The Corporal's Wife (2013) (30 page)

Zach was out of the van. Inevitable that there’d be a road block in front of them, but he hadn’t been told. He wasn’t in the loop of shared information. He stretched. Mikey and Wally were with him.

Zach was told.

He couldn’t turn on the man and say, ‘Wait! Hold it there! I’m a civilian, not a part of a combat team. You’re supposed to be protecting me.’ He turned away. He was in the north-west, but not yet among the mountain people or in the Kurdish areas. It was a place of rural peasants and a torch would be shone in his face when he approached and while he talked.

It was ahead of them, Mikey said, about three hundred metres. They’d seen the glow of cigarettes, and the short flash of a torch.

Mikey said softly, ‘There are ditches on either side, fields, with rough frozen ground, and grazing. There are some dried-out irrigation systems. We can’t go off-road. So, what are you?’

‘A herdsman.’

‘What’s your problem?’

‘I’ve lost some goats. I’ve left the dog with the ones I’ve found, but I’m a few short.’

‘What’s the threat to your goats?’

‘Wolves. They’ve been seen and—’

‘Wally’ll be behind you. You up for this?’

Well, he’d soon find out. And he’d soon learn whether Farideh would have done better to chuck the proposition back in his face and stayed where she was.

‘I’ll give it a stab,’ Zach answered.

Mikey went to the side of the road and they heard the crack of a small branch breaking. He returned with a length of sapling and stripped off the secondary branches. He handed it to Zach – what a drover would carry. Zach was remembering accents and what little he knew of country dialect.

‘Do you want me to talk it through with her, get her thoughts?’

‘No. On your way.’

Zach started to walk. He heard the lever on the machine gun slide forward or back, and imagined the safety was off. He strode ahead and began to call, like there were goats to the right and left of him. He called loudly because he had to find them before the wolves did. He didn’t know how far behind him Wally was.

A flashlight came on, wobbled, wavered, and found him. The beam blinded him.

‘Have you seen some goats?’ he yelled at the light. ‘Have you heard any wolves?’

A young voice, tainted with nerves, answered. ‘Are there wolves here?’

Zach answered, a countryman’s vernacular. ‘Yes.’

He didn’t know how far behind him Wally was.

Wally was in a ditch on the left side of the road. No traffic came through. They were inside the bubble, vehicles held up behind them and ahead. He estimated he was two hundred yards away from the torch beam. Wally thought he was there to give the boy confidence. Could he intervene if it went badly for him at the block? He could see a police car parked sideways but that was all. They were relying on Zach. Could he intervene if a knot of them formed round him and a rifle butt smacked into his head? Could pigs fly? He might drop one, and the lad might break free. Might . . .

He would not be able to help. He saw the light on the boy. It threw a long shadow behind him. Zach had courage, and no choice but to show it.

He was Walter Davies, had always been Wally, was thirty-six. There were days when he thought he had little to offer, and fewer when he reckoned a spark still burned. He was from the north-east, had joined a Fusilier regiment at nineteen, and had come back from the Province on the usual high. Natalie was his girlfriend, and they hadn’t used anything, so he had a daughter. A son was conceived on his return from the first Gulf scrap, born in ’92, and another after he’d returned from deployment to Basra in 2008. He was a platoon sergeant, reasonable at his job, but Natalie had said he had to come out, or she and the kids were on the move. Difficult to cope with that: one thing being a soldier and having all manner of shit to contend with, another to deal with a woman’s ultimatum. He’d come out, the start of the slide down the slope. No jobs in the north-east, and he had no skills to offer other than killing or leading kids into the zones where they could kill. He was on the dole, feeling lost and failed. Natalie had left with the kids. She’d moved in with a printer-ink salesman.

What had Wally to give? He was a bayonet-pusher, and there were enough of them at the big firms with the offices in London’s West End. He’d ended up at Contego. They had restored some of his self-respect, but not all. As a private military contractor, regarded as a low-life by the regulars, and with his sergeant’s rank meaning nothing, he had done close protection and convoy escort in Kabul, then had six months of decent pay and utter boredom as armed watch on bulk tankers running the risk of being hit by Somali pirates. Best place he’d been was the Cape, South Africa, and it was possible there to sign on, three months at a time, and work with ambulance crews in the townships. Knifings, bullet wounds, head injuries, he’d done them all. It was the most useful contact Contego had, and that placement meant Wally was high quality at saving life in the golden minutes after the ambulance had pitched up. It was better than any simulation, better than being in the field because then the trained people stepped in and he’d be elbowed aside. He knew now how to save the life of a wounded client and, from what he’d been told by the crews in the Cape, he also knew when the chance of survival was lost. Contego had kept him busy, but less so recently. He was classified as a remote medical assistant, which helped, but the competition for placement was heavy.

He sent cards and money for his kids’ birthdays but never heard back. He had no love life – except Leanne in Contego’s accounts office. She was the unexceptional, none-too-choosy office bicycle, and she did a turn with him sometimes. His hair was thinning at the front and there were grey strands at the sides, and life wasn’t a bed of roses. Where would he rather be? He hadn’t yet persuaded the boys to play the game with him, but he loved it. It was the best laugh he knew.

An honourable man? Yes, why not, when there weren’t alternatives available? He had little scope for fixing his expenses because Leanne and her pal went through them penny by penny, cent by cent, dinar by dinar, afghani by fucking afghani. And there wasn’t much he could do with tax because he didn’t earn enough. There was a bed-sit in south London that was the nearest thing to home. How honourable? He’d do his best for the client but wasn’t a bullet-catcher. That was beyond the contract’s terms.

The torch was full on the boy, and then the shouting started.

‘Stop.’

‘Who the fuck are you?’

‘We’re police and
basij
. Identify yourself.’

‘I’m Mahmoud. Have you seen my goats?’

‘Come forward – slowly. Put your hands on your head.’

‘Why? I’m looking for my goats.’

‘Don’t argue. On your head.’

‘I’ve lost some of my goats. Have you heard any wolves?’

‘Come close. Put your hands on your head.’

‘Is your road block to stop herdsmen finding their goats when wolves are about?’

‘We’re here to catch Zionist spies. They shot at a helicopter.’

‘I’m looking for my goats. I’m not scared of Zionists, but I
am
scared of wolves.’

‘We have to search you.’

‘Do I look like a Zionist spy? Have you cigarettes?’

‘Here.’

‘God watch over you, keep you safe. Is this all you have to stop the Zionists?’

‘There are twelve of us, and more coming from Tabriz, with two armoured cars. They’ll be here in fifteen minutes. In an hour there’ll be a helicopter which has the equipment to find men hiding at night. That’s coming from Tabriz too.’

‘I have more than a hundred Raeini goats. If you see them, send them back up the road. My dog’s with the ones I have found – and if you see the wolves, shoot them.’

‘Go on, then.’

‘My wife’s young and pretty and I want to get home – but I have to find my goats. I don’t have time to talk to you about Zionist spies. Listen out for the wolves and shoot the fucking things.’

‘Goodnight, Mahmoud. We hope you find your goats.’

‘Thank you for the cigarettes. Hey – and the Zionists? Kill the bastards.’

Zach walked back. The torch was off and he had only natural light to guide him. He was in the centre of the road, and twice there was laughter behind from the police or the
basij
, whatever they were, then quiet and his own footsteps. A light wind blew on his face, and he was shivering, perhaps because he had no protection and had seen the weapons – or because he was scared. It was hard to walk – his legs felt weak. At the School, they hadn’t studied the language of a semi-illiterate peasant who kept goats on a subsistence farm and grew a few hectares of maize and vegetables. The Farsi he had learned had been formal. He reckoned he’d given a masterly performance but he’d learned in the last cramped hours that his achievement would win no recognition.

His arm was grabbed.

He hadn’t seen Wally, but now he was propelled at speed back up the road towards the crest, a dark line against the faint light in the sky. He was frightened that his legs would give way, and didn’t think Wally would carry him. He fastened on to her face, its seriousness, and the defiant jut of her chin. It cleared his mind. Him:
grateful to be asked
. Her:
should I have stayed?
He stumbled, tripped and would have fallen, but Wally held him.

They hit the crest.

His breath sobbed in his throat.

Mikey was in front of him. Wally held him up.

He talked, jabbered. Armoured cars were coming, and a helicopter. He was asked how many he’d seen, where the weapons were, the layout of the block and the uniforms. After a minute or two, he had blurted it all out. Each time his voice had risen, Wally had slapped a hand over his mouth. He wasn’t a part of them, was just the news courier. But without these men, their intolerance and impatience, he was dead. Where would he rather be? Nowhere. ‘Better to have stayed?’ He couldn’t have answered her.

He was taken to the back doors of the van, helped up and pushed in.

Zach sprawled forward. He heard her gasp as the air was pressed out of her lungs. His back was jarred by a paint pot, and he swore. His arms flailed, hitting her. She caught and held them.

They talked, Mikey, Ralph and Wally, short and staccato. Time was precious. A helicopter was up and might now be fifty minutes from the location. Two armoured cars were lumbering south from Tabriz and were some ten minutes from the block. Time was too precious for explanations. Zach understood that. Ralph would drive, Mikey in the passenger seat beside him, Wally squatting between the seats. The weapons were readied, the grenades parcelled out. Ignition in, dashboard lights on, and the quiet throb of the engine. They moved forward.

They topped the crest. Zach had told them where the weapons were and the layout of the chicane. Critical: at the block they had used a torch. They did not have an image-intensifier lens. They rolled. The van gathered speed. No lights, no engine sounds, going faster, speed increasing, with only the grinding of the wheels, the creaking of the bodywork, and the darkness. He was close to her, she to him. They lay on blankets, rugs and the tarpaulins builders used. He sensed that – very soon, seconds away – there would be an impact.

There was a whisper, side of mouth, from Wally. ‘Keep down.’

He felt her cringe. She seemed, then, to wriggle a little under him, to insinuate herself below his chest and right hip. Her hands were over her ears.

They were careering down the last of the slope. Then came the jolt, the engine’s cough and the lights blazed. Ralph would have had the traction and would have swerved right, then left, and accelerated towards the gap. He hit his horn. Noise and speed, light and disorientation – Zach supposed – was what he aimed for. Zach tried to get a view past Wally’s hip, but the man must have felt the movement: a hand came off a weapon, caught his forehead, pushed it down, then went back to the weapon. Now his face was buried in her hair. The first grenade went.

Mikey threw it, reached through the window. Pin out, half a breath in, lever loose, heave. Ralph timed it, braked hard, then swung the wheel, clipped the front of the police car that made the first line of the block, and was past it. The lights showed the faces, and guys were heaving at the cocking rifles’ levers. Had armed the weapons.

Wally threw the next, past Ralph’s shoulder.

All of them knew the figures: 300,000 candlepower for the flash and 160 decibels for the bang. A third pin flew, the lever snapped free and the grenade was thrown. The first detonated. In front of them, men reeled away. Others held their ears and all had arms in front of their eyes. Ralph took them past the front car, then swung sharply and was clear of the second. The final grenade detonated as he took the van past the third. They heard her scream.

Zach couldn’t stifle it. It was from deep in her throat, animal and primitive. He had his arms wrapped round her and her head buried in his chest. She cried out the name as the van swung left, right again, and they slithered on the flooring. ‘Johnny!’

His hearing was wrecked and his eyes watering, but the name had been clear. She had a photograph of the man, Johnny. She was shaking, he didn’t know whether with tears, fear or just reaction to the grenades. Not a shot had been fired at them.