Dr Margaret Green simply shook her head and sighed. The Frenchman was relentless with his taunts and advances, and although his register was playful there was a hint of something else, something darker beneath it – a twisted shadow only barely concealed behind that boyish face, with its prominent hooked nose and big, sparkling blue eyes.
‘Don’t you ever get tired of it, Sergeant Bouchard? I’ve told you what you can do with that chauvinistic attitude of yours, and where you can shove it,’ she replied stiffly.
Bouchard was not to be deterred.
‘I’d rather you shoved it there for me, Doc,’ he retorted with a wolfish grin. ‘You have such beautiful hands, I can only imagine how—’
‘Would you please send in the next patient, Sergeant?’
‘Aw, come on Doc, there are no more patients today, and it’s a real medical complaint! It’s your job to check out things like this, no? Hey, listen, you might even like what you see, don’t be so fast to—’
Margaret’s wide-set brown eyes blazed with flared-up wrath, sizzling as they blasted focused heat through the air at the young soldier.
‘Sergeant, I’m forty-eight years old and I look ten years older than that. I’m old enough to be your mother, for Pete’s sake! Your attempts at flattery are as ridiculous as they are insincere, so I would appreciate it if you ceased this incessant sexual harassment and dealt with me in a more professional manner. If you don’t, I will be forced to speak to your commanding officer about this disgusting attitude of yours, got it? Have I made myself clear?’
The Frenchman scowled at her.
‘You MAPC people are so damned boring,’ he muttered. ‘What’s wrong with a little fun? Christ, you should be flattered that I’d want some of what you’ve got to offer. Shit, what the hell else is there to do out here in the damn jungle anyway?’
Margaret glared with indignation at the young man.
‘Sergeant Bouchard, may I remind you that we are in a war zone! And you of all people, as a UN peacekeeper, should be taking this as seriously as we in the Medical Assistance for Positive Change group are! Have the last few weeks here made not one iota of an impact on you?’
In response to this the Frenchman rolled his eyes and crossed his arms across his chest with bristling aggression.
‘Look, I didn’t ask to be sent out here to deal with all these fucking savages, hacking each other up with machetes and shooting babies with AK-47s,’ he grumbled, his face darkening. ‘You volunteered for this shit, so maybe you’re enjoying it, but I didn’t ask for this, and man, I’m sick of it! These people are scared of us, they’re scared of the militias, they’re fucking scared of everything! And as for us, we just eat the same fucking porridge, fried bananas, yams and okra for every meal, or we get dry, stringy chicken once in a while if we’re lucky … and don’t even get me started on the mosquitoes and insects!’ He turned his head to the side and spat onto the ground before fixing her with a piercing, almost accusatory gaze. ‘Admit it Doc, you need a lay just as badly as any of us! If you would just get over yourself, maybe you could actually have a bit of fun, no?’
Shards of jagged ice crystallised in Margaret’s eyes, and the words she spoke zipped out of her lips with the hissing fury of pressurised air escaping a punctured canister.
‘Get out of this tent now, Bouchard. This conversation will be reported to your superiors. I promise you that.’
The young man snorted disdainfully and sneered at her.
‘All the boys say you’re a dyke, Doc. You know, I think I’m inclined to believe them.’
‘Out. Now.’
The Frenchman mumbled something under his breath and then slunk away. Margaret, meanwhile, shook her head and then brushed a wisp of mousy brown hair out of her eyes before seeing to the emaciated, wide-eyed Congolese child who was lying on the stretcher in front of her. She peeled back the bandages that covered the stump where the girl’s arm had been severed – hacked off by machete-wielding soldiers – just below the elbow.
‘Mm, yes,’ she mumbled flatly, half to herself. ‘This is looking much better. We’re just going to change the dressings here, sugar, and then you can be on your way.’
She completed the rest of her work in silence, and then sent the child out when the procedure was complete, watching with cool eyes as the insubstantial adolescent limped out of the tent on unsteady legs. Margaret had seen so much brutality and bloodshed since arriving here three months ago that she had become quite immune to feelings of horror, disgust and shock … and empathy.
She had always regarded herself as a compassionate person, and had never refused anyone who had asked assistance of her. Back in California she had given generously to a number of charities, had held fundraisers for humanitarian causes, and had volunteered at a homeless shelter once a month, as well as spending countless hours on social media sharing articles about pertinent social issues, and arguing against right wingers and other conservative types. When the opportunity had arisen to take a six-month sabbatical from her teaching position at the University of California Davis Medical School she had jumped at the opportunity, after previously having been unable to commit to the minimum of a four-month term to volunteer abroad with the Medical Assistance for Positive Change program.
Now that she had been in the heart of the Central African jungle for three months, though, she had started to rethink her entire perspective on life. The patients who streamed through the flaps of her medical tent now evoked little more emotional response in her than had the medical dummies she had used
