Chicken Street: Afghanistan Before the Taliban: Clearing the Deadly Remnants of War by Lane John

Author:Lane, John
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: HISTORY / Modern / General
ISBN: 9781909384767
Publisher: Helion
Published: 2013-03-18T16:00:00+00:00

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‘No ping pong today,’ I declared, satisfactorily catching Dr Rhubar totally off-guard with a successful pre-emptive strike hardly before he was halfway through the office door (Thursday: mushroom soup suit with fungal creepers). ‘We’re far too busy. I’ll go to the market with Karimullah and see if we can pick up some drums of fuel for the vehicles and a cylinder of gas for the kitchen. You see if you can help O’Deere in the Ministry of Defence. Colonel Sharook might be back and then you can get those minefield maps they promised us. Trotter and McScumble are impatient for them, and I agree; we’ve waited long enough. Meet up back here at 1230 sharp for the donor’s lunch.’

Before setting out I needed to brief Abdul. I could hear him clattering around in the kitchen. ‘What about some apple pie and meatballs for Mr Willow?’ I suggested helpfully (ignoring the fact that he didn’t seem too pleased to see me), before adding knowledgeably: ‘You can stick a tomato on top to give it plate appeal.’

It’s little known and not generally appreciated that I studied Catering in the Royal Navy. Just the Short Course.

Abdul looked doubtful.

‘Well, do what you like,’ I said impatiently. ‘Or rather, koshish ko, do your best. By the way, I’ve had a brainwave about that low table we use in the sitting room. It’s a coffee table really. Mr Willow, our guest, is very tall, at least two metres high. So if you could put some bricks from the garden under it, that will save his back a bit, make it more comfortable for him.’

For me, too. Simple. Much easier than trying to excavate the proper dining table, seeing as it had almost disappeared from sight under the computer, the pounding Imperial, the erratic electric typewriter, the printer, the HF radio and the un-filed office filing system. Abdul looked even more doubtful – positively alarmed in fact – so I left him to it. It was not a day for tolerating temperamental artists.

When we returned at 1230 (sharp), Karrimullah and Hajji grappled with the load of diesel and gas that we had acquired while I went straight into the house to ensure that all was prepared, everything spot-on for receiving Mr Willow. He was unlikely to make a habit of visiting us in Kabul: this was the moment to impress him with our attention to detail and simultaneous grasp of the big picture in the context of humanitarian de-mining.

‘Nan tayar ast?’ I remembered that – ‘Is the food ready?’ There was no sign of Dr Rhubar and O’Deere. No sign of Abdul either. ‘Abdul kuja ast? – Where is Abdul?’

In the sitting room, the coffee table we had improvised for eating off was tilting, unusually, to one side. It was listing heavily, in fact, like a shipwrecked freighter after a storm, left hanging on the rocks as the tide receded. I proceeded to the galley; the kitchen door was shut, possibly locked.

‘Abdul?’ said I, man to man

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