The Poppy Factory. Liz Trenow

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СКАЧАТЬ hand into her face to shut her up, that Jess realised it was her own voice. Her mind had gone almost completely blank with fear and she seemed to be losing control of her body. She could feel her heart skittering under her ribs, her legs and arms trembling, her bowels churning dangerously. Christ, the last thing she needed was to shit herself out here.

      Slowly, with desperate caution, to avoid disturbing any plant stems or rustling any dead leaves, she reached out her arm. They found each other’s hands and squeezed tight, like clinging to a life raft, and this was enough to help her hold it together until the firing and explosions stopped, almost as suddenly as they had begun. The Taliban fighters could slip away like smoke, only to regroup and reappear again where they were least expected. These surprise tactics, along with their paradise-blinded perseverance and a constant resupply of willing martyrs, were surprisingly effective against even the heavy arms of the allied forces.

      The rescue helicopter – the MERT – returned and landed this time, the casualties were airlifted away for treatment, and the rest of the troop dragged themselves back to the compound. At first everyone was silent in their own thoughts, taking drinks, lighting on cigarettes; and then the backchat began, as they tried to make sense of what had just happened and reassure each other about Scotty and the other casualties: ‘The lengths some will go for a jammy ticket home, the bastards.’ But beyond the banter, everyone knew it had been a very close call.

      That evening Jess tried to eat and drink but had no appetite, she felt sick and shivery as if going down with the flu. Sleep was impossible – the video loop of those moments in the field replaying over and over in her head until the compound lightened into grey dawn. She told no-one about the poppy, not even Siobhán. She’d locked the memory away ever since.

      And now … she glanced down at the bright red plastic flower on her lapel, glittering with raindrops. Remembering the terror of that day, all over again, made her feel dangerously sick and lightheaded. Forcing herself to take deep breaths – just as she had in that field – she fixed her eyes ahead, towards the ranks of veterans, councillors, scout leaders, army reps, all waiting reverently in the rain, some holding wreaths ready to lay at the memorial. Those wreaths made of hundreds of red poppies with their black centres, just like the poppy in that field. The one that got the bullet instead of her.

      Almost without warning, her stomach turned inside out and she was suddenly, violently sick onto the ground in front of her boots. No-one in the ranks around her turned a head or put out a comforting hand, all standing to attention with their eyes forward. These sorts of things – vomiting, passing out – happened on parade more often than anyone would admit: all in a normal day’s work for the Army. They’d all been drilled how not to react, how to resist the normal human impulse to help someone in need.

      Jess straightened her back, wiped her mouth with her hand and swallowed the disgusting taste of bile as best she could. She stood to attention, her face burning with humiliation, eyes swimming with tears, as the bugler flawlessly sounded the long, mournful notes of The Last Post.

       Chapter Two

      ‘It’s good, this Pinot. Another bottle?’

      They were the last customers left in their favourite Sicilian restaurant, just round the corner from Nate’s flat. The chef had joined the waiters for a game of cards at a distant table in the corner. This was supposed to have been a romantic evening to celebrate Valentine’s Day, although the date itself earlier in the week had already been marked with declarations of love on the phone, a card for Nate, a large bunch of roses for Jess.

      ‘Not for me thanks, work tomorrow. Time we were getting back,’ he said.

      ‘You’re such a wuss.’ She checked her phone. ‘It’s not yet eleven. I’ve got work tomorrow too. All I want is one more drink, is that okay?’

      He held her gaze, trying to make her back down.

      ‘And don’t say “don’t you think you’ve had enough?”, like you always do,’ she taunted, waving the empty bottle in the direction of the waiters. Nate shook his head with disapproval and she pounced, feeling the familiar hot surge of anger rising up the back of her head.

      ‘Can we just drop the morality police act? Let me be myself, for once. I’ve spent the past two years leaping to attention the moment anyone says jump, and I’m enjoying being irresponsible and silly. I’m only twenty-six, for God’s sake.’

      The waiter brought the bottle and she took it from him, defiantly pouring herself a glass and sloshing some on the tablecloth.

      ‘Cheers,’ she said, holding it up in front of Nate’s stony face. He sat back in the chair and closed his eyes, clenching and unclenching his fists helplessly beneath the tablecloth. Whatever he said now would prompt a stand up row, and he hated conflict.

      The ‘self medication’, as she liked to call it, had started around Christmas when the nightmares began to get out of control, so bad that she’d become afraid of sleeping. Curiously, the poppy field barely figured in her dreams. They were almost always a variation on the same scenario: being confronted with the raw flesh of a dismembered limb. Sometimes the limb was unattached and she found herself carrying it, trying to run on leaden legs as she searched desperately for its owner. Other times it was attached to a body and she might wake to find that she was holding her hands over her ears to block out the terrifying, visceral howls of a man in extreme agony. The worst times were when she knew the victim: it could be her brother, or Nate, or another male friend. Curiously, she never dreamed about James, or the real-life victims she had treated: Gav, Scotty, Dave … there had been so many.

      Tourniquets usually featured, stretching and breaking like cooked spaghetti when tightened, the clips or Velcro refusing to stay fixed; also dressings, which might take flight and hover beyond her reach or, absurdly, turn out to be white bread instead.

      But each variation had a constant theme: panic, the sort of extreme panic which freezes your brain and threatens to stop your heart. She would wake fighting for breath in a tangle of sheets damp with sweat, and sometimes weeping because she had failed to save the injured man.

      She tried over-the-counter sleeping pills but, although they helped her get to sleep, they had little effect in preventing the nightmares. The only thing which seemed to work was booze – whisky or vodka seemed to work best, but almost any alcohol would do. She took to taking a couple of shots before cleaning her teeth each bedtime.

      The anger thing started on the last day of their holiday.

      They’d had such a joyful, exhilarating week. Both were absolute beginners but had, in their different ways, quickly mastered the art of skiing. Although never elegant, Nate’s muscle-power helped him stay upright even on the toughest terrains. She, with her lower centre of gravity and fine-honed fitness, quickly mastered the art of carving a stylish turn. Her graceful stance regularly earned their otherwise dour instructor’s weather-beaten smile, and his call of ‘Ottimo, Jessica! Bellissimo!’ had become a catch-phrase between them, even away from the slopes.

      Elated by their success, the physical exertion, the breathtakingly beautiful mountains and the cold, bright air, they found themselves drinking a bottle of wine at lunchtime, meeting up with fellow chalet guests for several glasses of glühwein at teatime, imbibing more wine with dinner and at least one or two brandies as a nightcap. Jess slept better than she had in months – a whole week without a single nightmare.

      Taking a midnight walk on the final evening, arm in arm, the snow crunching beneath their feet and clouds of warm breath mingling in the freezing air, Nate had СКАЧАТЬ