The Long Road to Baghdad (2011) Page 48

  ‘My son?’

  ‘Is soon going to be the same size as his father if his appetite is anything to go by.’ Gutne looked into his eyes. ‘Did you find Harry?’

  ‘He is with Zabba. She sent for a doctor.’

  ‘What happened to him?’ Furja was in the doorway, her face pale in the lamplight.

  ‘He was tortured by the Turks.’

  ‘What did they do to him?’ Furja’s voice was unnaturally quiet.

  ‘It would be better if you sat down.’ Taking Furja by the arm, Mitkhal guided her to a low nursing chair in the living room.

  ‘I must go to him.’

  ‘Not until I tell you what to expect.’ He forced her into the chair and crouched at her feet. ‘He doesn’t even look like the man we knew. But that’s not all. He doesn’t know who he is. When he speaks, he only repeats the name Hasan Mahmoud.’

  Furja rose from the chair. ‘Take me to him.’ She saw him hesitate. ‘Don’t worry, Mitkhal. I won’t cry when I see him.’ Squaring her shoulders, she walked dry-eyed through the door.

  Expeditionary Force, mailroom, HQ Basra

  ‘Here’s another one for Lieutenant-Colonel Downe.’ The

  corporal pushed a crumpled letter to one side of the sorting table.

  ‘Return it to sender. His family will have heard the news by now.’

  ‘There’s no address on the outside, sergeant.’

  ‘Then use your initiative, boy. Open it. If there’s an address inside, send it back.’

  The corporal opened the letter and read the address inside. He copied it onto a plain brown government envelope. Georgiana Downe … He admired the handwriting. Firm, with feminine flourishes. He would like to meet Georgiana Downe. But then a toff like her wouldn’t want to meet a non-com like him. Feeling like a Peeping Tom, he scanned the first few lines.

  My dearest Harry

  That was better than the Hello Flip his sister began her letters with.

  I have been following the fortunes of the Expeditionary Force in the newspaper. I’m sorry for being so dense when I wrote to you earlier about sitting out the war in peace and quiet. I had no idea things were so bad in Mesopotamia. Papa and Uncle Reid were in town yesterday and I had lunch with them.

  Now Gwilym’s dead, Papa’s decided to forgive me and I haven’t the heart to tell him to go to hell. God knows he deserves it, but Gwilym wouldn’t have wanted me to turn my back on my family. They’re both worried about you and John and Charles. They spend hours poring over the casualty lists. They say they didn’t know war would mean this slaughter. That when they were in the Indian army – but I don’t want to write about when they were in the Indian army.

  I don’t believe their tales of glorious battle. I think they read them in Boys’ Own books, and now they’ve reached senility they believe they actually lived them. Damn them, and every old man who thought this war would be a lark. We’re paying for their stupid notions of chivalry with the lives of the men we can least afford to lose.

  Of course, I patted them on the head and told them you’d come through all right but I’m worried about you, Harry. So many boys have been killed out there. There’s a nurse on one of my wards, Clarissa Amey, her brother Stephen is in Mesopotamia, and she’s in the most appalling state about him. Apparently, they haven’t heard from him in months. If you see him, please tell him to get in touch with his parents.

  I know you, Harry; you’re always up to your neck in scrapes, please, please, for my sake be careful for the next couple of months. After that, I won’t need to worry. Michael and Tom will be joining you and they’ve promised to take care of you for me. No one’s supposed to know where their force is going, but Uncle Reid had a word with someone at the War Office on Tom’s behalf. Tom has been trying to get a transfer to the Indian Medical Service for months. He’s concerned about John as his letters have been a bit strange. I hope John’s all right; give him my special love the next time you see him.

  Michael’s on the same boat as Tom. He plagued his editor until he agreed to transfer him to Basra. I think they did it to get him out of their hair. I believe he volunteered just to get away from Lucy. He’s never actually told me but I’m certain there’s something seriously wrong with their marriage. After Michael heard about Ctesiphon, he wouldn’t rest until he received his ticket. I wish the army would take women doctors; if they did, I’d leave on the next boat. Please, Harry, take care of yourself until the reinforcements get there. I’m going to need you when this world returns to sanity. That’s if it ever does.

  Your loving sister, Georgiana

  ‘What are you doing, corporal?’

  ‘Nothing, sergeant.’

  ‘This nothing wouldn’t include reading other people’s mail, would it?’

  ‘No, sergeant.’

  The sergeant moved on, and the corporal pushed Georgiana’s letter into the envelope. He wrote

  Return to sender. Unable to deliver on the envelope and wished he could write more. She sounded a nice lady. But then … A glow warmed him at the thought of the news he’d be able to carry back to the barracks. Reinforcements were on their way. He’d had it official-like.

  Chapter Forty-One

  Furja’s house, Basra

  Furja sat on a chair in her bedroom and waited. Just as she’d waited through the long hours of every day and night since Mitkhal had carried Harry into the house. The cramps in her stomach were increasing in intensity and frequency. Soon, the son she’d waited so long for would be born, and his father would remain comatose; a bandaged log unable to recognise his own child. Around her, the house was silent.

  The high walls closed out the noise of Zabba’s house and the street. Her daughters were sleeping in their room, with Bantu lying alongside them. Mitkhal and Gutne had retired unusually early because she’d quarrelled with Mitkhal.

  He’d been angry with her for sitting up day and night alongside Hasan, telling her that if she insisted on carrying on in that fashion, she’d be no use to anyone, least of all her husband, coming son and daughters. But she could not help herself. She could not bring herself to turn Hasan’s care over to another, not even Mitkhal.

  Hasan moaned and she grasped his left hand, the only part of him she could caress without fear of causing him pain. The only part the Turks had not crushed, beaten, or burned. She gazed at his left eye, willing him to open it, but he settled back into his deep, unnatural sleep.

  Even if he’d opened his eye, she doubted he’d have recognised her. Early that morning, when she’d applied fresh layers of salve to the patches of skinless flesh that covered most of his body, he’d opened it, but his gaze was focused inward, into a world she could only guess at.

  She’d stopped thinking of him as Harry. The mere whisper of the name was enough to send him into frenzy. When the doctor witnessed the response, he’d taken Mitkhal to one side and warned him Hasan’s mind was seriously damaged. That no one could live through the torments he’d endured and escape with his personality intact.

  That day she told Mitkhal she intended to bury Lieutenant-Colonel Harry Downe. It wouldn’t be difficult. Mitkhal had heard in Abdul’s the British army believed Harry was dead. He would remain so.

  When – she was careful to say “when” – he recovered, he would become the man he believed himself to be, Hasan Mahmoud. They’d keep him within the house and away from the British soldiers. If he never saw them again there was no reason to suppose he’d recall his other identity.

  Mitkhal had replied she was welcome to try to persuade Harry to adopt a new identity, if he ever came around. The “if” had chilled her. It hurt to know that even Mitkhal was giving up hope.

  From that moment, she’d thought of nothing except the transformation of Harry into Hasan. She could see from the way Mitkhal behaved with Gutne and his baby that he didn’t want to return to the war.

  Both he and Hasan had done more than enough for the Ferenghis. The British could continue to fight the Turk without the assistance of either h
er husband or Mitkhal. The time for them to fight would be when the war was over. Then, the Bedouin would have to unite in dispelling the victors from their land. Until then, she intended to do all she could to ensure that they lived their lives in peace and quiet.

  Another pain came and she cried out. ‘Hasan? Wake up, I need you. And your son needs you.’ She pressed his hand over the contracting muscles in her stomach. Why wouldn’t he wake? Did he still believe himself to be in the Turkish camp, or was he reluctant to face up to the wreckage of his body? She placed her mouth close to his ear. ‘Hasan, it’s Furja. I need you. Now please, Hasan. Wake up!’

  He moved slightly, moaning as pressure was applied to his sores.

  Pouring water into a bowl, she forced it between his lips. ‘Don’t give up. Not while we still have one another.’ She flicked her fingers in the water and dabbed them on his face. ‘Hasan!’

  Another pain came. Soon it would be time to call Mitkhal. He would fetch Zabba. The old woman had brought Gutne’s son into the world with the minimum of fuss; she would do the same for her.

  Poor Mitkhal. She had thrust the responsibility for the entire household onto his broad shoulders. It was Mitkhal who lifted Hasan for her when it was time to change dressings. It was Mitkhal who propped her husband up when she forced water and broth into his mouth. Mitkhal who’d carried her sobbing, terrified daughters away from the bandaged figure after she’d forced them to kiss Hasan in the hope they would wake him.

  It was Mitkhal she turned to when she’d wanted to discuss cutting the amount of opium the doctor was feeding Hasan, and it was Mitkhal who gave her the courage to halve the dosage without the doctor’s consent. And it would be Mitkhal who made the arrangements for this baby, unless – she pushed her hair away from her face.

  The room was hot. Farik had stoked the stove high earlier that evening; he’d said frost was coming. Restless, she left the chair and walked to the window. Ice had formed on the windowpane.

  Another pain came, sharper, more urgent. There was no time left. She returned to the bed.

  ‘You are worse than the most stubborn camel, Hasan. I need you! And the children need you. You cannot leave me to face this world alone.’ Another pain came, too sharp and unexpected for her to stifle. She heard movement in the next room. Mitkhal was coming. ‘Hasan! Wake up!’

  His eyelid flickered.

  She’d been a fool. It wasn’t gentleness he needed. She slapped his hand, hard. ‘Our son is coming. Wake up, you lazy brute. Do not let me face this by myself.’

  Mitkhal knocked at the door. ‘Furja?’

  ‘Come in, Mitkhal.’

  He entered. She was breathing heavily as she stood next to the bed. Her eyes were bright with tears, but there was a smile on her face.

  ‘Here is Mitkhal, Hasan. He will fetch someone who will help bring our son into this world. Will you stay with me and hold my hand while he is born?’

  He struggled to sit up and fell back onto the pillows. ‘I’m very weak, Furja.’

  ‘It doesn’t matter, Hasan. I don’t want you to do anything. Simply be here, with me.’

  He smiled at her, a crooked smile that shifted the bandage over his right eye. Blinded by tears, Mitkhal ran out of the house to fetch Zabba.

  Chapter Forty-Two

  Furja’s house, Basra

  It was warm and peaceful in the living room. Mitkhal and Gutne were asleep. Their baby had been restless and keeping them awake at night, so when he finally slept Mitkhal and Gutne had gone to bed too.

  Bantu had fed the twins in the kitchen and was now singing them to sleep in the bedroom opposite Furja’s. Hasan was sitting, propped up in a chair, Furja half-lying, half-sitting on a pile of cushions at his feet, feeding a fair-haired baby.

  ‘That must hurt,’ Hasan murmured, watching the child suck vigorously at her breast.

  ‘No.’ She smiled. ‘It doesn’t.’ She shifted slightly. The baby was growing tired; a few more minutes and he would be asleep. ‘Are you sure you’re strong enough to sit up this long?’

  ‘I’m sure. If you can put up with this ugly face of mine.’

  ‘You’re only saying that to play on my sympathy. Your face is that of a desert brigand. I find it most attractive.’

  ‘Then I should be grateful to the Turks for remodelling my features.’

  ‘No, Hasan, you should be grateful to Allah the ever merciful and Mitkhal for bringing you back to me,’ she snapped, stemming his self-pity.

  The baby stopped sucking. His lips hung slackly around her nipple, his mouth full of milk. She pulled him gently away from her. His head lolled slightly to one side, sleepy and satisfied. She held him out to her husband. ‘You can look after Shalan while I wash.’

  ‘I don’t know what to do with babies,’ he said, terrified at the thought of holding the precious bundle.

  She curved his right arm with its bandaged stump, and laid the baby in it, leaving his left hand free to caress the child. ‘You don’t need two hands to care for a child.’

  He watched her walk into the bedroom and fill a basin with water. ‘I wish I could remember more.’

  ‘You remember the important things. Me, the twins, Mitkhal, Gutne – my father’s anger with you.’ Opening her robe, she washed her heavily veined, swollen breasts.

  ‘My parents, my tribe …’

  ‘Mitkhal told you. You are tribeless bastards. An upbringing in the gutters of Basra is best forgotten.’

  ‘The Turks didn’t think so. They wanted me to tell them something.’

  ‘They wanted you to tell them the positions of the British troops in Kut.’

  ‘Because I rode out from there?’

  ‘That’s what Mitkhal said.’

  ‘Then may all the Ferenghis writhe in the torments of hell for eternity.’

  ‘That I agree with.’ She dried herself and took the sleeping baby from his arms, settling the child in the wooden crib Farik had bought in the market. Catching hold of her husband’s hand, she led him to their bed.

  ‘The doctor said …’

  ‘The doctor knows nothing about me, Hasan, or you. I’ve had enough of being a mother; I want to be a wife again.’

  He could scarcely breathe. The bandages on his chest were tight, the room airless. He was frightened of what the Turks had done to his body, but most of all, of disappointing her. He could scarcely move, let alone make love to a woman. The slightest touch was sheer torment.

  He had a sudden flash of memory when he lay on the bed. Clear blue sky, hooves thundering over the desert, a grey horse.

  ‘I would like to return to the desert, Furja,’ he said, as she slid alongside him.

  ‘We will one day, Hasan. When Ali Mansur marries again and we can buy off his anger, my father may forgive us.’

  ‘I hope he does.’ He looked at the sleeping baby. ‘I would like him to grow up a Bedouin. In your father’s tribe.’

  ‘So would I, Hasan.’ She leant over and kissed him very gently on the mouth.

  He gazed at her and felt the stirrings of a love he hadn’t forgotten. ‘How long will it take Ali Mansur to marry another?’

  ‘As long as it will take the Ferenghis to fight this war and leave our land.’

  ‘That could take years.’

  She kissed him again, longer this time and with more passion. ‘Are you complaining?’

  ‘No, my love.’ He stroked her hair with his left hand when she unfastened his robe.

  She was careful to keep the weight of her body away from his. Only her lips and her fingers moved lightly across his damaged flesh.

  ‘No, my love, I’m not complaining,’ he whispered.

  The Long Road to Baghdad series

  By Catrin Collier

  For more information on Catrin Collier and Accent Press titles, please visit

  www.accentpress.co.uk

  Published by Accent Press Ltd – 2013

  ISBN 9781909840836

  Copyright © Catrin Collier 2013

  Al
l rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, electrostatic, magnetic tape, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the written permission of the publishers: Accent Press Ltd, Ty Cynon House, Navigation Park, Abercynon, CF45 4SN

  This is a work of fiction. Names and characters are the product of the author’s imagination and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.