Flashback
Part One
By Pebbles
Pebbles@ukgateway.net

Rated NC-17 for language and sexual content. 

Oh Fuck! Fuck! I’ve gone and fucked up again! Can’t I even do this right? I thought I’d got it covered this time – so why the hell am I in hospital? Try and remember Sarah. I had the sleeping pills; twenty-four torpedo shaped capsules in yellow and black – like legless bumblebees. A half bottle of vodka – bargain basement brand of course. All lined up on the kitchen counter: a deadly buffet. I place the capsules on my tongue one at a time and wash each down with a gulp of vodka.

I stand at the counter thinking <well this is it then – no turning back>, and then to be really sure I turn on the gas hob: all four burners. Then I sit down on the floor listening to the steady hiss of the gas as it fills the room and wait to fall asleep - a sweet sleep with no awakening.

But now I’m in a hospital. I know I’m in hospital from the smell – a mixture of antiseptic and something else? Singed hair. Singed hair? Where’s that coming from? Christ, it must be me.  What have I done?

Try and remember Sarah – try! Yes, that’s it. I remember now. I start to feel sick. I don’t want to throw up on the kitchen floor – bloody typical. Even when I’m trying to kill myself I don’t want to make a mess! That would be way too inconsiderate. Well, it isn’t my apartment. I go down the hall to the bathroom and am sick in the pan. Ugh! My throat hurts even now. But I realise that’s the tube that they’ve rammed in my mouth.

I remember being sick, heaving over and over again and then, yes that’s it: I think - <I’ve blown it>. I’ve got no more pills to take. Seeing the cabinet in the bathroom I go through it’s contents to find something else to take but there’s nothing there except contraceptives and vitamins and endless varieties of shampoo in gaudy coloured bottles. Then I see a safety razor. Can I get it apart? I use a nail file to prise open the pink plastic casing and release the blade.

I think hard – not easy as the half a bottle of vodka has gone straight to my head – I need to run a bath. I turn on the taps – luckily there’s plenty of hot water. Steam fills the room. I slip in fully dressed - nice and warm. Get the razor. Now where to make the cuts? I shut my eyes and make a wild slash at it. Open my eyes. Wow! The blood is really flowing, seeping out into the water like a scarlet dye. It doesn’t even hurt. I try the other. It’s harder with my left hand and I still have to shut my eyes.

It’s done. I lie back, enjoying the warmth of the water. It’s still taking so long. Doubts rush through my mind. Will the water get cold before I’m gone? Might someone come back and discover me? If I slide right down almost under the water I might just……..And then BOOOM! The room is filled with a blinding light and my head feels like its exploding. I can’t remember anymore.

I failed. That’s all I know. Somehow they found me and I’ve failed. Now they won’t let me get another chance. They’ll be watching me night and day. Hot tears spring to my eyes but what’s this?  I can’t open my eyes! They hurt and I cry out – an awful gurgling noise around the tubes.

“She’s awake.” A young female voice is calling out. Then she lowers her voice to speak to me “Hello, I’m sorry - we don’t know your name. You’re at County General Hospital and we’re taking good care of you.” Her voice is warm and friendly with perhaps a hint of Mexican or South American – I’m not very good at accents.

I’m a Jane Doe! Well thank heaven for that. Perhaps the family doesn’t know I’m here. I chose that apartment carefully. I knew the Armstrongs were away – they had brought their dog into the kennels yesterday. I heard them say they’d be away all weekend. They have no connection to the family. They wouldn’t recognise me. If I can just get out of here I might be get another chance to do it. I’ll do it properly next time.

“My name is Dr Kovac and this is Nurse Marquez.” His voice is deep and husky and strangely familiar. “You have been in a gas explosion and have some minor burns to your face and eyelids. Nothing to be concerned about – you should heal OK with no scarring. They have put some dressings on to aid the healing. We should be able to take them off in a day or so.” I am struggling to take this in. I’m searching my mind trying to place his accent.

“You have a tube in your mouth to help with your breathing and we have given you blood to replace what you have lost. We have also given you charcoal to help soak up the barbiturates. You….er….you weren’t leaving anything to chance were you?” I’m sure he doesn’t expect me to answer this.

“We just have to be sure that you can manage to breathe on your own before we remove the tube.” His voice is so gentle. There are no accusations. “Is there anyone you would like us to call?” I shake my head before he has even finished.

“OK. Well, I’ll check back on you in a little while.” His tone changes to a more professional note. “Chuny, can you let me know if there is any change, thank you.” I hear his footsteps as he leaves the room. The hard soles of his shoes clacking on the linoleum.

Think harder Sarah - the accent – yes that’s it! I have heard that accent before. It seems a very long time ago – I was a different person then.

It’s late April 1995 and I’m sitting in the passenger seat of a Luton van waiting for Elaine to get back in and drive. We are on the border between Austria and Slovenia. We have been driving for two days, eighteen hours and I feel like shit.

I’m about to enter a war zone and I’m having second thoughts. Back in London it had seemed like a great idea – at least the way my sister Elaine told it. To be fair, everyone I knew was concerned about the war in Bosnia. It had been on and off our television screens for several years. Sarajevo was a household name. Now there was a cease-fire and an opportunity to deliver aid to the orphans and refugees.

Elaine was always into this kind of stuff– she’s the one who lives in trees protesting against road building. She’s the one who spent last Christmas in police custody after redecorating the Trafalgar Square Christmas Tree in protest against….actually I really can’t remember what it was against now. But if there’s a good cause - well any kind of cause - she’s behind it – one hundred per cent.

Me? I may look like I’m cut out of the same mould as Elaine with the same unruly blond hair and grey-green eyes. Only sometime between my twelfth and fourteenth birthdays I got stretched out by some invisible hand until I was eight inches taller and all shins and collar bones. So whereas she’s hot-headed and militant I’m much more conservative and wishy-washy. I’ve never done anything remotely adventurous - until now.

At last we get the go ahead to proceed. Our escort is waiting on the other side of the border. The convoy, a motley collection of vans and small lorries full to the brim with blankets, nappies and bags of clothing are waved through and I realise that it is way too late to jump ship.

Across the border two Landrovers – one Army and the other civilian – await. We are to have a military escort. There may be a cease-fire in theory but there are so many sides to this conflict that no one can guarantee that they are all taking a break from hostilities at the same time. We pull up along side the battered white 110 Defender and get out to meet our escort. Elaine is first out – true to form. I am left holding the baby as usual.

She’s not my baby - Sophie Louise. She’s Elaine’s three-month-old bundle of joy. What the hell she’s doing bringing a baby into a war zone is a point of debate, not least among our family. But then everything that Elaine does is a point of debate among our family. She won’t even tell us who the father is. Assuming there is one. What I mean is that Elaine has always been upfront about her sexuality – embarrassingly so. I can’t see her going with a man even just for the purpose of getting pregnant.

Anyway, I scoop Sophie out of her baby seat and climb down to join the others. There are eight of us in total – nine, if you count Sophie. We are the youngest by a good fifteen years I should think. The other six are parishioners of the Church of St Mark’s – who have been collecting these blankets and clothes for months. I’m not sure how Elaine latched herself on to this crowd but they seem a fairly friendly and broadminded bunch.

They are all together standing in a ragged circle around a couple of military types in full combat gear. There is also a large bald headed man in the most enormous pair of khaki shorts. He is being introduced to our party. I hang back a little, rocking Sophie in my arms. She is hungry and any minute is going to erupt into ear piercing screams. She takes after her mother in the volume department.

There is a noise to my left behind the white Landrover. A footstep crunching the gravel. I turn sharply and come face to face with a man who seems as startled as I am. For a moment we stand stock-still staring at each other. Then I take a couple of steps backwards. He looks like a wild man from out of the hills and for a moment I think we have been over run by some partisan group.

He is so tall, towering over me and I’m not short by any means. His hair hangs lankly to his shoulders, jet black and unkempt. It matches his beard, which is similarly long and dishevelled. He stares at me. His eyes seem to burn with a feverish intensity – preventing me from moving from the spot. Then he lowers his gaze to the baby in my arms. He doesn’t smile but I feel that he has relaxed a little. I start to breathe again.

Sophie starts to grizzle and within moments she is exercising her lungs in full cry. I turn my attention back to her and to looking over to find Elaine. When I look back the wild man has gone. My mouth must have been gaping as, when Elaine comes over to take Sophie she asks what’s the matter.

“I saw a man!” My face must have been a picture. Elaine bursts into laughter. Extra dimples appear either side of her mouth.

“What just a ‘man’? Christ, Sarah, I thought you had seen a ghost!” She manages to compose herself enough to attach Sophie to her breast. Still smirking she adds “I didn’t realise men had that effect on you! No wonder you’ve gone and ditched Bob!”

I don’t bother responding to that jibe. I look around trying to see where the wild man has gone but he’s no where to be seen. “He looked like a…..…” I can’t find the words to describe him.

“Oh, that must have been Dugi – Zarko was just telling us about him. Apparently he doesn’t speak and he looks half-mad but he’s harmless. At least that’s how Zarko described him.” She puts an arm around my waist and leads me over to the group. We must look like a strange couple: two flaxen-haired scruffy girls with their arms around each other. One with a small baby attached to her breast. “Come and meet our Guardian Angels.”

We have been driving now for three and a half hours without a break. Our military escort seems anxious that we reach our designated campsite before dark. It is the longest that I have driven the van. Up to now, Elaine and I have always swapped over at least every two hours. The steering is heavy and the clutch like a block of concrete. I also find it hard to concentrate on the road with the blue light on their Landrover flashing in my eyes.

Finally we arrive on the outskirts of the city of Zagreb. This is considered to be a relatively safe place but they have still chosen a quiet field away from any housing to pitch our tents. The plan is to keep away from all contact with the local population until we arrive in Zenica. To this end we are fully self sufficient with everything from food and water to medical supplies. Elaine and I also have a sizeable stash of beer and cigarettes.

For once I leave Elaine to deal with her own baby and lower myself down from the cab, easing the stiffness in my limbs. I spot a thicket of bushes at the bottom of the field and decide to slip off to take a pee. Three and a half hours is a long time when you have downed a couple of cans of Diet Coke.

“Where do you think you’re going, Miss?” One of the squaddies bellows after me, pulling me up in my tracks. I turn to face him. He’s a fearsome sight with his combat fatigues and automatic weapon. Although he’s not actually pointing it at me he holds it at readiness. I’m not at all into guns and stuff – they put the fear of God in me.

“I’m just going behind those bushes for a moment.” My voice is thin and shaky. If he doesn’t back off soon I’m afraid I’m going to pee in my pants. He smiles, not altogether reassuring but his voice is less abrasive.

 “You’ll have to wait until we check it out. Can you wait, Miss?” He is no doubt enjoying my embarrassment.

By the time I eventually get back from the bushes, Elaine is already getting our tent up with the help of the wild looking man they call Dugi. Or rather, he is putting it up with instructions from Elaine. He appears to understand English, which is just as well as Elaine is barking out orders like a regular Sergeant Major. It’s quite comical to watch as she is only just five feet in her bare feet whilst he must be well over six feet with broad shoulders to match.

I’m still a bit wary of him despite what Elaine has told me but it would be rude not acknowledge him at all. “Hello.” I speak up cheerfully. He looks at me. His eyes are as intense as I remembered them. His face is impassive, any expression hidden behind the mass of his beard.

“Thank you for putting up our tent. It’s really kind of you.” Still he doesn’t respond - not even a smile. After a moment he turns back to continue hammering at the stout wooden tent pegs as if I wasn’t there. I find this most disconcerting but there is too much to do to think about it and I start getting together the wherewithal for our evening meal.

Later, when we have all eaten we linger around the campfire. This is my favourite part of the day. We relax with a few beers, stare into the flames and tell stories about our lives. I don’t actually do much talking, preferring to listen to what the others have to say. I notice that our enlarged party is not yet fully integrated. The two squaddies sit apart with Lieutenant Hamilton between them and us.

Zarko is not shy of talking though. He is a Croat who, before the war was a sales representative for one of the major oil companies – travelling all over the former Yugoslavia. He’s now employed as an interpreter for the UN contingent and seems to relish the new role. He has plenty of adventures to recount – most of them extremely hair-raising and some frankly sickening.

His friend Dugi sits beside him, showing no sign of listening to the conversation. He stares at the fire absorbed in his own thoughts. I find myself watching him. He doesn’t seem so frightening now, rather a sad character. I wonder what he’s thinking about – what his story might be.

As if reading my mind, Zarko launches into an account of how he met Dugi. This is his own nickname for him – it means something like ‘tall guy’. I feel uncomfortable that Zarko is telling us about Dugi as if he wasn’t here. But when I glance over to look at his face it is easy to believe that he isn’t listening for his expression never changes. Perhaps he doesn’t understand English so well after all.

“You know I owe my life to this guy?” Zarko pauses for dramatic effect. Satisfied that he has our full attention he continues. “Yeah, this was back in ’91. I was among the first aid-workers to get into Vukovar. Ah, it was a terrible sight. Those bastards bombarded the city until even the trees had been whittled to shreds!” He says something else in his native tongue, which I imagine is a curse.

“We were looking for survivors amongst the rubble when a fire breaks out in the ruin of this building. I found that I was trapped and I passed out in the smoke. This guy - ” He throws his arm around Dugi, pulling him against his ample chest in an affectionate gesture. “This guy ignores all danger to himself and just walks right through the fire and carries me out!” He grins at us, knowing that we all have a mental picture of a tall and gaunt Dugi staggering through the smoke and rubble with the huge bulk of an unconscious Zarko in his arms.

“Yes it’s true!” He releases Dugi from his grip and claps his hands together in delight. “I owe him my life.” There is a moment’s silence as we all look at Dugi who is still gazing impassively at the fire. Dugi then slowly gets to his feet and walks away to their Landrover. I notice that he walks with a slight limp. Well not really a limp – he just seems to favour the right leg a little.

 Zarko drops his voice, as if he thought Dugi could still hear him. “He is a good man you know. Some think he is crazy - he doesn’t speak these three and a half years now. But you know, in this war we are all a little crazy. And who knows what happened to him! When we found him he was just wandering around in the rubble. His clothes were in shreds and he is dirty and barefoot and, as you know, he doesn’t speak. He just seemed to latch on to me. Well, I have not the heart to send him away - not me. Then he goes and saves my life! I will never leave him now.” Zarko seems moved by his own story and pauses to wipe his eye.

“No, he’s a good man” he repeats “And when I finish up this job I am going to take him home.” He nods to himself, obviously pleased with his plan and then bids us all goodnight and follows Dugi off to their tent.

End of part one
Pebbles@ukgateway.net