When we got to the crew room the screen was a blur of writhing flesh.
'Grab the whisky off the table!' I leant against the wall. 'And a sleeping-bag.'
Dom wobbled out of the crew room with the bag round his shoulders. I grabbed his spare hand and hustled him towards the exit.
89
We stumbled as far as the double doors.
'Wait here!' I swung the right one open, blinked in the sunlight and staggered across to the nearest wagon. I dumped Mr Sheen in the front passenger seat and belted him up. I tipped some Jack Daniel's down his front, then laid the bottle on the dash tray.
I moved round and opened the rear doors, then ran back and dragged Dom across the compound. 'Lie down and shut the fuck up.'
He pulled the bag over his head as I slammed the door.
I sat in the driver's seat and changed mags on the used Sig, checked the other was made ready, then slid one under each thigh. Mr Sheen slumped next to me. He looked like he'd pissed himself.
I brushed back my hair with my fingers and zipped up the fleece, hoping the ISAF boys on the other side of the gates wouldn't look at me too closely. I made sure I had a fresh mag handy and hit the ignition.
I stopped two or three metres short of the gates. There were no quarter-circle scrape marks in the dirt this side. They must open outwards.
I jumped down from the cab and put my ear to the steel but heard nothing close by; no voices, no radio traffic, no guards complaining to each other or listening to Radio Kabul.
I pulled back the bolts and eased it open an inch or two. All I could see was HESCOs, tents and flagpoles. They were about two hundred metres away, the other side of the runway. I pushed the gate some more. It opened directly on to a dirt road. There were no guards.
I pushed it all the way, then did the same with the other and ran back to the GMC.
'Good news, mate – I'm pretty sure this joint isn't official. The ISAF set-up is the other side of the airfield. Keep down and keep quiet – I'll confirm in a second.'
Mr Sheen lolled next to me. I reached inside his coat pocket for his wallet. I pulled out a fistful of dollars and stowed them in my lap.
I drove through the open gates and turned left. The checkpoint was a hundred metres or so down the road. It was manned by a couple of old guys in suits, polo-neck jumpers and pancake hats. The drop-bar was two branches roped together and painted red and white.
We drew level. I grabbed a dollar bill from my lap. The old guy accepted the bribe with a nod.
The other guy began to lift the barrier.
He glanced up as he waved the GMC through, and frowned. He stopped the barrier halfway. There was no point putting my foot down. I lowered the window, tilted my head at Mr Sheen and the bottle on the dash, jiggled my wrist and rolled my eyes.
He looked in and immediately smelt the whisky. He shook his head with disapproval and waved the infidels through.
We drove out past the burnt-out shells of buildings. Wrecked Russian vehicles rusted at the roadside. The MiG in the middle of the roundabout still gleamed in the early-morning light.
90
We turned south on to a dead-straight road. Mr Sheen's head bobbed about beside me like it was on a spring. Dom was lying on the back seat. He'd sparked out straight away.
The dash clock said 10:28.
'Dom, get up here!' I fished in the front of the fleece and pulled out one of the mobile phones. 'Up here, mate. I need your help.'
I flicked open the lid. As it sparked up, a picture of Mr Sheen appeared, with his arm round a woman and two little boys making faces in front of them.
'Dom, for fuck's sake, get up! You've got to call Siobhan! Tell her to get out of the house!'
I saw his head jerk up in the rear-view mirror. 'Up here, mate, I need your help.'
He clambered painfully over to the seats behind me, then leant his head forward until it was more or less level with mine. His wounds were open and weeping.
'Listen, the mobile in your front room, in the drawer. You know the number?'
He looked puzzled. 'Finbar's old one. But why does—'