Poppy Day (8 page)

She would often reread the one letter Martin had written her in reply; an innocuous three sheets, penned in haste by torchlight, using his knees as a desk. It would become a
talisman
, a thing so precious that Poppy would keep it close, fingering the pale blue airmail paper and learning each loop of script by heart.

She no longer needed to unfold the sheets and feel their feather-light weight in her palm; she could simply close her eyes and visualise each pen stroke and each smudge.

It had become increasingly difficult for Poppy to write with any originality. She found herself repeating the content of
previous
letters, always trying to think of new and different ways to tell him about her boring life.

Self-censorship meant she avoided telling him anything that would make him miss home too much, make him worry or jealous, not that Martin was the jealous type. It was more out of consideration than self-preservation.

Poppy carried with her a low-level guilt. It wasn’t always at the forefront of her mind, but was more of a hum, like distant motorway traffic; the more you strained to hear it, the louder it became. She never exactly lied to Martin, but, rather, doctored the facts to make for more palatable reading. She would neglect to mention an evening at home with the girls and a Chinese
takeaway
, as they watched the football and drank plonk. It didn’t feel fair, doing the stuff that he loved. Instead, she kept to neutral topics, particularly her nan. Pages could be filled with the
wonderful
conversations that took place at The Unpopulars and some of Dorothea’s more crackers ideas. She knew these insights would make him laugh, as well as keeping him updated. It was good for Poppy too, to be able to share her worries and thoughts.

She neglected to tell him that she’d seen his mum and dad, who had ignored her. Poppy had been perusing the fruit and veg in the supermarket when she looked up from the
shrink-wrapped
broccoli and caught his mum’s eye. She knew that they had seen her; could tell by the way his mum concentrated on looking the other way to prove that she hadn’t seen her, when it was really obvious that she had… Poppy felt
embarrassed
, what did they think? That she might want something from them? God forbid.

There was little point in sharing this with Mart, it would only have angered and possibly upset him. It wouldn’t be
pleasant
to know that they had not wanted to find out if there was any news on their son. Was he well? Alive? That sort of thing.

Poppy looked through the open door into the kitchen, where she spied the burnt fish fingers stuck to the grill pan, dumped in the sink. She slid down the door until her back was pushed against the wood. Her legs finally submitting to fatigue,
crumpled
beneath her and she started to cry. Placing her arms around her trunk in a self-soothing hug, she didn’t have to pretend or think about her prepared reaction, it was real. Fat tears ran from her eyes, clogging her mouth and nose. ‘Mart…’ she whispered through her distress, ‘Mart…’ She willed him to hear her calling to him across the sea and sand. Her heart ached with longing for her husband, her man, her best friend. ‘Where are you?’

M
ARTIN LAY IN
captivity, still tied to the bed, trying to work out how many hours had passed since he had woken safe and happy in the camp. He figured it was the same day, but without the guidance of daylight and no way of knowing how long he had been unconscious, he could only guess.

As with anyone that’s suffered trauma, it’s not only the
incident
, but the whole of that day that takes on significance. There is a temptation to analyse the surrounding events, looking for clues that might help you understand how a day can start off in such an ordinary way, yet end so unexpectedly.

On his final morning in camp, Martin had woken early and whistled his way to the shower block. The Portakabin housed a row of showers along its back wall, several sinks to the left of the central door and a long, slatted, wooden bench that ran across the middle of the room. It reminded Martin of the
changing
room in the public swimming baths he had frequented whilst at school; although here there was marginally less towel whipping and no one dared nick your clean pants. Martin stashed his body armour and helmet on the long bench and stood inside the cubicle, hoping it was a day when water was available and dreaming of the privacy, fluffy towels and
sparkling
tiles of home, where after a shower, he would join Poppy on the sofa. There, they’d drink tea and watch the news, her knees curled up against his thigh, her head on his shoulder…

Unlike some, Martin didn’t mind the routine of camp life. He’d divided his time away into chores, having calculated that when he had completed one hundred and eighty-six ablutions, he’d be heading home. As his eighty-fourth shave dawned, he reflected that there were only one hundred and two to go before he would be packing his kit, shipping out.

The day of his capture had indeed started out routinely. Wearing his towel as a scarf he pulled his chin with his left hand into a taut and unnatural angle, whilst scraping at the whiskers with the razor in his right. He knew that Poppy liked to watch him shave, finding the nature of the task intimate and sexy. At home, he would speak to her pyjama-clad reflection as it hovered over his right shoulder. Standing in the Portakabin, his eyes darted to that space in the mirror’s corner, hoping to catch a glimpse of her face. Every touch to his skin of the razor’s blade took him one step closer to Poppy.

The previous night had been relatively peaceful; one siren and subsequent attack meant he had enjoyed six consecutive hours of sleep. He was in good spirits.

Martin and Aaron stood side by side, exchanging small talk that would, with hindsight, become significant. The men tended to keep their conversation to the current or amusing; safe, gossipy topics that kept emotions in check. Aaron had only mentioned his son maybe once or twice before, yet
uncharacteristically
, he wanted to discuss him that morning.

‘I got a picture from Joel today, not really sure what it’s
supposed
to be, but it’s a bloody masterpiece. I’ll keep it safe in case he’s ever a famous artist. I mean, look at what those
Sunflowers
fetched! I can’t believe he’s nearly two already. I really miss him, Mart.’

Martin nodded, unsure of what to say or how to make it better. He didn’t know what it felt like to miss anyone other than your wife. It was especially hard for him to envisage a happy father and son relationship. He considered the love between Aaron and Joel with fascination and something close to envy.

Martin, like Poppy, had lived in E17 all his life. The Crickets’ maisonette, situated in a block adjacent to Poppy’s, was a
decorative
homage to the 1960s. The lounge boasted swirly patterned carpets, a Pepita clown print over an electric fire and a glass topped, kidney shaped bar that gathered dust, pizza flyers and out-of-date copies of the Yellow Pages. His mum, a nervous chain-smoker, had been a dinner lady at their school and his dad was… his dad was a complete bastard. Martin couldn’t imagine his dad hanging on to one of his works of art. He was one of those men that in his whole life never went
anywhere
or achieved anything, yet was able to confidently mock and correct those that had. He knew better than anyone about everything! It was quite a talent for a shithead that had only ever sat in the front room, throwing his weight around,
dispensing
wisdom from his grotty chair in front of the telly.

He was a big man, fat and slovenly, who wore remnants of his last meal on his exposed vest and whose grey stubble sat as a dark shadow, designer-like in its uniformity. He carried with him the sour odour of fried food and sex. Martin grew up knowing that his dad was mean, unable to fully explain how frightened he was of him. When he looked back, he realised that for most of his childhood he held his breath. This he did in the belief that it made him feather-light, undetectable, and Martin Cricket wanted to be invisible.

For the first decade or so of his life, Martin could not have told you the colour of his dad’s eyes, having never looked him directly in the face; his gaze always either averted or downcast. He became a quiet child; experience taught him not to offer his opinion. On the few occasions he shared a viewpoint his dad had laughed, mocking his childlike suggestions, guffawing loudly and repeating his son’s words with a feminine lilt to his booming voice, ‘Do what, you useless little poof? How would that work? You bloody idiot!’ He would then bring back his hand, sometimes to hit him, but just as often he would raise his hand quickly, then let it fall to his side. Martin would never know if this gesture was going to end in a smack or not, he would flinch and yelp just the same. This his father would find funny, in fact not just slightly funny, but absolutely HILARIOUS!

The fear of violence became so acute that Martin’s dad could move his hand a fraction too quickly and the boy would jump out of his skin. When the man did actually hit his son it was almost a relief, confirmation that Martin wasn’t mad. He would think, ‘See, Mart, you were right to be scared, he does hit you; you didn’t imagine it and it does really hurt.’

His nicotine-addicted mum did nothing to stop her husband. Martin didn’t blame her; whilst not exactly thanking her for the life he had, he understood that she had her own battles to win, her own struggle every day. Martin would hear her cry out in the night, the pitch informing that it was a cry of pain, not pleasure. He would put the pillow over his face and sob into it, trying to make it all go away. It made him feel worthless. He would think, ‘Look at you, Mart, lying under your pillow crying, not doing anything to help Mum. He’s right; you are a useless little poof.’

It was in this atmosphere of tension, dread and cigarette smoke that Martin lived; he couldn’t see an escape, exit hatch or light at the end of any tunnel. Poppy, however, proved to be all three. She liked listening to him and she didn’t laugh. He would never forget the day in school when he had opened the door as she approached the dining hall, stepping slightly ahead to get to the handle before her. He couldn’t explain why he did those things, he just knew that he wanted to do every little thing that he could to make her happy, make her life better. Before stepping through the door she looked at Martin,
wrinkling
her nose and shaking her head to move her fringe from her eyes. ‘You make me feel very safe.’

Martin thought he might burst. It was as if she had given him the moon in a box, something so wonderful, rare and
unbelievable
that he didn’t want to share it with anyone. He walked home from school as though gliding. He reasoned that if he made someone as smart and beautiful as Poppy Day feel safe, he wasn’t a useless little poof after all. He was twelve years of age.

Martin walked into the flat that same afternoon; his dad was in the usual spot, rooted to the chair and TV. Without looking up from the set, he greeted his son, ‘Oh, here she is back from school, how was netball?’

Martin stood between him and the telly. His dad flexed the beer can in his hand; the aluminium popped under the pressure. ‘Getoutothebleedinway!’ Martin didn’t flinch, didn’t move. He stared at his dad, noticing that his eyes were of the palest blue. His dad’s fingers balled into fists, twitching with temptation, ready to launch an assault, but Martin, the bigger man, stayed calm, his hands remained by his sides.

Mr Cricket was strangely silent, no clever comment or insult. He looked at his son and knew that there had been a change, enough was enough. Martin wasn’t going to take his shit any more. It was all down to loving Poppy. She made him feel like he could take on the world and win.

The next time the two were sitting on the swings, gripping rusted chains, she said, ‘You’re my best friend in the whole world, Martin.’ It was dark, but Poppy knew that he was smiling. ‘And I would be very sad if ever you moved away or couldn’t play with me any more.’

‘That’s never going to happen, Poppy. Where would I go?’

She had shrugged in response, unable to picture where he might disappear to.

‘I promise you, Poppy, that I will always be your best friend. It’s like we are joined together by invisible strings that join your heart to mine and if you need me, you just have to pull them and I’ll come to you…’

Poppy had laughed out loud, loving the idea of their
invisible
heartstrings. ‘And if you pull yours, I will come to you, Martin. That way, I’ll always know if you need me.’

He reached out a hand in the shadows until he found Poppy’s small fingers and placed them inside his own.

Martin glanced at Aaron’s foam-covered jaw and thought about what it might be like to have a little boy of your own who would draw you a picture. He and Poppy had so much to look forward to; it was all ahead of them, out there for the taking.

Breakfast, like everything else inside the camp, quickly became routine for Martin. His footfall was no longer hesitant along unfamiliar paths, it was now normal for him to tread duckboards wearing heavy armour in the middle of the desert in search of Weetabix. At first, he found life in theatre exciting; there was a particular thrill in everyone being dressed the same and looking the part. He felt like a member of the ultimate gang, exactly as he had seen in countless films and magazines. Martin felt bonded to his unit in a way that no one at home could begin to understand. The routine, rules and privation governed everything from when he and his unit used the loo to how they worshipped, and the only people that could relate to that were his comrades.

For the first couple of weeks, Martin was tense, waiting for something to happen, one ear permanently cocked for that bloody siren. The odd rocket attack kept him on his toes,
especially
in the middle of the night. Blissful dreams of Poppy would be shattered in seconds as his instinct kicked in. When his body hit the deck with his face buried in the ground, he would hold his breath, waiting to see if he was in luck or out of it.

He lived with an expectancy that wasn’t dissimilar to the feeling he had as a child on Christmas Eve. He didn’t know whether the next day all his dreams were going to come true or whether it would be a rubbish day like any other. Christmas for Martin was usually a rubbish day like any other, but that didn’t stop him being excited. There was always the smallest
possibility
that the rumours were true, that if you’d been good you would get lots of great stuff.

Martin was always a smart child, quickly learning that the whole Santa thing was a rotten lie, but for an hour or two before bedtime, the anticipation would be almost painful. He liked the possibility that there might be some magic,
somewhere
. The first few weeks of his tour were a bit like that, the rumours and the possibility of danger.

After a fortnight, however, reality sunk in. His job and his life in that place were going to be monotonous and predictable. There was nothing glamorous, thrilling or fun about being bombarded with rockets and possible injury at any hour of the day or night. It wasn’t vaguely exciting; it was in fact totally shit. He was stuck. There was no way to leave without giving a year’s notice, no pulling a sicky, no going slow, no walking out on the job. Martin also believed that the future for him and Poppy would be rosy if he could just get through this bit, get some service under his belt. Promotion would mean a house, a garden, possibly a posting somewhere hot. It would make up for all the holidays that they had never had…

Martin’s arm muscles spasmed, yanking him from his
recollections
into the present. He twisted his body, trying to get comfortable on the mattress. He saw the irony that he now longed for the monotony and fatigue of life in camp. Whatever it threw at him, it was one million per cent better than where he was now, wherever the hell that was.

There was a sudden surge in his bowels. ‘Oh no,’ he howled, louder than he had intended, ‘please, I need a bathroom! I need to move, please…’ His begging fell on indifferent ears.

Two silent guards, as yet unseen by Martin, sat either side of the door with their guns in hand. They had, only hours before, dumped a decapitated body at the gates of the base. A note with their demands was stuffed inside the mouth; the release of four hundred prisoners loyal to their cause, incarcerated across three continents, in exchange for the soldier they had in their
possession
. The British government had twenty-four hours to respond. The couriers, sitting with their feet on the bundle in the back of a car, had cared little for the twenty-one-year-old father of Joel, whose corpse they had hauled inside a rolled carpet for most of the journey. Long sausages of ash from their cigarettes had fallen onto his remains. They cared even less that Martin Cricket needed the loo.

It was another couple of hours of watching Martin lie in his own waste before his captors were convinced he wasn’t much of a threat. An unseen hand cut the plastic tie around his neck, easing the cloth over his head. The skin of his chin was nicked by the knife that freed him. Martin could feel the warm trickle of blood running down, but with his hands tied, there was very little that he could do about it.