He was sweating and she knew it wasn’t the heat, even though it was thirty plus outside. He was pale, clammy and couldn’t meet her eye. A glass of Coke sat in front of him in a puddle of moisture.
“It was the smell.”
They’d pulled off at the first opportunity, his knuckles white on the wheel. Two miles of tailback had funnelled them past a modesty screen, behind which a car still smouldered. The family inside, she read later, had been reduced to charcoal.
He shivered.
“It smelled like Basra.”
“It was the smell.”
They’d pulled off at the first opportunity, his knuckles white on the wheel. Two miles of tailback had funnelled them past a modesty screen, behind which a car still smouldered. The family inside, she read later, had been reduced to charcoal.
He shivered.
“It smelled like Basra.”
