Scott Andrews - School's Out Forever

“Yeah.”

“But they didn’t radio it in, did they?”

“No.”

“If they had, we’d be in a lot of trouble.”

An armoured car appeared in the distance ahead of us. I was flung sideways as Tariq swerved into an alleyway littered with abandoned cars. We smashed our way through the obstacles, sending the hollow metal wrecks spinning and rolling as we slalomed our way between them.

“More trouble than this?”

“Fuck yeah.”

One car braced itself against another and they dug into the ground as we hit them. The humvee’s nose wrenched itself upwards and we rolled over the vehicles, bouncing madly, my head crashing against the roof. Tariq was yelling, but it was hard to tell whether it was in excitement or terror. Then we hit dirt again and the alley cleared ahead of us. Left on to another main road and that was that, we didn’t see another car until we pulled up at the dock ten minutes later.

Tariq hit the brakes and the humvee skidded to a halt just inches from the water.

“Out,” he barked.

I didn’t need telling twice. I clambered down, bruised and shaken, holding the rifle tight.

“Now help me,” he said, leaning forward and pushing with all his strength. I didn’t bother asking why, I just took up the strain on my side. Together we pushed the humvee into the water and watched it sink. Then Tariq turned and walked away. I stood and watched him for a minute then I shouted after him.

“Should I come with you, or what?”

“I don’t really care,” he replied, without glancing back or slowing down. “If Toseef or Anna are dead because of your fucking stupidity, I’ll kill you myself when we get back to base. But if they’re fine, you’re better off with me. Your call.”

He rounded a corner and was gone.

I thought about it for a moment, then I shrugged and ran after him.

AT THE NEAR-DERELICT building that Tariq’s group used as an HQ, an American deserter called Brett gave me anti-inflammatories for my shoulder, and patched and dressed my various wounds.

When he’d finished, Tariq apologised for being so harsh by referring to yet another online personality I’d never heard of — “Sorry, I was a dick. Wil Wheaton would not be impressed” — then spent a couple of hours telling me his story. We sat on a flat, warm roof looking out over the city as the dusk turned to darkness and he laid it all out for me. It was a lot to take in, and it raised almost as many questions as it gave answers, but I mostly let him talk without interruption. When he had finished we sat in silence for a while, and then I told him my story in return. By the time I finished I felt that we had reached an understanding; after all, our experiences weren’t that different when you got to the root of it.

Then he told me his plan and my role in it.

Then he gave me food and water and showed me where I could bed down for the night. I slept well, woke with the dawn and went looking for Tariq. I found him on the roof, exactly where I’d left him the night before.

“Well?” he asked.

“Your plan is insane.”

He shrugged as if to say ‘what can you do?’ I laughed and shook my head ruefully.

“Our chances of success are…” I didn’t have a word for that amount of small.

Again he shrugged and smiled.

I looked out over Basra. The squat white buildings of the centre, the tower blocks in the distance, the docks full of abandoned boats. And on the horizon the columns of rising smoke as the oil burned out of the wells. I was so very far from home. I’d come here on a very personal mission, tired of having the weight of everybody’s expectations hanging on me, weary of making decisions that determined which of my friends would live and die. I’d figured that either I’d find my dad or I’d die trying. Either way, the only person paying for my mistakes would be me.

Now here I was, in Basra only a day, and a guy I barely knew was asking me to take on a huge responsibility. It almost seemed like fate was laughing at me. No matter how far I flew, I seemed to end up at the centre of things. I might as well just get used to it. I shrugged and held out my hand.

“It’s a stupid plan, but okay,” I said. “I’m in.”

So an hour later, unarmed and on my own, I walked up the main gate of Saddam’s palace and surrendered myself to the American Army.

IT TOOK MY eyes a minute to adjust to the darkness.

The cell, deep underneath the palace complex, smelt of sweat and bad breath, fear and urine. The silence was absolute once the footsteps of the American soldier who’d thrown me in here had faded away; no whirr of air conditioning, no echoes from the long corridor outside, no snatches of distant conversation. Which is how I could hear the soft breath of the cell’s other occupant.

I stayed just inside the door until I began to make out shapes.

Thin chinks of light filtered in through the square holes in the metal window shutter, picking out the concrete walls, the bucket in the corner beside me with the cloth over it to mask the stench, the filthy mattress on the floor and the man lying upon it, knees pulled up, arms around his legs, foetal. It was hard to make out details but he seemed wounded; something about the hunch of his shoulders, the way his head was buried in his lap, spoke of pain and endurance.

My stomach felt empty and hollow, my head swam. I think I was more scared at that moment than I had ever been. It wasn’t the fear of combat or imminent death; that fear was half adrenaline. This was deeper, stronger; the fear of loss, fear born of love.

My mouth was dry as chalk so my first attempt to speak came out as a strangled croak. I bit my cheeks, squeezed out a drop of saliva to moisten my tongue and tried again.

“Dad?”

I REMEMBER THE excitement I always felt when I knew Dad was coming home. I’d run to meet him in the driveway where he’d pick me up, swing me around and hug me so tight I couldn’t catch my breath. The house smelt different when he was home, of Lynx deodorant and shaving cream, boot polish and Brasso (which, trust me, doesn’t really make pigeons explode). We’d go see football matches, take trips to the cinema, he’d teach me to swim or ride my bike and it would be glorious. And then he’d be gone again, for months at a time, just phone calls and letters and Mum putting a brave face on it.

We never lived on station, in barracks or Army housing. Mum’s family had money, and Dad insisted that I shouldn’t grow up an Army brat. He’d always been so determined to keep me as far away from the trappings of the military as possible, absolutely insisted that I should never pick up a gun.

I wondered how he’d react when I finally found him, when he saw what The Cull had made of me. But it never occurred to me to wonder what The Cull would have made of him. He’d become this fixed point in my mind. My dad. Solid, reliable, capable, wounded inside but getting on with things as if he weren’t. He couldn’t change.

How naïve of me.

THE FOETAL FIGURE didn’t stir. I spoke again.

“Dad, is that you?”

He let out a low mumble. I couldn’t make it out.

“Dad, it’s me. It’s Lee.” I took a step forward, tentatively.

Again he mumbled, this time a little louder.

“Go away,” he growled.

ONCE, WHEN DAD was home on leave from his Kosovo posting, I came running into the bedroom to find him fast asleep, taking a crafty afternoon nap. I had something I wanted to show him. I can’t remember what it was any more, but I was five and it was super mega important that I show my dad this amazingly cool thing.