A Twist of Fate (21 page)

‘My captain sent in a troop to do a recce of the area. He put me in charge of a small unit. We'd heard they were using a disused cloth store on the outskirts. They must have known we were coming. I heard crying from one of the rooms. There was this young kid, only about eight, little boy, big eyes. Crying his eyes out. He was bleeding, really distressed. I went over to him, forgot my guard for a minute. There was immediately gunfire behind me. They burst in, surrounding us. I saw him, this Kazal guy, he had this distinctive half-moon scar on his face. He got hold of one of my lads in the skirmish – youngest one, just nineteen, barely out of training – Connor Buckley. He used to show us pictures of his dad's racing pigeons, champions, they were. The bastard got hold of him. We exchanged fire but I couldn't get a clear shot. He got away with Connor.

‘I blamed myself. It'd been my call. I'd taken my eye off for a moment. The kid got up and ran off laughing, yelling about the filthy English pigs, Kazal had got to him too; he'd been the bait and I'd fallen for it.

‘A week later they sent us a video they'd posted online – maybe you remember. It was Connor. The life had gone out of him. On it he said, in this weird, flat voice that was barely his, that he denounced the British army and the infidel and wanted to personally come and kill us all and all our families. He was clearly under extreme coercion. Right at the end it looked as if he were going to do something. His eyes flicker and he looks like he's trying to get up, and the video ends.

‘A week later we had another video of him. Hanging upside down from a pole, paraded through the ranks of a training camp. He'd been sliced open and disembowelled. At the end, they showed them doing it. Connor was awake when it happened. His screams … God, his screams.'

I closed my eyes in horror.

‘So … we carried on looking. They'd moved on. We moved on. We had some intelligence about a new place where they were hiding out up in the mountains, a small village. We went at night, quiet as death. Again, I was leading a small unit. There were others, approaching from another angle. I had on my helmet cam. We crept up on this place. I heard a noise – a female in distress, I could tell. Men were laughing, others crying. I looked through a window and a young woman, a girl, was in there – couldn't have been more than fourteen or so. Two men stood to the side, guns pointing at the heads of an older man and woman, her parents. Meanwhile, right in front of them, their daughter was being raped. It was Kazal. I'd know him anywhere. He'd alternate. First he'd do it with his prick, then his fist, then he'd pull out and stick the barrel of his gun into her. There was a lot of blood, all from her.'

I stifled my sobs.

‘Not only had this man betrayed his people, he'd betrayed his God and his religion. This man wasn't human. He was the most depraved animal I'd ever seen, worse; animals don't do that to each other. When her mother cried out and tried to leap up and save her, Kazal shouted something and the man beside her pulled the trigger. She was shot in the arm and lay on the floor howling in agony.

‘Her father was weeping uncontrollably, sobbing, and all the while the rape continued. We didn't want to risk killing the girl or her parents, so we crept around and into the house. They didn't see us coming, but it was still difficult. The light wasn't good and it was confusing.

‘I took out the guard who'd shot the mother but Kazal then leapt up with the girl, holding her before him just like he had with Connor. The other man ran off. There was shouting, madness. The father was going crazy and was holding onto us, yelling something. Kazal looked at me and smirked. I tried to get a shot at him but couldn't.

‘The mother was on the floor, still writhing in pain. More insurgents rushed in, four, five, summoned by their mate. We took out two, but they were evasive. The room was filling with smoke. The mother grabbed at my leg, howling in pain. I couldn't move. I tried to shake her off. I had men running at me. I couldn't bloody move. I yelled for my men to shoot. I wanted them to shoot Kazal because I couldn't do it from where I was. ‘Shoot, shoot! I can't move!' I yelled. They shot, they were panicking, not sure who I meant. The hand gripping onto me went limp. My men had shot the mother dead. I stared in disbelief as blood seeped from her head. But then Kazal dropped the girl and stood up, backing away from me. He stopped and looked right into my eyes. There was so much smoke, but I saw the determination in him. Then he opened his shirt. Underneath he had a bomb strapped to him, a suicide vest. He yelled about detonating it. We'd tried to get him alive but now I had to kill him. There was so much smoke from gun fire and devices. I thought I had a clear shot of Kazal's head. I could see him even from the other side of the room, I knew I could, but … there was shouting, smoke, so bloody much. I remembered what he'd done to Connor, to the girl. Then I saw this face, his face, I was sure, coming for me, angry, yelling. I took the shot. He fell to the ground. I'd done it. I had this rush of euphoria, elation that I'd taken him out cleanly. But then, when the smoke cleared, he was still standing there – Kazal. He was still standing there, smirking. It made no sense.

‘There was this noise. It was the girl howling, even worse than she had before. I looked down. I'd shot her father. In the smoke and confusion I'd shot the wrong person. He must have come for me when he realised his wife was dead. As I stood there, paralyzed, one of the lads at last took out Kazal. The rest of the insurgents ran off and my men managed to stop them. It was over.

‘We stayed on. I'd killed an innocent civilian and mistakenly ordered the killing of another.

‘We took the girl for treatment; he'd damaged her so badly we were told she'd never have children. She was grief-stricken over the death of her parents and blamed us totally. That's what led to the investigation. At the time, I agreed with the girl. I thought I should be locked up; could barely live with myself. That's not why I joined the SAS, to destroy innocent lives, to end them. But, when they examined it all – over and over again, endless hours studying the video footage, interviews, questioning, and cross-examination – they cleared me. Fully exonerated, they said. I was free to re-join my unit.'

He fell silent but remained sitting on the edge of the bed. I had so much to say yet could find no words for him. My thoughts seemed purposeless and invalid after what had been said.

‘Did you re-join them?' I asked eventually, my voice feeble.

‘No. Resigned the next day.'

I continued gently. ‘They were right to clear you. There was nothing you could have done. It wasn't your fault.'

He looked at me with a rueful half smile. ‘That's what they all say. That don't make it go away.'

My mind was numb. I sat there, staring blankly ahead.

Paul stood up stiffly, as if he'd been through bone-aching physical exertion. ‘I'll go and put on some coffee.'

I stared after him and murmured, ‘It wasn't your fault.' It was as if I was telling myself as much as him.

At the door, Paul looked back at me. ‘You asked, Callie, and I've told you. My dad used to give me some good advice: “Don't ask questions you don't want the answer to.”' He tapped the door frame distractedly with his hand, then walked off.

I waited before joining him. When he wasn't there with me, I could only picture images of bodies in the smoke, blood, cries of despair. I shut my eyes to it but they wouldn't go away.

Sitting alone, my stomach churned, unsettled. Not only was it the shock of discovering what Paul had done – what he'd been through – but under it all I felt grossly inadequate. My own suffering, not counting the crash, was negligible compared to his. How could I begin to understand? I sat in silence, staring out of the window.

Twenty-four

At length, I padded out to join him in the kitchen. He was leaning on the work surface, staring into space. He glanced up when I came in, and the look on his face gave me a glimpse of what he must have looked like as a boy: open, seeking approval, seeking forgiveness. My roiling stomach settled. When I looked at Paul, the world always settled, no matter what.

I walked up to him and curled my arms around his waist, holding him in tight to me. For a time he seemed almost caught off-guard and it took him a while to hold me in return. But when his strong arms closed upon me and I felt that rock-solid frame like never before, all was well again. I inhaled him deeply. For once, lust didn't dominate, just complete certainty. I knew it then and whispered against his chest, ‘I love you too.'

Paul took my head in his hands, turned it up to him, and kissed me. I was sent crashing back to that first kiss on the island, and nothing else mattered. We made our way back to bed, but we didn't make love, we just lay, saying nothing, holding each other.

‘Well, that was quite an interesting few hours,' I said.

At first Paul didn't reply, then I felt a rumble in his chest and he started to laugh. I looked up and couldn't help giggling with him.

‘You feeling all right? Still sore?' he asked, his tone sincere.

‘A little. I like it. I don't want to forget.'

‘No. Me neither. It were … fucking hell … beyond anything, Callie. Thank you.'

‘Have you done that a lot before?'

‘Not a lot. Enough to know what I'm doing though.'

I wasn't sure why I'd asked. I didn't think I wanted to imagine him with other women. It was something we'd never discussed, but now that I'd broached the subject, my curiosity got the better of me. ‘What have your past relationships been like? Long?'

‘One or two.' He gave a light, teasing tut. ‘There you go asking questions again.'

‘I'll shut up.'

‘Nah. That's a safe one. Was with a girl I knew from school for three years, but it just weren't right as we got older. She went off with someone else. Married him, got kids now. Then the army took over. Didn't have anyone solid through that, didn't think it were fair on them. Then after what happened I just wasn't ready to focus on anyone. After a couple of years I met a woman through work. She lived abroad. We tried to make a go of it for a year or so but it became impractical and we grew apart. Sends Christmas cards now, that's about it. When I get those cards, I just think, ‘Oh right, what's Martha been up to?', find out, and put it down. Don't think about it after that.'

‘And in between the longer relationships?'

‘Well, you know, few quick flings here and there. I'm a bloke. Got to give the wrist a break sometimes.' He smirked down at me.

‘I hope I give your wrist a break.'

‘Aye, you do that.' He ran a single finger down my cheek. ‘And you give my soul a break.'

Before I had time to break up at the emotion of his words, he was kissing me. I was aware of him sliding inside, I was aware of him stroking my clit, sucking my nipples, but it was second nature to me now, like breathing. We came together, softly and silently this time.

Paul looked quizzically at me afterwards, his cock still twitching inside. ‘Isn't it about bloody time we ate something?'

‘Sunday brunch!' I beamed. ‘I'm cooking.'

I leapt up, showered quickly, and headed to the kitchen. While I fussed with bacon and eggs, Paul went out to buy a newspaper.

When he returned his expression seemed grimly resigned. ‘You'd better have a look at this.' He tossed a tabloid across to me.

The headline glared back: ‘Who are they kidding?'

Underneath was a picture of the two of us, a still from the
Jack Northam Show
. It showed Paul with his eyes fixed on me and a gentle smile on his face. His hand was between us, but he was leaning heavily on it so that he drew closer to me. I was staring back at him, a broad, open-mouthed smile on my face. It was the moment he'd joked about something. I quickly scanned the article:

‘Callie Frobisher and Paul Mason, the two miraculous survivors of the Maldives air disaster, appeared together on the Jack Northam Show to deny rumours of any romance. However, their body language told a different story. The pair could hardly keep their hands off each other, let alone their eyes. The two laughed and joked, totally at ease in each other's company. Despite Callie's assertion that she has a boyfriend, the nation has decided – come on, Callie and Paul! Stop pretending! We know you're crazy about each other!'

I'd stopped stirring the bacon. The oil gave an indignant pop and splattered on my top.

‘And there I was thinking we'd put them off.'

‘Ah well. There it is. Nowt we can do now,' Paul sighed but came and gave me a peck on the cheek. ‘Smells good.'

He was remarkably relaxed about it. When I thought about his reaction to Tom Yearsley's attention, to my assertion that I had a boyfriend, this was positively accepting. It was clear: I was the one who minded our relationship going public, not him. I concentrated on serving the bacon. Come on, Callie, come on. It's good. It's all so incredibly good.

I smiled broadly and turned to him with the plate of food. ‘That should keep you going.'

‘You keep me going.'

My phone rang. ‘Ignore it,' he said. ‘Come and eat with me.'

‘Might be my mother. I've been a bit quiet. We always talk on a Sunday. Hang on.'

I grabbed my phone quickly and answered it without even looking at the caller ID. ‘Hello?' I said brightly.

‘Callie, hi. You sound happy.'

It was Rupert.

‘Oh, hello.' I glanced at Paul who averted his eyes, clearly aware of who it was. I moved down the corridor.

‘Seen the papers,' said Rupert, his voice flat.

‘Oh?'

‘You and that twat are all over them.'

I turned my back on the alleged twat. ‘Yeah, well, you know what the media are like.'

‘But, you said that … on the show.'