smile. ‘Be on your best and I’ll personally see that colour pictures of your asses are shown in Starbucks window, Times Square.’
Their laughs rang in his ears as he walked away. It was unlike the lieutenant to crack a joke. They all thought he was something of a strange one, a bit of a homey character. And there was talk that, if not the army, he might have gone into the ministry which is why they tried very hard not to cuss when he was around. But, on the whole, he was an okay sort of guy. They knew he would do his best for them.
In his barracks, McDermott wrote a letter home:
‘Dear Mom and Dad, Having a good time out here. Safe inside the Green Zone. Nothing much happening. Not seen any black bears yet… God be with you.’
He didn’t want to mention anything of the event that was causing him increasing anxiety. They would learn something of it in due course, he was sure. He had never lied to them in his life. And he didn’t know if he could refrain from telling them the whole truth if they sought it.
Slumping on his bed, he put his hands behind his head and closed his eyes. He felt weary. Since the incident, he sensed the energy being drained from his body, little by little. He had hoped everything would quieten down. But now, a photographer was on the prowl and the unit was under orders to fully co-operate.
His life seemed to be twisting out of control, shooting along in an inescapable vicious circle, a dilemma that was torturing him every waking hour.
6
The sound of nearby gunfire woke Alex with a start. She checked the time. It was almost 6.15. She groaned.
Her plan was to have had a lie-in, seeing she was not meeting McDermott’s CO until mid-morning. She tried to re-enter that warm, floating, solace of drowsiness, but flashes of her Kandahar nightmare surfaced causing her to start.
The shooting had stirred her brain anyway. It was now wide awake and urged her body to catch up. As she flung on her clothes, half of her wanted to ignore whatever had happened. The other half needed to know – a journalist’s instinct.
Checking the batteries in the Canon, she ran to the lift, sliding a spare pack into the knee pocket of her combat trousers and hiding the camera beneath her blouson.
She approached the reception desk, about to hand over her room key when she changed her mind, putting it in her pocket. She saw Kowolski’s room key still in its box. He was either up earlier than her – or had not been back to the hotel yet.
‘I heard shooting,’ she said to the clerk.
‘Yes, Miss – at the end of the street,’ he gestured.
Turning right out of the hotel and jogging along the sidewalk, she reached the road junction where a large crowd had gathered. A gut-wrenching sensation suddenly stopped her. Did she really want to witness this? Only half awake, she’d been operating on auto pilot so far, old instincts. But indecision always missed the picture, she reasoned. Steeling herself, she took a deep breath and joined the throng.
A group of soldiers stood nonchalantly around a bullet-ridden car. The bloodied body of the young driver lay motionless in his seat, the engine still running. An army paramedic truck screechedto a halt. A soldier wearing sunglasses, chewing gum and keeping the onlookers at bay, diverted his attention to the medics. The crowd shuffled forward. Alex took out her camera and, over the shoulder of the man in front of her, began shooting.
Music blared from the car stereo; a Beatles number: ‘All You Need Is Love’.
The medics pulled the driver from the car, laid him out on the pavement and began attempting resuscitation. After a few minutes they gave up. Suddenly, a woman in a black abayah pushed her way through, shouting, hysterical. A soldier stepped in her way but she pushed him aside. Letting out an uncontrollable wail, she knelt by the young man’s body, cradling his head in her lap, screaming at the soldiers who backed away. Alex rattled off
Their laughs rang in his ears as he walked away. It was unlike the lieutenant to crack a joke. They all thought he was something of a strange one, a bit of a homey character. And there was talk that, if not the army, he might have gone into the ministry which is why they tried very hard not to cuss when he was around. But, on the whole, he was an okay sort of guy. They knew he would do his best for them.
In his barracks, McDermott wrote a letter home:
‘Dear Mom and Dad, Having a good time out here. Safe inside the Green Zone. Nothing much happening. Not seen any black bears yet… God be with you.’
He didn’t want to mention anything of the event that was causing him increasing anxiety. They would learn something of it in due course, he was sure. He had never lied to them in his life. And he didn’t know if he could refrain from telling them the whole truth if they sought it.
Slumping on his bed, he put his hands behind his head and closed his eyes. He felt weary. Since the incident, he sensed the energy being drained from his body, little by little. He had hoped everything would quieten down. But now, a photographer was on the prowl and the unit was under orders to fully co-operate.
His life seemed to be twisting out of control, shooting along in an inescapable vicious circle, a dilemma that was torturing him every waking hour.
6
The sound of nearby gunfire woke Alex with a start. She checked the time. It was almost 6.15. She groaned.
Her plan was to have had a lie-in, seeing she was not meeting McDermott’s CO until mid-morning. She tried to re-enter that warm, floating, solace of drowsiness, but flashes of her Kandahar nightmare surfaced causing her to start.
The shooting had stirred her brain anyway. It was now wide awake and urged her body to catch up. As she flung on her clothes, half of her wanted to ignore whatever had happened. The other half needed to know – a journalist’s instinct.
Checking the batteries in the Canon, she ran to the lift, sliding a spare pack into the knee pocket of her combat trousers and hiding the camera beneath her blouson.
She approached the reception desk, about to hand over her room key when she changed her mind, putting it in her pocket. She saw Kowolski’s room key still in its box. He was either up earlier than her – or had not been back to the hotel yet.
‘I heard shooting,’ she said to the clerk.
‘Yes, Miss – at the end of the street,’ he gestured.
Turning right out of the hotel and jogging along the sidewalk, she reached the road junction where a large crowd had gathered. A gut-wrenching sensation suddenly stopped her. Did she really want to witness this? Only half awake, she’d been operating on auto pilot so far, old instincts. But indecision always missed the picture, she reasoned. Steeling herself, she took a deep breath and joined the throng.
A group of soldiers stood nonchalantly around a bullet-ridden car. The bloodied body of the young driver lay motionless in his seat, the engine still running. An army paramedic truck screechedto a halt. A soldier wearing sunglasses, chewing gum and keeping the onlookers at bay, diverted his attention to the medics. The crowd shuffled forward. Alex took out her camera and, over the shoulder of the man in front of her, began shooting.
Music blared from the car stereo; a Beatles number: ‘All You Need Is Love’.
The medics pulled the driver from the car, laid him out on the pavement and began attempting resuscitation. After a few minutes they gave up. Suddenly, a woman in a black abayah pushed her way through, shouting, hysterical. A soldier stepped in her way but she pushed him aside. Letting out an uncontrollable wail, she knelt by the young man’s body, cradling his head in her lap, screaming at the soldiers who backed away. Alex rattled off
Similar Books
