Andy McNab - War torn

'Asma,' he said, when they were in the dark part of the camp once more. 'What are you saying to me?'

'The ambush today…'

'It was quite a contact.'

'I was scared.'

'So was I,' he admitted.

'Gordon, I think I killed a bloke.' Her voice was small.

'Are you sure?'

'No. That black kid in your platoon was firing at him too but he was all over the place. I think my round brought the geezer down.'

'You didn't have to fire at all. If you remember, I told you that-'

'Oh, give over, Gordon.'

She was right. Give over, Gordon. Here she was, confiding in him, and all he could do was remind her of the rules.

'Actually,' he said, more quietly, 'I'm almost certain I killed someone today, too. And it was the first time for me as well. Since we were fighting for our lives I didn't think about it then. I have since, though.'

'You get back to base and think: I killed the enemy. But all I can think is: shit! I killed my Moslem brother.'

This relationship was getting more complicated every time he spoke to her. Not just a smoker. Not just from Hackney. Not just a lot of innit. Not just a girl who swore like a trooper. But also a Moslem.

He said awkwardly: 'So… are you a practising Moslem?'

'I was brought up Moslem, of course. Then we came to England and the longer we stayed here the more it sort of peeled off. Like paint. And when I left my family I thought I'd peeled it away completely. The army wanted me because of my Pashtu and I never even thought twice about why. Not till we went to that shura…'

It hadn't been the shura that reminded Asma of her Moslem roots, he thought. It was that man with the startling blue eyes. He'd talked to her intensely in Pashtu. She'd claimed they were discussing the school wall but Weeks had been sure they were having a much more significant conversation. Because why would the school wall have made her blush?

'So,' he said. 'You were radicalized at the shura.'

She laughed.

'Now you're going too far, Gordon. Radicalized, for God's sake! They weren't pro-Taliban. But they were pro-Afghanistan and probably they support the idea of a new country called Pashtunistan. Either way, they were asking themselves what we're doing on their soil.'

'What exactly did the tribesman say?'

'It's nothing anyone said. It's just the way they think. I recognized it because the dad was a bit like my dad. See, it's complicated being Pashtun. There's all the hospitality and the right words and the pride and honour. But if anyone gets it wrong, you've got to get angry, and it's really fucking awful anger. After that you've got no choice, revenge is next, whether you want to or not. The shura took me right back to all that.'

The passion in her face and voice fascinated him. He just wanted to watch her but he made himself reply.

'That's very interesting, Asma. But what do their complications have to do with us? They don't want the Taliban here and neither do we. It's simple.'

'No, no, Gordon, you don't understand, that's the fucking problem. If we're going to fight here, we need a straightforward reason. Good guys and bad guys. But when I talked to the tribesmen I remembered how Pashtuns aren't straightforward. We can't just come here thinking we'll slot our world into theirs. It won't work. Can't you see that?'

'I can see it would give you doubts about your work here.'

'I can live with doubts,' she said, reaching for her pack of cigarettes, taking one out, tapping it on the lid and then slowly putting it away again. 'I'm happy to think I'm out here saving soldiers' lives when I listen to the enemy on their cellphones. I'm pleased to turn into a fucking diplomat at meetings with the locals. That's all sweet, Gordon, I like it. But when I actually kill a bloke, then doubts start buzzing around inside my head.'

He reached for her hand in the dark. She looked around at him in such surprise that he squeezed her fingers and rapidly let go. But he felt as though the imprint of her hand remained in his. He could still feel its warmth and fragility as he said: 'I understand what you're saying, Asma, and I respect it.'

JENNY'S GARDEN WAS FILLED WITH MOTHERS AND CHILDREN. Adi's idea was that everyone should get together. They could have gone to the park. But Jenny, whose house was on a bend in the road and so had a larger plot than most, had offered her garden instead so that they could use the paddling pool.

She was regretting it now. It had taken hours to put blankets and cushions and toys all over the lawn, to drag out the paddling pool and fill it and to lay out food in the kitchen with paper plates. And now she was running around with mugs of tea and cups of juice.

The other mothers sat on the blankets and chatted. There was Adi and all her children, Agnieszka and Luke, Leanne with the twins, Sharon Kirk and Rosie McKinley whose husbands were in 2 Section and who had five red-haired kids between them, a couple of 3 Platoon wives… the door bell rang again. It was Tiff Curtis, whose husband was commander of 3 Section.

'Sorry I'm late, Jenny, we do Shake and Shout on a Tuesday.' Her little girl clung to her arm.

'I do Shake and Shout all day every day,' Jenny said cheerfully, leading them through to the garden, trying not to notice the way Tiff, as she passed the living room, gave it one of those appraising stares. There were only so many things you could do with a married quarters living room but everyone always wanted to see anyway.

'You're huge, when are you due?'

'Another six weeks.'

As soon as Tiff's little girl saw so many other children, she put her thumb in her mouth.

'Oooh, look at the paddling pool!' Tiff said. 'And all the toys!'

The little girl immediately hid behind her mother.

Adi called a welcome and Jenny returned to the kitchen to finish making more tea. Tiff sat down on the blanket with the other mothers and put her daughter on her lap.

Jenny washed mugs and wished someone would give her a hand. Agnieszka was the only mother who was not busy with small children. She could have offered to help. Luke, who seemed to have two states of being, asleep and screaming, was thankfully asleep. So Agnieszka was doing nothing. She sat on the blanket, leaning on one arm, her long legs stretched out to the side like a mermaid.

Her face turned dutifully to the others as they talked but she did not join in and Jenny could see she was not listening. She was daydreaming. Jenny remembered the broken photo frame. Her father's damaged photo and the wedding picture were now lying flat on the shelf instead of on display the way they should be. She felt doubly resentful.

At that moment, a mobile rang. It made everyone jump. Agnieszka dug rapidly in her shorts pockets. When she found the phone she held it close to her. She tapped a few keys and then turned away to read it.

She's anxious, Jenny thought. In case someone sees it. Because it's from him. When her phone rang, Agnieszka caught herself hoping it was Darrel. She turned away from the stares of the other mothers, just in case it was.

Her long fingernails made tiny clattering noises on the keys as she unlocked the phone. For a couple of weeks it had buzzed with Darrel's short, funny messages. Or sometimes he spoke to her, telling her he'd found some part for the broken dishwasher, and then, if Luke was asleep, they would talk about other things, too. On a few occasions they had talked for more than an hour. If Luke was angry or having a fit or hungry, then Darrel didn't try to distract Agnieszka. But he always called her back later. He seemed to understand how hard it was to manage a child like Luke by yourself without another adult to speak to.

Contact with Darrel had stopped abruptly after their last meeting. She missed him. She sometimes rewrote their final conversation in her head. In this version, Darrel didn't leave. He sat down on the edge of the sofa and talked to her sweetly and softly about how he felt. He explained how he respected the fact that she was married and then he said he hoped they could be friends. He took her hand and smiled at her.