Bombshell - Jane Harvey-Berrick Read online

When we hit the main road, Clay hailed a Black Cab, leaving the door open for me as he clambered in. The driver didn’t look too happy about having me as a passenger, too, but Clay didn’t give a shit, just throwing a hard stare until the man turned back to his steering wheel.

  Hesitating, I held onto the door, out of breath and hurting, eyeing the shoebox on the seat next to Clay.

  “Where are you going?”

  “Do you care?”

  I licked my cracked lips, then climbed in.

  Feeling like shit, I tried to touch the box, but Clay moved it nearer towards him, a warning in his expression. So I slumped against the vinyl seat, closing my eyes. Clay didn’t speak either, and I was nearly asleep by the time we arrived outside a large, budget hotel.

  Clay paid the driver as I stood looking warily at the glass and concrete exterior. I didn’t belong here with decent people. But Clay hustled me inside, stepping quickly past the frowning receptionist and into the lift.

  Swiping his key card, we rose to the twelfth floor and Clay marched me along the corridor, opening the door to a small single room.

  He tossed my kitbag on the bed, then carefully placed my shoebox next to it. I touched it quickly, avoiding Clay’s eyes. Touching it helped.

  “Get cleaned up,” he said, then closed the door.

  I sank down on the bed, too exhausted to hold onto my anger. I had two choices: pack up my shit and leave right now, knowing that Clay wouldn’t come after me again. Or, I could stay.

  I wanted to leave. The weight of Clay’s hope was too heavy, his expectations too unmanageable, but I was tired of my own thoughts. Just so damn tired. And the bed was soft, the room clean and bright.

  Then I noticed that there were two plastic carrier bags on the bed. I opened one gingerly and saw a pair of men’s jeans, two shirts and several t-shirts. The other bag contained socks and underwear, a pack of disposable razors, other toiletries and a toothbrush.

  I ran my tongue over my teeth, cringing at the furry gunkiness, and wondering how bad I smelled. I’d grown immune to it a long time ago, but something about the brightness of this hotel shamed me.

  Pulling off my boots, I stepped into the tiny bathroom. Weakening further, I turned on the shower, marvelling at the hot water that came pouring out.

  Making the decision to stay wasn’t too hard after that. Bought for the price of a hot shower—I was a cheap date.

  I stripped off all my clothes and stood under the water, and if tears mingled with that steady stream, no one would ever know.

  When I finally climbed out, I cringed at the ring of grey scum that had settled at the bottom. Then with renewed energy, I filled the tub with water and poured in a healthy amount of shampoo, dumping all my dirty clothes and those from my kitbag in it. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d done any laundry.

  Or the last time I’d cared.

  Wiping the steam from the mirror, I shaved off the bushy beard, then ran the razor over my scalp.

  I looked gaunt, and even through the haze of steam, I saw the emptiness in my eyes. My body was too thin, and I could see my ribs well enough to count them. But from beneath the grime and hopelessness, I began to recognize myself.

  I brushed my teeth four times, surprised to find pleasure in being clean.

  When I turned to see how the laundry was doing, the bathwater was grey with accumulated filth. I scrubbed the clothes hard, and it took three lots of rinsing before the water ran clean. It was a huge effort to hang the dripping clothes over the shower rail, and by then I was completely knackered and collapsed onto the bathroom floor, out of breath and sweating alcohol.

  My hands were shaking, too. This was the longest I’d been without a drink in months. Acknowledging that desperate craving ramped the need higher. I drank some tap water, but threw it up almost immediately.

  My stomach hurt and my head felt like a road gang were drilling through it.

  But Clay had thought of that, too, and I found a box of dry crackers and a packet of Ibuprofen in the goodies on my bed.

  I swallowed four pills and managed to eat some crackers, as well.

  I lay down on top of the bed, staring up at the ceiling that swirled and spun.

  Going cold turkey was going to suck donkey balls.

  Funny, it never occurred to me to go and find a drink.

  If Clay thought I was worth saving, maybe I wasn’t a lost cause. The question was: did I want to be saved?

  IT TOOK THREE days for the alcohol to be purged from my body. Three days of shits, shakes and sweats, itching skin, racing heart and hallucinations that scared the crap out of me. I dreamed that I was back in our cabin in the woods, breathing in the scent of pine trees and our sweat in the humid summer. Those dreams were good until the ending, always the same ending, her blood on my hands and me screaming until I puked.

  Clay came and went, bringing food that was left untouched, more Ibuprofen for the blistering headaches that made me think my brain was melting.

  But on the fourth day, I woke up with a little more clarity, a trace more humanity. My head ached with a dull throb, but I was definitely feeling like my old self, which was not necessarily a good thing. Clarity brought back painful memories, and without the numbness to cope, I was a confused and anxious mess.

  I couldn’t explain why I kept going, kept trying to detox and get clean. I didn’t understand my own motivation. Maybe because Clay wanted this; maybe because Zada was waiting to see me, and I knew I couldn’t have let her see me as I was.

  The hotel door opened and Clay walked in, a huge smile on his face.

  “It walks, it talks, it’s nearly human!”

  “Fuck off,” I grumbled without much heat.

  “You’re looking a whole lot better, brother. Think you can face some breakfast?”

  I gave him a wry look.

  “Not a full English, but maybe some dry toast and coffee.”

  He nodded.

  “And Zada? Are you ready to see her?”

  I sucked in a long breath, my jaw clamping.

  “I want to see her,” I said slowly. “But I’m dreading it, too. No offence.”

  He sighed.

  “None taken. I get it. But she really wants to see you. You’re important to her. She wants to feel this connection with you—for Amira’s sake.”

  Searing pain throbbed inside my chest as Clay said her name. Grief and guilt, and the endless emptiness of knowing that she was dead—that I hadn’t stopped her, hadn’t saved her.

  Clay rested his hand on my shoulder.

  “Is it so bad that you can’t even bear to hear her name?”

  “It’s just been a while,” I murmured.

  He hesitated, his lips pressed together.

  “Do you want to talk about it?”

  I shook my head, swallowing hard.

  “James, brother … she cared about you, you know that, right? She wouldn’t want this for you.”

  “I’ll be fine. I just … I’ll be fine.”

  He let me live with the lie and didn’t comment further.

  I showered and shaved as quickly as I could, given that my hands still shook slightly, and wore the new jeans and one of the shirts that Clay had bought for me. The only footwear was my old Army boots, but I cleaned them up as best I could and gave them a spit polish.

  Clay laughed.

  “Man, I haven’t done that since Boot Camp. My old Drill Sergeant could spot a speck of dust from a thousand paces. He was a mean son of a gun.”

  I glanced up, amused.

  “ ‘Son of a gun’? Harsh language, Clay.”

  He laughed.

  “Yep, I’m trying to swear off cussing along with drink. Living clean these days, buddy. You should try it.”

  There was a long pause and then I nodded.

  “Maybe I will.”

  He held out his hand, pulling me up from the bed and into a tight hug.

  “I’ve missed you, James. Promise you won’t disappear on us again.”


  I tried to say something funny or stupid—tell him he was a damn pussy—but I couldn’t do it. Sincerity gave his words power, and I felt them.

  “I can’t promise,” I said, at last. “But I will try.”

  “Good enough for now,” he said with a faint smile.

  Then for the first time in four days, I left the hotel room.

  Zada was waiting for us at a breakfast table. She looked exactly the same except she was wearing glasses while reading a newspaper.

  And God, she looked so much like her sister, so much like Amira. The same beautiful dark eyes, the same caramel skin, the same slender hands. But it was the sight of her hijab that stopped me in my tracks.

  It was the same.

  It was the same colours, the same pattern, the same as the square of silk that I kept folded up in my shoebox.

  I froze, mid-step.

  “Ah, man,” Clay said quietly. “I should have thought of that.”

  Zada’s welcoming smile dropped and her hands flew to her headscarf.

  “This? Oh James, I’m so sorry! I should have thought—my mother gave us one each. I wear it all the time to feel close to Amira, but I didn’t think…”

  My heart jolted painfully, but I bullied a weak smile onto my face.

  “It’s okay, it’s fine … it’s good to see you, Zada.” I was lying. It hurt like hell. “And, um, congratulations. On the wedding.”

  Her eyes darted nervously to Clay, and he held her hand.

  “Thank you,” she whispered.

  After the most awkward greeting ever, we sat down and even Clay seemed lost for words.

  I could have kissed the waitress when she arrived with the menus.

  Clay and Amira both ordered the full vegetarian breakfast.

  “Only toast, please, and coffee.”

  The waitress left with our order and we all sat looking at each other.

  Zada’s smile twisted.

  “Did you know that Amira tried out to be a cheerleader once?”

  I shook my head. There were so many things I didn’t know.

  Zada gave a hollow laugh.

  “Dear Allah, what a disaster! She was such a klutz, you know? She knocked over a pyramid of six cheerleaders when her cartwheel went wonky. Complete high school fail. She never lived it down.”

  Her words caused a sharp stab of pain in my chest as I remembered Amira tripping in her burqa, and I’d picked her up, arranging her small body against mine. The pain of that memory was intense and unconsciously I rubbed the tattoo over my heart, my private memorial to her.

  I looked up to see Clay and Zada watching me with concerned eyes.

  “Maybe I shouldn’t have said anything…” Zada began, her voice dropping to a whisper.

  “No,” I disagreed at once. “Tell me everything. I want to know.”

  And so she did—the good things, the sad things, the funny things—all those small moments that make up a life. All the moments that I hadn’t been there for.

  The pain of loss ripped me apart again. It should have been Amira telling me her high school stories, Amira making me laugh over her awkward attempt to be a cheerleader, but we never had the chance.

  We never had the time.

  And now, we never would.

  It occurred to me that I’d never known Zada’s Amira, the one who’d laughed openly. It hurt to think that I’d never known her light-hearted or free of the sadness that weighed her down. Our relationship had been forged in doubt and hardened in fire. Had we ever had a chance?

  “She loved working in the ER,” said Zada, her voice stronger now. “She loved the challenge, the adrenaline of never knowing what was going to happen, the rush.”

  She looked at me directly.

  “That’s something you both have … had … in common. Maybe that’s why she … you know … volunteered in the first place. Maybe that’s why she went to Syria.” Her tone softened with uncertainty, questions in her voice. “Maybe she was addicted … to the intensity.”

  Was that true? Was that what we’d seen in each other?

  We sat in silence, the coffee cooling in front of me.

  It was Zada who spoke first. There was no preamble—she just dived in, saying what she’d clearly been waiting to say.

  “I want you to take this job with Clay. I want you to keep him safe.”

  “Zada…” Clay began. “Let the man drink his coffee first.”

  “I’m sorry,” she said, looking at me then back at him. “But it’s been on my mind for weeks. You say James is the best, then no one else will do. I can’t lose you, too, Clay. I love you.”

  His expression softened as he gazed at his wife, and I had to look away. Seeing their love so obvious, so easy, it ripped me open. I even glanced down at my chest, half-expecting to see blood oozing through my shirt.

  But no, my worst wounds were on the inside.

  Zada’s words soaked through me and I found myself speaking firmly.

  “I’ll do it,” I said. “I’ll go with Clay. I’ll keep him safe—or die trying.”

  Clay laughed uneasily.

  “Hopefully, it won’t come to that.”

  “Thank you,” said Zada earnestly.

  Then she leaned across the table and squeezed my hand. I nodded uncomfortably and slid my hand under the table.

  There was a long, tension-filled pause. I swallowed and cleared my throat.

  “So, what’s the plan?”

  Clay’s expression cleared, and Zada leaned back in her seat.

  “What do you know about Nagorno Karabakh?”

  I searched through my memories but came up blank.

  “Georgia?” I guessed. “Ukraine?”

  It definitely sounded like somewhere in the former Soviet bloc.

  “Close,” replied Clay. “It’s a disputed territory on the western side of Azerbaijan, mostly mountainous or forested areas: Russia to the north, Iran to the South. They’ve had nearly three decades of fighting since even before independence from the Soviet Union in 1991. The territory has been treated like a bone between a pack of dogs, with soldiers from Armenia, Azerbaijan, Georgia and Chechnya all joining in. Throw in some Kurd mercenaries and Mujahideen, and well, you can imagine.”

  “Jesus.” I glanced at Zada. “Um, sorry.”

  “Yeah, I know,” said Clay, ignoring my verbal stumble. “The Halo Trust has been working there on and off since 2000 de-mining tens of thousands of hectares, but Nagorno still has one of the highest per capita incidences of landmine and unexploded ordnance accidents in the world. James, a quarter of the victims are children.”

  His lips thinned as he quoted that statistic, and Zada was visibly upset.

  I held back a sigh.

  Clay was a good guy, a great guy, but he was also an idealist. And how he managed that after 11 years in the U.S. Marines, I’d never know. He thought he’d be flying out there to make the world a safer place, and maybe he would, but I knew ex-ATOs who had taken these non-governmental organisation jobs and found out that they were under-resourced with a fairly hazardous approach to health and safety. Hopefully, not this one.

  Clay needed me more than he knew. And I didn’t have anything better to do with my life.

  I didn’t have anything at all.

  “When do we leave?”

  Two months later…

  Arabella

  I LEANED AGAINST the police sergeant’s desk, my head spinning. God, I was drunk. I’d lost count of the glasses of champagne I’d knocked back.

  “Name?”

  “What?”

  “What’s your name, luv?”

  “It’s Harry,” smirked my best friend Alastair, his eyes glassy as he lolled in the uncomfortable plastic seat next to me.

  “It’s not really Harry” I said, giving a confidential smile. “He’s just being silly.”

  The policeman sighed, looking bored.

  “Name?”

  “Arabella Forsythe,” I said, although it probably sounded more like ‘Ar
’bell Forzuth.’

  I was smashed, totally bladdered. And there was no way I could manage my full name.

  “The Right Honourable Lady Arabella Elizabeth Roecaster Forsythe,” grinned Alastair, winking at me.

  “Ah, yes. I always forget that bit,” I smiled. “Such a mouthful.”

  Trust Alastair. He never could keep a secret.

  The policeman rubbed his cheek tiredly.

  “Welcome to Paddington nick, your ladyship. Empty the contents of your pockets into this.”

  And he slapped a plastic tray in front of me.

  I sighed.

  Oh well. At least he wouldn’t find any coke on me because the last little baggie had disappeared up my nose several hours ago.

  It wasn’t the first time I’d been arrested. But it was such a bore waking up with a hangover in a police cell.

  I shut my eyes at the thought of facing my father when he came to post bail in the morning. Not that I seriously expected him to come in person. He’d send one of his minions.

  I giggled at the thought of a small yellow cartoon character turning up with my father’s credit card. Giggling turned to snorting, and Alastair gave me a disgusted look when I belched loudly.

  Still, an overnight stay courtesy of London’s Metropolitan Police was preferable to dealing with my father. Infinitely preferable.

  I SLEPT SURPRISINGLY well on the thin, lumpy, suspiciously-stained mattress. Although it was probably more like passing out than actual rest with an REM element. But waking up was just as ghastly as I’d expected. My head throbbed and my tongue tasted like the droppings from a parrot’s cage. I didn’t have a mirror, but if I did, I knew from experience that my makeup would be smeared, giving me a look that rivalled a Hackney hooker. My hair was flattened on one side and hanging limply, full of tangles on the other. I tried to comb it with my fingers, but the knots pulled at my scalp, sending a searing pain through my dehydrated body.

  Thank God there was no mirror—I’d already suffered the indignity of peeing in the disgusting seatless lavatory.

  My feet ached, and I realized that I’d worn my five-inch Jimmy Choos all night. I eased out of them with a wince, then sighed as my poor, swollen toes met the cool concrete floor. I wiggled them in pleasure. It really is the small things in life that count. I should know, because most people think I’m filthy rich.