His gaze darted from his rifle tip to Adrian, me, and back again. I began to laugh loudly again, at the unreality of the situation. It flashed through my mind that if I was loud enough I might draw the attention of our section, drinking tea no more than three hundred yards away.
He stepped forward and swung the butt of his rifle against my chin. I fell sideways, tasting blood in my mouth. Then, fumbling on the ground for my rifle, I looked up cautiously.
The Afghan stared at Adrian.
Adrian, his voice trembling, said very slowly and clearly, ‘Allahu Akbar.’
The stranger took a step back, his expression changing from one of rage to confusion. He shook his head as though in denial of what he had heard.
Adrian squeezed his hands together, as he had done earlier when picturing the distance between the fuse and the charge. It was an act of submission, seeking mercy, and I wondered if he knew that. The Afghan would know it. Adrian smiled. ‘Shahada,’ he said brightly. He nodded and with a fingertip he jabbed his sternum, where his bulging chest parted in the middle. ‘I Abu Britney — Shahada.’ He struggled for the words.
My rifle was lying on the ground just out of reach. I kept my eyes fixed on the Afghan. I was caught in indecision, unsure whether or not to risk making a grab for my weapon.
Adrian bent over and picked up the fallen rose. Holding it out towards the Afghan, he tilted his head up, as though addressing the heavens.
I said slowly, ‘La ilaha il Allahu Muhammad Rasul Allah.’
Adrian repeated the words after me. ‘La ilaha il Allah—’ And then, before he could complete the Shahada, he fell backwards as a single gunshot broke through the windless morning calm, a momentary clatter like a heavy door bolt hammered shut, a bullet entering and exiting his neck.
The Afghan laughed coarsely. A thin blue smoke rose from his rifle tip.
I felt sick, with an overwhelming sensation of thirst, as though I was hollow inside, coated with powder and dry like the earth on which I lay.
*
At the village chowk a bus engine started up, the great metal hulk shuddering around it as though only loosely attached. A solitary tuk-tuk driver, wrapped in a thick woollen shawl, slept awkwardly doubled over in his cabin, his feet sticking out. A battered yellow taxicab sat idle, its driver behind it, his recitation just audible as he bent over a prayer mat. A ragged, sore-ridden donkey flinched as I passed.
The road was heavily potholed and fell away in places where a combination of rain and the ISAF convoy of heavy vehicles passing through twice daily had washed and chipped it away. Bordering the road were shops, still closed at this time of day. Outside a clinic that advertised itself as ‘24-hour family service’, a guard, wrapped from head to foot in an orange blanket, dozed lazily on a chair; an old Enfield rifle rested in his lap. The place stank of diesel and open sewers, and on either side of the road was a drainage channel of black slurry.
I stood in the middle of the road and gazed at my watch as though it would tell me something other than the time. The donkey brayed. Forty-three minutes had passed since Adrian had been killed.
The sentry outside the twenty-four-hour clinic woke. He rubbed his eyes and looked at me, and then looked again, as though unsure of what he had seen. He reached for the Enfield. I shook my head. He closed his eyes, pulled the blanket over his head and leant back in his chair. I heard the faint rumble of Apaches chopping the air above the orchard about a mile away; further into the distance but louder, A-10 Warthogs screamed low, sweeping the earth with a sonic boom.
From behind me came the scraping of steel as a roller shutter noisily opened. Inside was a boy, smooth-skinned and wearing a clean, long blue shirt and baggy trousers. His feet slipping inside his sandals, the lad came out carrying tables and chairs, which he placed on the side of the road. Unlit and gloomy inside, the teashop consisted of three brick walls and was no bigger than a garage for a car. At the far end, a bearded man stood behind a counter, wiping his forehead with a flap of his turban and stirring a large copper vessel.
Spotting me, the boy quickened his pace, fleeing into the teashop. I went over, pulled a chair from underneath a table and sat. The furniture was roughly made from planks nailed together, and where a vertical met a horizontal it was supported by poorly fitting triangular wedges of timber. Seeing a rose pattern painted onto the tabletop, I smiled, tracing its outline with a finger. The boy came out and stood next to me. Blended out of mountain tribe genes, he was white, with beautiful pale blue eyes that met mine, and his soft mouth quivered nervously as though he might cry.
‘Tea?’ I said, putting on my best smile.
He shook his head.
‘Chai?’
He nodded and continued to stare. ‘American?’ he said.
I shook my head.
‘British?’
Again I shook my head.
‘Gurkha?’ he said, confused.
‘Pakistani,’ I said, leaning my elbows on the table and cupping my chin in my hands.
‘Muslim?’
I nodded.
The boy revealed a wide toothy smile. ‘Angel Gabriel,’ he said in Urdu, shaking his head in bewilderment.
‘No angel, just a Pakistani in white man’s clothing.’
‘Angel!’ he screamed excitedly and ran into the teashop.
The boy trembled as he came out with the tea, a tiny steaming cup that he set on the table before me. He stood staring at me again. I patted the seat next to me, but he shook his head and remained standing.
‘What’s your name?’ I asked.
‘Usman.’
‘Sky,’ I said, both hands outstretched towards the heavens. ‘In English the word usman means sky.’
He watched eagerly as I patted down my pockets. I pulled out my beret and considered the bronze regimental cap badge set into it. The motif was of a double-headed eagle. I turned the beret inside out and rubbed the stitching against the rough tabletop to break the thread.
‘Usman, for you.’ I tossed the cap badge in the air. He caught it and ran into the shop.
The tea was thick and intensely sweet. In the back of our shop in Cradley was a gas stove. My father would add half milk and half water, throw in a handful of leaves and sugar, and evaporate it off for ten minutes while I, primed and ready with a rusk biscuit, watched impatiently.
I felt the weight of my numb cheek and awoke to find myself slumped on the table. Opening my eyes, for a moment I wondered where I was. Where was Adrian? Had I dreamt there was a boy? I could still taste something dry and sweet — tea.
Lying on the earth, seeing Adrian fall, hearing him fall, seeing the cloud of dust fly up around his limp body, I had had a sudden moment of lucidity. I had thought, This can’t possibly be the end. I had felt angry, at Allah more so than the Afghan, as though it was impossible that this was the destiny He had written.
I had got slowly to my feet and picked up my weapon. The Afghan did nothing to stop me. He looked at me and laughed, bent over and laughed, as though submitting to the truth, to death, to the destiny that was written for him. I took a wide swing and the butt of my rifle cracked open his jaw. His teeth broken and bloodied, his mandible dangling off his face, he swayed for a moment, looking at me, and crumpled to his knees. I stood over him, staring at his wretched, already barely human figure. For what seemed like minutes I said nothing, staring alternately at the Afghan and at Adrian. Adrian lay in a heap to one side, his blood running in rivulets across the dry earth. The Afghan gazed at me, tears springing from his eyes, foaming crimson bubbles at his mouth. He clasped his hands together and croaked, ‘Allahu Akbar.’ His voice was irritating. Through my earpiece I heard urgent traffic: sitrep, casualty status. I heard the question medevac? The word irritated me. It was too late to medevac. I felt for the lever and switched my rifle to automatic. I remembered what my father would say in the back of the shop as he took a blade to the neck of a chicken, and stammering, ‘Bismillah ir-Rahman ir-Rahim,’ I discharged a burst of 7.62 into the Afghan’s face.