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Footsteps approached behind me. My section, all talking at once. It was vexing. The lieutenant touched my arm; turning reflexively, I shoved him as hard as I could. He fell to the ground. He picked himself up, his face like that of a disappointed child. The voices of my section seemed to get louder, more insistent, like a swarm of wasps getting closer. I felt as though I had been stung, as though my body was burning up. I threw off my helmet and Osprey body armour, dropped my weapon. I immediately felt better, lighter and freer, and the flaxen rays of sunshine felt pleasant on my skin. I started to walk slowly away. Although I could no longer see them, like hot breath on my neck I could sense my section watching in disbelief. I could sense the stretcher-bearers hurrying to Adrian stop and stare.

Finally Lieutenant Lovell spoke, his voice like a knife in my ear. ‘Halt, Sergeant Khan. That’s an order: halt.’

I kept going. No longer encumbered by the weight of my kit, I ran for it, and faster than I thought possible. I pictured the scene of chaos behind me as they threw themselves into the impossible task of saving Adrian. Medic. Medic. Medic. As the earth warmed, the rays of morning sun sprang back in fissures and spirals and I had to squint my eyes to get a clear view of the path ahead.

Now my eyes focused on the tabletop. I saw that the teacup had been removed and in its place was my cap badge. I looked behind me. The teashop shutters had been drawn and the chowk was silent, the vehicles had left. Breaking the silence, the donkey stamped at the earth, its neck twisting awkwardly as it pulled at the post it was tethered to.

Across the street a sugarcane vendor sat cross-legged on his cart. On it was a mound of cane sticks, a metal juicing machine with a long handle, and a stack of dirty green tumblers. A string of prayer beads dangled from one hand and with the other he fanned himself with the tail of his turban. A stray dog walked between us and loped off, carrying a limp. Instinctively I touched my neck, and felt for the first time during the tour the absence of my lucky beads. The cane seller’s hand moved slowly up and down as though testing their weight.

From the direction I had come, a Suzuki minivan careened towards us, its thin boxy frame bouncing over the potholes as though out of control. Over the sound of its tinny engine labouring under the strain, I could hear a naath playing within, one I had heard many times before, a slow lamentation on the phrase ‘Allahu’. Nearing, it slowed right down, almost rolling out of gear. It was white with a red strip running along its side; as it neared almost to a stop, one of its two male occupants turned towards the cane vendor and passed him a weapon. The van accelerated away and I caught sight of myself in the tailgate window, the glass of which had been covered over with a plastic stick-on mirror. My beard, elongated by the curve of the glass, looked like Terry’s, and smeared across my forehead was Adrian’s blood. The blood ran down my cheeks; there was a gap across my chest where my body armour had been, but it continued downwards from my waist, much of it no longer bright red but a deep crimson colour turning black. The Suzuki sped up, and I traced its rear window far into the distance, twinkling in the sun.

Something else caught the sunlight, and as I turned again to the cane vendor I observed the tip of an AK47 trained on me.

Unhurriedly, the cane seller dismounted from the cart and stood in front of it. Despite his sallow cheeks, Terry-style beard and the turban on his head, he reminded me of myself. We coincided in build and height, but there was something else about him, the way he carried himself, and his smiling, weak, unsure, eyes that betrayed him as carrying out someone else’s orders. His hair was closely cropped, his skin yet to be furrowed or pockmarked, and I guessed he was also in his late twenties. I was struck with the idea that he could have been me. I could have been him. The cane vendor, Adrian, myself — it suddenly seemed that each of us amounted to nothing more than where we were fated to be born. I offered him a smile, convinced that he understood what I had just discovered.

He spoke in Urdu. ‘Taliban’ — with his rifle tip he pointed vaguely towards the granite mountains in the distance — ‘will kill you.’ Behind him flies buzzed densely around short stumps of sugar cane, and like a chest of jewels the haphazardly stacked glass tumblers sparkled in the sunlight. ‘But,’ he smiled broadly, revealing the blackened stumps of his teeth, ‘you are my brother.’

I nodded. ‘Allahu Akbar.’

His eyes focused on my wrist. Quickly removing my watch, I threw it onto his cart. He glanced at where it landed and shook his head. ‘And the Taliban may take mercy on my brother,’ the tip of his rifle descended towards my legs, and he spoke slowly, ‘if my brother were crippled.’

I turned my head away and upwards, towards the perfectly blue sky. A white vapour trail of A-10 Warthogs skimmed across it. I closed my eyes and waited. ‘Inshallah.’

14

Inshallah,’ says Grace. ‘I wish I had a word that would make everything bearable.’

Inshallah, you will.’

She wipes away a tear and laughs, clutching her neck to steady herself. For a moment, seeing her head caught at that angle, eyes wide and glazed, blood congealed on tea towels wrapped around her neck, I wish I could draw out the hurt.

I feel a helpless panic in watching her cry and quickly continue with the story. ‘After that, I remember waking up in a hospital in England, my parents on either side of me. When I opened my eyes my mother began to wail, slapping her palms against her face. I closed my eyes, wishing I was back in Afghanistan.’

She places a gentle hand on my knee, a silent benediction. ‘It will be a consolation for Britney, knowing that Adrian’s last thoughts were of her. They wouldn’t take her away. Not if he were here.’ Then in a louder voice, a sort of plea, she adds, ‘He would have fought them. He would, wouldn’t he?’

I nod. ‘You were saying earlier how your image was fixed in Britney’s brain.’

‘They’ll take that away too. And they’ll replace it.’

‘Can they?’

‘If I passed Britney in the street years from now, I might recognize her, I might not, but would she me?’ Grace thinks for a long time, biting her lip. ‘She might turn, take a second glance.’

I sink back against the pillow and close my eyes. My head hurts from the whisky and lack of sleep. ‘That newspaper story. It’s brave what you did.’

Grace’s voice is soft and soporific. ‘Britney was born early and needed blood. After three nights we were allowed home, and I was the happiest I’ve ever been. I lived in Old Hill tower blocks then, and Betts and Alfie from upstairs did my shopping so baby and I never had to go out. We were getting into a groove. Betts had a key to my flat but no one else came. Suddenly, after about two weeks, there’s this loud knock at the door.