Oh Dear Silvia (22 page)

This said with hissing on both the words ‘disappointin’’ and ‘Silvia’. Cat is allowing the venomous serpent in her to emerge.

‘And that was it for me, when you called me a “Hoodoo”. How dare you? You are the one who’s brought
me
the bad luck, woman, not the other way round. Everythin’ was … under control ’til you came along. Who do you think you are? I have lost everythin’ because of you. All for you. You. You. You. You selfish …’

Cat tails off, trying to keep her voice down, and desperately
attempting to steer a steady course in very choppy seas. She is listing badly. She is taking on water at an alarming rate and she has no ballast whatsoever. Silvia is the ballast. And she is just lying there, being pointless. Fit for nothing. A broken bilge pump.

‘You’ve got the backbone of a banana, you useless eejit. Well listen, the fact is, if any of it comes out, have no doubt hon, I will be blaming you. What’re you gonna do about it, eh? Everyone knows what a bossy control freak you are. I have been under your influence for years. That’s what I’ll say. Hear me? Christ …’

Cat scrabbles around in her handbag, checking again if there might be any possible remnant of old Mr Charlie lying about in the bottom somewhere, amongst the Polos and hairbrush and coins and tissues. She licks her finger and dabs around in the detritus in the hope of picking up any residue. She rubs what she finds on her teeth and gums. She waits to see if there’s any effect.

Nothing. Just dirt. It’s all just dirt.

‘Yes, look at you. You feel so strongly about me, doncha? So much that you want to die to get away from me. Well guess what? I trump you, because the fact is, Silly I am the one who needs to get away from you. You are bad for me. Time wears on, and we all wear out eventually. So. I am leavin’. This room. And you, the bloody undead. Now. Watch me …’

Cat O’Brien picks up her handbag and her coat. She
approaches the bed and in one final defiant and disgusting flourish, she spits at Silvia.

The saliva hits Silvia’s cheek, and starts to dribble down.

Cat has finally revealed herself entirely as a snake. She hoped to feel victorious when she did that, but she doesn’t. She feels immediately diminished. Worthless. Cheap. Because that’s what she is. She slams the door as she leaves and a whoosh of her own indignant guilt blows her up the corridor and out.

Silvia is alone in the room again. But now, the atmosphere in Suite 5 is changed. It’s completely different. The danger left with Cat.

Silvia might be dying but, at last, she is safe.

Wednesday 4pm

Cassie is sitting at the head of Silvia’s bed, close to her mother’s face. Cassie’s mobile phone lies on the pillow by Silvia’s ear, and it is on loudspeaker, so that Willow can be heard joining in with the familiar poem Cassie is reciting to her mother by heart.

‘With a ring at the end of his nose, his nose, with a ring at the end of his nose …’

Willow jumps in quickly, she wants to be the owl for this next part, she knows and loves it, and puts on a four year old’s version of a posh, deep, owly voice.

‘Dear Pig, are you willing to shell for one silling your ring?’

Cassie picks it up.

‘Said the Piggy …’

Willow tries to oink the words.

‘ “I will.” Oink oink.’

They both laugh and laugh.

Willow says, ‘Shhh Mummy, that is the Piggy and it makes my nose go sore.’

‘I know darling. It sounds good though, just like a proper pig. Come on, let’s carry on. Can you remember the next bit?’

Willow certainly can, she has no doubt whatsoever, and she launches into it at full throttle.

‘They took it away, marry next day, by a turkey on a hill, a hill, a hill, a hill.’

‘That’s right sweetheart, and what happened next?’

‘They eat all the mince and slices of mince.’

‘Yes, which they ate with a …?’

‘A munchable spoon.’

‘Yes. And hand in hand …’

Willow eagerly joins in, and mutters the words she doesn’t quite know.

‘On the ya ya ya sand. They danced by the la la la moon the moon, the moon. They danced by the la la la moon.’

‘Yes! Well done sweetheart! Lovely!’

Cassie claps loudly and whoops her approval for the tiny person on the other end of the phone to hear loud and clear. Lots and lots of unconditional praise. Not that Cassie would consciously think of it like that. She instinctively dishes out lashings of love. Buckets of it. She relishes nothing more. Piles
it on in massive generous dollops. Of course she does. She loves her daughter. That’s what you do as a mum. Encourage and support. Willingly. With joy.

‘Alright darling. Go and have your tea now. What’re you having?’

‘Daddy’s done nuggets. But not chips. Corn.’

‘Oh, that sounds delicious. Yum Yum.’

‘Yum Yum. Stop it Daddy, shh! Mummy, Daddy says corn comes out all new in poo, like it went in. Tell him to shh. Shh Daddy. Mummy says shhh, you’re rude.’

‘Alright honey. Go and eat your tea, and I will be home soon. The lady loved your poem, by the way.’

‘Say night night to the lady. Say Happy Birthday.’

‘I will, darling, I will. Bye.’

Cassie presses the red button on the phone, and Willow is gone. She looks closely at her still and unresponsive mother, and wonders if she heard any of that delightful jabber? And if she did, did it lift her heart? She wonders what, if anything, her comatose mother would want to hear that would make her want to come up and out of her giant sleep? What would it take? Cassie knows that if it were her, the voice of her darling little daughter would surely do it. Would it for Silvia? And for her, would that key voice be her own estranged daughter, or might it be her stranger of a granddaughter? Well, Silvia has heard that voice now. The unheard before voice of little Willow.

For a second, Cassie considers a life without hearing Willow’s voice. Unthinkable. It’s too sad a prospect for her to ponder too long.

If only Silvia could plug into Cassie’s fathomless love for her daughter, feel even two per cent of it, she is sure it would jolt her back into life as if she had jump leads attached straight to her heart. The direct descendant line from Silvia to Willow goes slap bang through the middle of Cassie, and although it’s a line that has recently overgrown at one end, Cassie’s fervent hope that the love still travels along it, is strong. Potent enough to rouse her? Cassie doesn’t know. Nobody knows, but it’s certainly worth this try.

She suddenly remembers something, and riffles around in her handbag for a few seconds to find it.

‘… put it in here somewhere … know I did … stupid … so much crap … ah! Here it is …’

Cassie has, in her hand, a brass curtain ring. She holds it up in front of Silvia.

‘The ring, Mum, the ring at the end of his nose, his nose. D’you remember? I so believed it was the real one. Couldn’t get over how amazingly lucky you were to have it. I’ve guarded it very carefully, you’ll be pleased to hear. It lives in my jewellery box. Which you also gave me. It’s tan leather with a popper on the front, and red velvet inside, remember? I think it’s for travelling or something. Didn’t your mum give it to you? Think I remember you saying something like that. Anyway, I love it.
And this piggywig’s ring has been kept safely in there for, ooo, for … fifteen years or more. God. It’s a curtain ring, isn’t it? Ha ha. Yeh. Still, the piggywig didn’t know that, sure he was delighted with it …’

Whilst Cassie was rummaging around in her handbag, her fingers brushed against the letter that’s there. She knows she has to read it out to Silvia. She really doesn’t want to, but she has made a promise to her brother and she will keep it. She has delayed long enough, distracting herself with the poem and Willow and the ring and … anything but that letter.

The time has come.

Cassie reaches back into her bag and brings it out. It almost burns her fingers, it’s so incendiary.

‘There is a letter here, from Jamie. It’s come all the way from Afghanistan, and he’s asked me to read it out to you so … that’s … what I’ll do.’

Unfolding the blue airmail paper, she is trembling as she starts. She has already seen the letter and she doesn’t relish the fact that the slicing words on the paper will soon be words in the air. In the open air, which will convey them into Silvia’s ears. And then possibly into her heart. But a promise is a promise and Jamie used up his valuable and limited phone-home time to call her expressly to ask her to do this. So she must.

‘Here goes …’

Dear Silvia.

I can’t call you Mum. I don’t want to. You haven’t been one to me for the last five years or so. Just want to make that clear, right? OK.

Well, I’m sitting here in a hot stinking tent in Lash Vegas (which is what we call Lashkah Gar), writing this bluey to you from the patrol base. Dad and Cass have told me what happened to you, although, frankly, I’m not sure anyone really knows what happened. I don’t get how a woman like you can just fall off a balcony? Unless you were pissed. Or pushed. Or both. Anyway, it’s happened now, and I know the docs have told everyone to talk to you in case you can hear. Personally, I don’t care what you can or can’t hear, but Dad was so bloody insistent on me contacting you, especially on your birthday, so here it is. Cassie will do the honours.

So, what can I tell you? I could go off on a big one about what a bitch you’ve been, and how you fucked up everything in this family, I specially can’t get over just how bloody mean you’ve been to Cassie and Willow …

At this, Cassie falters slightly. Although she read the letter last night, therefore nothing in it is a surprise, she is caught out by just how important it feels to have her hurts acknowledged openly. Last night, she was slightly looking forward to
this somewhat revengeful moment where Silvia might hear how her brother felt in this respect, but now that the moment has arrived, she feels the actual pain of it more than the anticipated satisfaction of having it possibly land on Silvia.

She looks intently at Silvia’s face for signs of any reaction.

As always. Nothing.

She ploughs on.

… but there’s no point harping on about it, the damage is done and know what? She has survived it. We all have.

Maybe I should tell you why I’m in a tent, which is in fact a makeshift medic centre, before I’m moved back to Camp Bastion soon. Couple of weeks ago, our unit were deployed temporarily to the Garmsir District Centre, as part of an operation I’m not allowed to name in this letter. Except to say we were heading into difficult territory. Pongos had gone ahead supported by Afghan troops, to distract and bait Taliban we knew were there. Our orders were to duck in a day behind, and take command of a cell headquarters identified inside a particular cluster of mud-baked compounds. When the day came, I was given a terp to marhsall, who was pretty green. This was his first op out of interpreter training, and he was shaking. Called Ajani. Twenty-two years old. Bit younger than me. Looks like a proper
jinglie, and don’t get all arsy and leftie about us calling the locals that. It refers to their vehicles which are more often than not adorned with shiny jingly-jangly stuff, and make loads of noise, so wind yer leftie liberal neck in!

Anyway, Ajani is a small bloke, his uniform is far too big for him and he stood there holding his field kit and his rifle and looked like someone’s eleven-year-old brother. His kit is bigger than he is, and so is his bottle. I could see he was having trouble controlling his jitters, but I could also see that he wanted to, so massive respect goes out to the little fella for his big courage.

It’s tough for the interpreters out here, some of their friends and neighbours begrudge that they work for the British forces. It’s too much of a head-fuck for a lot of them, and they regard the terp as a traitor or something else dodgy. They even receive death threats sometimes. Crazy. I mean, this guy speaks Pashtu and Italian as well as English, he’s really bright. We had plenty of gags about how he was the only one in the corps who could order a curry or a pizza or fish and chips in the local lingo, and get away with it.

Anyway, fact is Ajani – dead bright, but dead green. I took to him. We shared our fags, and yes Silvia, I
am
smoking again, but frankly, I don’t think you can hold that against me. Ajani and I had a good swapping
system set up. Three of his local fags for each one of my B&H’s. You have to have good lungs to cope with the Afghan tabs, they taste like the bloody camel shit they are but hey, a smoke’s a smoke in hell.

Eventually, it was time to board the cab (helicopter to you), which was already fully loaded with various provisions and ammunition freight. So much so that we were all jammed in tight, and I found myself crammed in on the starboard side, able to see out through the freight-hook hole. The Chinook shakes you about a fair bit on the flight, but I was aware my right leg was going hell for leather, and when I checked it out, I realized it was Ajani’s left leg, shoved up tight next to mine in the scrum, that was shaking like a leaf. Poor sod. I pushed my leg harder against his to steady him and he looked at me. The fear on his little brown mug and the bewilderment in his wide eyes is something I won’t forget.

Although I have actually forgotten a lot else about that day and following night. It’s all hazy memories for me, some are flooding back at odd times, but a lot is gone. I’ll probably never remember now.

Through the hole in the cab deck, I could see the Afghani terrain below, in the late afternoon sun. Whole place was drenched in pink. Female colours everywhere. Looks like a girl’s country. But it so isn’t. In fact, any time you see women, you wouldn’t know that’s
what they are, they’re so covered up. Can only see flashes of dark eyes through the letter box in the headgear on the odd occasion they pass us on a street patrol, or perhaps if we see them scurrying off when we enter a compound.

So anyway, the flight was pretty uneventful, no one bothers to speak as the racket in the cab is too loud. I just kept looking out through the freight-hook hole and I could sometimes see the silhouette of a ’helo whooshing along the ground when the sun was out from the clouds behind us, throwing the shadow down. Looked like a giant dragonfly in the distance. But it was us. Heading into trouble.

As we descended, the cab filled with dust and sand whipped up by the rotor. The dust is like pink talcum powder. Gets in your eyes and mouth. As the stern ramp opened, we all grabbed our kit and piled out. Could hardly see anything for the amount of dust in my eyes, so knelt down, face averted, ’til the roar of the rotors diminished. Once the noise abated, we could see again, and what we saw was a vast expanse of bollocking nothing under a baking hot sun.

We had been dropped a good 8km from the target and had a long hot walk ahead into the night, then set up a makeshift harbour position, to rest for a few hours before a dawn assault. Thank God the ground was fairly
flat, but it was still muggy and we were all carrying plenty of weight, Osprey, cot vest, 360 rounds of 5.56mm, 9mm pistol, SA80 A2 rifle, 6 x 9mm mags, grenades, extra batteries for the GPS gear, bayonet, dagger and daysack with six litres of water. Easily eighty pounds of weight. My own oppos, including Geordie Jim, the medic, a bloody giant of a brick shithouse, were having trouble keeping up straight, never mind spindly Ajani with his trembling matchstick legs. He could have buckled at any time, and he was carrying half the gear, but he kept going.

The sudden quiet was palpable. Weird. Heavy. Only the sound of boots and movement and heavy breathing. We walked for hours into the darkness, eight of us, excluding the medic and Ajani. As junior Capt, it is ultimately my job to use the maps and decide where to stop, which was a rocky outcrop about 3km from the target, known as Red 1.

Kit off, settle down. Was cold. Got v. cold soon as the sun set. No fires, too risky, but cigs allowed, under cupped hands and only local tobacco. Vague shapes huddling together, back to back, facing out in a 360˚ circle, ARD. Hushed chat and continual smokes. Every other word is an expletive. From everyone. No one speaks without swearing. At all. Eyes adapt slowly, and starlight becomes v. bright gradually as vision
learns the night. We ate dry rations, and drank water. No brew due to no fire. Got a few restless hours of kip, during a 50/50 watch, but circumstances kept us mostly alert.

About two hours before dawn, lit up for the last time before moving out, and we convened for the final briefing. I give Ajani one of my cigs, for later. He gives me 3 of his. I drew out the plan in the sand with a stick. We’d already had the detailed briefing back at base, but just as a rudimentary reminder. One headtorch only to illuminate it. Keep the light low to the ground. Definite feeling of heaviness. The numbers aren’t good. Recce reports reckoned about fifty Taliban with AKs, probably. Eleven of us. With the addition of Irish 1 as backup. We’re pretty much fucked. But shit, we are professional Marines and it’s in precisely these circs that we prevail. Come on, you wankers, let’s see your steel.

I know how important it is that I don’t waver. I’m in fucking charge. Fuck. Think. We need to secure that compound with as little damage to civilians as poss, but there will be innocents there. That’s how Taliban work. Using local jinglies as cover. You rarely get sight of them, they are like fucking ghosts, but they are a ferocious and fearless enemy, and tactically astute in theatre. All I have to know, and all I have to let my men know, is that we are more so. We are more than them, in
every respect. And that, luckily, is what I do genuinely believe.

So, it’s kit up and move out, stealthily. It’s still pretty much sub-zero temperature, so the walk is welcome if only to stay warm. I see that Ajani, like me, is sporting a new beard. He looks puffy and tired. I can’t see me, but I bet I do too. Funny how fear translates into fatigue. And how quickly the adrenaline converts it back into energy. As we push on, I remember with every step, just how important it is to be fit. In mind and body.

I look around and see the faces of these men, each one of whom I would, at that moment, die for. I would. I would take a bullet for any one of them. We are a team. These people are my family. At that precise moment, I felt that I belonged in that family more than I’ve ever felt that I belonged anywhere. We were together in every way, comrades hardwired to our most basic instincts, which on that morning were mainly about survival, guile and … well, fuck it, yes, I’ll say it … love. These were my brothers, and I loved them as such. Still do.

You wouldn’t get it. No one gets it unless they’ve been here. Grandad might, I suppose he was a pongo. This place makes you feel stuff you wish you never had to, but which you know for sure you’ll never feel as strongly ever again. I have never known as surely before that I am so completely heard and supported. My home
is here. Not sure that’s right, but am sure it’s true. We all knew it. Unsaid. Wholly felt.

Eventually, after an hour and a half or so, and still in darkness, we were nearing Red 1. I knew for a couple of reasons. Firstly, we were all communicating through personal headsets, and the recce tp were guiding us in, plus we had our maps and GPS ace, Lance Corporal Cunty Kevin Hodge. Sorry to use that word, know what you think of it, but I’m afraid that is his official name for the simple reason that he is one. I can’t tell you why he is but if you knew, you would agree. For a man with highly questionable morals, he is a brilliant navigator, trained with the Brigade Recce, and it’s in moments like these he comes into his own, and all prior bestial indiscretions are forgiven …

The other clue to our approaching the target was that we started to notice small huddled groups of villagers leaving, scurrying past us in the darkness, going the opposite way. Fleeing, in effect. This is always a significant combat indicator. The initial fear of their approach is a bum-tightener. Are they friend? Are they foe? We make out that there are children amongst them, which makes us feel slightly easier, but the fact is, out here, a thirteen year old will as soon lob a grenade at you as anyone, so you never totally relax. The stress is prolonged and incessant, even sleeping is a taught
experience. It’s hard to explain. So I won’t. Ajani spoke to the locals quietly but firmly, ushering them past and telling them to keep moving. Which was exactly what I was saying to my unit. Urging them towards what was in effect, inevitable attack.

Not only was there immediate danger from Talibs, there is always danger all around from IEDs. Booby traps can be absolutely anywhere, so with every step you are on the lookout for telltale signs which are obviously not easy to observe at night. Hard to see tripwires or disturbed ground where pressure pads might be. You just have to wrestle the fear into submission and keep walking. Every step a new courage.

I was already feeling knackered, both from the physical exertion and from maintaining that amount of alertness continually. A weird thing happens where your senses become so attuned that instincts you didn’t know you had start to kick in, and I had learned by then to pay attention to my instincts, even if I didn’t understand them. It’s hard to admit that I was putting the safety of my call sign at the mercy of my new-found and hard-to-explain instincts. But, that’s all I could do, so I did, and we pushed on, in the hope that my senses were going to serve us all well.

Just as the first streaks of daylight started to threaten, we trudged alongside a three-metre-wide
irrigation canal and on the other side of it, I could smell there was a field of poppies. Couldn’t see them, but I knew they were there. White poppies, tall. The heads of the poppies are scored for cultivation and you can smell the opium. It’s a sweet slightly sickly smell, especially at night. Unmistakable. As that wafted past us, we came to the brow of a small hill with the irrigation culvert on our right, from which we had our first sighting of Red 1.

The outline in the half-light depicted two definite compounds, gated and surrounded by fifteen-foot-high walls. It would be a challenge to gain entry, but we’d made our plans and were ready. We had backup from the Irish regiment and the ANA who had gone ahead for the recce a couple of days before. They were sitting tight, waiting for us to kick off. We had no time to lose, because of the light.

What happened next was so quick that I only have a jumble in my head about it. All I remember now is that I led off down the other side of the hill towards Red 1, and I was making good headway. Ajani was right behind me, and I was flanked by Bodger McLean and Thumbs Burke. In the buzz of it all, I couldn’t believe that my brain was hovering around the thought that this assault was being fronted by an Englishman, an Irishman and a Scotsman! Crazy, isn’t it, that I could consider that alongside everything else, but I did.

We had hoped the Talibs weren’t aware we might be approaching, but when we saw the civvies leaving, it was obvious we weren’t going to be the shock we’d hoped for. What none of us were prepared for was their utter readiness. As we advanced from over the hill, we were only a few paces towards them when we took fire. I told the lads to get down, and sent a TIC (Troops in Contact) report over the net, yelling ‘Contact! Contact!’ and ‘Go! Go!’ We moved forward fast, running across open, killing ground. Everything had gone from quiet and stealthy to loud and shouting, whilst under such heavy attack. We had to avoid being pinned down.

I remember realizing how close we suddenly were to Red 1 when I saw that the Talib tracer rounds were passing over our heads, and lighting up way past where we were. I could see all the green specks flashing in the dark sky behind us as the bases of the bullets exploded and lit up. It could have been a really good Bonfire Night display if it wasn’t lethal. Meanwhile the hail of fire we were running into was full on. There is an unforgettable crack-thump sound when bullets fly by. Lead wasps, Cunty Kevin calls them, and that’s right. There is a popping sound and the air warps and sucks as they whizz past. You hope.