Aftermath

If there’s one thing that the large military hospital found at the heart of Camp Bastion is missing, it’s a half decent waiting room. For those unfortunate enough to find themselves waiting around for an update on a fallen soldier, an injured insurgent or, rarely, wounded civilians, there are only two options, and neither are particularly comfortable. The first option, and most popular choice, is the small room that had once been used to store medical supplies and an old ultrasound machine. It now houses three hard, plastic chairs that remind Private Hughes of school, and a singular large poster explaining both the importance and benefits of keeping one’s rifle cleaned and maintained.

The other alternative, the least popular, is the long, metal bench that’s been bolted to the wall near the main entrance to the large building. Though the entrance hall is generously spacious and far less claustrophobic than the has-been cupboard, the positioning of the bench is deplorable; the occupants are seated near enough to the sliding glass doors to feel the stagnant, thick heat oozing through them but too far from the overhead air conditioning unit to feel the benefits of the icy cool breeze blowing through the vents.

So, even though she dislikes small, cramped spaces, it had been no surprise when she’d followed the Major into the privacy of the chilled, compact room when he’d arrived at the hospital shortly after herself and Captain Bell, with a scowl on his face and a list of seemingly endless questions on the tip of his tongue for both her and her Captain to answer as if they were personally responsible for the injured child’s fate.

She lets her Captain do most of the talking, only speaking up when the Major looks to her to corroborate her Captain’s story or when he asks her a question directly. It takes almost half an hour before the Major nods and tells them that they need to head over to the debriefing unit to file a mission report before they turn in for the night.

Their section’s Corporal makes a surprise appearance after an hour or so has passed, and the Captain discreetly leads him outside of the waiting room, leaving Private Hughes alone. They stand just outside the room, and she can see her Captain’s straight back, and hear just enough through the open door to know what they’re saying, but nothing can hold her attention, penetrate her numb mind.

She feels isolated, alone; even as the Captain walks back into the room, familiar and confident, and takes the seat next to her, their knees knocking together. She’s never been the type to be victimised, or bullied, or singled out by a group of people that want nothing other than to inflict harm on her. Even in school she’d always been better at throwing the first punch rather than laying down and letting people walk all over her. But this is different; this is murderous. This is a group of terrorists that are literally out for her blood – their blood – and she feels like she’s been marked for death.

Even the weight of her rifle offers little comfort.

She leans forward, her elbows resting on her thighs, and she buries her face in her hands, pressing fingers into her closed eyes as she tries to push the images of a broken child from the forefront of her mind. She can smell metal, copper; a poignant scent that even the medical grade latex gloves from her medic pack can’t protect her from.

The innocent life she’d fought so hard to save won’t be easily washed away; it’ll take days of wear to rub the guilt and trauma from her skin.

She swallows audibly, lifting her head up to inspect her cupped hands, as if she expects to see the blood that isn’t there, staining the crevices of her palms, drying in the gaps between her fingers.

She realises that she’s shaking.

*

The doctor that steps into the room with a stoic manner and a solemn brow is young, perhaps he only has a few years on her, and when he notifies them of the child’s death, it’s almost cold, too clinical. His face is void of emotions, though there’s a brief softness in his eyes as he talks over her to the Captain. Usually, the fire in her soul would ignite at the apparent arrogance, but there is no spark within, because how it’s said, who it’s said to, is insignificant. The fact of the matter is that an innocent civilian, a child, has lost his life.

Lost his life for her.

The reality lands like a blow to her gut, stealing the air from her lungs, and she collapses a little.

It’s not like death is new to her; when she was only seven, she’d accidentally stumbled across a seemingly unconscious drunk on the steps leading up to her parents’ flat – not a completely unusual occurrence in the centre of London – so she didn’t suspect anything to be wrong until the police turned up on their doorstep an hour or so later, armed with statement pads and endless questions.

And then there was the group of young civilians she’d recently had the unfortunate task of declaring deceased after the Taliban had opened fire on the school and the children in the playground, just because girls were attending and it was against their archaic way of thinking. The smell of stale blood and salty sweat still lingers in her memories and the touch of their cold skin baking under the strong rays of the midday sun taints the depths of her mind.

But as harrowing as they were, this is different; she wasn’t responsible for any of those – the people or their circumstances. She’d befriended this victim, and it was their friendship that ultimately cost him his life.

It all begins to press in on her; the guilt, the grief, the liability – and she suddenly begins to feel claustrophobic in the small room with the straight-faced doctor and the straight-talking Captain.

Without waiting for a dismissal, she slips past the doctor and through the open door, turns to her right and takes off, almost at a jog, heading straight for the set of fire doors at the end of the corridor. Her body slams into the fire-resistant wood, the seal ripping apart as her heart hammers, adrenaline tainting her blood as it courses through her system, whooshing noisily in her ears. She’s oblivious to her pursuer until he reaches out and gently catches her by the arm, and she spins around to face him.

Her eyes scan her Captain’s face, and his brows are pulling together, eyes narrowing almost suspiciously as his oceanic orbs flick over her.

“Hey,” he says, and although the long corridor seems to be deserted, he keeps his voice low, tone soft. “Are you okay?”

She swallows, and she can feel her whole body shaking hard enough that she’s sure she’s vibrating and that he can feel it through his grip on her upper arm.

“I’m fine,” she says anyway, because she just needs to get out, to get some fresh air into her lungs, to wash her hands, her face, her body.

“Hughes.” Her name leaves his lips on a breath, almost as if he’s willing her to lay herself bare to him, to show herself as weak and drowning. This was her first tour, her first war, and whilst she’d proved herself as their medic time and time again, she still felt the weight of needing the approval of the other soldiers she walked amongst.

“Honestly, I’m okay,” she reiterates as she lifts her hands up to cup the side of her neck, where heat and sweat collects, but the copper scent is there again, lingering, haunting her, and her voice breaks a little. She drops her hands quickly, as if her fingers are filled with lead, and pulled her gaze from his so he can’t see the raw truth in her eyes. A few seconds of heavy silence pass between them, then his grip is loosening on her arm, hand trailing down to her wrist, and he’s walking away, pulling her along with him. She’s confused for a brief moment, until he opens a door and pushes her inside.

It's a small room with one sink and a mirror, a urinal and a toilet stall. There’s a young Private mopping the floor, whistling a tune she doesn’t recognise, until he looks up and spots her and the Captain standing there.

“Give us the room,” the Captain orders, and the Private nods without hesitation as he props the mop in the bucket and wheels it out of the bathroom in silence. The room smells of urine and beach, and the AC unit on the ceiling rattles as it vibrates, and everything just feels small and insignificant.

The Captain stays silents as he tugs on her wrist again, guiding her over to the sink unit, and he stands behind her, leaning to the left so he can turn on the tap. He dips his fingers into the streaming water, testing the temperature, and she watches silently as he lifts both her hands, seemingly small in his, over the lip of the basin and into the hot stream.

He rubs at her skin gently, almost massaging, working away at her as if he can see the blood that she can smell.

Suddenly, everything drains from her body, leaving a trail of fatigue and sorrow, a hollowing, in its wake. A lump forms at the back of her throat as her eyes stay fixed on her Captain’s fingers working across her palms, and they burn, begin to mist, as his breath brushes over her ear and across her cheek.

His hips press into her as he leans them both over the sink, and he adds soap from the unit that’s fixed to the tiled wall, implicitly reticent as his hands slide over the backs of her hands, fingers slipping between hers, hands briefly interlocking, and then the warmth of the water runs over them, rinsing their skin as the pads of his fingers make work of her cuticles.

She feels him washing away the guilt, the anguish the pain and self-doubt.

She’s starting to feel clean.

She lets her body relax a little, using the basin to prop her tired body up as she turns to face him, eyes watching as he turns off the tap and grabs for the green paper towels stacked on top of the empty dispenser. She keeps her gaze fixed to their hands, watching him dry her, keeping her eyes from meeting his, even after he tosses the screwed-up paper towels into the bin beneath the sink.

He stands before her then, his arms folded over his chest, and he feels encompassing as he blocks the exit; not in a threatening way but in a loyal, intimate way. It all feels too much, so she turns her head away, afraid to let him see her cry, to reveal further weakness. He’s already seen her fall apart one too many times today.

But he continues standing there, waiting patiently, silently, his gaze fierce, intense, raising hairs on her arms without her even looking at him and even her own body feels out of her control. She can’t stop the tears from falling, leaving messy trails down her sun-kissed cheeks, and she wipes them away furiously, feeling betrayed by their existence. Her lids fall closed as she takes a deep, shaky breath, an attempt to steady herself, regain composure.

Then, she looks up at him.

“You’re okay,” he says, quietly, raspy, as if he’s completely stripped back, and it sends a shiver up her spine. It’s the first time she realises he’s standing so, so close.

He seems to move closer without actually moving, his hand coming up to catch another rogue tear as it slips over her waterline and down her cheek, and she can smell his sweat, the understated notes of his deodorant. His fingers strokes at her jaw line briefly, before his hand drops back to his side, and it feels too intimate, dangerous and delicious, and it feels like they’re playing with fire whilst doused in fuel. She nods, swallowing audibly, but she doesn’t pull away.

“I’m worried about you,” he confesses and he’s so intense she has to look away before he crumbles before him. She shakes her head, eyes fixed on the mixer tap, and it’s his own honesty that brings out hers.

“I don’t know how to deal with this,” she breathes, and she chokes a little on the words as they rush from her lips.

“Hughes,” he says, and waits for her to look back up at him. She doesn’t think he knows how it feels to have him look at her like that; to have the weight of his stare cut her open and strip down all of her defences. How he managed to make her forget everything about herself in the face of his unwavering dedication and unsurpassable protectiveness. There is a reason soldiers, both men and women, looked up to him, aspired to be him. “You’re going to be okay,” he says, and it’s insistence and belief, a promise and everything in between. Because if she’s not okay, he’s not okay, their section isn’t okay, and they can’t afford to crumble and fall when they’ve already come this far – emotionally, physically, mentally.

She looks at him and she can feel every single day of the past five months they’d spent together, day in and day out, all of the bottled emotions and expectations, and it’s all being reflected right back at her. It dawns on her then that it wasn’t just her seeking approval and acceptance from the men they served with, that she wasn’t the only one trying to enforce a display of strength and unwavering confidence. These were his men marching into battle, his men she was patching up, his men looking to him for orders and bravery.

She takes another breath, straightens her spine and squares her shoulders, rebuilding the walls she’d momentarily let fall.

“What a day, huh, Sir?” She pushes out, and the corner of his mouth pulls a little at her resilience.

He nods. “What a day.”