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cope. As her nan’s primary carer, it was tough. If Poppy was on top of things, she would find her nan’s little adventures or wanderings funny; but when tired, finding Dorothea at three in the morning sitting in the kitchen, with a full packet of flour, a jar of coffee and three pints of milk tipped into a slippery heap on the floor as she ‘made the Christmas cake’ was very wearing. Especially when it was June, far too early to be thinking about bloody Christmas.
    Poppy could have managed her nan’s decline were it just about her own ability to cope, but it wasn’t, it was about what was best for Dorothea as well. She needed to be somewhere that she could be watched and supported twenty-four hours a day.
    Poppy came home from work one wintery evening to find her sitting in the dark crying and bewildered. She had no way of knowing if Dorothea had been in this state of distress for ten hours or ten minutes; it was a moment of realisation. Not that it made what came next any easier; it was the toughest decision of Poppy’s life, at that point.
    She and Martin found the home after weeks of trawling through brochures and trudging the streets. Some were rejected on price, others on location and one before the front door had even been opened, after hearing expletives bellowed from within.
    Poppy considered the major’s words and thought that she should cry. She tried pushing some tears out, but none came. For some reason this made her giggle; she pictured someone watching her and saying, ‘What are you doing, Poppy? Why are you sat there with your eyes screwed shut, digging your nails into your palms?’
    ‘I’m trying to push some tears out. I thought it might make me feel better because I feel a little bit guilty that I haven’t cried yet, despite those two soldiers watching and expecting me to whilst secretly hoping that I wouldn’t, especially Major Tony Thingy. It’s as if I have read about this story in the paper or seen it on the news. It feels like someone else’s life, not mine, not real. Where are those darn tears when you need ’em?’
    She was sure that whoever she delivered this monologue to would probably shake their head in a kind of ‘she has finally lost the plot, just like her grandma’ way.

Two
     
     
    I T WAS A big day for Martin Cricket. He had been chosen as part of a select task force supporting the Americans on an all-day sortie. It was not without a certain amount of trepidation that he acknowledged the order. Apart from being on patrol, the plan was a bit sketchy. He had no option other than to trust in the powers that be. Martin was used to this, the abdication of choice, a life of submission and capitulation; it was the nature of his work as a soldier.
    Despite his level of fitness, his joints groaned in remonstration . The two stone of body armour and equipment that he donned each and every morning didn’t get any lighter as the tour wore on. It was early in the day, yet the heat was intense and not the pleasurable warmth of a sun-soaked holiday; more akin to being foil wrapped and placed on the top shelf of an oven. He and his colleague, Aaron, prepared to climb up into the second Jackal; a high-mobility, cross-country vehicle, not exactly comfortable, but no one minded so much about comfort as long as they were safe.
    Aaron stood aside. ‘After you, short arse.’ He waited for his friend to scramble aboard. At five foot seven, Martin was at least six inches shorter than his mate; a constant source of amusement to both them and their unit.
    ‘Mate, a short arse I might be, but it’s not my head that’ll be stuck above the parapet like a sitting duck when we get out there.’
    Martin indicated towards the open-backed truck and the desert with his thumb. Twelve soldiers were to travel in three vehicles. Any more than four in each car would make movement en route difficult, as the bulk of their kit took up the space of two men. Any fewer than four and a feeling of vulnerability