'Pete!'
They were busy talking to the guys, pointing at me.
'Pete!'
A burst of Scouse came from behind me. 'You'll be OK, la'!'
Rhett came into vision. He inspected the wound as Dom and Pete stepped up beside him.
Pete pointed at my Osprey. 'You copped this, mate.'
I looked down like a drunk to see a blurred couple of strike marks, almost indents in the front plate. I couldn't see the ripped material because it was covered with shit and mud.
Pete brought his camera up as Dom eased off my body armour and one of the medics cut along the inseam of my cargoes with a pair of scissors.
'Nick, they're going to clean you up here. As soon as the attack stops Rhett's taking you back to the COB with the other casualties. We'll see you there after they've sorted you out.'
'You'll soon be sound as a fuck'n' pound.' Pete's bad Scouse echoed off the tiles.
I tried to reach out to him with my good hand and was told to stay exactly where I was. 'Pete… thanks, mate…'
'Oh, fuck off.' He laughed. 'It's only 'cos I need you.'
I must have frowned.
'You're a witness in the case of the floating turd!'
I heard him laugh again, loud and long, and then the world grew gradually calmer.
The morphine took effect.
I felt myself floating.
My world became a drowsy haze of dim red light.
19
I felt numb and dumb, like a drunk bouncing off the furniture in some badly lit nightclub.
It was Dom, I was sure of it, shaking me, talking close to my ear. He was panicky, out of breath. Scared.
'Pete's gone…' He said it over and over. 'Pete's gone… It's all my fault… I'm so sorry, Nick. I've got to go… I've got to go…'
Was he crying? 'What the fuck you on about?'
'I've got to go…'
He was a blur, but it was definitely Dom. He sobbed something I couldn't quite hear. 'What you on about, mate?' I tried to push myself up but he stuck out an arm, told me to rest.
His head moved closer to mine. 'Nick, no matter what you're told, it wasn't me, OK? It — was — not — me…'
I felt him grip my hand. I tried to make sense of what the fuck he was on about. My head was still full of whatever shit had been mixed with the morphine.
'Wasn't what? Wasn't you who what?'
He squeezed my hand. 'You'll know soon, when the drugs have worn off. They'll tell you. Remember — it wasn't me. Say it, Nick.'
'It wasn't me…'
He let go of my hand and I tried to stay awake.
20
'Nick, it's me. Wake up, lad.'
'Dom?' I turned over in a semi-daze. 'What you on about? Pete's done what?' My arm was throbbing. I eased open one eye. My arm was covered with a clean dressing. It felt newly sewn up.
'You're going to be right as rain, lad. The doctor said you'll be up and walking today.' The Scouse was thick as soup.
'Rhett?' I tried to open both eyes.
'Course it is, you soft twat.'
He was sitting on a plastic chair beside me. He had fresh combats and body armour on, and sweat ran down his shiny clean-shaven face. He cradled his helmet under his arm.
We were in a huge marquee. The plastic roof was twenty metres above me, stretched over an aluminium frame. The area had been partitioned into cubicles with 3x3-metre plywood. My head hurt, and I smelt of Dettol, or whatever had been thrown over me when I'd been washed and sorted out. It was hot and muggy. Shouldn't a hospital or whatever this was have airconditioning?
'I feel like shit. Where am I?'
He tried to laugh, but couldn't manage it. 'COB.'
My eyelids drooped. They wanted to stay glued together. I was thirsty, but my mouth felt too furred-up ever to let anything through again. As I lay on my back and tried to get my fingers working, I heard Land Rovers speed past. I'd have recognized that engine note anywhere. The odd Brit shout penetrated the marquee walls. I eventually opened my eyes again. It was still a bit blurry but that felt like tiredness rather than drugs.
All my kit from the palace was on a bench in the corner. There wasn't much of it, but I didn't care. Out here, whatever you had would be in shit state within seconds.
I took a breath and forced myself to sit up.
'I got bad news, Nick. It's Pete…' Rhett was grim-faced. 'He's dead, mate.'
I couldn't have heard him right.
'He got shot about four hours ago. Sorry, mate, he was a good lad.'
Pete's gone… I've got to go… I've got to go…
'Where's Dom?'
'Dunno. Probably well shook up. He saw it happen. Media Ops asked me to break the news. It's a fucker.'
I pointed over to my kit. 'Can you pass my mobile? It's in one of the side pouches.'
I was fully awake now. I was thinking about Tallulah, Ruby and those birthdays he was determined not to miss.
I sparked up the phone. Iraqna had treated me to a three-bar signal.
I called Dom. The default Vodafone Ireland message kicked in immediately.
'It's Nick. Rhett's just told me. Call me back soon as, mate. I need to know you're OK.'
I sat cradling the phone in my lap. 'What the fuck happened?'
He placed his helmet carefully on the plywood floor. 'Fucking nightmare.' He shook his head. 'We brought both of them back here from OSB. You were out of it, so Dom said they'd decided to go outside the wire to film the Merlins flying low into the city. Some fucker must have been waiting. Pete took two rounds. There's always some of those shites hanging around looking for a target. Dom ran and got help, but it was useless. He'd have died instantly. What can I say? Fucking crying shame…'
'What about the shooters?'
'The QRF [quick reaction force] were out like a bunch of fucking whippets, but they'd legged it.'
'Where's Dom?'
'His kit's gone. He's fucked off.'
I willed the phone to ring. A cameraman had died on my watch, and now the reporter was missing.
I looked up. 'Help me get dressed, mate.'
21
I did it as fast as I could, one-handed and with a bit of help from Rhett. My jeans and T-shirt were on my Bergen, but my boots had probably been burnt along with the rest of last night's shit-covered, infected gear. I dug out my trainers.
'You know where they keep the bodies?'
Rhett was in awkward mode. 'No, it's not the sort of place we want to go near.'
I held out my good hand and we shook. 'Thanks, Rhett. If you want to come with me and have a last look, you can.'
'Nah, I want to remember him as a gobby shite.'
He left and I finished dressing. A mirror hung on a bit of string from a section of frame by the side of the bench, and I saw what was left of a large black M that had been written on my forehead in permanent marker. At some stage I would have had a label attached to me too, to make doubly sure everybody further down the chain knew I'd been administered morphine. It affects other treatments.
With greasy, sticking-up hair and already sweating, I pushed aside the green nylon sheet that acted as a door, turned left and walked down a corridor of cubicle walls towards the sound of music. I passed air-conditioning ducts, but they weren't working.
There was another cubicle at the end of the corridor. This one was an office. Two guys in white coats sat on plastic chairs, watching MTV. They had their backs to me but I could see the mugs of brew and a packet of Rich Tea.
'Lads, where's the morgue? I think one of my mates is there — you know, the cameraman who got shot.'
They both looked round, and then at each other. It was hard to interpret their expressions. Either I wasn't allowed access, or neither of them wanted to miss Beyoncé shaking her tits on MTV.