Akram's War Read online

  ‘Not like this,’ said Adrian. ‘We probably ought to drop our weapons and kneel.’

  From behind I heard the unmistakable cocking of an AK47, the clack of spring-loaded metal against metal, close enough that for a moment, frozen to the spot, I was convinced it had fired. The rose Adrian was holding dropped to the ground. Suddenly I felt sick at the sight of that rose and I waited for a moment to see if he would fall after it. Then I turned carefully and gazed up at an Afghan, the tip of his rifle catching the sun as he trained it on us. It took me a few seconds to take it in, as if my eyes were clearing from a temporary blindness. The Afghan was a mess, as though he lived rough in the garden. He wore baggy trousers and a long grimy shirt, and above that was a densely black beard. His eyes were wild and seemed to creep out from under a poorly tied turban.

  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 f
ace, 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.

  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.

  ‘“I’ve been trying to call you for a week.” It was the midwife, a black woman with a tidy Afro. With her was another woman, white, older, tall, with a thin face and greying hair.

  ‘“Sorry,” I said. “I haven’t been out to put credit on my phone.”

  ‘The midwife and I sat down, baby on her lap. The other woman took a seat opposite. I looked at her and smiled, expecting a greeting or at least that she would introduce herself. “My colleague’s just here as
a chaperone,” the midwife said, sensing my anxiety. She passed the baby back to me. “What a pretty little thing.”

  ‘We talked about how I changed Britney, how I fed her; I pointed out the sterilizer that cleaned her bottles. The chaperone made me nervous. Although Britney slept in a basket, when they asked me to demonstrate how I put her down, I wrapped her up and put her on the bed, next to where I slept. I looked at them and trembled, my eyes darting about.

  ‘“Babies are happier in a smaller space,” the midwife said.

  ‘“Being confined simulates the womb.” It was the first time the chaperone had spoken.

  ‘I boiled water and put it in Britney’s bottle, then put the bottle in cold water to speed up the cooling. I added a level scoop of infant powder to the water in the bottle. The midwife nodded and smiled. The chaperone asked, “Are you not lactating?”

  ‘About then, Britney woke up. She had a powerful cry. Luckily, I had just done a bottle, so I fed her.

  ‘“Funny, isn’t it,” I said as I finished the feed, “you put it in one end and it comes straight out the other.”

  ‘I undressed the baby – it’s no easy thing pulling those vests off her head, especially when you’re being watched. I took off the nappy and cleaned her. The midwife stopped me there to examine the baby’s bottom. The chaperone narrowed her eyes and peered closely at the baby. “Ecchymosis, discrete patch, one centimetre, lateral right thigh.”

  ‘“It’s nothing to worry about,” the midwife reassured me. “I’ll book you in at the doctor’s this afternoon.”

  ‘You might wonder how I remember all this? It was written up later, like a play, every detail and word spoken. I’ve read the documents a hundred times.

  ‘At the doctor’s, there were two other people in the consulting room. They sat against a wall. The doctor described one as a student and another as a chaperone.