘Take the packs and run for it,’ Dave shouted. ‘I’ll get there soon as.’

It was still raining heavily as they panted down the slick pavement. I must be losing fitness, Jess thought to herself; she’d run much further with a heavy Army Bergen on her back with no problem at all in the past. They pushed their way through a crowd of gawpers with umbrellas to a scene of carnage: a car had obviously driven onto the narrow pavement at some speed and hit two people, both of them now on the ground. The driver was still in his seat, a very old man, his face ashen, and a baby buggy lay on its side near the front wheels. She looked around frantically to see where the child could be before spying it in the arms of a policewoman, apparently unhurt.

Over to her right, a policeman was doing CPR on a girl whose face already had that grey, hollowed-out look of a dying person. As she approached he shook his head grimly and gestured with a nod in the other direction, towards a shattered shop window behind the car. ‘There’s a guy over there who needs your help.’

‘I’ll get that one if you take over here,’ she told Emma.

Lying amid the shards of glass was a young man, moaning slightly, his legs in a pool of shocking red that was being washed across the pavement by the rain. Her stomach turned over as she approached, smelling that terrifying metallic stench of blood and fear. At first she thought the man’s leg was twisted beneath him but her stomach lurched again, even more violently, when she saw that the lower leg was completely missing.

Stop thinking. Get on with it, no time to waste. The checklist ran over and over in her head, like a mantra: C.A.B.C, C.A.B.C. Catastrophic haemorrhage, airway, breathing, circulation.

Barely noticing the blood and glass, she kneeled down, tore open her medipack and grabbed a tourniquet. ‘My name’s Jess and I’m a paramedic,’ she said. ‘This is going to hurt a bit. Just hang in there, we’re going to get you to hospital as soon as we can.’ She secured the band swiftly and efficiently just above the knee and observed with satisfaction as the pumping gush of brilliant red arterial blood slowed to a dribble.

Lifting her head for a moment, desperate for Dave to arrive, she caught sight of the ankle and foot a couple of metres away near a litter bin. It looked just like part of a discarded shop dummy, still wearing a sock and trainer, the canvas type in show-off scarlet, just like Nate sometimes wore. She thrust a dressing towards a middle-aged woman standing nearby. ‘This is really important,’ she said, urgently. ‘Get that limb, wrap it up and get it somewhere cold. Find a shop with a drinks cooler or ice cream freezer, soon as you can.’

The injured man’s eyes were a maelstrom of panic and fear. Even through the pallor she could see his well-made features: a handsome young man, perhaps in his twenties, with all his life before him. Like James. Like Scott. Come to think of it, he had a look of Scotty, with that mouse-blond hair and freckles all over his nose. He was breathing, fast and shallow: his airway was clear. She quickly took his pulse. It was faint, but at least it was there.

Airway okay, breathing okay-ish, circulation okay-ish. Where the hell is Dave?

It was only when she went to cover the end of the severed leg that she faltered. The shattered ends of the tibia and fibula bones glowed shocking pearly pink-white against a bloody mess of skin and flesh, like a leg of meat hacked by a crazed butcher.

It wasn’t as though she’d never seen this kind of injury before – in fact she’d seen it too many times in the heat and sand of the desert. She grabbed a pack of dressings, but when she went to lift the stump the man whimpered again and then uttered another long, loud, terrifying howl. Her head began to spin. That sound, that gut-wrenching primeval animal sound of a man in agony, the sound that Scotty was making as she worked so desperately to save him that day.

Get a grip, Jess. Don’t think. Get the leg wrapped and get up a morphine drip. Put the guy out of his agony.

But however much she tried to push it away, Scott’s face swam in front of her eyes. The young man’s groans were Scotty’s groans.

It was her first ever foot patrol in the desert, her heart pummelling inside her chest with terror and the effort of carrying the medical back-pack, at twenty-five kilos the weight of an average eight year old, as well as her own heavy body armour. Her head felt as though it was boiling inside her helmet as the group cautiously circled the edge of the village in the ferocious heat. No-one spoke a word as the searcher moved ahead, sweeping the dust with his long-handled detector to check for improvised explosive devices while the man behind him marked the borders of the cleared area with spray paint. Everyone else scanned the landscape for markers, piles of stones, wire or a piece of broken glass which might have been left as a secret signal to mark the position of a bomb or anything designed to divert their path towards a mined area.

They could tell the Taliban were close by, watching and waiting, because the place was deserted. The villagers were hiding in their homes and even the dogs had taken cover. The enemy would never show themselves, and knew quite well that the allied troops couldn’t fire a single shot unless they were fired at first. The tension was almost unbearable.

And then: an ear-splitting crack. Jess twisted round to see a geyser of earth erupting to the side of the patrol, just where they had passed. Someone must have stepped unwarily just a few centimetres outside the cleared zone – that was all it took. The screams of pain started instantly and, as she turned back, trying to run but encumbered by her heavy pack and body armour, the screech of yelled orders in her earpiece was almost deafening. ‘Medic! Medic! Men down,
three
men down.’ It was just like those training exercises, except this was for real. Everything seemed to be moving in slow motion.

She heard Vorny puffing beside her and, as the clouds of soil and dust settled, the scene ahead appeared in almost surreal clarity. Captain Jones was lying beside the blast crater cursing loudly, clutching his right hand and covered in dirt. At least if he’s swearing he’s alive, she thought. Another man was seated, holding his face in his hands. Vorny paused to see if he was okay, and Jess lumbered on towards the Captain.

‘I’m fine, just get over there,’ he shouted, gesturing impatiently into the crater. ‘It’s Scott.’

The figure was almost completely obscured by the dust and rocks that had settled on it after the blast, but just then the soldier lifted his head and emitted a long and terrifying howl which seemed to echo off the mud walls of the compound behind her, reverberating through her very being.

She fell, rather than ran, down the sloping side of the crater and, when she picked herself up, the true horror of the boy’s injuries became apparent. The blood-curdling screams and streams of profanity meant he was certainly still alive, but both his lower legs were missing, vaporised by the blast. The village dogs would come scavenging later, she knew.

The earth around his lower body was already stained red with the blood gushing from the mess of mangled flesh and bone where his legs used to be. There were only moments to save his life. She ripped two tourniquets from her own upper arm, stored there for instant access and, with hands trembling so much she could scarcely grip the webbing, managed to secure one on each leg, above the knees. She glanced towards his face, pale as the sand dusting it. Even through his goggles she could see the panic in his eyes, darting from side to side, trying to focus. ‘Hang in there, Scotty,’ she said. ‘We’ll get you sorted.’

‘Jess. Thank Christ, it’s you,’ he whimpered, through gritted teeth. ‘Just save me feckin’ life, will ya? Get me home for Chrissake. Please.’

‘Don’t you worry, you’re going to make it,’ she said, trying to convince herself as much as him.

Vorny slithered down the slope to join her and they worked together, wrapping the shattered stumps with white dressings, all the while talking to the lad, trying to calm him.

‘Nearly there. MERT’s on its way. We’re going to get you out of here. Hang in there. You’re going to make it.’

Vorny set up a drip into one arm and held the bag high, squeezing it to push the life-saving liquid into Scott’s system, while Jess pulled out a morphine autojet and punched a hefty dose directly into the muscle of the upper arm on the other side. ‘That’s it, Scotty. When you wake up you’ll be in Bastion,’ she said, as the howls tailed off into moans.

By now Captain Jones was on his feet but very pale and holding his hand gingerly, with the other lad, McVeigh, who was shocked and deafened, but otherwise unharmed. They’d identified a landing site just beyond the brown poppy field at the edge of the village. The helicopter was circling, just about to land, and she was heading across the field behind the stretcher team, carrying Scotty’s pack, when the shooting started. There was no cover, and it seemed to be coming from both sides.

She dropped to the ground, cursing the fact that any delay could cost Scotty’s life after all the work they’d done to save him. But as the helicopter turned away without landing, and the firing continued without any apparent response from their own side, she realised it was not only Scott’s life in danger. Bullets could slice through the brittle brown stems of the crop at any moment. The adrenaline rush that had kept her going throughout the time they’d been working on Scotty was dissipating, and she began to panic. It was then that she saw the red poppy.

‘Christ, Jess, what the fuck are you playing at?’

Dave’s shout, close to her ear, brought her instantly back to the High Street in the pouring rain, a scene painted in grey and red, the smell of blood, the young man’s groans, his shattered limb in her arms. She had absolutely no idea how long she’d been kneeling there.

‘Let me take over,’ Dave barked, taking hold of the leg and shoving her aside brusquely. ‘Just give the poor sod some morphine. Get a drip going and pump in some fluids, for Christ’s sake.’

Dragging herself back to the present, she stood and picked up her pack. Through the shattered glass of the shop window she could see an array of meat, liver, sausages, lamb chops, trussed chickens, all glistening with broken glass. The centrepiece was a large whole leg of lamb, the severed end pointing towards her, a neatly trimmed version of this young man’s leg. Like Scotty’s legs after that blast.

She forced her eyes away, searching the pack for a morphine syringe.

‘I’m just going to give you something for the pain,’ she said, squatting down by his head. But when she looked into his face she could see that he had gone, his eyes rolled back, his skin a deadly grey.

She shook his shoulder. ‘Stay with us,’ she shouted, shaking him harder. She pressed her finger to his neck.

‘No pulse, Dave. Christ, he’s got no pulse.’ She ripped open his jacket and shirt, and pressed the pads onto his chest. ‘Flatline.’