Poppy Day (25 page)

Bastion wasn’t like any campsite that she had seen or
imagined
. It was more like a city whose buildings were made of corrugated iron and canvas. It was huge. Crude signs were everywhere so you wouldn’t get lost. The pavements were made up of pallets; the walkways covered with a plastic duckboard made up of little hexagonal shapes where the sand lodged in the corners. Poppy ate with the other journalists in one of the large canteens; the food was part way between motorway service station and school. It was served on disposable white plastic trays with dents in for different foodstuffs. They were a
standard
prison issue, quite disgusting really, but the food was warm and plentiful and she was hungrier than she had realised. Eighteen hours of travelling and the constant rush of adrenalin had given her an appetite.

Poppy didn’t speak to many people; following Miles’s instructions, appearing ‘serious and aloof’ turned her into quite a novelty. She didn’t really care.

That first night she climbed into the sleeping bag fully clothed and pulled the spongy cover up over her shoulders. She placed her hand on her flat stomach. Poppy had secretly hoped to conceive before Martin had gone on tour, thinking being apart might be easier if she carried their baby while he was away. To have part of him growing inside her would certainly ease her sense of abandonment and would be the beginning of the family that she craved.

In moments of daydream she saw how it would happen. Martin would come home from tour and she would hand him his son or daughter. ‘Thank you, Poppy! Thanks for doing all that hard work while I was away. You have grown a beautiful baby while I was sat in the desert building sandcastles.’ But there was no baby for Poppy, not that night.

Her empty womb pulsed with longing for both the presence of her husband and the stretch against muscle of her baby’s limbs. It was a craving that she couldn’t satisfy, an ache that no amount of stroking or words of consolation could allay. In the same way she pictured Martin lost and waiting for her to claim him, so she pictured her unborn babies – Peggy for a girl, Charlie for a boy – swimming in limbo until she could give birth to them. Her palm rested on the cool skin. ‘Hang in there, baby, I’m coming.’

Poppy could hear the dull echo of people moving and the muted tones of speech all around her. She felt strangely close to Martin, willing him to feel her getting closer. ‘I love you, Mart. Sweet dreams, darlin’.’

She also sent a message to Dorothea, telling her that she loved her and hoped she wasn’t wondering where she had got to. Poppy had never thought of their little flat as luxurious, but as she lay her head down on the sagging cot, she pictured her lovely IKEA bed and realised that there were worse places to lay your head every night, much worse.

M
ARTIN THOUGHT A
lot about their bed at home. He longed to feel the soft mattress under his skin. He wanted to lay his head on the floral pillowcases that Poppy had chosen, the ones he had mocked as girly, whilst secretly applauding her taste. He wanted to feel her chest rise and fall as she slept close to him. He knew that when he lay on that mattress with his beautiful wife nestled in his arms that he would truly be home. That was Martin’s definition of home, he and Poppy in bed together, her snuggling up to him for warmth.

Once again he dreamt that he was woken by Poppy, again she stroked the hair away from his forehead. Her voice gentle, ‘Mart… Mart… I’m here.’ It made him miss her so much his gut ached with longing. He didn’t want to open his eyes, knowing that he would lose her all over again, but she was fading…

The door banged against the wall, Poppy was gone in an instant. It was unusual for it to be opened in such a way; there was never any need to startle him, his captors could be certain that he was always in the same spot, exactly as they had left him. Their entrance sounded aggressive and urgent; Martin instinctively knew that something was wrong. Life in captivity had become mundane and this had led him into an almost false sense of security. He had forgotten the horror he felt when first taken; not that it had gone completely, there was always a
lingering
, subdued anxiety in the pit of his stomach, but the raw terror, that life-or-death feeling, he had almost erased. It returned in an instant, an energy-zapping fear that fuelled his anger, but also rendered him weak.

Martin sat up on the bed, shaking his head and rubbing his eyes, trying to go from asleep to alert as quickly as he could. He snagged his broken finger against his face, but there was no time to consider the throb of pain which would become
insignificant
soon enough. Two men stood in front of him, with shemaghs tightly wrapped around their heads, covering most of their faces, apart from a small gap around their mouths that was exposed. They wore sunglasses and, more worryingly for Martin, were carrying Kalashnikov assault rifles. One of them shouted an instruction in his native tongue. The words meant nothing, but Martin could tell by the man’s tone and speed of speech that he wanted him to act quickly.

He leapt from the mattress. This was apparently the wrong thing to do. The second man ran forward and smashed the butt of his gun into Martin’s face, the force of which knocked him back down onto the bed. His teeth, already a little loose in their gums, proved no resistance to the hard wooden stock as it
collided
with the soft pulp of his face. Fragments of tooth, mixed with the warm swell of blood, filled his mouth. His swollen tongue snaked over the crumbly remnants of at least two of his teeth. He was shocked and in pain, but his overriding emotions were panic and fear. Fear of what came next.

Martin thought a lot about Aaron’s demise and had only recently considered how strange it was that people gave so little thought to their own death. It occurred to him that it was the only certainty, highly unconsidered. Hours could be spent
mentally
frittering lottery wins, romancing the unattainable or celebrating a victory goal in the shirt of your nation, yet very little thought was applied to how your life might end.

He guessed that most people outside of this war zone, if pushed, would envisage a warm bed in old age, eiderdown tucked under chin, a clutch of grandchildren whimpering into hankies on the floor below and slipping into a blissful dream that lasts for eternity. Yet at every minute of every day, all around him, people young and old came face to face with the grim reaper after encountering pain, shock and confusion. Not so much a happy release, but more often a grapple with
crushing
, asphyxiation or the agonising shutting down of organs that meant vitality. Death could of course be peaceful, calm and poetic, but in many cases brutal, violent and disturbing. Martin felt confident in that moment that he could predict which
category
his own end would fall into. His final wish, however, was not for himself, but that Poppy should, when her time came, experience the exact opposite.

The shouter came over to the bed and pushed him
downwards
, rolling Martin onto his stomach. He pulled at his arms until they were behind his back. Martin felt the familiar bite of plastic ties as they cut into the skin of his wrists. He could almost predict what came next; it was his old friend, the
lice-ridden
sack. Martin felt sick and frightened; his brain tried to process the answers to the many questions that were firing inside his skull: ‘Are they going to rape me? Am I being set free? Am I being moved? Where would they move me to? Are they going to kill me? Where will they kill me? Will they kill me how they killed Aaron? Will anyone know that I have been killed? Help me. Help me, someone. Hear me, God. Please, help me, please help me, God.’

His captors hauled him up onto unsteady, bare feet. He walked with the faltering steps of a new calf; his head swooning with the exhilaration. Unable to see, and with his hands tied, he felt a new level of vulnerability. The muzzle of the Kalashnikov jabbed at his lower back; his captors wanted him to walk. He felt a strong yearning to stay in that shitty room, the rat-infested hovel that he had longed to escape from, the home of his
beatings
, his prison for an indeterminate number of days and nights. He could not be certain that where he was heading wasn’t going to be that much worse and, if he was being taken on his final walk, he wanted to delay it.

With his guards walking behind him, Martin very quickly found himself outside. This told him that he had been in a small building, or at least on the edge of a larger one, closer than he had imagined to the outside world. He could hear voices in the distance; it sounded like children, chatting and playing. How could that be? Martin found it hard to understand that
everyday
life was going on right outside those walls where his own world had fallen apart.

He stumbled forward as jagged stones, chunks of brick and shards of glass bit the soles of his feet. The guards didn’t want him to walk any slower just because he couldn’t see and had no idea of what was in front of him. Martin could have been at the top of some stairs, the side of a road or the edge of a cliff, the butt of the rifle now prodded his back, making sure he kept the pace up.

He tripped and almost lost his footing. His captors found this most comical; his legs were out of practice. He wobbled and wavered like a drunk. Then he nearly fell, floundering and stumbling, threatening to fall down, but not quite. The reward for keeping his balance was a swift kick in the stomach, which caused him to stagger then sprawl onto the floor. He lay, trying to catch his breath.

Falling without being able to put out his hands was both horrendous and painful. Instinct caused his elbows to jolt upwards as nature tried to apply brakes, but with his hands so tightly secured, it was futile. Martin felt his face receive even more collateral damage. He breathed slowly, trying to recover. The men drew pleasure from their brutality, there was no need to kick the man that was already down, but kick him they did. Martin yelped as the leather sandal carrying a man of weight crushed against his spine.

His breathing returned to a natural rhythm and as it did so, Martin felt awash with a strange calmness, inner warmth that could do little to soothe his body, but certainly helped focus his mind. He thought about Poppy and was so, so glad that he had dreamt about her. It made him feel close to her. He thought about how he wanted to be seen, if these were going to be his last few minutes on the planet. Did he want to shrivel and bend like someone apologising? No. No he did not. He was a British citizen; he had fought for his Queen and his country. Martin decided to hold his head up. He thought of Aaron and he thought of Poppy. He wanted to make her proud. He thought of his dad, he would show him, the bastard. He would show him what courage was. He would be defiant, he would make a stand. He would be a man.

Martin stood slowly with difficulty, until he was rigid and tall, holding his head high. Sucking in his stomach, pushing out his chest and ignoring the pain, he practically marched. One of his captors held his arm. ‘Don’t touch me, you bastard!’

The guard didn’t understand the words, but Martin’s tone was sufficient to reveal the sentiment. The guard removed his hand immediately.

Martin laughed as blood dripped in large globules from his lacerated mouth, soaking the hessian sack. Once again he swooned with the exertion. One of his eyes was swollen shut; his head felt heavy, too heavy for his neck, his words were slurred, ‘I am Martin Cricket, Infantryman with the Princess of Wales’s Royal Regiment. I am a soldier with the British Army, the best. I am your prisoner, but I am also a man. I am
someone’s
husband; I am a man who is loved.’

He felt powerful, in this desperate situation, bound, hooded and without a weapon. He felt invincible. It was a strange
sensation
, almost of time standing still. Martin wanted it to be over, half thinking, just shoot me you bastards, shoot me and get it over with, but there was another part of him that wanted one last gulp of air, one more image of Poppy, one more prayer. It was an adrenalin-fuelled combination of anticipation and suspense, nerves and excitement, but strangely Martin wasn’t afraid. He had no fear at all, quite the opposite.

He felt a hand on his chest and held the position, standing still. Waiting. The blood pulsed in his temples, his heartbeat was steady. He thought about his wedding vows; Poppy had looked so beautiful and he was honoured to be her chosen one. He envisaged the moment he placed the small gold band on her finger…

He heard the dry drawing of metal inside metal, followed by the telltale click as a weapon was made ready for firing, or it could have been the smooth slice of a sharp edge against leather as the blade was drawn from its sheath. He couldn’t be sure which. It didn’t really matter, not now.

T
HE NEXT MORNING
Poppy showered in the communal block, careful to avoid eye contact and conversation with the two female soldiers that passed through. She waited until they had both left before washing out her pants in the sink. With only one other pair, she was going to have to rotate their use. She smiled; contemplating the fact that only she would travel to the other side of the world in a daring rescue attempt, to liberate her husband from a band of religious fundamentalists, with a packet of Polo Mints and sunglasses as her weapons of choice.

Miles met her outside the block. ‘Morning’.

‘Gud morrnink, Miles,’ Poppy laughed, her accent was an intriguing mix of Polish and Muppet Swedish Chef.

‘Did you sleep OK? These cots take a bit of getting used to.’

Poppy was ashamed to admit that actually she had slept
brilliantly
, having fallen into a deep and exhausted slumber, not stirring until there was activity outside the tent that very morning.

‘Let’s go somewhere and chat.’ He guided her off the path.

They ducked into an empty Portakabin that inside looked like a makeshift internet cafe. Four high-spec computers with tired keyboards blinked on separate tables, each with a
payphone
to the side and a plastic chair; no comfort, no privacy. She ran her fingers over one of the grubby keyboards, knowing instinctively that Martin had been there, this was where he had emailed from on the odd occasion. ‘Hang on, baby. I’m coming.’ This was her silent mantra.

Miles jolted her into the present with his words, his urgency and inability to look at her face. ‘Poppy…’

‘Yep?’

‘Poppy…’

‘For God’s sake, Miles, you’ve already said that! What is it? What’s going on?’

Miles ran his fingers through his hair and finished by pushing his specs over the bridge of his nose. ‘Oh Poppy. I need to talk to you…’

She knew he was playing for time, trying to phrase the words correctly in his head and it scared her. It scared her a lot. ‘Well you are talking to me, so spit it out,’ she smiled, half joking.

‘I have made a few enquiries. I had an idea. I didn’t want to promise anything, but I was pretty sure that I could get us in front of the ZMO.’

‘Really? How?’ She was absolutely captivated; this was wonderful news, the first real glimmer of hope.

‘The award that I got last month…’

‘The one that Max is so sore about?’

‘Oh you noticed that too? Yes, that one. Well, basically I got it for an interview that I did with a well-known Taliban leader in the mountains in Pakistan. It was an amazing experience, blindfolded in and out to preserve their location, and an
opportunity
to sit face-to-face with one of the most politically influential men in the world at the moment. It was a once in a lifetime opportunity and I got lucky. These groups like my
anti-invasion
standpoint; the widely held view is that because I am so against this war, I’m in some way sympathetic to their cause…’ Miles was verbose and edgy.

‘That’s bloody brilliant! Yes, do it! Get us in front of them, Miles, and we can negotiate something, this is great!’ Poppy drew her clenched fists up under her chin, the anticipation was overwhelming.

He drew a deep breath. ‘I’m afraid that something has come to light and it’s something that has thrown me rather, and this is what I need to tell you.’

She nodded, silently anticipating what might come next.

‘I heard a rumour from a fairly reliable source, they had some news. It concerned Martin.’

‘What news?’ Her voice was a tiny whisper. She wasn’t sure if he had heard.

‘Sit down, Poppy.’

She sat. Miles bent low in front of the office swivel chair on which she perched and looked up into her face. ‘I started to make my enquiries about a possible meeting and was told that there was no point because things had developed, Poppy, and not in a good way…’

‘In what way then?’ This was worse than the knock on the door moment, far worse.

‘The rumour is that Martin may have been hurt.’ He bit his bottom lip.

‘Hurt badly?’ This time she knew her voice was too small to be heard.

‘Poppy, it is unsubstantiated, but I’ve been told that he may have been killed.’

Her breath came in huge gulps, too big for her aching lungs to cope with.

‘I’m sorry, Poppy, I really am.’

‘Who told you that? How would they know? They’re lying to you, Miles. They are bloody liars!’

‘They could be, but there is no value in them lying, Poppy, it’s what they believe and we have to consider the possibility that they might be telling the truth.’

‘No. No. No. No. That’s not it, that’s not what has
happened
. No. I’m sorry, but no.’ She shook her head, gasping for breath.

‘I understand that this is the worst thing for you to hear, but you are not alone, I will help you get home, we can make arrangements—’

‘I don’t want arrangements. I want Martin! I’ve come all this way to get my husband, Miles, I’ve come to take him home and whether I walk back with him holding my hand or I carry him in a box, this is what I am going to do. Do you understand? Do you bloody understand?’ Her voice was hoarse. Tears gathered around the corners of her mouth and nostrils. ‘I won’t leave this horrible place until I have him with me. I will not. It’s as simple as that.’ She leapt from the chair and made for the door.

‘Pop— Nina, please don’t run out, we need to talk about this!’ Miles called to her back as she ran from the building.

She found solace inside her sleeping bag, welcoming the dark that enveloped her. Hours slowly ticked by. There were no more tears, just a dark, cold stain of grief that spread until it filled her. She dozed in and out of sleep. Poppy remembered a time when they were about nine, sitting on the swings in the gloom. ‘You’re my best friend in the whole world, Martin…’ It was dark, but Poppy knew that he was smiling, ‘And I would be very sad if ever you moved away or couldn’t play with me any more.’

‘That’s never going to happen, Poppy. Where would I go?’

She had shrugged in response, unable to picture where he might disappear to.

‘I promise you, Poppy, that I will always be your best friend. It’s like we are joined together by invisible strings that join your heart to mine and if you need me, you just have to pull them and I’ll come to you…’

Poppy had laughed out loud, loving the idea of their
invisible
heartstrings, ‘… and if you pull yours, I will come to you, Martin. That way, I’ll always know if you need me.’

He reached out a hand in the dark until he found Poppy’s small fingers and he placed them inside his own.

Poppy sat up in her sleeping bag. Her heart strained inside her chest. She was grinning. Donning her shoes, she ran from the tent. Sod being low-key and elusive, this was important! She spotted Miles in the canteen at a far table and raced through the tray-wielding masses before crashing down into the chair opposite him. ‘Do it, Miles, organise your meeting if you can, get us in front of the ZMO. Martin is alive.’

‘Poppy, you don’t know that for sure—’

She interrupted him and raised her palm to stem any
negative
comments. ‘Oh, but I do. I do know it, Miles!’ She beamed at her friend and co-conspirator.

‘Who told you… how?’ His investigative brain wanted facts.

‘He did, Miles; Martin did, he pulled on my heartstrings!’

‘He what?’

‘It doesn’t matter, mate, and you wouldn’t understand even if I did try and explain. It would be like the whole Joan Collins thing, but I have never lied to you, Miles, and I am telling you that he is alive. I can
feel
it.’

‘Maybe, Poppy, that’s just what you want to feel…’

Again she raised her palm, there was no room for his doubt or hesitation. ‘Trust me, Miles, please trust me like I do you, he is alive!’ She swiped at the tears that splashed onto the table.

And for no other reason other than the conviction with which this extraordinary girl spoke, Miles believed her. He removed his specs and rubbed at his face.

‘How are you going to do it? Is there someone here that can help?’ Her energy was infectious.

‘Not exactly, but the point is, Poppy, that I am trusted and I’m current. If anyone can get in front of the ZMO it’s me. I have a contact that I was planning on seeing later today to try and organise a meeting, an audience if you like with the head honcho, Zelgai Mahmood himself.’

‘Oh my God! Oh my God, Miles. That is absolutely brilliant! Do it, Miles, meet him, make it happen!’ Poppy put her head forward and pushed the heels of her hands into her eyes, the tears sprang regardless. This was real, it was actually feasible.

‘Poppy, this is still only a possibility; it is not set in stone and it’s a bit of a long shot. We still don’t know for sure that Martin is with them or if he’s—’

‘Don’t say it.’ She placed her fingers over his lips. He resisted the temptation to kiss the soft pads of her hand, the exertion made him dizzy.

‘I just want you to understand that there are no guarantees, there are never any guarantees. These negotiations and plans can fall over at any point, at any time, so until we, you or I, get in front of the person that we need to, it is not a done deal. It is so important that you realise that, I don’t want you to be disappointed.’

‘I do understand, Miles, I do!’ she lied through her tears.

‘I don’t believe you, Poppy, but that’s OK. I will do my best. I’m not doing it for completely altruistic reasons – if I can pull this off then I will officially be THE Western voice of the
terrorist
. It will keep me in business for years! I’ll come and find you when I get back.’

‘Can I come with you?’

‘No. No you can’t. This is very risky and very dangerous…’

‘Miles, I don’t care! Let me come with you, please.’

‘No. One hundred per cent no. I will go alone and I’ll come and find you when I get back. Jesus, Poppy, does nothing scare you?’

She thought for a moment. ‘Yes, the idea of not seeing my husband alive again.’

That shut him up.

Poppy spent the day lying on her cot, waiting. The hours passed unbearably slowly. She listened to the daily bustle of the camp around her, catching snippets of conversation, the odd cough and at least three different songs being hummed. She looked at her watch every few minutes and was convinced that at one point time went backwards. Her mind started to wander down doom-filled alleyways and into booby-trapped corridors, imagining all sorts of frightening things. Supposing they kept Miles too? What if they hit a roadside bomb? She realised for the first time how much she had come to rely on Miles in a very short space of time. He wasn’t only her protector and advisor, but also the only person that actually had a plan, the only person who was giving her concrete hope.

To everyone else she was Nina Folkstok, but he knew who and what she was. Poppy realised that she drew enormous comfort from having one person that she could be herself with. She started to think about what would happen to her if he didn’t come back. She couldn’t visualise it, the prospect was too scary; doubt started to creep in. What was she doing? She was supposed to be in her flat in Walthamstow, cutting hair in Christine’s salon and visiting her nan. Instead she was in a tent, on an army base in Afghanistan, masquerading as a Danish journalist. It was so bizarre, it was almost funny.

Poppy would have sworn that she was awake for the whole day, but apparently she had fallen asleep because she was being woken up. Miles shook her shoulder. She sat upright, instantly alert. ‘Oh my God! Well?’

‘It’s nice to see you too, Poppy.’

‘Sorry, Miles. It’s just that I’ve been waiting for you all day! It’s been awful; I was really worried. I’ve imagined all sorts of terrible things. I thought you were never coming back.’

‘Well here I am. It’s been quite a journey in a slow and
unreliable
car, and then there was the wait for transport back. It’s been a very long day, I’m shattered.’

‘How did you get on? Are they going to see us?’

‘I don’t know yet. I met with a representative from the ZMO. He was there with an armed guard; luckily for him I hadn’t sharpened my pencil. He asked lots of questions about the other interview. They are interested in my credentials and my views on America.’

‘What did you tell him?’

‘What he wanted to hear, Poppy, and it seemed to work. He has taken away my request for contact. He’ll get word to me whether it is possible or not.’

‘When? When will he get word to you?’

‘Goodness, have you ever thought of becoming an editor? You are so demanding!’

‘I know I am. I’m sorry; it’s just that I am really impatient.’

‘I hadn’t noticed.’

‘You’re a funny guy!’

Poppy felt a surge of hope. Miles had made contact with someone that would know where her husband was and whether he was alive or… He had to be alive. No one would allow her to come that far only to discover that she had arrived too late. All they could do now was wait, wait and hope. Exactly as she had for the last couple of weeks, only now she had to wait in a sandier environment and without the means to make a decent cup of tea.

Three days later, Poppy’s whole world was turned upside down. Three days that felt like weeks. The worst thing about waiting was the interminable boredom. Her iPod had long since run out of charge and trying to pass time when there was absolutely nothing to do was torturous. She hid away during the day, unable to wander freely. The real journalists were
conducting
interviews, typing up copy, tip-tapping and sending it around the world on their laptops. Not Poppy, she was without laptop; instead she had her notebook and pencil for company. It was bloody boring and bloody hot.

She wished that she could have a gossip and a coffee with Jenna; she missed her mate, and her nan, for that matter. Poppy was desperate to know that she was OK and couldn’t bear the idea that Dorothea might think she had abandoned her.