In the early hours of Thursday morning, while the two bodies were being routinely examined and photographed, the squad had been moved to the Argyll where camp beds were set up in the bar and separated from beers and spirits by a gleaming mesh shutter. There, at a table shoved clear of the confusion of bedding, each had signed his brief written statement, to be expanded upon later if so required by the police. Special Branch had moved among them, a peculiar solitude in his bearing, from time to time answering questions about Noel’s suicide. He spoke simply and honestly of what had happened, omitting Noel’s tirade on the cynical betrayal of the dignity of man, and the rule of law.
They had slept poorly, then arose and tackled every minor flaring beyond the firebreak with useless fury. Each occupied himself in this way as if by tacit agreement until their working day ended, prematurely in the case of Ruairidh and Blue. So they blocked, for a time, any returning memory of the previous evening.
The two casualties had been driven by the doctor back to the Community Centre, arriving just as the remainder of the squad disembarked from the landrover. Ruairidh suffered only a mildly aching skull, caused by Blue’s being endlessly solicitous, he insisted. Doctor Wilson, on whom Ruairidh bestowed generous praise, had readily diagnosed this source of pain and prescribed bed rest as far removed from Blue as possible. Delivered in a grumpy tone, Ruairidh’s account entertained them as the landrover drove off. They then entered the hall and saw grotesque chalked outlines on the wooden floor. Dark patches stained its timber and blood spatter patterned the wall.
They stood silently beside the chalk marks, facial expressions mingling shock with disgust, then stepped around the vaguely human shapes that lay in crude effigy on the flooring.
Alex reached his bedding and paused to look towards the others. He saw features taut with anger. Guy was already furiously pulling off the layers of clothing that had insulated his torso. Beside him Roland was wringing his scarf into a garotte. The police should have cleaned up after them.
Ruairidh relaxed on his cot to manage the dull ache in his head. Memory immediately returned of the two men shot several metres from where he lay. The shock had stunned him. Others had run to the door to see the car driven off by Noel, while he stood frozen over the dead men on the floor. He had barely heard Alex unsuccessfully try to call emergency services on his mobile phone before shouting at Silas to start up the Enfield and take him to the Argyll hotel. It was only then that he had stepped forward to where Baby-face lay and felt for his pulse. There was none. He had not touched the photographer, whose shattered head he could plainly see.
His headache eased and he suddenly remembered Alex being protective towards Noel earlier that evening. Noel had broken into sweat when he said something about ‘the camera in the sky’. Ruairidh lay staring at the ceiling. Alex would know what had touched the inner crucible so deeply that Noel had killed his enemy, efficiently, as a soldier should. They all assumed that his night terrors had their origin in Afghanistan. Alex was sure to know, that friendship had run deep.
George was gesturing above him, Ruairidh realised, hair damp from the shower. As he sat up to reach for a towel, his headache returned.
Ruairidh was not alone in his certainty that Alex knew the source of the beast in the night. George, Blue, Guy, and Roland had come to a similar conclusion. A conviction was gathering amongst them that the beast had somehow struck. Silas had no thought for the matter, unwilling to divert himself from the indecision and guilt that continued to preoccupy him.
Their meal was delivered and an unimpressive curry was eaten in silence. Unusually, the meal over, no-one lingered at table or sank in embroidered coverings on sofas and armchairs. Instead they stretched on cots, reading, or supinely staring at the ceiling. Alex lay on his side, his back to a stack of personal effects neatly laid out on the mattress on which his friend had tossed and muttered his way through these final, distracted, nights.
Each member of the squad found solitude in the space allocated him, yet was glad of the presence of others. A collective spirit was a source from which synergy flowed. They acted as a group rather than as individuals. For a time all were contemplative, lying on their beds. Then there was a general stirring.
Alex caught the attention of Silas and for a time both sat together on one of the old sofas and talked in low tones. One by one, the others arose and crossed the hall floor to join the pair. Ruairidh hunched into the armchair next Silas. They gravitated around Alex as, unasked, he led them into the blazing heat of Lashkar Gah.
Indebted to friendship and compelled to recount what Noel had told him about the incident that was the substance of his nightmares, Alex spoke for a long time. They sat in silence around him as he relived Noel’s story.