The Book of Daniel (10 page)

And it wasn’t just limited to our dysfunctional little family unit either. I found it difficult to form any kind of meaningful relationship with my peers, too, not just because of their insensitivity to the joyless circumstances of my forced incarceration with ‘that dirty old man and his religious tart’, but also because I had absolutely nothing in common with any of them. I found myself drifting further and further off the rails as I seized upon any opportunity to escape from what my life had become, until one day, not long after my sixteenth birthday, I stumbled upon the perfect solution.

I had been hanging around town, idly looking for trouble as usual, when an advert in the window of the local Army recruitment office suddenly caught my eye. I had never paid the office any attention before, but the words on the advert—‘brothers in arms’—together with the photo of a team of soldiers rushing forwards in a single line, struck a powerful chord in me. What if the implied promises of this poster were true? What if the Army could provide me with the friendships and support that I had been missing for so long, or maybe even eventually come to replace the family life I had lost? My head was instantly filled with wistful images of camaraderie, adventure and freedom, and before I knew what I was doing, I had pushed my way into the office and picked up a recruitment pack.

When I emerged back into the sunlight, there was no hint of regret at the impetuousness of it all. It felt
right
. If I had still retained any degree of faith, I might even have thought that my actions were divinely inspired, and that God had reached out to touch my life once again, this time setting it firmly back on track. But my former beliefs had died along with my mother and were long since buried, and both the young man walking back to his father’s house and the dead man observing him laughed at the idea. I was certain this wasn’t God’s doing—just a long overdue stroke of good luck.

My father probably felt differently about God’s hand in all this, of course. To him, my request to leave home and join the Army must have seemed like the answer to years of prayers. Finally, the nightmare of having to share a house with his uncontrollable son was coming to an end, and he did a very poor job of hiding the relief that swept across his face when I told him of my plan. But that was okay with me; I had made no secret of my reasons for wanting to join the Army, either. It stuck in my throat to have to ask my father for his permission to pursue my sudden dream, but I knew that once I’d swallowed this bitter pill, I would be free of his hateful presence once and for all. Sure enough, he could scarcely contain his eagerness to sign the paperwork, and it seemed to me that I was in uniform almost before the ink had dried. I never looked back.

You’ve probably seen enough cheap dramas about training in the Army to know roughly what to expect; even the least accurate of them holds a certain degree of truth about life as a new recruit. Early-morning runs and late-night exercises quickly became the routine, and there was little chance to get acquainted with the bunks in the barracks that I shared with the members of my new family. I had made the mistake of thinking that I was pretty fit before basic training commenced, but the throbbing aches I felt by the end of the first proper week mocked such a supposition ruthlessly. But it was a good feeling, a catharsis for my soul to finally have an outlet for all my frustrations at life, and to have a tangible goal to head towards, with visible daily progress.

The days of crawling through the mud and being incessantly yelled at did a great job of not only making the recruits tough, but of forging bonds of brotherhood between us, just as I had dreamed. It was impossible not to make friends under those circumstances, but there was one guy in particular whom I really hit it off with: Lewis Sinclair. His upbringing couldn’t have been any more different from my own. He came from a large, rich family, with a long tradition of service in the officers’ corps, going right back to the Crimean War. In the face of such heritage, it would have been almost impossible for Lewis not to have felt a familial stirring in his blood; but unlike his ancestors, he had opted to join the regulars rather than go straight for officer training. His parents were distinctly cold towards their son’s plans to work his way up the ranks, but he was determined to prove to both them and himself what he was made of… and it was that determination that formed the basis of the bond between the two of us; I, too, had resolved that I was going to give my new family nothing less than one hundred per cent, and the years of hardship I’d had to endure provided me with a huge reserve of energy that I could draw upon.

As Lewis and I both strove to be the best, a friendly rivalry quickly developed between us. By the end of the first two months’ training, it was clear that we were in a league of our own compared to the other recruits, and if I sound proud about that, it’s because I was. For the first time since my mother and father had left me—each in their own way—I was happy. And for the first time in my entire life, I had found something at which I excelled. Not only was that a joy in itself, but there was no unpleasant jealousy about it amongst the other recruits either, just plenty of good-natured leg-pulling. They were a good bunch of lads, and as time passed in their company, and Lewis and I grew stronger, I slowly began to forget about my former life, impossible as that may sound.

By the time our training finished, I felt like a completely different person. Hell, I
was
a completely different person. I was a little apprehensive about having to part company with the people I had gotten to know over the course of our trials and tribulations at the hands of the drill instructors, but I needn’t have worried. Not only were the lads in my new unit just as easy to get on with as my other buddies, but also, to my great delight, I found that Lewis had been assigned there, too. We quickly settled in, and before too long, the familiar joy of life with my army brothers was further enhanced by the adventure and excitement that came from active service.

If given a chance to savour those next few years again properly, I’d have gladly relived many experiences from that part of my life, but the unseen projectionist mercilessly chose to fast-forward through this period, and I could only catch occasional glimpses. One moment I was out on the town on my first weekend’s leave, three o’clock in the morning, my friends and I trying our best to find our way back to the barracks without running into the gang of local toughs who had followed us out of the bar; the next instant, I was in the midst of a firefight somewhere in Afghanistan, half-dragging, half-carrying Lewis back towards the medic as blood spouted from his leg. Before I knew what was happening, the scene changed again, and Lewis was suddenly crouched across from me. The sound of gunfire had been replaced with the cacophonous silence of a damp jungle. The next few hours were spent crouching there in absolute stillness, soaked to the skin with rain and sweat, waiting for an enemy convoy to turn up. It never did.

The incidents whirled and blurred together, and I could feel and see the changes that were wrought in my mind as I grew and matured. I continued to put the past firmly behind me and focussed fully on the present. As for the future, I knew that that was already in the hands of an apparently uncaring God, and didn’t waste any time wringing my own hands over what may or may not happen there. Armed with both my rifle and this liberating attitude towards life, I continued to embrace all that the Army had to offer. The rivalry between Lewis and me remained as strong as ever, and as we served together and continued to try to outdo each other, we gained the attention of those further up the chain of command. Before my career in the service came to its sudden end, we had both been decorated and promoted several times. For eleven glorious years, I continued to treat every day like it was a video game in which I was trying to get the high score. And then, one day, the hand of God intervened once again, balled up into a fist, and came smashing down on my life.

On the day in question, Lewis and I, together with the troops under our command, had been sent on patrol somewhere in Afghanistan. The place didn’t even have a name, it was so remote, not that it matters much; after a while, one rocky mountainside looks much the same as another. Despite the monotony of the landscape, we were still experienced enough not to let our collective guard down, but even with our senses on high alert, we didn’t spot the trap until we had walked right into it. One moment, the mournful silence of the mountains was disrupted only by the usual hushed banter that made such patrols bearable; the next, there was a huge explosion, and the two guys who had been walking along next to me suddenly disintegrated in a shower of bloody scraps.

The force of the blast knocked those of us nearby to the ground, but before shock had a chance to set in, our military instincts had already taken over, and we scrambled for what little cover we could find. Those who hadn’t been hit by the explosion also sought cover, raising up their rifles to scan the mountainside, ready to defend the wounded. The echoes of the explosion slowly faded with no sign of further hostilities, and as the silence stretched out, we exchanged a flurry of fierce whispers. Was there actually anybody out there attacking us, or had we just been unfortunate enough to set off an old landmine? We soon got our answer; at the same moment I peered out over the top of the sun-baked rock I was sheltering behind, a lone shot rang out. A split second later, there was a ripping sensation in my left cheek, and then a red wave of pain engulfed me. Agonised, I half-ducked, half-collapsed back behind my cover, only dimly aware of other shots pinging off of the rocks around us and the answering clatter of our own weapons. I tried to put pressure on the wound, but all the strength had gone out of my arms, and besides that, it hurt like buggery to do so. I began to pass out, and the pain started to recede… only to suddenly roar back to life again as someone clamped a field dressing down on the ruins of my face. I tried to yell out at whoever it was to stop, but all that came out was a half-strangled gurgling sound.

“If you’re trying to say thank you, then you’re welcome,” said a familiar voice. The name of the owner took a few seconds to swim up through the pain. Lewis. “But you’re best off keeping your mouth shut, to be honest, or at least what’s left of it.” There was a slight pause as he jabbed a dose of morphine into my jaw. A blissful numbness descended almost immediately. “Someone up there must like you, Dan.” It was a good thing I was in no fit condition to respond to that allegation. “I think it’s just a flesh wound, but you’re going to have a cracking scar there, that’s for sure. The ladies will go wild for it, or at least the ones that aren’t more interested in me, as your noble rescuer. Come on, let’s see about getting you out of here.” He started to lift me to my feet, turning to yell over his shoulder as he did so. “What’s the latest on that backup, Henderson?”

“They’re scrambling the choppers now, Captain. ETA fifteen minutes.”

“Okay then. While we’re waiting, why don’t we see if we can teach these fuckers a bit of a lesson? Bailey, take Stokes and Jonesy and try to move up—”

He never got to finish issuing the order. Another bullet, maybe even from the same sniper that had tagged me only a few moments earlier, suddenly ripped through his throat, and he collapsed on top of me in a shower of blood. The last thing I was aware of before I finally passed out was the confused shouting of the rest of my comrades as they tried to fight back against their unseen foe.

Chapter 8

E
xperiencing unconsciousness through the senses of a conscious person is a strange feeling, make no mistake. It’s even more unusual if you’re dead as well as conscious, but crazy as it might sound, I was beginning to get used to the curious nature of my journey through the afterlife. Perhaps ‘beginning’ is the wrong word to use; after all, I had so far already lived again through fourteen years of my life, but at the same time, it didn’t feel like fourteen years had passed. The pain of what had happened to Jo at Sam’s hands was still just as keen as it had been at the instant that I died, and although living through the other unpleasant incidents of my life was distressing, there was a soft layer of abstraction which took the edge off. Maybe that’s because I already knew how those things were going to turn out. But with Jo’s fate, I didn’t; and the anxiety—which had been kept in check thus far by watching reruns of
The Adventures of Daniel Stein
—flourished like a poisonous weed now that I was forced to sit through the emptiness of my unconsciousness. Whoever was in charge of controlling what I re-experienced had chosen, for some reason, not to speed through this part of my life. Thanks very much.

This suspension in limbo was made all the more intolerable by the fact that I had no idea how much longer I would have to endure it. I remembered well enough that I had been unconscious for a couple of days, but it was impossible to keep track of time in the blackness. The anxiety I felt about Jo having been shot stole the focus of any concentration I tried to maintain, and I soon gave up. I shouted out into the darkness, or at least I thought I did; either way, nothing responded to my cries, and I eventually began to wonder if the lights would ever come back on again. Just because the second journey through my life hadn’t finished yet, that was no guarantee that the show would ever resume. Maybe this was it. Maybe death meant being trapped in this darkness for all eternity. Maybe this was Hell.

Just as I was about to give up hope, a scene slowly faded into focus. My senses—or those of my old body, I should say—gradually re-awakened to their surroundings, greedily fixing onto anything they could detect. The first was the faint, clean smell of disinfectant, rapidly followed by the gentle feeling of cotton against my skin. Some of the other things that followed were less welcome—the deep throbbing in my cheek, for example—but the bright light of the sun streaming across my face felt so good after the endless blackness that I didn’t care.