Poppy Day (37 page)

‘It’s going to take time, Martin. You’ve been through a lot.’

‘Haven’t I just! I find it hard to make sense of it all. How could it be that one minute I’m living in the flat with Poppy, eating fish and chips on a Friday night, going to the pub on a Sunday lunchtime to catch up with my mates, following Spurs and then BANG! I’m captured, in a hot foreign place where I don’t speak the language and I don’t fully understand what the issues are. How did that happen to me? What did any of it have to do with me? How did I get mixed up in a war so remote from my life, so far from what was important to me personally? It’s the sort of thing that you see on the news, not the sort of thing that actually happens. Maybe I shouldn’t say all that stuff, but it’s true. It’s true for me anyway.’

‘Do you think the army let you down?’

‘No.’ His answer was instant, emphatic. ‘People might think that, but they can’t imagine what it’s like out there. The
landscape
, the culture, the way the insurgents are organised. It’s very, very complicated and, having spent time out there and seen it closely, more closely than I would have liked, I’m not that much closer to understanding any of it or figuring it out. So, no, definitely not, I don’t blame the army. I know how tough it is to get the true picture or any useful information. They would’ve been trying really hard, I’m sure of that. They would have done what they could. I had no idea they tried to rescue me. It would have made a huge difference to me if I’d known. I hadn’t exactly given up on being found, but after a couple of days I began to have doubts. Your mind plays tricks on you, you feel constantly disorientated. I was thinking that maybe they didn’t know I’d been taken; maybe they thought I was dead, so why would they bother looking for me? Your brain wanders, I thought the whole patrol could have been wiped out; no one would have been able to get back and tell anyone that I’d been taken, maybe they’d assumed I was dead. Maybe they had told Poppy as much… These options all feel plausible when you’ve all the time in the world to consider them. The only thing that gave me hope, real hope, was Poppy. I knew that she would be suspicious of my lack of contact, so, if nothing else, I knew I could rely on Poppy to raise the alarm, to tell someone something, even if it was just that I was a lazy bastard that needed to write to her more. I was pinning all my hopes on Poppy.’

The irony wasn’t lost on either of them. Miles decided to steer the topic. He needed to glean certain elements of his story. ‘Why don’t you tell me about what it felt like to be
incarcerated
? Your experiences?’

‘God, it’s hard to know where to start. When I was confined to that little room, I became very reflective, as I guess most people would. With that glorious gift of hindsight, I kept
repeating
the fact that I should never have joined the bloody army; I should never have left Poppy on her own. I’m still sorry for that. I should have done things differently, told her things that I didn’t know that I would have to tell her. Almost like
instructions
. That sounds patronising, but you know what I mean, in the case of “x” do this and in the case of “y” definitely don’t do that. She probably wouldn’t have listened though.’

They both laughed softly, knowing there was no ‘probably’ about it.

‘I used to lie there, trying to work out which decision, which choices had led me to that place and time. What could I have done differently? I thought a lot about the garage where I used to work. I thought about the twat I used to work for, how he took the piss out of me for years. Then I started to think about what my life had been like. I was unfulfilled, bored and more than a little frustrated, but I also got to go home to my Poppy every night. I got to wake up with her hair spread over my chest every morning and, Jesus, compared to what I’d faced since joining up, it felt like a fabulous life. I just couldn’t see that when I was living it, almost as if I had to throw everything away and go through hell to appreciate what I had before.’

‘That’s often the way, Martin.’

‘I guess. It’s a harsh way, to learn a lesson.’

Miles nodded and thought about the lessons Poppy had learnt.

‘Every time I think about her, Miles, my heart beats too fast and my mind swirls. Part of me wants to run to her, hold her and part of me wants to run away from her, as far away as I can get. It’s complicated.’

Miles felt the pull between his professional self that needed to remain impartial, gather the facts, and Poppy’s friend, who wanted to give advice. The friend won. ‘I think she needs you right now, Martin.’

‘Ah, well, therein lays the problem, my friend. I need her too, but it’s not that simple. I feel isolated, very alone and the only person that could make that go away is my Poppy, my wife. She would have made this all better. She would have listened to me, helped me and taken away my loneliness. But now she can’t.’

‘Why?’

‘Because she has become part of it, she is mixed up in it. She was there and she was involved. She took away the one person that would have made this all better for me! She took that person away when she got on that plane, stepped into my world, and when she did what she did… I don’t expect you to understand, I am not sure that I understand. In fact, I know that I don’t.’

‘She did what she did for you, Martin, and she would do the same again.’

‘I wouldn’t want her to do the same again, Miles!’ He was shouting. ‘That’s the last thing I want her to do!’ Martin exhaled, trying to calm himself. ‘Poppy and I didn’t have to try very hard, we were truly happy and it was bloody magic. I trusted her. We had only ever been with each other. That was so special to both of us, very rare. We’d always rather be together than do
anything
else, absolutely anything. She is my other half.’

Miles was happy to note the change to the present tense.

‘God that sounds crap, Miles, but it’s true, she is. I love her beyond words. She is my world and every action that I
undertake
, every thought that I have, it’s all about her. I’m always thinking about what is best for Poppy. That’s why it’s not a question of laughing it off and going back to how we were before. It’s so much more complicated than that. I feel nervous about touching her, not only because of how she might react, but because I’m nervous about how I might react, how it might make me feel. I don’t want to feel or think anything negative about Poppy, so I almost don’t want to risk it. I don’t know if that makes any sense. To be honest it doesn’t make a lot of sense to me. I’ve got so much going on in my head right now that I’m not a good person to be around. In fact, you are the only person that I’ve seen. I’m not ready to face Poppy yet, not yet…’

Again Miles steered the conversation, ‘Did you ever fear for your life?’

This made Martin chuckle. ‘When I was moved from the original building to the villa, yes, I thought they were going to kill me. I was in pretty shocking order. I heard a sound that I was convinced was either a gun or blade being made ready for my execution; it was neither. It was the click of a car door, but I was convinced it was my end. That was a surreal day, one that will stay with me always. I was being pushed forward slightly and a hand went to the top of my head, it cradled my scalp as I was folded into the back of a vehicle. This made me laugh, they had been happy to beat the crap out of me and watch me fall and smash my face, but God forbid I might bump my head as I got into the car! It was a small car with a narrow back seat and the vilest odour imaginable. I could smell diesel, but also something else that I couldn’t identify. It was like cigarette smoke but worse, stronger, like a mixture of cigarette smoke, cheap cologne and strangely, vinegar. I’ve been told since that it was the smell of heroin. I won’t ever forget it. It permeated the sacking that was over my head. It made me retch. At least one of the guards sat in the back with me. He kept the point of his gun in my ribs for the whole journey. I think the other guard was in the front seat; someone else was driving. They chattered in Arabic, I got the impression that they weren’t talking about me. That might be a distortion, but I’d listened to enough of their language over the previous couple of weeks to distinguish the tones quite well, when there was conflict, anger or humour.

The chat in the car seemed to be more general, like three mates out for a ride in their heroin-filled, stink-hole of a car. It made me think about our car journeys as a kid, off to Clacton for a day out with the Carpenters playing on the radio. What would our chat have been? “Would anyone like a mint
imperial
? Shall we play spot red cars? Or I-Spy?”

‘This made me smile behind my sack mask. I pictured the two thugs with their faces hidden, hands grasping their big guns, “Oh my turn! I-Spy with my little eye, something
beginning
with… H!” Then I imagined the other two shouting out, “Hostage!” as Karen warbled about delaying the postman for sixty seconds. Maybe it was the residue of heroin in the car, maybe it got to me. It was bizarre that for the three of them they were simply transporting cargo, all in a day’s work, whereas I’d gone through every human emotion imaginable, including contemplating, preparing for and expecting my own death. Despite the comedy of my situation, my heart continued to race. It was entirely possible that they were driving me
somewhere
remote to kill me. I sat tightly coiled in anticipation. Like I said, it was bizarre; you can’t imagine. I’m glad that you can’t, it messes with your head.’

‘Why did they move you?’

‘I don’t know. It’s not uncommon if they feel you are
attracting
too much attention or any rescue mission comes close. The car pulled into a garage. I know it was a garage because it had that echoey quality and I heard the metal door clatter closed behind us. There was also that unmistakable smell of diesel and old grease. The car door opened and the shouter and his
gun-toting
friend were on either side of me. I still felt quite confident; they had lots of chances to kill me, so I figured they would’ve done it by then. Why drive me into a house, or another
building
, only to kill me? Not when there were so many empty stretches of desert around, quiet and unseen. I thought of Aaron again. One of the guards led me by the arm and I let him, I didn’t want to take another tumble. I mean, I had to make my stand, but I’m not stupid.

‘The house smelt cleaner than the previous one and seemed more solidly built. The floor was tiled, I think, whereas in the last building it had been compacted dirt, dusty and horrible. I heard a door close. It clicked as it shut tightly into the frame, a solid wooden door in a frame that it fitted. The doors of the first place had been rickety, like stable doors with bars across, slapdash and made with cheap materials, peasant housing. This felt very different, more like a villa.

I climbed some stairs and my arm touched a staircase, which was cold and felt like wrought iron. There were very few
buildings
like this in the area; it meant money. I was taken into a room and pushed down onto the bed. Thankfully they took the sack off my head almost as soon as we had arrived. I don’t think I could have stood having that thing over my head for days like it was before. It still makes me shudder when I think of it. I looked around the room; there was a window, which made everything seem really bright. It was brilliant actually, to see light and white walls. The floor was covered with white tiles with a patterned border. The walls were rough plaster, painted white. There was a red and gold woven rug on the far wall and a few bits of furniture, a wooden chair and a little table under the window. The light fitting was a wooden chandelier. Compared to where I had been held, it was real luxury. The bed had a clean mattress but no bed linen. I didn’t mind and wasn’t exactly in a position to moan, was I?

‘I was glad to be still and settled. Kalashnikov boy cut off my hand ties. I put my hands on my face gently to try and survey the damage. I couldn’t tell which teeth I’d lost, my tongue was numb and swollen, so even though I felt the gaps in my mouth, I couldn’t trust the information it sent to my brain. I ran my fingers over my bashed-up face and I remember
thinking
that it was a good job I was an ugly bastard before it all happened!

‘Poppy always joked that we were so close, we were like twins. She used to believe the theory that if one of us was ever hurt or injured, then the other would feel it. I’ve always thought that it was total rubbish. But I swear to God, I was lying on my bed and I thought I heard her call to me. Not calling me out loud, but in my head, if you know what I mean. There was something else. I did feel a pain, but it wasn’t like I’d broken my leg or anything, it was as if I had a pain in my heart. I didn’t know why at the time.’

Martin’s tears fell freely. ‘She was pulling her heartstrings, Miles, and I couldn’t get to her. She needed me and I would’ve gone to her, I swear that I would have found a way. I would have helped her, but I didn’t know she was there or that she needed me. I was in the next room and I couldn’t save her. I’d always promised her that I would be there whenever she needed me, all she had to do was pull her heartstrings, but I couldn’t be there when she needed me the most… I can’t get it out of my head; she needed me and I didn’t help her.’

‘So, I
THINK
that’s probably it then, is it, Miles? Do you need anything more from me?’

‘I don’t think so, Poppy. I’ve certainly got enough to start. I’ll consult with you both as I go along, before a single word is printed, to make sure that you’re entirely happy with the content and the way that I’ve interpreted and portrayed things.’

‘I trust you to do good things with our words, Miles Varrasso; you are a great writer, a bloody good journalist.’

‘Thank you, Poppy. From one fellow journalist to another I take that as a great compliment.’

Poppy smiled, she liked being thought of a journalist, even if it was only pretending. ‘It’s like we’ve come full circle, isn’t it? It’s been weird talking about it, strangely healing in a way that I didn’t expect it to.’

‘Healing how?’

‘I think mainly with regard to me and Mart. It’s helped me to order my thoughts. I know that I love him. I’ve never doubted how much I love him, but now I know that we need to find a way to move forward, together. I don’t think it’ll be quick or easy, but I do know that we can’t sit brooding in dark corners, can we? I need to drag him out of whatever pit he has dug himself and we need to sort it out; otherwise, what was the point of going through all of that just to lose him now? That wouldn’t make any sense, would it?’

‘No, it really wouldn’t. How long is it since you saw him?’ He wanted to prepare her for the state she might find him in.

‘I haven’t seen him since he left the hotel. When was that now? It must be about a week ago…’

‘I’ve seen him a couple of times obviously, but he asked me not to tell you too much. It made me feel a bit disloyal, but I had to respect his wishes, Poppy. I’m sorry to say that he wasn’t in very good shape.’ Concern was etched on Miles’ brow.

‘It’s OK, don’t worry, Miles, I’m going to find him right now. I’m pretty sure he’s at the flat, but, wherever he is, it’ll be a darn sight easier to find him in E17 than it was the last time I went looking for him.’

‘How do you know that he will be at the flat?’

His question made her laugh. ‘Because that is where we live, Miles! It’s where we’re from, and where our friends are. Where else would he be?’

Miles shrugged. The idea of limiting your whole world to one postcode was alien to him; however, when the prize was a girl like Poppy, he could almost understand it. ‘You really love him, don’t you?’

She didn’t answer immediately, but, instead, gathered her words and thoughts slowly. ‘To say that I love him doesn’t feel like enough. It’s so much more than that, it’s a perfect and pure love. He is my person and I’m his, we are meant to be. It’s like all is right with my world when I am with him, I only breathe properly when I am near him. It’s like my heart waits for him. He is my guardian angel and for once it felt great to be his, to give him a glimpse of what it feels like, when someone has got your back and will travel to the ends of the earth and go through anything to bring you home. That’s what he has done for me my whole life. So, yes, Miles, yes I love him, I love him very much.’

Her words struck his heart like tiny daggers. In his head he heard the words he wanted to say; he imagined speaking them slowly, concentrating on not shouting, ‘I love you, Poppy Day! Even though you have never eaten anchovies and drive me crazy with your obstinacy. I absolutely love you!’

Instead, his words were muted, offered quietly, ‘You are both very lucky and I wish you both every happiness…’

She smiled at him. There was affection in their stance; people might assume that they were brother and sister, the symbiotic trusting and the reciprocated affection.

Miles turned to his companion. ‘I’ll give you a lift.’

‘Don’t be daft, Miles, I can jump in a cab. I’m only going to the flat.’

‘Well I know you can jump in a cab, jump on a plane… You can do anything, Lara Croft, but no, no, this time I insist.’

‘Well, if you insist.’

‘I do, Poppy. I also wanted to say thank you.’

‘What for? I haven’t done anything. Oh God, Miles, you’ve got that look again. You are not going to go all soppy on me, are you? I’ve seen that face once before when you were stood in my tent, blubbing like a baby girl.’

Miles laughed. He removed his spectacles and pinched the bridge of his nose. ‘I want to thank you because you have done so much, Poppy. You’ve been open, honest and generous with your story and your words. People don’t always tell it from the heart but you and Martin both have, it’s made all the
difference
. People will be fascinated by your triumph, by your determination and by your nerve!’

‘Do you think so, Miles? I worry that it’s all a bit boring. I mean, who cares what a hairdresser from Walthambloodystow has got up to?’

‘I do, Poppy. I care, and, if I care, then plenty of people will.’

‘Well, if you say so. I mean you are, after all, the
award-winning
brain around here!’

‘I think we both know that that isn’t true, Nina Folkstok. You’re pretty smart yourself!’

‘Very funny. It’s your story too, Miles; my daring rescue would have stayed an idea if it hadn’t been for you. Are you glad we met? Has it been worth it, or do you wish you’d never bought me a cappuccino? Or that you’d ratted on me at Brize Norton?’

‘I don’t think me ratting on you would have made the
slightest
bit of difference. You’d have found a way.’

Poppy smiled, knowing this to be true.

‘… and yes, I am glad we met. You’ve taught me things, Poppy, I like the way you look at the world. My mother says that you are never too old to learn something new.’

‘Your mum’s right. I didn’t know sea horses were real until I was six; I thought they were imaginary, like mermaids.’

‘You mean mermaids aren’t real? Jesus, Poppy, next you’ll be telling me that the tooth fairy is a myth!’

‘Funny guy! I’m just going to spend a penny – see you down there, Miles.’

The phone on the bedside table rang. Poppy hitched her bag up onto her shoulder with one hand on the bathroom door handle. Miles looked at the phone. ‘Are you going to get that?’

Poppy had no intention of loitering a second longer than she had to, she wanted to get back to her husband. ‘Think I’ll leave it. It’s probably Rob; he’s the only one that calls me here. I’ll give him a shout later.’

Miles grimaced; leaving a ringing phone unanswered was as alien to him as not balling socks correctly or replacing a CD in its non-alphabetised slot, all acts that caused his OCD
receptors
to twitch.

‘Miles, don’t worry, I’ll call him later. You’re such a worry pants.’

‘That’s me, Mr Worry Pants!’

‘You go ahead. I’ll only be a mo. I’ll see you down there.’

She reached for the bathroom handle. Poppy placed great faith in her intuition, but on this occasion, she was wrong. It wasn’t Rob, but Martin on the other end of the unanswered line. As Miles closed the door of the hotel room, Poppy’s husband began leaving his message, ‘Pop… it’s me. I understand if you don’t want to talk to me, but I need to tell you that I am sorry baby. I love you, Poppy. I love you so much. I’m sorry for leaving you like that. I felt so angry for all sorts of reasons; none of them seem to make any sense now. I was bloody useless and I wasn’t there for you, the one time that you really needed me and I was only a room away… Please come home, Poppy, come home so that we can talk. I love you. I’ll be right here, waiting…’

Miles squinted as he walked into the late afternoon sunshine; it was a good day. As he pulled the key fob from his jacket pocket and walked to the driver’s side of the vehicle, he was thinking about Poppy’s words. He’d come to the conclusion that she was right; an uncomplicated life, simple and boring, without pain and heartache
would
be preferable.

It was almost simultaneous. As he pressed the button to open the door, so the man in the shadow pressed the small button on his little black box. The car exploded in a hail of fire and debris. Bits of metal, glass, wire and plastic that had only seconds before been recognisable as a car were reduced to an assembly of junk. A complex Meccano puzzle, with each
component
fragmented and twisted.

People standing within earshot of the blast dropped to their knees and held their heads in their hands, waiting for the fallout. The windows of the hotel popped, then flexed, before exploding into a million tiny prisms that flew through the air as shards of silver, seeking and embedding themselves in
anything
soft that would give them refuge, from clothing to flesh. The noise echoed in a ripple of sound waves that cracked the air, tearing it open, a hammer upon the peace of the day.

Following the blast, there was an eerie and disturbing silence that lasted too long for anyone to feel comfortable. For those embroiled, it was like watching a movie in slow motion. People saw blood trickle from new cuts and slashes, marvelling at its warmth and redness.

The hotel concierge laughed as his tongue slipped through a gap in his face that wasn’t his mouth – which was now missing – seconds before being robbed of consciousness.

A student, on her way to a date at the cinema, teased her hair behind her ears. A split-second later, she was staring at her lower limbs, trying to understand why and how they were detached, before slipping into the swirling icy current of death.

A man staying at the hotel kicked the hand of his wife that lay alone on the step as he stumbled forward. He knew it was hers because of the distinctive engagement and wedding rings that glinted in the sunshine. She, meanwhile, sat bemused and fascinated by her shortened arm; shock and adrenalin
rendering
her devoid of pain and understanding. Birds flew far away, and those that saw them go envied them their escape.

Miles Varrasso was no more. He was returned to matter; no part of him remained intact. He was deconstructed, destroyed, dismantled, obliterated and erased. Gone forever. A valid, full and young life wiped out by the cowardly single press of a small button.

As the spirit was wrenched from his body, it headed for a leafy suburb in the West Country, where a middle-aged Classics teacher of Italian lineage sat at the desk in her study, preparing her class plan for the next day. When the news came through that would destroy her world and her faith, Claudia Varrasso would not feel her son’s strong hands as they rested on her shoulders, giving her strength and inner warmth across two worlds, but he was there nonetheless, trying to draw her pain. A small white feather that had been dispatched from a jeans pocket had followed Miles’s spirit. It would be sitting on the bedside table, waiting for her to discover in a day or so’s time, and, not for the first time, it would bring a human in need great comfort…

‘Miles! No! Miles! Please! Someone!’ Poppy’s screams from smoke-filled lungs could be heard above the siren and shouts.

As he walked from the wreckage, the figure in the shadows pulled out a mobile phone. Neither a drop of sweat, nor a tremor of hand was apparent. Nothing to betray his action, he was cool and calm.

The telephone rang in Zelgai Mahmood’s study. The mobile vibrated in Major Anthony Helm’s pocket. The receptionist at eleven Downing Street punched a call through to The Right Honourable Tristram Munroe. Who knows what two of them heard? But for one, the message was succinct and chilling, ‘It’s done.’

Martin lay with his arms around his wife, she trembled inside his grasp. He held her even tighter, he knew all about shock.

Poppy recalled the first ever conversation held with the man that would become her dear friend.

‘You won’t make old bones like that, Miles.’

‘Who says I want to make old bones?’

‘I guess maybe you don’t. I just assumed that no one wants to die before their time is up, before they have finished. I think that would be the worst thing, time suddenly running out for you without warning…’

Lying on their marital bed, with her chest gently rising and falling against his arms, Martin’s head stirred on the floral
pillowcase
. He couldn’t think about the what ifs, if he’d made the call a few seconds later, earlier… he was too busy enjoying the sensation of warmth against his skin. Martin inhaled the scent of her hair and closed his eyes. He felt at peace, never wanting to let her go, his love, his Poppy Day. Finally, he was home.