Выбрать главу

I went through the scenarios. The process was part fact and part fantasy. Fact because I was doing what you’re supposed to do-appreciations on how you’re going to get out. Fantasy because I was imagining me actually getting out and turning right, imagining what I would see and what would be behind me. I wanted to escape.

I looked around the room. Above me was a window. Only one of the sections was clear; the rest were boarded up where they had been smashed, or perhaps to stop the sun coming in. I could hear the soldiers mooching around outside, and in the middle distance there was shouting. The voices just outside the window were low and quiet, a mumble from no more than 20 or 30 feet away, and underneath the veranda, as if they’d been told to stand there and talk to make me flap.

I hoped Dinger was getting the same treatment as me because it was all rather nice sitting there on the carpet. It felt wonderful to be on my own. I felt quite happy and content in the dark, watching the warm glow of the paraffin heater and inhaling the familiar fumes. There were no hassles, just me on my lonesome with my hand pinned to the wall. It was real prime time.

I started to think about the patrol. Had the others been caught? Were they dead? Did Dinger know anything about them? Was I going to get the chance to speak to him?

I tried to keep as still as I could. My heart was pulsing slowly, and my body was stiff and aching. It was painful to move, and I wanted to find a comfy position and stay there. Some of the cuts had clotted to the fabric of my uniform; as I moved they reopened. Blood had glued my socks to my feet.

I must have looked like a vagrant. It was a week now since I had washed and my skin was black. My hair, matted from the drama of the E amp;E, was now caked with dried blood and mud. It was hard to make out the camouflage on my DPM because of blood, grease, and grime. My trousers looked like a biker’s jeans.

Why had we been taken back to the camp? I didn’t have a clue. This was obviously still the tactical questioning phase. I was waiting for something or someone. I took a deep breath, breathed out, and started to think about methods of escape. I suddenly remembered that I still had my escape map and compass. I could actually feel them in the draw cord of my trousers. I felt really good about that: at least I’d got something, I had the mental edge over them.

I thought about all the good stuff I’d done with Jilly, all the stupid holidays we’d had together, all the ice creams I had squashed in her face. Things came into my mind that had made me giggle with her, all the silly immature little things. I tried to visualize what she’d be doing right now. I had a pleasant picture in my mind of a Saturday two weeks before I left for the Gulf. Kate was staying with us as usual that weekend, and she was lying on the floor with me watching Robin Hood on video. Little John was doing his dance, and I got up and did it with her. We danced and danced around the room, trying to do high kicks, until we collapsed on the carpet, dizzy and laughing.

I thought back to the time of her very first Christmas. I hadn’t seen much of her because I was away when she was born in February and didn’t get back until she was six weeks old. Then I saw only the next three months of her, on and off. That Christmas I was free, and we were staying at a friend’s house on the south coast. Kate wasn’t sleeping very well, which I thought was great because it was the first time we’d had together alone. I got the pram out at midnight, wrapped her up well, and we went walking along the coastal path until six in the morning. She fell asleep after the first half an hour, and as I walked I just looked at her beautiful little face and clucked like a hen. When we got back, she woke up again so I put her in the car and we went for a drive. I kept checking over my shoulder to see that she was all right. She had fearsome big blue eyes that stared at me from inside all the wrappings of woolens and a bobble hat. It was a very special time. Soon afterwards I had to go away again, and in the next two years I only saw her for a total of twelve weeks.

There were noises outside. My little dream world was about to be invaded. I was flapping. Were they coming to give me another beasting? After the calm, it was a horrible, apprehensive feeling, a fierce dread of a world about to collapse. I put my head down and clenched the stiff, sore muscles. Shit, I thought, they’ve had their tuppence worth, why can’t they just leave me alone?

There was a draft as the door opened. I glanced up and saw a character in the middle of the room. He was in his mid-50s and only about 5’3” tall, with a big middle-age paunch beneath his woollen dish-dash. His mustache was well trimmed, and his jet-black hair was swept back. He had manicured hands, and his teeth flashed when they caught the light. He was ranting and raving at me in Arabic. The two guards who had come in with him went and sat on one of the beds, smoking and chatting, but keeping a watchful eye.

There was a pistol in the character’s belt, which I didn’t take much notice of to start with because every man and his dog was armed. He stood over the paraffin heater, hollering and gesticulating. With the glow of the heater beneath him his face looked like a Halloween monster with treble chins.

He came over to me and got hold of my face. He squeezed my jaw in his hand. The smashed teeth were agony. I groaned and closed my eyes. I didn’t want to know what was going on. He stayed close to me. I smelt spicy food on his breath. He prized my eyes open with his thumb and forefinger. What the fuck was he going to do?

He had an exchange with the guards, very fast and aggressive, then slapped my face a few times. I had no idea what he was on about. Then he walked backwards away from me and pulled out a Makharov pistol. This is all rather nice, I thought, what’s the story here then? He pointed it at me but he didn’t cock it.

Was this bluff kit or what?

The hammer of the Russian-made pistol stays to the rear when you cock it-i.e.” put a round into the chamber. If you pull the trigger, it will fire and reload itself again with the hammer still to the rear. If you don’t want to fire, you put the safety catch to safe. The hammer will still go forward but is stopped just short of the firing pin by the sears that come out because you have moved the safety catch. This is unlike some semiautomatic pistols. They still have a safety catch, but the hammer will stay to the rear when it’s applied.

I was looking in earnest to see if the hammer was back. If it was, I knew that he wasn’t bluffing, and that if he was nervous, he might have a negligent discharge and shoot me anyway. I looked at his face. His expression was very serious, and the eyes were welling up. I could see the shine of the tears. Our eyes met. He started to cry, and the pistol wobbled in his hand.

Surely the guards wouldn’t let him do it in their nice clean barrack room? But his eyes gave it away. He intended to pull the trigger, without a doubt. It didn’t look official. This was off the cuff. But the bloke had got the hump, so even if it was unofficial, so what? He’d do it anyway. I might get slotted here through emotion rather than a decision made, and I found that scary. The character really looked as if he might squeeze the trigger, and there wasn’t a thing I could do about it.

Come on then, arse hole let’s get it over and done with. The guards seemed to wake up to what was happening. They jumped to their feet, shouting angrily, and grabbed his arm. They took away the pistol.

That single act gave me the biggest piece of information I had received since my capture: either these characters simply didn’t want to get their barrack block messed up, or, more likely, they were under orders to keep us alive.