‘Thanks for the encouragement,’ growled Porter.
Stanton laughed. ‘When you’re stationed in Beirut you learn to be a realist.’
The Volvo swung left, down a slip road that took them into Sidon. It wasn’t much of a place, Porter noted. It was mid-afternoon now, and the skies were still grey and over-cast, with just a few rays of sunshine breaking through a mile or so out to sea. Although it nestled into a snug cove on the Mediterranean shoreline, there was nothing picturesque or charming about the town. No point trying to get this place into one of the travel supplements in the Sunday papers, thought Porter. Too many armies had marched through it for that. The main bay was dotted with a few fishing boats and a couple of large cargo vessels, but you could also see the damage to the quayside where the shells must have landed. Many of the traditional houses had been destroyed, their place taken by hastily built concrete shacks. Some of the roads had been broken up into rubble by the shelling, and nobody yet had the money or inclination to fix them. Maybe they don’t reckon there’s any point, thought Porter. The next war will be along in a minute. There’s no point in making things easier for the Israeli tanks.
The bus station was just beyond the main square. About five buses, each one painted a pale green, were parked next to it. Stanton pulled up the Volvo next to them, killing the engine. ‘The Jezzoine bus leaves in ten minutes,’ he said. ‘Then again, punctuality isn’t rated as very important around here. It’ll probably leave when they’ve got all the chickens they’re taking with them to sit down nicely.’
Porter slung his bag over his shoulder as he stepped out of the car. He paused, smelling the stiff breeze blowing in from the nearby shore, its salt flavour mixed with the fried oils, nuts and spices from the row of six food stands lining the edge of the bus station. It was good to smell the Med one more time, he told himself. He wanted to savour as many experiences as possible. When you were almost certainly going to die in the next twenty-four hours, then you saw the world with a fresh eye. It was like being a kid again. Everything seemed funny, interesting, challenging: the desire to embrace the world was all the more intense for the knowledge that you were about to leave it.
‘I’m hungry,’ said Porter.
He walked over to the food stands, and got Stanton to order a couple of snacks: tiny chicken and lamb meatballs, mixed with chickpeas and a spicy sauce, and served wrapped up in a pitta bread with a bottle of iced tea to wash it all down. Porter ate them in a couple of bites, then asked for another. ‘Any advice?’ he said.
Stanton hesitated before replying. He was scanning Porter’s face, looking, Porter reckoned, for traces of fear. But he wasn’t going to find any. He’d been scared before in his life. Going into combat had turned his stomach into jelly the same way it did for all the men. Taking a beating out on the streets had been just as bad. But he wasn’t scared now.
‘Turn in your resignation,’ said Stanton. ‘Take a holiday. Phone in sick …’
Porter smiled, but remained silent. He walked slowly towards the bus. A couple of women were climbing on board, buying their tickets, talking to each other. Porter handed across a Lebanese ten-pound note, collected his ticket, then nodded towards Stanton. ‘Thanks for your help,’ he said tersely.
The bus was already running ten minutes late by the time it pulled out of Sidon and started wheezing its way up the hill inland. Porter had positioned himself near the centre of the bus, keeping himself as inconspicuous as possible. The two women in front of him were still chattering away: there were obviously a lot of unfaithful husbands and disloyal daughters in Sidon to catch up on, thought Porter. There were a few old men, a couple of families, and several schoolchildren scattered around the vehicle. Some of them were talking. But mostly, just like Porter, they were looking out of the window and keeping themselves to themselves.
The journey took just over an hour, twisting along the only main road that led up into the mountains that ran along the spine of the coast then down again into the valleys and plains below. There were some farms you could see stretched along the side of the road, growing dates, oranges, lemons and chickpeas, with the occasional herd of goats chewing the grasslands between the orchards and the fields. But the evidence of war was everywhere. Farms that had been abandoned were slowly being taken over by weeds, trees and scrub. Barns and houses that had been broken up by RPGs and mortar fire, roads that had been smashed to rubble, and the occasional burnt-out husk of a tank, or the familiar dugouts used to shelter a machine-gun crew, littered the side of the road.
That’s what soldiers leave behind, thought Porter to himself. Lots of shattered communities, and broken lives. Not much of an advertisement for the trade.
Jezzoine wasn’t the last stop on the route but it was where Porter was getting off. He climbed from the bus, and out onto the tarmac of the bus station, glancing quickly around. The clouds were heavier now. It was just after five in the afternoon, and although sunset was still some way ahead, the light was already growing murky. Sidon may not have been much of a place, thought Porter, but compared with Jezzoine, it was Biarritz. There were just three buses waiting at the station, and the tarmac was pitted with holes: some of them might have been left there by shells, but most of them were there because nobody had bothered to fill them up at any time in the last fifty years. The ticket office had shut, and a dog was prowling around it menacingly. Glancing across the street into the town, Porter could see a couple of beatenup cafés, with a group of surly-looking men outside, sipping cups of thick, black coffee, and one shop selling some food, hardware and car parts.