done for years, tell him a story that only my ex-husband and my best friend have ever heard.
‘There is, yes,’ I say finally. I take a swig of heavy red wine, feel the warm buzz as the alcohol hits my bloodstream. ‘There’s more to it. The truth is, it’s not exactly the first time I’ve been in that situation.’
Gilbourne frowns. ‘Really?’
‘Not on a train. Somewhere else, a while back.’
‘When you were in the navy?’
I nod silently.
After a moment, he says gently, ‘What happened, Ellen?’
I sit back against the headboard so I can face him properly, begin telling him about one day a decade ago when I had still been in uniform, all the memories, the images, still as fresh in my mind as if it happened last week. Operation Ellamy, 2011 – as Libya tore itself apart in a bloody civil war, civilians were caught in the crossfire and the Royal Navy was dispatched as part of the UN-backed intervention to protect them. I had been leading part of the humanitarian relief effort that went alongside, flying in food and medical supplies to refugees using helicopters from HMS Ocean.
‘On the second day we found a makeshift refugee camp on the outskirts of Benghazi.’ Now I’ve started telling him, I find I can’t stop, the story picking up its own momentum. ‘A couple of hundred civilians displaced by the fighting, terrified they would be singled out as rebels by government forces. I wanted to take them out on the helicopters, take them back with us onto the ship for a few days until the situation had stabilised. Until it was safer. We’d had reports of mass shootings.’
‘But you couldn’t take them?’
I shake my head. ‘I was overruled by my commanding officer. He told me it wasn’t our mission. We were to provide “relief not rescue”, he said, and if we started pulling civilians out, a trickle would turn into a flood and we’d be overwhelmed. But the civilians, they thought we were there to rescue them, to take them somewhere safe. They all started gathering around the helicopters. When they realised we weren’t going to take them . . . it was awful. They knew the government forces were close, what would happen if they found them. One of the mothers . . .’
My throat is thick. Gilbourne gives me a sympathetic smile, waits for me to continue. I take another mouthful of wine, swallow it down painfully.
‘One of the mothers had a baby only a few months old. She made her way to the front of the crowd and she was talking to me non-stop in Arabic, wouldn’t leave me alone. She singled me out, not because I was in charge but because I was a woman, I think she thought I would be a mother too. When she realised we were leaving, she . . .’ I pause to take another breath, determined to keep my voice steady. ‘She handed her baby over to me. She gave me her little boy, told me his name was Hassan, just put him in my arms and backed away. I guess she thought I’d be able to keep him safe. And so I’m standing there, surrounded by my guys and a crowd of desperate civilians, the rotors are turning on the helicopters, dust flying everywhere, and I’m right in the middle of it all holding this tiny baby blinking up at me with his big brown eyes. It was just crazy.’
‘So what did you do?’
The tears are heavy behind my eyes. ‘I’d been told point blank we couldn’t bring civilians out. Relief not rescue, like my CO had said. So I handed her little boy back to her. She was crying and pleading and the interpreter was telling her we’d be back the following day with more supplies. We got on the helicopters and flew back to the ship.’ I take a deep breath, blow it out again. ‘When we flew back in the next morning, we could see the smoke from miles away as we came in. One of the pro-government militias found them during the night. They’d torched everything that would burn and killed everyone they could find.’
‘Jesus,’ Gilbourne breathed.
‘Men, women, children. All of them. Lined them up and shot them. Hunted down anyone who tried to run. I found the mother’s body in a drainage gully at the edge of the camp. She’d tried to hide, tried to shield Hassan, to cover his body with hers.’
He lets the silence