Alvis contemplated this. ‘She told us they were all planning to meet up and yet she went off without breaking camp, and almost immediately after we visited her?’

‘Leaving her mementos behind,’ Rhona added.

‘You think she went onto the Duirinish peninsula?’

‘It’s an assumption only. I’ve been trying to make contact with the driver of the bus she boarded, to see if they recalled when she got off, but I’ve had no luck as yet. She may have switched buses at Dunvegan and headed east instead. Maybe she was on her way to meet the others.’

‘Then why not take her belongings with her?’ Alvis said.

‘She wanted to travel light?’ Rhona voiced her current and most disturbing thought: ‘Or she didn’t need them any more?’

62

Afghanistan

A birth in blood. So much blood.

I quickly hand the baby boy to the old woman, while I try to stem the stream from its semi-conscious mother. Once the women had accepted a normal birth wasn’t possible, they’d produced the poppy juice to mask the pain.

Now they bring me cloth after cloth to stem the flow of blood. I fear they’re not sterile or even clean, but I have no choice but to use them.

I forget the child until I hear its cry and the associated exclamation from the women. I’m relieved that the child is alive, but now I must save the mother.

At last the flow eases and I can begin to close her up. I thank God she is still asleep, and any movement that suggests otherwise sees someone drip a little more of the milky opium liquid between her lips.

The stitching isn’t pretty, but the wound is closed now. Looking at my hands, I suddenly register their trembling and wonder how I managed to thread the needle through the skin at all.

I step back, fear at what I’ve done threatening to overwhelm me. Someone leads me by the arm to the fire and other hands gently wash my own in the warm water ready and waiting.

The baby gives a louder cry and a young woman lifts the swaddled bundle from its cushion and brings it to the semi-conscious mother, holding it to her exposed breast, encouraging it to find the nipple. For a moment there is a concentrated silence in the room, then as it begins to suck, the women’s voices resound in joy.

I want to say that it isn’t over yet, that they must keep the wound clean. She has lost a lot of blood. But my Pashto is scarce, unlike that of Sugarboy . . . and him, both of whom have made a big effort to learn. They said they did it to help them acquire a supply of opium to treat the wounded. Not our injured, but the locals, the men he wanted to leave to die.