Kate Medina - Fire Damage - A gripping thriller that will keep you hooked

‘So talk me through what happened.’ Callan had a hand on the file, but didn’t open it. He had clearly memorized the contents. ‘On the afternoon of Wednesday, 28th October – six days ago.’

‘I believe I did that yesterday, Captain Callan.’ Still the American drawl.

‘Go through it again.’

Starkey shrugged, glanced at Jessie. An instinct for self-preservation, establishing ground rules at the outset, made her hold his gaze across the tabletop; hold it until he looked away.

‘I suggested we go for a run and he agreed.’ His eyes rolled around the room, drifting up the walls, across the ceiling.

‘Who is “he”?’

‘He. Him. Are you trying to trick me, Captain Callan?’

Callan sighed, glanced at the tape recorder again. ‘Jackson. You are referring to Sergeant Andy Jackson.’

‘Right, Jackson. We’d both had a busy day, needed to run off the cobwebs.’

‘In 35 degree heat, in full combat kit.’

‘More heat, more sweat, releases more toxins. You should know that, Captain. You look like a bit of a fitness freak.’

‘What were you doing in Afghanistan?’ Jessie cut in.

‘I’m with the Intelligence Corps.’

‘Working on what, specifically?’

Starkey sighed. He tilted his head back and his gaze, under hooded eyelids, drifted to Callan. ‘You must have talked to my superiors, Captain Callan.’

‘I have.’

‘And what did they say?’

Callan didn’t answer.

Starkey laughed softly to himself. ‘Not much, I’m guessing.’ He raised his right hand, putting the tips of his index finger and thumb together to form a circle. ‘Need to be in the know. In the circle.’

‘Training ANSF? Drugs? Terrorism? Warlords and tribal loyalties?’ Callan said.

Starkey smirked. ‘You’re not in the circle, Captain.’

His eyes skipped off around the room again, came to rest on the window. It had started to rain. Lights from the courtyard reflected in globules of water on the glass, thousands of tiny bulbs. The strip light above continued to flicker, coating their faces white-grey-white and grey again, when the frail afternoon light was left to cope on its own for a fraction of a second. Callan glanced up at it, his brow furrowing in irritation. He looked back to Starkey.

‘Answer the question, Starkey.’

Starkey’s eyes snapped back from the window to rest on Jessie’s.

‘Do you know what frightens people, Dr Flynn?’

‘I’d say that real fear is different for everyone. We all have our secret demons. Isn’t real fear about tapping into that person’s individual demons?’ Jessie said. ‘Pressing their buttons.’

Starkey grinned. He seemed to like her answer.

‘So what was Andy Jackson’s demon?’ she asked.

‘You’re asking the wrong questions, Doctor.’

‘Am I?’

‘He was too stupid to have demons. He was a follower, plain and simple.’

‘Is that how you got him into the desert? Because he liked to follow?’

‘This isn’t about me,’ Starkey replied.

She could feel Callan shifting uncomfortably beside her, sense his impatience at this play of words.

‘So what is it about? Drugs? Terrorism? Warlords and tribal loyalties? Where do your loyalties lie, Starkey?’

Starkey crossed his arms over his chest. ‘Do you know what Afghanistan’s nickname is, Dr Flynn? The Graveyard of Empires.’ He smirked. ‘Have you ever been there? To the Graveyard?’

‘Twice,’ she said. ‘Both with PsyOps.’

He raised his eyebrows, clearly surprised. ‘I’m impressed.’

‘You needn’t be. It’s my job.’

‘So you know what a complete shit show it is out there then, ever since we demobbed to keep the politicians’ ratings up, keep Joe Public happy. But we’re still there, aren’t we – some of us suckers?’ He laughed, a bitter sound. ‘PsyOps? We’re fucking amateurs compared to them. We think we’re playing them, but we’re the ones being played.’

He started singing, softly, under his breath, ‘I’m a puppet just a puppet on a string.’

Jessie could sense that Callan was getting frustrated. His hands were clenched into fists on the tabletop, his legs jiggering underneath it. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw the tense set of his jaw. It would be easier for him if Starkey refused to talk at all. At least he could then assemble evidence from other avenues, without having the water muddied like this. But it wasn’t so strange to Jessie. She had seen it a number of times – both before joining the Army and after. Patients who loved the wordplay, saw it as a game. Didn’t want to be tied down, or couldn’t be. Their heads a jumble of disassociated ideas, memories drifting loose, thoughts they couldn’t straighten into anything intelligible. Which was Starkey?

Callan stood suddenly, strode over to the light switch. Flicked it off, waited a couple of beats, flicked it on again. The strip light above them continued to flicker.

‘For fuck’s sake,’ he snapped, returning to the table.

‘Is that what you and Jackson were working on?’ Jessie asked. ‘PsyOps?’

Starkey smirked. ‘I thought you were PsyOps.’

‘But you were working on something with Jackson?’

‘There’s a lot of intelligence to be gathered in Afghanistan. Some things I worked on with Jackson, other things not.’ A muscle in his jaw twitched. In anguish? With stress? ‘Fucking amateurs, and that’s how we get burnt,’ he muttered.

‘Burnt.’ Her mind flitted to Major Nicholas Scott, his skin like melted treacle. Scott was attacked in Afghanistan. A long shot, she realized. ‘Did you work with Major Scott?’

‘We only overlapped for a few days,’ Starkey said.

She felt Callan shift beside her, tilt forward in the chair.

‘I heard he was a good guy, though, Scott,’ Starkey said. ‘Committed to the cause.’

‘And he got burnt.’

Starkey’s fingers were tapping out a frantic tune on the tabletop. ‘Maybe he was too committed, did too much for the cause.’ He found her gaze across the table . ‘Just a puppet on a string.’

‘Do you have nightmares, Sergeant Starkey?’

‘Nightmares. My life’s turned into a nightmare.’

He leaned forward, stretching his hands across the table towards her, palms upwards, fingers cupped slightly as if he was holding them out to God. She resisted the urge to lean back, put distance between them. She could sense Callan next to her, muscles taut, tuned to make a move if Starkey did.

‘You know what really frightens me, Dr Flynn?’ Starkey’s voice was barely more than a whisper. ‘Injustice.’

‘Are you the subject of an injustice?’

‘Why don’t you ask Captain Stiff-as-a-fucking-board Redcap here, Doctor? Because I sure as hell don’t know what he’s thinking.’

Anger rippled across Callan’s shoulders. ‘Stop playing games and tell me the truth. Why did Andy Jackson die?’

‘The truth will set you free, Captain Callan.’

‘Jesus Christ.’ Callan slammed both hands flat on the tabletop, making the voice recorder rattle.

Starkey grinned. ‘Temper temper.’

Shoving his chair back, Callan strode to the door. ‘What the fuck is wrong with the lights.’ He slammed his hand on the switch a couple of times, flicking the lights on and off. On again. Off. The frail afternoon light seeping through the window coated their faces in sepia, the colour of old photographs.

Jessie remained where she was at the table. Her gaze sought out Starkey’s; she looked him straight in the eye. She thought that his gaze might flicker, wander. It didn’t. The eyes that met hers were intelligent, astute.

‘If you continue in My word, then you are truly disciples of Mine; and you will know the truth, and the truth will set you free,’ she said quietly. ‘John 8:32.’