Andrew O'Hagan - The Illuminations

The Afghan National Police guys at the crossing looked suspicious, but to Luke they always looked that way. Dooley was at his side chattering in his big Cork accent about the mess of the checkpoint and the fact that nobody was ready for what was coming. He couldn’t believe the state of them with their blue uniforms half-on and filthy. ‘Fucken idiots,’ he said. ‘Did no one tell you there was a kilometre-long fucken convoy driving through here? Eh? What are ye, a bunch of red-arsed motherfuckers? Totally disorganisational. Waiting for Saint Patrick’s Day or what?’

Luke motioned with his rifle for the policemen in the booth to move aside. One of the policemen had a boot on one foot and a sandal on the other. The guy’s lip was scarred. ‘Fucken shape of him,’ Luke said to Dooley, ‘one flip-flop and one ammo boot.’

‘Cocknosh,’ Dooley said.

Dooley then began shouting at the men as if only increased volume would help them understand. ‘What the fuck are you doing changing into civvies?’ They were babbling and the interpreter was translating at speed but Luke put up a hand and turned back to Dooley.

‘Of course, they didn’t know we were coming,’ he said. ‘Nobody would tell them. Why would anybody tell them anything?’ A plastic basin of stew and dates was on the desk, a heap of okra. Next to that a slab of uncooked meat and two old Russian pistols. Under the desk there was a red-striped cement bag of dried marijuana.

One of the policemen waved his hands and pointed to the basin and said,

‘Karoot Maust.’

‘He offers you food,’ the interpreter said.

‘Nobody would tell them anything,’ repeated Luke.

‘Nobody?’ Dooley said. ‘But they’re ANP.’

‘Afghan Non-Players,’ muttered Luke. ‘These stoners are Tippex Commandos for the fucken Taliban.’ He tapped his radio again and made contact with Major Scullion, who was with Rashid and the ANA kandak further down the line. They sent an ANA sergeant to the checkpoint who immediately began slapping the two guys.

‘We are shamed,’ he said.

‘Forget it,’ Luke said. ‘Just get them out the fucken way.’ He had gone through the drawers and thrown several rolls of money up on the desk. ‘They are bandits. And worse, I imagine. We saw them changing into uniform as the vehicles approached.’

‘We’re from the 1st Royal Western,’ Dooley said, ‘and we’ll bang your fucken brains out.’ He then walked backwards with the cement bag swinging in his free hand. He threw the bag into

the captain’s vehicle. Private Lennox looked out with a huge grin on his face. ‘See what just fell from the choccy tree,’ he shouted down to Dooley.

THE WATCHES

It was slow all the way but eventually they were in the desert. The mountains in the distance were blue, and when the sun began to drop, pink clouds shrouded the tops of the trees. There must be places even here, Flannigan thought, where life isn’t just a horror show. Private Lennox was still going on about the checkpoint and why the whole country was a mess. ‘It’s all just thieving bastards so it is and them that’s not thieving bastards are trying to bomb the fuck out of you.’

‘Well, you should feel right at home,’ Flannigan said. ‘You love a bit of thieving, you and the rest of the fucken tinks you grew up with in the Emerald Toilet.’

‘Don’t speak bad against the Irish,’ Dooley said.

‘Aye. You joined the regiment, mate,’ Lennox said. ‘And why’s that? ’Cause yer daddy once got his wee arse spanked in Portadown?’

‘No, you plank. Because I quite fancied spending my afternoons in foreign places beating up on no-hopers like you, Lennox.’

‘That’s violence, that,’ Lennox said.

Pampas grass. Sweet tea and sandbags. Brown-eyed children smiling by the road. It all seemed so real to Luke. The carnations on tall stalks were straining past the sun and an old lady came up to a stationary WMIK with a helmet full of figs. She tapped the wheel of the vehicle and he saw the helmet was stamped

Twentynine Palms, CA

She was selling the figs and her smile seemed more like a knot. The convoy moved on and crept slowly into the mountains towards Ghorak — helicopters over the peaks — and before it got dark the vehicles halted on a plateau. ‘Come on you chozzies,’ Dooley said. ‘Grab your shit. We’re stopping.’

‘How long?’ Flannigan asked.

‘This’ll be it for the night. It’s slow going. They need to keep fixing the tracks and looking for bombs in the road.’

The captain turned down his radio. He just sat in the corner of the vehicle and watched the boys pulling stuff out their packs. It was the low-level hum of his life, the constant banter, the laughter, the mock offence, the lingo. ‘Have you seen Flannigan’s watch, sir?’

‘Nope. I don’t care about watches.’

‘It’s cheap rubbish. Take your Casio G-Shock. Classic. Totally awesome. It’s been that way since 1983.’

‘Dooley!’

‘An electro-luminescent panel causes the entire face to glow for easy reading.’ The boys were laughing and making to leave the Vector and Luke began chucking their bags after them.

‘I mean it, Dooley,’ he shouted. ‘Get the fuck out the van or I’ll mess you up.’ Luke slammed the door and smiled to himself and then a mortar burst in the valley.

‘

Kaboom

,’ he said.

SANDHURST

Luke lay down and flicked off his helmet. It was good to feel the static falling away, the ops talk, and Scullion. It was nice to

be free of the jeering and the news from up and down the line. He stretched his legs out and pulled a folder from his backpack, a black folder from Strathclyde that had once held his Honours dissertation. Now it held photos and letters that came to the camp from home. He opened it and took out a flattened bag of wet wipes and a packet of sherbet. (From his grandmother, Anne, posted by the woman next door.) He held up a photograph and used a Maglite from the floor of the Vector to help him see. Anne was young in the picture and she looked like the happiest person alive. He searched her eyes and saw evidence of Harry’s presence, the grandfather he had never met, just a glow in her eye, always there in portraits taken by him.

Dear Luke,

This is a wee note to say hello from your gran and we really hope you’re doing well over there. We see it on the news all the time but you probably see it differently when you’re there. Nothing to report over here except the sun is finally out thank God and life in Saltcoats always takes a turn for the better in the nice weather. Gran says to thank you for sending the right address for parcels and don’t forget she says to take pictures if the light is good. Gran’s been getting a bit forgetful but she’s not bad son and coping well since the winter time. Remember there’s plenty of us in here to help with anything she needs doing. Anyway son that’s us running out of things to say so please take good care. Everybody sends their love to you.

All the best,

Gran and Maureen

He could imagine her face at the window. He wondered

if any of the boys had a grandmother like his, a woman with knowledge and secrets and a gentle habit of helping you up your game. He wasn’t a very typical officer, he knew that and so did everyone else, but it had somehow played to his advantage to be different in the regiment. They knew he was a reader but thought he was made of heroic stuff because of his dad. It had been Anne who took up the slack, inspiration-wise, when his dad died, and he supposed he went to see her as part of working himself out. In those days he was always ready to get lost in other people’s ideas, and Gran was a fountain of individuality if ever there was one. There was endless chat about how life used to be, with details missing. The slow-motion world of hinted-at summers and new lipstick and the Pleasure Beach. She spoke to him about Blackpool as if it was New York or Toronto, where she’d also been, and where she’d also taken photographs that were lost along the way.