unit’s translators, Rahmatullah, had explained to him that it was down to Islamic law. Women – covered from head to foot – are invisible and unapproachable. It is commonly accepted that Afghan men cannot talk to an unrelated woman until
after
they have proposed marriage. ‘How can you fall in love if you can’t see her face?’ Rahmatullah asked. ‘We can see the boys, so we can tell which ones are beautiful.’
‘But,’ Gasparino frowned, ‘doesn’t Islamic law also forbid homosexuality?’
‘We don’t love them,’ Rahmatullah shrugged, ‘we just have sex with them.’
‘Bloody hell!’ Gasparino laughed nervously. ‘You make it sound like the Catholic Church.’
Rahmatullah gave him a confused look.
‘Never mind.’
‘Are you after a boy yourself?’
‘Er, no thanks.’ Gasparino felt himself blush violently as he beat a hasty retreat back to the camp.
It was a conversation that Gasparino had played over in his head many times. However you looked at it, the set-up was basically institutionalized child abuse. He was all for religious tolerance, but couldn’t get past the fact that many aspects of the treatment of children and women here were just plain wrong. He thought about what his own family life would be like – a world away from this – and felt more confused than ever about what he was supposed to be doing here. The whole situation made him hugely uneasy – but he had no idea what he could do about it.
He watched as one of the sergeants, Spencer Spanner, wandered over to the ANA’s commanding officer, a lieutenant who was still too young to be able to grow a proper beard, shook hands and started talking. There was the usual gesturing and waving, head-scratching and grinning as Spanner explained about the day’s operationand tried to get to the bottom of just what exactly it was that the ANA were up to. Gasparino felt a wave of nostalgia wash over him. Spanner was a great bloke; he would miss him, back in England. Closing his eyes, his mind wandered to the shower he would have back at camp. After that he would try and call Justine, leaving it as late as possible, in case today was the date of her scan.
TEN
The receptionist had disappeared without a trace. Sitting in the empty waiting room, with nothing on the off-white walls, Roche looked around for something to read. But there were no pamphlets, no magazines to browse, not so much as a copy of yesterday’s
Standard
or today’s
Metro
. The idea was that you just sat there and contemplated your fate.
What was Dr Wolf’s first name?
She had no idea and, somewhat disappointingly for a police officer, no real curiosity either. Wolf was not someone she saw as ‘helping’ her situation; rather he was just another part of the bureaucratic maze that she had to negotiate, in order to continue with her professional life.
The question of the guy’s name fluttered across her brain as she was trying to focus on other, more important things. Or maybe less important things. Different things. Alison Roche had seen the psychiatrist, once before and once after her arrival in SO15. Those had been routine meetings. This, most definitely, was not.
Roche fretted about not calling Carlyle ahead of her visit. She knew that the inspector had been sent to see this guy too. A couple of years ago, Commander Simpson had insisted on Carlyle getting some ‘help’ when his run-in with SO15 and Mossad had spiralled out of control. Roche had even busted him out of a session one time; inventing an ‘emergency’ that allowed the pair of them to escape to a nearby café.
Even now, the thought of the inspector being made to sit through an hour of Dr Wolf’s painful extended silences made her laugh. Carlylewas easily the most shrink-proof person she had ever met: he just didn’t do introspection – that was something they had in common.
All the same, maybe he could have given her some tips on how to handle the session; how to take control, keep Wolf at
after
they have proposed marriage. ‘How can you fall in love if you can’t see her face?’ Rahmatullah asked. ‘We can see the boys, so we can tell which ones are beautiful.’
‘But,’ Gasparino frowned, ‘doesn’t Islamic law also forbid homosexuality?’
‘We don’t love them,’ Rahmatullah shrugged, ‘we just have sex with them.’
‘Bloody hell!’ Gasparino laughed nervously. ‘You make it sound like the Catholic Church.’
Rahmatullah gave him a confused look.
‘Never mind.’
‘Are you after a boy yourself?’
‘Er, no thanks.’ Gasparino felt himself blush violently as he beat a hasty retreat back to the camp.
It was a conversation that Gasparino had played over in his head many times. However you looked at it, the set-up was basically institutionalized child abuse. He was all for religious tolerance, but couldn’t get past the fact that many aspects of the treatment of children and women here were just plain wrong. He thought about what his own family life would be like – a world away from this – and felt more confused than ever about what he was supposed to be doing here. The whole situation made him hugely uneasy – but he had no idea what he could do about it.
He watched as one of the sergeants, Spencer Spanner, wandered over to the ANA’s commanding officer, a lieutenant who was still too young to be able to grow a proper beard, shook hands and started talking. There was the usual gesturing and waving, head-scratching and grinning as Spanner explained about the day’s operationand tried to get to the bottom of just what exactly it was that the ANA were up to. Gasparino felt a wave of nostalgia wash over him. Spanner was a great bloke; he would miss him, back in England. Closing his eyes, his mind wandered to the shower he would have back at camp. After that he would try and call Justine, leaving it as late as possible, in case today was the date of her scan.
TEN
The receptionist had disappeared without a trace. Sitting in the empty waiting room, with nothing on the off-white walls, Roche looked around for something to read. But there were no pamphlets, no magazines to browse, not so much as a copy of yesterday’s
Standard
or today’s
Metro
. The idea was that you just sat there and contemplated your fate.
What was Dr Wolf’s first name?
She had no idea and, somewhat disappointingly for a police officer, no real curiosity either. Wolf was not someone she saw as ‘helping’ her situation; rather he was just another part of the bureaucratic maze that she had to negotiate, in order to continue with her professional life.
The question of the guy’s name fluttered across her brain as she was trying to focus on other, more important things. Or maybe less important things. Different things. Alison Roche had seen the psychiatrist, once before and once after her arrival in SO15. Those had been routine meetings. This, most definitely, was not.
Roche fretted about not calling Carlyle ahead of her visit. She knew that the inspector had been sent to see this guy too. A couple of years ago, Commander Simpson had insisted on Carlyle getting some ‘help’ when his run-in with SO15 and Mossad had spiralled out of control. Roche had even busted him out of a session one time; inventing an ‘emergency’ that allowed the pair of them to escape to a nearby café.
Even now, the thought of the inspector being made to sit through an hour of Dr Wolf’s painful extended silences made her laugh. Carlylewas easily the most shrink-proof person she had ever met: he just didn’t do introspection – that was something they had in common.
All the same, maybe he could have given her some tips on how to handle the session; how to take control, keep Wolf at
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