Jill McGivering - The Last Kestrel

‘Anyone else around?’

‘A newbie from the Mail . Left now.’

‘Jeremy something?’

He screwed up his face, not much interested. ‘Don’t remember. And some young kid from a regional. Doing puff pieces on Our Boys.’

They sat in silence for a few minutes, chewing. He was a windbag but he was experienced. He was also a sharp operator and she didn’t trust him an inch.

‘Heard about Nayullah?’ He scraped his fork round his plate, scooping up beans.

She nodded. She’d read the agency reports. Nayullah was a town on the new front line that had been out of bounds until recently. Now the army was trying to establish a presence there. It had just been shaken by its first suicide bomb.

He shovelled in another forkful of beans, staining his lips orange. ‘Took out a few ANP. What a shower they are. But civilians, mostly. Women and children.’

The Afghan police. She’d done stories on them in Kabul. Poorly trained new recruits without kit or ethics. She’d heard they’d been the target. The bomb had exploded in the market, a day or two before Jalil died.

‘Did you get down there?’

He nodded. ‘That afternoon. Not pretty.’ He shrugged. ‘Hard to get a picture they could use.’

‘Any idea who it was?’

He wiped off his tray with a crust and crammed it into his mouth. She waited until he could speak.

‘Not much left to ID. Locals, not foreigners, they say. Young lads.’ He drained the last of his tea and licked his lips, his eyes darting round the soldiers as they queued to sterilize their hands or emerged with trays of food and settled to eat. He’s looking for someone else, she thought, so he can trade up from me.

‘Food’s not bad,’ he said, ‘considering.’

She swished the tea round her paper cup and considered the Nayullah bomb.

‘What do you make of it?’

He ignored her. A thought was crossing his face, crumpling his forehead into a frown. ‘This new offensive. They letting you join it?’

She shrugged, trying not to give anything away. ‘Don’t know yet.’

‘I’ve done it anyway,’ he said quickly. ‘Sent London a piece yesterday.’

He was comforting himself. He pushed away his tray with a lordly gesture and sat back. ‘Major Mack. The Commander. You met him? Decent guy. Old school.’

She tried to steer him back to her question. ‘So what about the Nayullah bomb? A reaction?’

He nodded. ‘Know how much the army’s pouring into this? They’re knocking the Taliban off ground they’ve held for years. So, question is,’ he brandished a finger at her, ‘why aren’t the rag-heads putting up a better fight?’

‘And?’

He shrugged. ‘They can’t. Haven’t got the numbers. Or the kit. But they can sure as hell slow things up. Roadside bombs. Suicide attacks. Shoot and scoot. Then disappear back into the woodwork.’

She nodded, drank her coffee. The fact he was telling her this meant he must have filed on it already. Two soldiers pulled out chairs and joined their table.

‘Could drag on like that for years. Thirty years’ time, I reckon, we’ll still be dug in here.’ He pushed back his own chair, tore off a disinfectant wipe from the plastic canister on the table and ran it over the table top in front of him. She did the same. ‘The Brits, I mean,’ he said. ‘God help me, hope I’m out by then.’

They picked up their trays and walked to the dustbins outside to dump the lot.

‘Anyway,’ he said, ‘bugger all to do round here. Coming for a smoke?’

She sat beside him on the slatted bench in the smoking area, a secluded corner set apart from the accommodation tents. The soldiers had knocked up a rough trellis and hung it with camouflage netting for shade. A grumpy-looking soldier was installed in one corner, an ankle resting on the opposite knee, smoking silently and keeping himself to himself.

John offered her a cigarette and, when she refused, scratched a match and lit up in a rush of sulphur.

‘That’s new, isn’t it?’ He was pointing at the gold band on her wedding finger. His eyes were keen. ‘You got lucky?’

She turned the ring on her finger. ‘My mother’s.’ It felt odd. She didn’t usually wear it but, when she travelled alone, it didn’t hurt to look married. ‘She died a few years ago.’ She looked down at it, thinking of her mother. She’d had the same long fingers, a warm, strong hand to hold. ‘There’s a matching engagement ring. My sister’s got that.’

John was laughing. ‘Thought it was a turn-up,’ he said. ‘Always had you down as a die-hard spinster.’

The soldier opposite was looking at them. She wondered what he was thinking. He glanced away again, stony-faced.

‘Maybe you’ll bag yourself a nice soldier boy.’ John was amusing himself, sniggering into his fug of smoke. ‘You’re in the right place for it.’

She turned to look at his slack-skinned face and managed to smile. Ten years ago, she would have told him to shut up, she had plenty of men in her life. Ten years ago, that was true. Nowadays she was alone and used to it and, anyway, she couldn’t be bothered to argue. John wasn’t worth it. He was on his third wife already.

He leaned back and drew on his cigarette. ‘Anyway,’ he said, ‘what’s your angle?’

‘The usual.’ She shrugged. ‘Life on the front line.’

He nodded, eyes on her face, not looking convinced. ‘It’s a shit hole,’ he said. He leant towards her, lowered his voice. ‘One of the world’s greatest.’

He drew on his cigarette. The smoke rose into the thick, hot air.

‘Corrupt as hell, this country,’ he said. He rubbed his fingers together to indicate money-grubbing. ‘Can’t trust them.’

‘You think so?’

‘I know so.’ He tipped back his head and exhaled lazily. ‘Even the uniforms say so. Off the record. Ask Major Mack.’

She wondered how many Afghans John actually knew. He was a master of the hack’s instant guide.

‘Modern democracy, here?’ he said. ‘All bollocks. They’re stuck in the Stone Age.’

The soldier opposite them reached forward to the sand-filled mortar shell that served as an ashtray and stubbed out his cigarette. It splayed into sparks and died. Without acknowledging either of them, he heaved himself to his feet, all bulk and swagger, and left. A pause.

The morning sat slow and still on their shoulders. The muffled whine of a radio or television drifted through to them from the nearest tent. Beyond the open metal fence, past the parked container trucks and military vehicles, miles of desert lay shimmering in the gathering heat. There’s nothing here to sustain life, she thought. No water, no natural shelter, no food. It’s utterly desolate. This is an artificial world, built from nothing in the middle of nowhere. The Afghans must think we’re crazy.

‘It’s like we’ve learnt nothing.’ Next to her, John’s one-sided conversation had reignited. ‘Two centuries spilling blood, trying to civilize this godforsaken land, and here we are, back again.’

She stayed silent, waiting for him to finish. John was a man who liked to talk, not listen. Especially in conversation with a woman.

‘Of course it matters.’ He drew on his cigarette, snorted, exhaled skywards in a stream of smoke. ‘Regional security. India. Pakistan. Securing the borders. All that crap. But these guys we’re bankrolling? Money down the toilet.’

He coughed, spat into the sand at his feet.

‘All at it. Stuffing their pockets,’ he said. ‘Bloody narco-state.’

She sat quietly while he cleared his throat and started to smoke again. The heat was gathering. Already her skin was desiccating, scrubbed raw by the fine sand which invaded everything.

‘Do a patrol of police stations if you can. Great story.’