Akram's War Read online

  I looked at Adrian. He wore a sly grin and his eyes, colder than ever, reminded me of his father’s. I could see a chain swinging from his hips and the silhouetted figures of my mother and father in the street, defiant but helpless. With a roar I swung a left at Adrian. He turned on his toes and slipped to one side, raising his hands in the air, gloating to his audience. He wouldn’t knock me out. He’d take the charge instead. I knew that. Or did I? I swung again, only to miss and receive two to the head. I circled back around quickly, behind Adrian. He turned to look at me. He smiled, his nostrils flared. I could see his right, about shoulder height, tucked behind his left which guarded his face; the right trembled as it readied for a knockout blow.

  I looked upwards, fixing momentarily on a patch of sky. ‘Bismillah.’ He raised his eyes, looking for what I had seen. For a split second his neck was extended and I landed my best right, what Adrian would have called a straight right cross. I felt something buckle under my glove. He fell to the ground, clutching at his throat, his legs jerking like an epileptic.

  Repeatedly the corporal blew hard on his whistle. I bent over Adrian. ‘Cunt, you let me win?’

  ‘I told you,’ he wheezed, ‘you could have Longbone.’

  I turned to face the corporal and glared at him. Putting a glove to my mouth, I licked it, tasting leather, sweat, and the iron in Adrian’s blood.

  *

  Gripping the steering wheel, Dawn stared at the road ahead. With a hand casually placed against my chin, I tried to conceal the worst of the bruising around my mouth. I looked across at her, hypnotized by her silver dangly earrings. She turned briefly and smiled, the freckles on her nose illuminated by a shaft of light through the trees.

  ‘You been beaten up?’ she said. ‘Told you to be careful.’

  I put both hands across my mouth, picking at a scab. ‘Funfair arrived?’

  She nodded. ‘Spoke to Lucy Burnham. She’s at college and popped into the chemist’s. I’m an assistant there.’

  ‘Lucy Burnham? I assumed Burnham’s fields was a place name.’

  ‘It is, sort of,’ said Dawn.

  ‘You needn’t worry, when you tell me to be careful.’

  ‘How did you meet this Dax? Great name, by the way, fun.’

  ‘I can handle myself.’

  ‘Wendy said you could have made up the whole thing just to get me to—’

  ‘He’s dead,’ I interrupted.

  She was silent for a moment. ‘I’m sorry.’ I could see her reflection in the windscreen, confused and sort of panicked. It disappeared abruptly as we passed into a shaded part of the road. When we motored back into the sunshine, Dawn seemed somehow different. Her grip on the steering wheel had loosened, and her face in profile was less determined, as though she no longer knew the destination.

  ‘I figured you were going to see him?’ Her voice trembled.

  ‘I’m sorry, I’ve upset you.’

  ‘I just feel a bit put upon. Misled.’

  I shook my head. ‘Do you think you can truly be happy only once in your life, at one time, in one place?’

  She glanced at me uncertainly. It was the same look as she’d worn in the pub when her friend cajoled her to go out with me. ‘Was your friend Dax happy here?’

  ‘He was in love with a girl who brought him eggs.’

  She laughed. ‘That could have been Lucy!’

  ‘I don’t expect she will remember him,’ I said. ‘Strange, how things join up.’

  ‘She might,’ she said. ‘We could stop by the farmhouse. If she’s home we could mention it?’

  I said, ‘His soul, and I know there is such a thing, it’s here.’

  Dawn put her hand on my wrist and squeezed gently. Her touch no longer felt exciting the way it had in the pub. ‘You’ve got gentle eyes. You must be kind.’ She smiled, an enigmatic smile, the way only a girl could, with plumped, soft cheeks and narrowed, translucent eyes.

  ‘I’m not up to meeting Lucy.’ The view outside was of an undulating road blanketed deep inside a lush green. ‘This place is as good as anywhere. Why don’t we stop here?’

  She pulled into a layby and without a word I stepped out and walked along the verge. She followed. ‘You’re hard work, you,’ she called, catching me up.

  ‘Can we just find a spot?’ I looked around. We were in a narrow lane bordered by hedges and forest on both sides. Slipping through a gap in the trees, we emerged into a field of long grass.

  ‘And a bit daft for a tough soldier type,’ she added.

  We sat down on the grass. ‘How come this field isn’t ploughed?’ I said.

  ‘Resting,’ said Dawn.

  I said nervously, ‘I’ve never had a girlfriend.’

  ‘This could be a Burnham field,’ said Dawn. ‘They’ve got land all over.’

  ‘How can you tell?’

  ‘Usually, you can spot the cut of someone’s field.’ She looked out into the distance. The field sloped steeply downwards, ending abruptly like the edge of a cliff.

  ‘Can we imagine it’s the field Dax knew?’ I said.

  Dawn nodded. We sat, listening to the occasional call of a bird and the rustle of small mammals in the hedge.

  Focusing on a patch of white sky, I raised my hands to my face and said a prayer for Dax, followed by the incantation ‘Bismillah ir-Rahman ir-Rahim’. I finished by swiping my hands down from my forehead to my chin.

  ‘Strangest date I’ve ever been on,’ said Dawn. ‘You’re not right, you soldier types. I’ve seen it before.’

  ‘It’s no use,’ I said, wanting to cry, ‘being here, knowing he’s dead. Murdered. I thought I’d sense him. Stupid, isn’t it?’

  Dawn got to her feet. Small white stones in her earrings caught the sun. ‘You’re angry?’

  I nodded. ‘I still mourn him.’

  ‘Was he a good friend?’

  I shook my head.

  ‘An old friend?’

  Again, I shook my head.

  She looked at me with irritation. ‘Come on, I’ll drive you back.’

  *

  ‘I’ll take Khan,’ commanded Corporal Longbone.

  I snarled at him. It was the live fire exercise, a series of targets divided by obstacles. We were divided into groups of eight, each man accompanied by a company corporal or sergeant, who would keep a close eye on him and, more importantly, his weapon, which was loaded. I would win it. For Dax.

  The starter pistol sounded and the exercise commenced. I ran to the first station, my rifle held pointing straight ahead, magazine loaded with precisely ten 7.62mm live rounds. The corporal ran alongside me. ‘Fuck it up, Recruit Khan. It’s the last big one and you’re going to blow it.’ He was laughing, his eyes wild. ‘You’re not English, you’re a fucking clown. Do something, you pussy, don’t just take it.’

  Loudly he collected a bolus of spit in his mouth. I saw it, as though in slow motion, as it shot out of his pursed lips. I watched its trajectory as the wind carried it across my eyes and away. Focusing straight ahead, I stopped at the first station, dropped into the prone position, trained the sights of my rifle and discharged one round at the pop-up target. It fell down. I got back to my feet, slung the SLR over my shoulder, climbed a triangular wooden obstacle, stopped at station number two and fired from the standing position, one round and the target went down. I ran, Longbone’s boots clipping my heels, and then dropped down and crawled through a tunnel, my weapon held six inches off the ground in front of me. I hit the other side and made it to station number three. From the kneeling position, I hit the target in one. Beginning to enjoy it, I commenced the long run to station number four.

  A punch landed on my shoulder, making me stumble. I turned reflexively to look at the corporal, and just then my right foot sank into a shallow ditch in the rutted ground. I fell. I saw the corporal’s mouth open but didn’t hear the words. My rifle slipped out of my hands and then I heard a sickening sound, bum, as it discharged one round randomly into the landscape. While I watched, my SLR
landed nearby with a thud.

  A whistle blew. The corporal was screaming at the top of his voice, ‘Stop! Stop. Stop. Unload!’

  Recruit Company C froze wherever they were and unclipped their magazines. They stood, holding their ammunition in one hand and presenting a clear chamber in the other. I felt their eyes on me, and heard hissing.

  The corporal was still screaming, his face inches from mine, his spit showering my face. ‘You fucking clown! That stray shot could have killed somebody. You’re out. You’re out. You’re going home!’

  He retrieved my now muddy rifle from a shallow stream, unclipped the magazine, which he pocketed, and after turning the SLR sideways to eye its empty chamber, thrust it hard against my chest. ‘Get up there and strip your weapon.’ He pointed to a small wooden hut about a hundred yards away on a mound overlooking the range. As I limped away, I heard him instruct the others to reload. For a moment I froze with the crazy idea that he was about to command Recruit Company C to shoot me. He blew his whistle, and the troop continued with the live fire exercise.

  Against one wall of the hut was a stack of metal ammo boxes. I opened one and ran my hand across a folded belt of sparkling 7.62mms, like neatly lined-up brass pencils. They were cold and smooth. Mounted on a tripod, its barrel pointing at the range, was a general: a general-purpose machine gun.

  From my elevated vantage point I scanned the firing range. Recruit Company C ran across it like toy soldiers; reaching a station, they aimed their rifles into the sun and fired at will. Bam. Bam. Bam. I placed several heavy ammo cases next to the general and lowered myself behind it. I swung off the cover tray, pulled a heavy ammo belt out of its metal case and laid one end inside a depression in the tray. It fitted nicely. I clicked the cover tray neatly shut and switched the safety to off. The gun felt hard, rigid; it smelt good: of metal, oil and cordite.

  Jamming the butt tight into my shoulder and putting my eyes to the flip-up sights, I trained it on the company, the crosshairs searching for the corporal. I adjusted the grouping one click to account for the wind from the right. I was happy.

  I heard footsteps behind me. Unusually, the corporal spoke in a sort of low stammer. ‘Recruit Khan, you?’ Tightening my grip on the general, I turned to look at him. He was panting, his arms pinned to his sides and his eyes wide. ‘What the fuck are you doing with the general?’

  I offered a nonchalant smile.

  ‘Hang on.’ His face became a frozen white mask. ‘Is that thing loaded?’

  Slowly I swung the general towards him and said, ‘First rule of the firing range, guard your ammo. They’re going to have you for this.’ The sights were now trained on him. ‘Dare me?’

  His eyes darted between my eyes and the tip of the barrel and his chest rose and fell quickly. His jaw trembled and I laughed. I sprang to my feet, knocking the general. Its barrel swung on its tripod pivot before coming to rest, and the corporal dived for cover.

  ‘Who’s the clown?’ I said, standing over his prone body. ‘Who’s the fucking Englishman and who’s the fucking clown?’

  ‘Fuck,’ said the corporal, slowly getting to his feet and dusting himself off. ‘Fuck me, Khan, at this rate you’ll make best recruit.’

  *

  ‘It gets worse now,’ I tell Grace, her head on my shoulder.

  There is blood in her hair, seeping through the makeshift tea towel bandages on her neck, on her arms, between her fingers, and I can feel it drying against my ear and down towards my chest. In places it congeals into dots of iron suspended in dark red slurry. At its borders the red is drying black.

  ‘How did he die?’

  With a finger, where Grace’s scapula meets her shoulder, I trace concentric patterns in the thick blood. ‘Our troop was on patrol. He got hit.’

  ‘Could they not save him? Didn’t they try?’

  I shake my head. I put the finger to my nose and inhale the scent of cold steel. Closing my eyes helps me picture the scene. I can feel the chill off the mountains and smell the flowers and the rot and open drains. I can see our troop pass through a field, and then another, at our backs the moonlit night. Lieutenant Lovell is at the head, speaking softly to his girlfriend, a comms operator back at base. I walk behind him, trying my best to avoid mines, putting my feet exactly where he put his. I remember thinking, it is good of the lieutenant to take point. By rights it is my job, it is the sergeant who takes the mine. I hear the light fall of my boots on the earth and feel a cold sweat on my brow. Beyond the occasional call of an owl, all is quiet.

  Lieutenant Lovell gave the halt and the lads settled down to brew tea. They needed no excuse for a brew. Private Hartley padded up to me and, with a twist of his head, indicated for me to follow.

  When we were out of earshot of the others, he said, ‘You thirsty, Sarge?’

  ‘No, lad.’

  ‘Me neither.’

  ‘Then let’s carry on half a k.’

  We were rarely alone and I enjoyed his banter, so we scouted, taking a route we knew. After twenty minutes we were about a k and a half from the others.

  The day’s first azan started up from a distant loudspeaker, ‘Allahu Akbar.’ I pictured a turbaned mullah standing somewhere nearby reciting into a microphone. It resonated through the languid mountain air of the Hindu Kush, puncturing the silence. It had been merciful, the absence of overnight contact. Terry were out there, smoking opium in dugouts and on rooftops, doing nothing more than quietly taking our measure.

  ‘Can’t smoke enough today, boss.’ From a pocket Adrian produced a box of cigarettes, a blue packet branded with the English word sky. Delicately, with thick, tanned fingers, he pulled one out and rapped the butt end against the box.

  The azan had for a few seconds been solitary, and now it was joined by another starting up from the beginning, and a few seconds later yet another, until all around was a cacophony of competing calls, from loudspeakers large and small, mounted on poles and in minarets, near and distant, a chaotic and disassociated shrill.

  Putting my hands over my ears, I said, ‘Noisy bastard mullahs. I’d cut their fucking throats, all but one.’

  Adrian stood still, blowing smoke out of his nostrils and rubbing the stubble on his chin. ‘You might be the sarge but you’re lowering the tone. Sarge, do you know about the Night of Power? It’s suspicious, like a birthday for Muslims.’

  ‘Let’s not stand around,’ I said.

  ‘Sarge,’ Adrian acknowledged.

  ‘I think you mean auspicious.’

  The sun was rising, a thin yellow glow spreading across a snowy summit. Between the peaks and our position several kilometres across the plain was a dry landscape of rock and brown earth, still dark and invisible in the shadow of the mountains, like a void yet to be sketched in. Gradually the fresh light brightened into a syrupy-yellow clarity that you could almost touch, as though Allah was saying, Here you go, lads, behold the earth. It brought a new smell too, replacing the pungent night-blooming jasmine: the smell of open fires and baking flatbread mixed with gas from engines – tuk-tuks, buses, taxis, Suzukis – starting up at the chowk in the nearby village. And it seemed that the smell came first, reminding me with a jolt, as I looked around as though for the first time, that in a few minutes it would be daylight. Already the air was warm.

  Behind me I heard again the word ‘Sarge’. There was only Adrian and me, but it didn’t sound like him. The voice was low, summoned with great effort.

  I turned. Adrian stood a few feet away, his gaze fixed on me. His cigarette dropped to the ground. Slowly, his face tightened. ‘Sarge,’ he said again, louder, his voice a sharp cry.

  As though doing a calculation in my head, I traced back to the moment before he had dropped the cigarette, before he had called to me. Had there been a click of metal? At his perfectly still left boot a spark flared abruptly and worked its way around the rubber sole, like a small firecracker labouring under a great weight, and then, before either of us had time to avert our eyes, take cover or say another
word, it died out. For what seemed like minutes we stood perfectly still. Adrian looked as though he was in great pain, his fists clenched at his sides and eyes now screwed tightly shut. I listened to the sound of his laboured breath.

  I slid my rifle and daypack gently to the ground. I took one step forward and then, with one knee bent, my arms circling his waist, I summoned all the strength I possessed and heaved him off. I fell backwards to the ground, the great weight of Adrian landing awkwardly on me, although thankfully my helmet and shoulders took much of the impact.

  Wriggling out from under the weight of Private Hartley, I stood up, picked up my rifle and rubbed my chin where Adrian’s helmet had struck me. Under the short beard it felt hot and raw but the skin wasn’t broken.

  ‘La ilaha il Allah’: the final azan came suddenly to a close. Adrian sat where he had fallen, his head bowed and his hands clamped over his eyes as though trying to block out the world. He rocked back and forth, muttering to himself.

  ‘That’s why Terry call it the Night of Power,’ I said. I could feel the after-rush of adrenaline pumping through my chest, and my hands trembled. Adrian looked up through a gap in his fingers. For the first time I noticed how closely bitten his fingernails were, reduced to thin arcs. ‘I understand it now. After all those years at the mosque I think finally I get it. Why they call it power. Terry say that for one night a year the Angel Gabriel mingles with us on earth, and tonight a Terry angel has saved your legs. Why not? Terry say anything is possible.’

  Adrian stood up, wiping the tears from his eyes. He panted, the sweat dripping off him, and stared cautiously at the spot where he had earlier stood. ‘Was that an IED?’

  ‘It was just a fuse devoid of charge.’ I wiped my clammy brow. ‘I had a hunch. . .’

  He looked at me, his expression like that of a child, a mixture of confusion and disappointment.