The Kills: Sutler, the Massive, the Kill, and the Hit (59 page)

The realization came with other fears. A warning once that it would be unlikely that she could carry a child full-term. This is what she’d been told. Christ sake.

The idea that they hadn’t taken precautions was ridiculous. Rem was messy, boisterous, and sex became a kind of combat, so physical she often lost herself. Metaphors wouldn’t cut it, because Rem, being so helter-skelter, was not one man but parts of many. She had no complaints. There might be long periods of inactivity, of barely even touching, but when there was, she thought of this as a kind of fission. But the idea that they should have been careful just didn’t fit the project.

Phyllis listened without overt sympathy. Doctors always draw the worst picture. ‘I lost two,’ she said, ‘with my first husband. On the second marriage it all seemed to work out.’

Earlier today she was one person, now she was two, which struck her as remarkable and horrifying.

Christ. A baby. How much will that cost?

She wouldn’t tell Rem until she was certain.

Secret number two.

Number one: a dog.

Number two: a baby.

The craft did not settle, but came close enough for the man to disembark, his pack thrown after him. The man crouched in the downdraught then ran directly toward Rem, hand on head, backpack on his left shoulder, a professional pause and dash as if he had military training. Behind him the helicopter slipped back and upward pillowing sand.

The man, Caucasian (unlikely then to be the replacement translator) and dressed like Markland, in a long-sleeved shirt, tan chinos, buckskin boots, the casual uniform of the HOSCO manager – hurried toward Rem, his voice lost to the noise. His paleness, his short back and sides, the picky way he stooped to brush himself down, marked him as British. Army-trained, public school, Rem would put money on it, a latecomer ready to scoop up those final contracts. A profiteer down to the bone. Infinitely readable.

‘Stephen Sutler.’ He offered his hand, his accent, as predicted, British. ‘Can you take me to the unit commander.’

Rem turned the jeep about and explained that there was no unit commander. ‘This concern isn’t military. It’s civilian. There’s nothing much here except burn pits.’

Sutler leaned sideways to listen and didn’t appear to understand.

‘I said
burn pits
. You know what they are?’

The man indicated that he couldn’t hear and shook his head.

‘They didn’t give you ear defenders? Head gear? Headphones?’ Rem gestured to his ears and raised his voice. ‘Don’t worry. It’ll come back in a couple of hours. I wouldn’t make a habit of it. You heard what I said?’ Rem now shouted. ‘This is civilian. We manage the burn pits, five of them.’ Rem hoiked his thumb in the general direction of the pits. ‘Not much else. So, why are you here?’

After a moment Sutler nodded and spoke in a clear English accent. ‘I need to speak to whoever’s in charge.’

‘We’re speaking. How can I help?’

The man looked at him, blank.

‘I’m preparing a survey.’

‘A survey? What’s this for?’

Again the man couldn’t hear.

‘I asked
who for? Who are you working for?
Are you working for HOSCO?’

Sutler gave a curt nod.

‘So what are you surveying? What are you looking for?’

Sutler answered that it would take about a week. He’d been assured that he could work with some of the men already based here, which is why he’d asked for the unit commander.

‘There’s eight of us. Including me. What kind of work do you need them for? I need to know the kind of work you’re planning. How long will you be at Camp Liberty?’

Again, the man didn’t answer.

‘You said something about a week? Longer? I said longer? More?’

Rem took a long look to measure the man, to gauge if he was serious or not, because he sounded much too vague. That he was working for HOSCO meant little, the only option for non-nationals was to work private (HOSCO) or government (CIPA). So far Sutler had told him nothing, and from the size of his kitbag he didn’t intend to stop long.

Rem presented the options. ‘I’ll have to put you with someone else, unless someone doubles up. We don’t have much in the way of accommodation.’

He saw the camp through the stranger’s eyes and realized just how mean the site appeared. It wasn’t the lack of provision so much as the scruffiness: the lines of washing and the seven men, hanging around, worse than strays. And here was this guy from England, from somewhere green and wet and moody, stranded now in this unrelenting flat of stone and grit.

‘Welcome to dust and ash.’

Kiprowski sat outside his door, sullen, feet and arms crossed, and seeing him Rem changed his mind about where he wanted to house the new arrival.

‘What did you say you were here for?’

‘HOSCO. A project.’

‘What kind of project?’

‘A planning project.’

And still
nowhere
.

After the suspicions raised by the arrival of the translator, Rem decided not to bed him with one of the others, especially Pakosta with his paranoid notions about HOSCO, or the increasingly morose Kiprowski. Until Rem had a better measure of what the man wanted, it would be wise to keep him isolated, which meant surrendering his own cabin.

Rem took less than five minutes to gather his clothes and bedding. He asked questions as he packed: how long had Sutler been travelling, where had he come from, and Sutler remained evasive. The answers – eighteen hours, transit through Germany – dry facts, told him next to nothing.

Sutler took the room without thanks, set his bag beside the bed and stood, arms folded, clearly waiting for Rem to leave.

Kiprowski stood up when Rem came to his cabin, a little astonished: too polite to be put out.

‘This won’t be for long.’ Rem dropped his clothes on Hassan’s cot and scooted it back to the wall. The other men (notably Santo and Pakosta) found unpleasant amusement in this, grinned as he carried his bags from one cabin to another as if this proved some idea they had. If Rem had signalled Kiprowski out for special attention by pairing him with Amer Hassan, he was making a statement of it now.

He returned to his old cabin and waited at the door while Sutler unpacked.

‘We have rations. Army rations. MREs. There’s bottled water, it’s warm but drinkable. You’ll get used to it. Don’t expect to get used to the heat. It’s best to keep these doors open during the day, otherwise you’ll cook. Once the generators are running you can use the air-con, but at night it’ll get cold.’

Sweat stuck Sutler’s shirt to his back in two small wings. ‘I’d like to see the facilities. I’ll need somewhere to work.’

‘I’m sorry?’

‘I have supplies coming from Amrah City tomorrow.’

The man had little idea what to bring to such an environment. Long socks and long pants – not one piece of common sense – and no keepsakes to speak of his family, personality, or interests.

Facilities. Right. Rem leaned against the doorpost, swung about to point out the Quonset hut, the water tanks, gas storage, the latrines, and over there, the showers. ‘What you see is what we have.’

Sutler stood beside him, hands on hips. ‘And that hut?’

‘The Quonset?’

‘What’s that used for?’

‘Nothing much. Storage. The men use it for shade when they work on the vehicles. We keep the drinking water there.’

‘I’ll need a table. A chair.’

Rem told him to make use of whatever he found. There wasn’t much, maybe a worktable, which he was welcome to. ‘Make it yours,’ he said, ‘for as long as you need.’

✩

Cathy undertook two web searches. First on pregnancy, a general search:
“first trimester” +nutrition +fainting
. She’d speak with Maggie, but what did Maggie know? For a short while Maggie and her girlfriend had openly debated approaching Rem as a donor. Something Cathy had found endlessly funny, although she couldn’t see what had amused her so much now. She stared at the computer, at charts, read testimonies, the endless bossy chit-chat on what she needed to do, she found the subject intolerable. And the idea that Rem would make a father. Please.

The second web search came out of pure idleness. Paul Geezler. The author of their separation. That’s the word she used now:
separation
. Rem in Iraq, in some godforsaken desert, some dried-out, pre-biblical dust bowl. Nothing if not separate.

A search for “Paul + Geezler” brought up nothing. Not even company reports. She eventually found Geezler on the HOSCO website, and couldn’t understand why his page was placed on the European section, not the Middle East, and assumed that this had yet to be updated. Point of fact, there wasn’t much information: a bare statement naming him as the Advisor to the Division Chief, Europe. End of.

She had more luck finding Geezlers on a general search. A basketball coach. Two school teachers (mathematics and physics). A teenager whose hobbies included ‘Jesus’. These people had Facebook pages, Twitter feeds, but above all, implacably duller lives than her own.

She found the largest collection of Geezlers in Wisconsin, alongside a collection of Geislers. A website on family genealogy, maintained by Annie F. Geezler and her husband BJ (seriously), clarified the link between the Geislers and Geezlers. Annie F. had devoted much energy into gathering the family’s history and building a website based on the trivial details she’d found. The Geezlers came from Hamburg. They’d bred in moderation. Conceived of businesses (clothing, printing, transportation). They suffered from bad luck, bad timing, and over-ambition (the Great Depression stopped the clothing business, a warehouse fire terminated the printing, loans crippled the transportation). They fought in wars and died pitifully, and with anonymity (in dockyard bombings, warehouse fires, and on Russian Fronts). Anne F. had married into the Geislers, and Cathy wondered why women always carried the memory of a family. Who else would take on the job? A husband called BJ, she figured, could only be useful for lame innuendo. Christ.

She brought the printout back to the apartment.

Nut followed Cathy from room to room, brows tightened, pained, as if in apology, and she found herself unusually affectionate toward him. She fed him scraps. Cuddled him. Spoke endless nonsense, tolerated his need to be close, and found him to be good company. Except, of course, for the gas.

‘Listen to this.’ She read details to Nut. ‘The American Geezlers changed their name in World War Two.’ She looked down at the dog. ‘To Greeves.’ She held out a piece of toast. ‘If I give you this toast I don’t want to be smelling it in a second.’

Cathy had a retentive mind for facts, and hadn’t Rem said that the man was Southern? South Carolina? And hadn’t he mentioned Pittsburgh? She hadn’t found any records for a Geezler, a Geisler, or any other variation from South Carolina, Pittsburgh, or, in case she hadn’t remembered correctly, Philadelphia. The references she did find were for Milwaukee. After the war the Greeves returned to Geislers and Geezlers, respectively.

Cathy dropped the toast.

The only other reference, a slang dictionary, listed
geisler
as an image of two girls kissing. Something traded, covertly, among adolescent boys.

Done with Geezler, she checked a second set of papers, information found from a metasearch:
“burn pit” +lawsuit +exposure +Iraq, +legislation, +“sleep apnea” +sores +asthma +“respiratory problems”
.

Maggie sat with the papers about her, picked at them at random, and said it still didn’t make much sense. So? Loads of veterans come back and get sick. It doesn’t mean anything. And anyhow, wasn’t this all from some rumour she’d heard at the Saturday market? Hardly reliable?

Cathy apologized and Maggie became conciliatory.

‘You know what I mean. You have a habit of running away with ideas. It’s just what you do.’

‘Look, there’s more online, more about the materials they’re burning and how they’re causing all kinds of problems. Headaches, nosebleeds, skin irritations. Healthy people are getting asthma. People who shouldn’t be getting sick are getting skin and respiratory problems. Cancer-like cysts. All this is happening as soon as they get back. People losing weight for no reason, people who have no energy. Problems with their immune system. It’s wrong.’

‘But how do you even know it’s true?’

‘There’s a lawyer in Tucson. Phyllis, at the library, found him. So far he’s contacted thirty men. He has a website, he’s working with doctors. He said all they need to do is prove what’s being burned in those pits.’ She handed Maggie a list. ‘Contaminants. This is what you get from burning plastic and polystyrene. You get sulphuric acid, you get these chemicals, you get carcinogens.’

‘Then why don’t they stop it?’

There was a difference between being wilful and dumb, and Maggie was pushing it.

‘They need proof. They need someone to take samples and photographs. They need documentation of what’s happening out there.’

Cathy itched to smoke. Her fingers lost for activity.

‘The thing is HOSCO have made a public statement about stopping the burning in the camps, so they know something is wrong. Everything is now sent to remote locations and burned, and where they used to classify and separate the waste, now they just burn everything, get rid of it as fast as they can, and they can’t be touched, because they have contractors to do the dirty work, people like Rem who won’t complain.’

She looked at the papers, disorganized now, and wondered why she’d tried to explain anything. It wasn’t that Maggie was stupid, she just didn’t need to care.

‘I found this.’ She held up a separate sheaf of papers. ‘There’s another burn pit in Camp Bravo. The people working there have just walked out. They abandoned the camp.’