The Sheriff of Tesco Page 3

easy,” she said, “In one, I came home early and found my sister in bed with my boyfriend. I wrote them all longhand and sprinkled ‘em with tears from an eyedropper, then sent it off under an assumed name.”

  “Did they print them?”

  “Oh yes, only first they phoned to check they were authentic, so I always kept a note of the names I’d used beside the phone.”

  “And they didn’t catch on.”

  “I suppose they did really, only they didn’t admit it. Asking to get paid by postal order was a giveaway.”

  “Are you still doing that, for the magazines?”

  “Oh yes, but I’ve graduated to short stories,” she said, “It keeps me busy and it’s a whole lot better than the anti depressants. I flushed them down the loo.”

  “What were they for?”

  “OCD,” she said, “you know the sort of thing, ‘out damned spot’, the Lady Macbeth hand washing thing. They diagnosed obsessive compulsive behaviour disorder, you know with that smug look like ‘we know what’s going on.’”

  “You don’t have to tell me,” Russell said, “I’ve been there…” and was about to continue when he felt the painful tug of memory and flashed back to that last patrol.

  They moved out again and now Russell’s foreboding was palpable. Suck it up, he told himself with Marine stoicism, just one more stance and they could turn for home. He checked the map for the hundredth time, to stray off the route would court disaster, and jotted down the co-ordinates of the next village which was designated Hostile. From a little rise in the landscape Russell scoped the drab huddle of angular buildings through his rifle sight seeking possible cover. As they made slow progress behind the sweepers the hairs on his neck began to tingle and rivulets of sweat ran down his ribs.

  Russell went over to the EOD Warrant: “We go in there,” he gestured towards the village, “we’re going to get hurt.”

  The WO gave him a wry smile. “They want it swept,” he gestured towards the Afghan troops, “so I’ve got guiding light. Colours. It’s a bitch, I know.”

  Russell scoped the ville again. “We’ve got eyes on us already,” he said, “We’re going to have to keep it tight and frosty.”

  “I’ll tell my lads,” the WO said, “I don’t plan to die in this ditch, next week I’m on the plane.”

  Russell felt the beads of sweat stand out on his brow. His fists were clenched.

  “Are you all right?” her face swam before his eyes, but before he could reply he was back there, back in Afghan.

  The village was ominously quiet; no children, no animals, and as they cautiously advanced Russell felt a growing unease.

  The ambush came as they filed down a network of alleys between the ochre walls of the compounds. The Taliban had set up interlocking fields of fire and the deep bark of the AK 47s caromed down the canyons as they opened up. An RPG slammed into the wall above Russell’s head, showering him with dirt, but failed to go off. Thank God for those cheap-Jack Iranian duds he told himself bleakly as his jaw clamped and he cast around for an escape route.

  They dropped over a low wall and found themselves in a cemetery, taking cover behind the grave mounds where they were once more pinned down by increasingly accurate fire as the insurgents tightened their grip. The shit storm was rolling on top of them now.

  They were putting out rounds furiously in a desperate bid to stave off the assault. Tucker and Jones went down and the medic’s eyes were like saucers as he scuttled to patch them up. The barrel of the minimi was glowing incandescent from continuous firing when Russell remembered the co-ordinates he had scribbled on his wrist. Over the insect buzz of the CP Net he did the only thing he could think of to save them from annihilation; he called for air support, danger close.

  She reached across the table and took hold of his hands; her touch warm and dry, sending little ripples of electric shock up his arms, the unexpected, astonishing touch of a woman.

  “Hey come on Jane Russell,” she said, “snap out of it.” She’d recognised that look in his eyes, the thousand-yard stare. Her husband’s eyes would glaze the same way when some seemingly trivial event while he was home on leave would send him shrinking back into himself. Just like him, Russell was back there, unable to break the loop of memory, the vivid scenes which swirled around in his head night after night when he would end up curled on the mat beside the bed, drenched in sweat; the reel had to play to the end.

  The Apache swooped in out of the sun, pirouetted over the village, acquiring targets. The attack helicopter the Taliban called “the scorpion” because of its high tail rotor and deadly sting put two Hellfire missiles into the buildings which instantly disintegrated; followed up with a salvo of rockets and then strafed the village with its cannon, the rasp of the chain-gun pouring lead into the cluster of dwellings sending debris flying.

  The effect was awesome, and just as suddenly the seemingly deserted village sprang into life with people running in all directions. The marines had ceased firing, gaping at the drama playing out before their eyes and Russell turned to wave them out when he saw the woman running towards him, black burka billowing, raised hand clutching something shiny which glinted in the sun. Russell felt a tightening in his temples…the black widow…the suicide bomber he’d been warned about. In the next split second her arms would wrap around him as she detonated the bomb belt strapped to her body. Aaagh… in one swift movement the SA80 came up as an extension of his arm and he felt the rifle kick as he fired twice and the black figure stumbled and then lurched backwards. Russell took a step forward and a keening howl echoed inside his helmet as he back flipped in a cloud of dust, a crack of thunder boxing his ears. Then everything went quiet.

  Russell felt needle stabs flickering up and down his arms; the ache in his leg began to throb. Her voice came to him from somewhere far off but he couldn’t make out what she was saying. In an effort to head off what he knew was coming, he squeezed his eyes tight shut, but it was no use.

  Russell opened his eyes. He was in the hospital at Bastion, a triage tag on his wrist and a drip pumping morphine into his arm. Warily he moved the lead weight of his head and as the blur cleared from his vision realised he was in a plywood cubicle draped with plastic sheeting. Through the haze Russell recognised Major Mike peering down at him. Memory came back suddenly like a fist in the face.

  “The widow,” he croaked, “the black widow.”

  “That was no widow,” the Major shook his head, “she wasn’t a suicide bomber, old son, seems she was trying to warn you about the IED.”

  Through lips cracked and dry Russell said, “but she had the trigger in her hand.”

  The Major’s head wagged again, “that wasn’t a trigger, it was one of those shiny cards the NGOs hand out to the locals. It said ‘help, I’m deaf and dumb’.”

  Russell felt ice sink into the pit of his stomach. “Oh Jesus, I shot her…I thought…I really thought…”

  “Never mind that now,” Major Mike said, “problem is she was the cousin of the tame village honcho and he’s screaming blue murder. Ironic or what, the do gooders got her killed and now the district jirga wants your hide. Those Afghan troops you were nursemaiding have sworn witness statement, its election year with politicians on the make and they’re demanding we hand you over. Gone way beyond placating ‘em with a few goats this time. We’re in the departure lounge and ISAF’s desperate to keep ‘em onside so we can exit left with a modicum of pride.”

  Russell said: “Jesus, I killed her… I thought for sure it was her or me…”

  “Listen Russell,” the Major lowered his voice, “we’re in a world of shit right now. Marine on a murder charge, however trumped up is the last thing our wheeler-dealer lords and masters want. So before our friends can get their act together, we’re shipping you out, medical priority. That’s what I came to tell you, you’re on the plane tomorrow. When they come looking, you’ll be gone.”

  But Russell wasn’t listening anymore. He stabbed the button on t
he drip pump and held it down, flooding his blood stream to combat the new wave of pain, which threatened to drown him. As he floated on a cloud of morphine he was surprised to hear his own howl ricochet around the plywood walls.

  Russell felt drained, all his energy sapped away and his expression must have betrayed him because she looked at him over her coffee cup and sighed. “Well I guess we’re kindred spirits, so which particular demon got hold of you?”

  "They call it Post Traumatic Stress Disorder,” Russell said as he regained his composure, “only we just called it the Afghan curse. They invalided me out.” He wondered why he was telling her all this, a perfect stranger. He didn’t even know her name. He hadn’t meant it to go like this; incredibly she had touched a chord inside him, but he couldn’t bring himself to finish the story, to tell her that if the wheeler dealers had had their way he would have been languishing in Kabul Central for the murder of a non-combatant. She didn’t need to know that.

  “How’re you coping?”

  “Still day by day,” he said, “They tell you the wound inside your head will heal in