July 2005
Like a dream, it didn't seem real.
But it was.
She had been staying in a house belonging to a contact, someone she knew she could trust. One night, she'd been woken in the small hours by a commotion and a shot much closer than the usual casual gunfire that one got used to in this city. Before she had time to think about the best course of action, there were three men in her room their faces hidden by scarves. She saw her contact lying face down beyond them. They bound her hands, put a hood over her head, and drove her away, finally unloading her somewhere she knew was colder than the middle of the city, and pushing her down some stone stairs.
After a while, the hood was taken from her head, and she found she was in a basement. A man with a camera was filming her. Another man behind her started to shout at the camera. Edith knew from the voice that he was one of the more rabidly fundamentalist, maverick insurgents. He delivered twenty minutes of invective to the camera over her bowed head. Once that was done, she was left alone for several days, she lost count how many, with only a single visit a day from one of the guards giving her some hard, maggoty bread.
The seriousness of her situation was not lost on her, but she hoped against hope that the purpose of taking her was to put an end to her reports, and possibly to use her as a bargaining chip. Deep down she feared that an example was to be made of her.
... ... ...
The sand was cold. At this early hour the chill of the desert night still dug its claws into her knees from the ground. Edith hated the cold. It reminded her of winters at Downton, an ancestral pile so large, and so badly plumbed, it could never be heated properly.
She dimly thought "I don't want to die cold", her fear freezing all other feelings and thoughts, other than the dread of the cold blade. She'd been driven out to this remote place in the middle of the night, and as soon as dawn broke, she was pushed out of the jeep and on to the ground in front of a man, taller and broader than all the rest, clothed head to foot in black robes, holding a huge, curved sword in his left hand.
Apart from the executioner himself, there were only two guards present, one of them fumbling with a camera, and the mad orator.
Her last, scattered thoughts veered from detached to despairing.
This would have made a great story if I could have written it up.
Granny will be so disappointed in me bringing shame on the family.
Michael knew this would happen – no don't think that!
Then suddenly one image stood out from all other thoughts.
"Anthony!"
She'd tried not to think about him. The emotions her ex-fiancé inspired in her were the most uncontrollable of all. But now, at the end, she found that only thoughts of him could help her die with dignity. Only he could help her face this.
She'd said his name aloud, the only word she had uttered in her captivity. The executioner, standing in front of her, heard it, started as if shocked, and stared at her intently, though she didn't see it. She was too absorbed remembering Anthony's eyes, his smile, his gentle laugh, the warmth of his embraces, how besotted he had seemed to be when he looked at her, how much she had loved him.
"Oh Anthony!"
If he hadn't walked away from their wedding, meeting her outside of the church in his uniform, looking so goddamned handsome, to try to excuse the inexcusable, to explain to her that they hardly knew one another, that he was too old for her, that she should have the chance to live life…if only he'd married her, she wouldn't be here now, facing a grotesque, medieval death.
All Edith's despair at, frustration with, and love for, that maddening, noble, beautiful, and misguided man overwhelmed her. Only he and his love could help her meet this fate bravely.
"My Anthony!"
The guard finally seemed satisfied with the camera, the orator began another diatribe that she knew would end with her decapitation, a video posted on the web, and a smattering of futile condemnations by eviscerated Western politicians. After which she would be forgotten.
Edith thought of Anthony, and in his sapphire blue eyes she found the courage to kneel straight and upright, holding her head high. She heard the headsman sigh, almost as though he admired her bravery.
He raised his sword.
She heard Anthony's voice say "When I say run, run…straight past me and keep going to the rocks and take cover. I'll join you."
Her eyes widened. Unsure whether she had really heard it, or whether she was hallucinating, she heard herself say "Vatican cameos?" Most of his face was covered by his headdress, but she saw the corners of his blue eyes crease into a smile of amusement at her knowledge of the term as he nodded slowly.
The orator finished and nodded to the man in black, who took up his position.
There was a heart beat's pause.
He whispered "Run!"
Edith ran past Anthony as fast as she could. Just as he said, there was a rocky outcrop illuminated by the red dawn light ahead of her. She heard the stutter of gunfire behind her back. Once she'd reached the rocks she took shelter behind them and risked a glance.
The tall man stood still, the sword on the ground at his feet, and a machine pistol smoking in his left hand. The insurgents lay lifeless around him. He stooped to pick up the camera taking out the card and smashing it, before he walked to Edith.
She ran to him and threw her arms around his neck ignoring the machine-gun still hanging from his shoulder on its strap, the relief sweeping over her in a wave of jumbled emotions.
"Anthony!"
She felt him hugging her to him but only with one arm, and his robe wet against her cheek and realised she had been weeping.
"You saved me!"
"You can say that once you're safely back in England. We're not out of the woods yet."
"But you came…"
"Of course I did, sweet one. Shh."
He rubbed her shoulder comfortingly until the shock wore off a little. Then he released her gently with an embarrassed cough.
"Did they, er, mistreat you?" he whispered.
"They didn't rape me, if that's what you're asking. But I've not eaten much."
A voice at the back of her head screamed The man you love has just saved your life, and you're discussing food?!
"We need to get you to the British Embassy over the border. Flights are still going back to London from over there. Are you up to walking?"
"Why can't we take their jeep?" she asked. She was only just following Anthony's words, as she struggled with her shocked nerves and confused heart.
"Because I can't drive with one arm, and a woman driving would certainly attract attention. And talking of attention, someone is going to miss these three soon. We should be getting going."
"Yes, Major" she answered in half a joke, and half a complaint about his issuing orders, even as her head swam.
"Don't call me that" said Anthony, with more regret than annoyance. Looking at her again, he walked back to the bodies of the insurgents and chose a robe.
"Here, use this as a burqa."
"It has blood on it" she stated flatly.
"It's the one with the least blood on it. We can't risk anyone recognising you, and it'll stop you getting sun-burned" he replied gently.
He took out a GPS and took a reading, then looked at his watch.
"Edith, I'm really sorry to have to ask you to walk in the heat of day right after you've been through…all that. But we really must try to get ahead of them. I know they will come looking for us. They will want revenge on their comrades' killer, if nothing else."
Edith nodded, the notion that Anthony was a killer jarring despite the evidence in front of her. He's a Major in the British Army. He's not a murderer. She gave up trying to keep up with what was happening, all of a sudden so tired and so very pleased that someone else was taking charge and making the decisions. Once she'd got the cloth looking something like a burqa, she asked Anthony whether it would do.
"Yes, my dear, you're doing brilliantly. We're aiming for those hills, okay?"
"Okay."
They started walking toward the rising sun, to the hills beyond the desert, Edith trying to make sense of the events of the last five minutes. Chief among her questions was Why can he only use one arm?