‘I don’t want guns,’ Scullion said. ‘This is a cultural outing.’
‘Nice distinction, Major,’ Luke said. ‘But either we take our assault weapons or we’re not moving an inch away from this convoy.’
‘I’ll remind you, I’m in charge,’ Scullion said.
‘You’ll be wanting to protect your section, then,’ Luke said.
The two men stared at each other for a moment and then Scullion smiled.
‘All right, girls,’ he said. ‘We’re taking a trip. Look lively and bring your bang-sticks like the good soldier says.’
Scullion commandeered a jeep and steered it off the line. He drove onto a patch of desert and Rashid came with extra water. When Luke said there might be flak about them absconding from the convoy, Flannigan pointed to other servicemen wandering free. A team of Canadians and Dutch were already setting up a makeshift volleyball net. ‘The line is two kilometres long, Captain,’ Flannigan said. ‘Jesus, it’s fine. Remember in Basra we used to go sightseeing all the time. The boys get sick waiting.’ A second jeep carried two of the Royal Caledonian boys and a couple of the Canadians and Scullion waved the vehicle alongside. He hadn’t been so keyed up at any time since the platoon left Camp Bastion.
‘What’s with the wheels?’ asked Lennox.
‘They’re the bomb,’ Luke said.
‘Seriously the bomb,’ Flannigan said.
‘White motherfucken Land Cruisers,’ said Lennox. He rolled his tongue and spat on the ground. ‘Brand new.’
‘Bought for the ANA by the Americans,’ Luke said.
‘No way.’
‘Yes way.’
‘Holy mother of Jesus,’ Flannigan said.
The major had his hand on a map. Rashid was rolling another joint and kept indicating places of interest. At one point, Rashid wetted his hand with saliva and dampened the area under his eyepatch. Scullion saw it and it made his stomach heave. It was a new thing: Rashid now did that to him, made him anxious, revolted.
But as usual with the regiment, events moved faster than thoughts, and the quartet of 1st Royal Western Fusiliers, Flannigan, Dooley, Lennox and Campbell, climbed into the back and all felt rewarded when the air-conditioning kicked in and went turbo and seemed to blow the heat and the dust from their brains.
Dooley put his rifle on the floor and pulled out a CD. ‘Stick this mother on,’ he said, handing it over. Scullion looked round when the music filled the car and he grinned the grin of a middle-aged man finding freedom again in the sound of a metal band at full pelt.
‘What the fuck is this?’ Luke shouted.
‘For your musical delectification,’ Dooley said, holding up the case.
‘Delectation,’ said Luke.
‘Whatever,’ Dooley said. ‘Brain Drill. Featuring the fastest drummer in the world, Marco Pitruzzella.’
‘Turn that off, our kid,’ Flannigan said. ‘It’s fucken unbearable.’ The car bumped over the road and white dust billowed at the second Land Cruiser coming at the rear.
‘Jack up the volume,’ said Lennox.
Luke dropped his shoulders. Everything was cool and the boys were happy. It was irregular to go off-site but stuff happens and it wasn’t his job to commandeer everything. Scullion knew they were close to the kind of holy ground where lapis lazuli lies under the dirt. They passed a man on the road who was holding up a fistful of windscreen wipers.
Rashid said a few words to Scullion and then he closed the map and stared into a group of trees. Looking back on that day, they’d understand that Rashid had been in charge, he’d planned everything, directed it, without ever seeming to be other than
his usual subservient self. He had the gift of patient belief and the habit of silence. They were three miles from Tappeh-ye Mondi Gak and Rashid felt the coming simoom, a red mist of hot sand. The Land Cruiser was like a bubble of air in the local bloodstream, and he hoped the mist wouldn’t mess with the car’s radiator or upset the plan to get to the ancient site and from there to Bad Kichan. The music was loud and Rashid looked towards the mountains beyond the bank of trees, the mountains plain and beautiful and dark blue in the crags. In the foothills of De Mundagak Ghar a boy in brown scarves stared down at the road. Rashid saw him and rolled down his window, and, putting his arm out, tapped the door twice. Rashid glanced round at Scullion and saw he was miles away and beating the steering wheel in time to the drums and the boys were singing in the back of the vehicle. When Rashid lifted his eyes again to the hill the boy had gone. Luke later understood that this had been the ANA captain’s gift to his people, to let them know, as promised, here and there along the way, that the British soldiers were making progress towards the village.
THE PROPHECY OF THE PETROL
‘What is that?’
‘An old water wheel,’ Rashid said. They walked past it and away from the vehicles to see the ruined fort. It stood alone in the desert, a doorway, a piece of wall, an arch maybe, a rampart like a broken tooth. Scullion felt he saw sand blowing off the white ruins and it excited him. The poet Shelley came into his mind and he wanted to talk about that with his young friend, but, when he
turned, he saw Luke was remote. Some fellows get eaten up by the army and forget what it’s all about.
He climbed up to the fort and stroked a wall and looked through the remains of an old window. ‘The lone and level sands stretch far away,’ he recited, and when he stood back he felt his stoutness, a sudden feeling of increase, next to all this thinning beauty. When he looked again through the hole he saw a lone camel walking in a daze.
The Scottish boys from the second jeep came up the dirt track to the fort looking stoned. ‘Hey, Dooley,’ Flannigan said. ‘Here come the Jocks and one of them’s got a shite Gucci leg-holster the same as yours.’ The soldier he was talking about carried a six-pack of bottled water and had a T-shirt wrapped round his head. Luke recognised him as the lance corporal who had sat in front of him during the briefing in Maiwand, the boy who spoke about Scullion’s reputation.
‘Any you diddies want a beer?’ the boy said, smiling up. He had a Browning pistol in his leg-holster and an SA80 rifle over his shoulder. Luke turned round when he heard the accent and caught a bottle of water. Rashid passed a new joint to Lennox and walked down to the vehicles.
‘Where you from?’ Luke asked.
‘Ayrshire,’ the boy said. ‘I’m Mark.’
‘Whereabouts in Ayrshire?’
‘Dalgarnock.’
‘My gran lives in Saltcoats.’
‘Just up the road,’ Mark said. ‘I went to St Andrew’s. They pulled it down to make way for the new school.’
‘And my mother lives in Troon,’ Luke said.
‘That’s mad. I used to go to the Pavilion in Ayr, the raves up
there. Do you ever go to the Metro?’
‘The club in Saltcoats?’ asked Luke.
‘Aye. I got a knock-back from there, man. I’m like, “You can fight for your country but you cannae get into a club …”’
Lennox passed them the joint and Luke and the boy smoked it while Dooley set up some of the water bottles. ‘Target practice,’ Dooley said.
‘You shouldn’t waste water, dude,’ said the Canadian. He had driven with the Scots boys in the second vehicle.
Scullion came down from the fort and he seemed high. ‘I reckon everybody drinks too much water, anyway,’ he said. ‘In Ireland when I was a kid nobody drank water. I can honestly say my mother never once set a glass of water down in front of me.’ He sweated as he said it and the sweat ran into his eyes. He dragged his hand wearily down his face and wondered if the fort had anything buried around it. He would kill for a little Hellenistic carving or a bracelet to take home.