come, finally, before dawn. When the wind had pushed back the curtains and first light had seeped inside, he had heard the shot and had not known what weapon had fired it.
Malachy slept. Far from him, as if briefly he escaped their reach, were the voices that accused. Then…
Maybe a door slammed on the walkway. Maybe a car below screamed when the gears failed to mesh.
Maybe the dream was never far enough away. He twisted and jerked on to his stomach.
He woke.
Rubbed his eyes.
Felt the cold of the air on his body.
Hands on his ears, as if that would shut out the voices that dinned in his mind.
His body shook.
'God,' he cried out. 'What do I have to do? What?'
13 January 2004
'Where's that wretched man now?'
'Outside, sir, sat on a chair.'
'Bloody hell, it's all I need.'
'On a chair, sir, in the sunshine.'
The major, commanding Bravo company, paced his operations bunker, made a little trail of bare concrete where the dust was kicked aside. Frustration, not the Iraqi heat, flushed his face.
'You know, Sergeant McQueen, what I've got on my plate?'
'A whole load of shit – excuse my vulgarity – sir.'
'Piled up and bloody high with it… What's he saying?'
'Nothing, sir. Far as I've heard, not said a word.'
'And lost his weapon?'
'Could say dumped his weapon, sir. The section retrieved his helmet and his jacket, which he apparently abandoned in the street.'
'No explanations?'
'Not that I've heard, sir.'
Around the major were his second-in-command, his signals corporal, the platoon commander of the section involved in the patrol, and his batman, who had brought him a meal-ready-to-eat supper that he had not touched; he did not know when he would get a mouthful down him.
Sergeant McQueen was by the sandbagged doorway and, looking past him, the major could see one of the chair's legs and one of the wretch's shins and boots. None of the men in the bunker would offer help or be asked to.
'I can't go on the net on this.'
'No, sir. It wouldn't be wise. Better to put down on paper what you know. Personal to the colonel. Not clever to broadcast it on the radio. You to the colonel.'
'Where do I find the time to do that?'
'Respectfully, sir, you have to find it.'
'Right now I haven't the time.'
'No, sir.'
T am trying to organize a lift and I have an O Group in an hour, and the chance of getting in at dawn fast and out faster is receding by the bloody minute. I am waiting to hear back from the village elders, who are complaining about the section's response to a full-scale ambush. Christ, what are we supposed to do? Chuck toffees at them when we're taking live rounds? X-ray 12 is reporting barricades going up round the market and they're gathering for the funeral, and… And a high-velocity weapon is missing, and I've got an officer I'm told is a coward.'
'That's what the men are saying, sir.'
'A coward. It's about as bad as it gets.'
'The men with him, sir, they're using choicer language.'
'I'll hear it again – warts and all. Makes no difference that he's an officer… Wrong, does make a difference because he is not an eighteen-year-old Jock, first time away from his mum with eight weeks' Basic behind him and never out of the UK before. He's a bloody officer, experienced, supposed to lead from the front. Tell it to me, and don't stop if I throw up.'
He was told the story for a second time. He recognized the canniness of Sergeant McQueen: no opinion of his own offered. As he listened, the major cursed the interruption to his planned lift. He saw the interpreter – a former policeman, not trusted a bloody inch – hovering at the door, and gestured irritably for his second-in-command to field him.
He thought his section had done well: the corporal had shown fine leadership, and the Jock who was the marksman had performed in the best traditions of the regiment. In his grandfather's war, the wretch on the chair outside the bunker would have been tied up to a post, blindfolded, given a lit cigarette and shot. In his father's war, there would have been a stamp on the file: 'LMF' – dismissal and disgrace for lack of moral fibre, and a job digging field latrines. The second-in-command handed him a scrawled note: the elders would be at Bravo's main gate in two hours, after the O
Group briefing. Then he might get down some of his bloody meal-ready-to-eat, if the flies had left any.
'… So, that's it, sir, according to what the section members have said. Do you want me to bring him in, sir?'
I do not.'
'They're all good men, sir.'
'1 think I've heard enough.' He broke the pacing. In his own war, somewhere buried in a filing cabinet, was a paper he had never bothered to read: it was titled Battleshock.
Might as well have been Bullshit. He felt no guilt that the paper was unread. He could not have imagined that one of his own men, his Jocks, would ever be labelled a coward.
'What's to happen, sir?'
'Put him somewhere in isolation where he can't infect anyone else. He can be shipped down to Battalion in the morning with prisoners. We've ivasted enough time on him.
They can sort him out down there.' The major's voice softened, as if puzzlement caught him. 'It'll run with him for the rest of his life, won't it? I don't know how you'd ever get shot of it, being called a coward. Can't imagine there's any way back.' He paused. 'Right, the world moves on – without him. I'll do the O Group myself
'I'll find him somewhere to sleep, sir,' Sergeant McQueen said, impassive. 'It's not your worry, sir, what his future is or isn't, and what he does with it or doesn't.'
Her knee nudged the bucket, spilling it. The water flushed out over the floor and the suds went with the flow. The tiled floor of the first storey of the ministry was, momentarily, awash. Dawn's stockings were soaked, as were the hem of her skirt and her dull green regulation apron.
The bucket, on its side, rolled crazily and noisily away from her. Her supervisor came running.
Dawn should have had a look of humble apology on her face, should have ducked her head in shame at her clumsiness. She had been late to work that morning, and in less than twenty minutes the first of the gentlemen and ladies who occupied the ministry's offices would be pouring through the main door to be confronted by a danger zone of slippery tiles. She laughed, and saw a frown pucker her supervisor's forehead.
The response was icy. 'Perhaps you'd care, Dawn, to share the joke with me.'
She pushed herself up, took her weight on the mop's handle, grimaced, righted the bucket, then began to swab the river and shepherd the suds towards her. She didn't care about the frown and the scowl. She had been with the ministry early-morning cleaning team longer than any of the other women, had a reputation for reliability. .. but that morning she had been late to work, then tipped over her bucket. She laughed again and the echo rang down the corridors off the landing.
'Are you well, Dawn? Do you need to go and lie down?'
Her laughter, infectious, wiped the frown and warmed the chilliness of her supervisor. The young woman squatted beside her. 'Well, you'd better tell me.'
