The Dancing Boy

By Roy E. Stolworthy

Every week, thirty British troops seek medical help, the toll of combat in Afghanistan.
A total of 3,021 were diagnosed with ‘Adjustment disorder’ between May 2010 and April 2012.
In the US and elsewhere, this figure is significantly higher.
Symptoms include self-harm, drug abuse and anxiety attacks.
This is an account of Tom Gillet, who, to the detriment of his sanity and family, refuses point-blank to acknowledge these symptoms
With the Afghan heat blinding his sight, Tom Gillet, a young British soldier, is dragged back from an IED by Shafiq, a small Afghan boy. Luckily, he only loses a foot and not his life.
Shafiq isn’t so fortunate. His family is murdered by the Taliban as a warning to those who help the coalition forces, and he is sold into a child trafficking ring as a dancing boy.
Discharged from the army and on the threshold of PTSD, Gillet feels forced to return to Afghanistan to search for the boy in the hope of finding him a better life.
But what he encounters is shock, betrayal and lies.
When he returns home to the UK, he finds himself drawn into the horrors of a world he never knew existed behind the closed doors of immigrant Britain.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Roy E. Stolworthy
• Release date: Oct 11, 2012
• ISBN: 9781301521005

Roy E. Stolworthy

Retired. I started writing six years ago and have produced seven books. 'All In' a story of a sexy lady poker player is currently available on Smashwords. 'The Dancing Boy' is a gripping story set in war torn Afghanistan.

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THE DANCING BOY

By Roy E. Stolworthy

Copyright Roy E. Stolworthy 2012

Smashwords Edition

Smashwords Edition, License Notes

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author. All characters in this book are fictitious and any resemblance to persons living or dead is purely coincidental.

Acknowledgments

Janice, Always

Emma Morris, for her skill with the computer

Justina Hurley, cover design

Edited by Sarah Cheeseman BA with Hons

During the writing of this novel, professional medical advice concerning the symptoms of Post Traumatic Stress Disorder was keenly sought; the source has asked to remain anonymous.

Caw Blimey Approved

Other books by Roy E. Stolworthy

Coming Home

All In

Hidden In Plain View

The Dancing Boy

‘It is only the dead who see the end of war.’

Plato

CHAPTER ONE

Tom Gillet didn’t need to be told that his regiment had no call for one-footed combatants, and he had no real desire to be anything else. It had taken the army six months to turn him into a soldier, and no time at all to reverse the process and turn him back into a man. Whether he liked it or not he was a mister now, without parade, drums or bugle. After fourteen years’ loyal service, the title of company sergeant major disappeared into thin air faster than his right foot did when he kicked in a booby-trapped door while on patrol in Afghanistan. Then again, the title of mister applied only to the less than adult population of the small town on the north Norfolk coast. The younger generation, in their crass wisdom, took to calling him a number of intimate provoking names like Galloping Gillet, Tommy Five Toes or Toddling Tom. He knew he shouldn’t have taken the bait, in itself a form of mental illness. But he did, and at the same time prayed for the opportunity to ram his aluminium walking stick down their throats until it appeared out of their arses ready for roasting over a fire like a pig on a spit.

I’ll sort them out, Dad, his son Luke said, looking up from his homework. They’ll soon get fed up and find someone else to wind up.

Nah, let it go, you’re only twelve and I don’t want you getting into trouble. Anyway, the sooner I get used to the artificial foot, the quicker I can be rid of the walking stick.

Homework, Luke, now, Amy Gillet interrupted sternly, and turning to face her husband, This came for you.

Freshly showered, she pulled the silk gown tight against her nakedness. Gillet caught the scent of rosewater from her neck drift into his nostrils and looked up into her face. He smiled. She wore her golden hair pinned up in a ponytail, the way he liked it back in the old days. He waited for the warm smile accompanied by the crinkled nose. But it never came, not like it used to. Since his return from duty minus a foot she had become tactful and incurious, almost indifferent, not that he wasn’t so stupid to know they only remained together for Luke’s sake. And there lay just a part of the problem; Luke had been diagnosed with moderate learning difficulties. As expected it was hard going at first, but there were days when he seemed better than others and made some sort of progress. But to push him resulted in resentfulness, occasionally drifting into violent moods lasting for hours. Like father like son, Amy snapped at him in the heat of a blazing row. Nevertheless, Gillet displayed the patience of an African drought, settling him whenever he became overly angry or frustrated. Gillet tore open the letter and smiled.

It’s from Mickey Pink. You remember Pinkie? His mother’s died and he’s coming home for the funeral.

Oh him! How could I forget when he puked ten pints of Guinness down the toilet while I was having a bath?

Gillet’s smile thinned at the look of disdain sliding across her face.

He says he’d like to stay for a couple of days after the funeral.

Yes, well remind me when he’s coming and I’ll take a bath the night before.

Startled by the sharpness of her tone, he tightened his lips. Why the hell couldn’t she just for once answer a simple question without throwing in a heap of sarcastic rhetoric for good measure? He looked up, observing her face as if it belonged to a stranger. Regardless of Luke, he knew it wasn’t going to work between them. Shortly the in-fighting would begin like it had many times before. Christ, he wasn’t even in the bloody army anymore and she still wasn’t satisfied. For five long, boring weeks he’d procrastinated in hospital, tolerating the indifference of bureaucracy and absence of compassion while waiting for a removable prosthetic foot to be fitted. Nurses and doctors, most of who struggled to speak English, did little to help him come to terms with his loss. In another ward further down the corridor lay a young lance corporal from a Scottish regiment with his kneecap shot off after a gunfight in Helmand. Nobody came to visit him the whole time he spent in the hospital. On the day of his discharge they gave him a pair of crutches, and he left wearing the same dusty bloodstained combat fatigues he’d arrived in. Like so many others that served in both Iraq and Afghanistan, Gillet knew the British government didn’t give a damn for the British soldier. What sort of country, he stated to anyone prepared to listen, squeezes the benefits of wounded soldiers, then slashes the pensions of the widows of dead heroes, while bankrolling entire ethnic communities to sponge off the welfare state? They did as they always did, the so-called politicians, paid lip service to those who died and suffered, and then turned their backs. At the same time, they allowed groups of Muslims to stand unchallenged on the street corners of Britain, hurling abuse at marching soldiers returning home, and setting fire to the Union flag as if their unrelenting misplaced fervour might help them develop some miraculous powers of their own.

Nevertheless, for two months he hobbled round on a crutch without complaint. During which time Amy never once showed him an ounce of sympathy. The first night he returned home from hospital they had slept as man and wife. Later in the night, when she saw the stump for the first time, the sight had repulsed her so much she told him to sleep in the spare room. What had once been so strong between them had deteriorated rapidly. Deep down in his gut he knew she’d never accept him as he was. For her, everything had to be perfect or not at all. Instead, he lay in the next bedroom, listening to her gentle snores and murmurs. Gradually he came to realise that his marriage was beyond recall, and the inevitable time of separation drew ever closer. Occasionally there were times when he considered telling her of his reoccurring nightmares in the faint hope it might revive some kind of feeling for him. Tell her of the times he woke in the night plastered in sweat and trying to push away the image of the Afghan woman holding a baby in one hand and a grenade in the other. Instinct had caused him to pull the trigger and watch as the bullets ripped into woman and child, tearing them to pieces. He wanted to tell her how he’d sunk to his knees and cried like a blubbering baby, but there seemed little point now. So instead, he watched helplessly as day by day they drifted further apart. Time had passed and hardened him.

Glancing out of the window, he reached for his stick and stepped out into the fresh evening air. An orange sun dipped in the west; dusk spilled dark blue and streaky pink across the sky, like a painting on an artist’s easel. The season of spring was upon them. The season of renewal and rebirth, a time when the axis of the earth increases its tilt towards the sun and the length of daylight stretches until the hemisphere begins to warm, causing new plant growth to spring from the bowels of Mother Earth. Yet try as he may, it did little to disturb the dark shadows lurking in the corridors of his mind. He and Amy had reached the point of no return and now there could be no going back. Her emotional and physical appetites were no longer his to satisfy, but were left suspended, and he purged his body of all longing and desire for her. All that now remained of their once happy union was misery and despair.

Maybe I’ll skip dinner and go down to the pier and watch the lads do a spot of fishing. Send Luke down when he’s finished his homework and we’ll get some chips on the way back.

And maybe I won’t be here when you get back, she said quickly.

Gillet’s mind tumbled with a plethora of memories.

Maybe this, maybe that. That’s all I seem to hear these days, he said testily. So maybe it’s the best thing you’ve said for the last few months, Amy. Lock the door after you.

She stared at him, stiff, replaying his words over and over in her mind, trying to isolate her decision from his reaction. When he turned away, something precious was wrenched from her heart, leaving a chilled vacuum. Years ago, when she had dreamed of her perfect man, she knew she only needed to walk in the right direction and sooner or later he would be there waiting. Then the day came when God took her hand and guided her and her friend into the Neptune’s Basket public bar. The moment he set eyes on her he asked her for her hand in marriage without even asking her name. She had reddened and giggled like a foolish schoolgirl. Twelve months later, they married. Everything perfect, idyllic. Then things started to go downhill the day she learned of Luke’s disability. Part of her world collapsed. He wasn’t perfect like she wanted him to be and because of this she struggled to accept him as the kind of son she had always wanted. Occasionally, there were times when she secretly blamed her husband’s line of work, which in her mind had come to mean no more than legalised murder. Gillet quickly overcame his initial nervousness and didn’t find Luke a problem, dealing with him as best he could. Gradually time passed until the onset of the war in Iraq and then later in Afghanistan, and the dream changed into a nightmare. Week after week she sat waiting for the knock at the door, worrying if he might ever return alive, until she could bear it no longer.

She studied her fingernails, waiting for the hollowness in her chest to fill. He was different, and it wasn’t just the loss of his foot that had changed him. She knew he possessed the strength of mind to take that in his stride; part and parcel of soldiering, he’d told her, leaving her astonished. But there was something else, something deep and cancerous eating away at his being. His mood swings, the sullenness, an anger she had never seen in him before. War had changed him. He seemed somehow disconnected.

*

Mum’s gone, she thinks I’m daft. It’s just me and Dad now. Luke grinned at Pinkie.

That will do. Go to your room, Luke, Gillet said.

Sorry to hear that, mate, Pinkie said, listening to Luke stomp angrily up the stairs.

Been on the books for some time now, you know how it is. The army’s no place for a woman these days, living like squatters in filthy married quarters, trying to raise a handicapped kid. Plus the uncertainty of whether their husband will turn up carried from a Hercules in a flag-draped coffin.

It’s still a bloody shame. Amy used to think the sun shone out of your arse, and Luke’s a good kid. Pity he thinks that whenever things go wrong in this world it’s always his fault.

Gillet allowed the remark to pass; no good churning the obvious.

I’ll get a couple of beers.

Pinkie, a lanky, raw young man of twenty-four, ten years Gillet’s junior, nodded. Unlike the majority of soldiers serving in Afghanistan, who preferred their hair shaved to the skull, he sported a thatch of wiry straw-coloured hair. His large eyes were owl-like, with a tendency at first glance to make a person feel sorry for him, until they became better acquainted with his hard-nosed attitude.

Armed with an ice-cold six pack, Gillet slid the patio doors shut to keep out the mid-evening chill. Slumped comfortably in the brown velour couch, he ripped off the tab, pulled a long swig and stared expectantly into Pinkie’s face.

Hey, remember the kid who tried to warn you of the booby-trapped door? You know, for a few scraps of food he’d give us snippets of information concerning the Taliban movements?

Shafiq?

That’s him. Apparently, the Taliban discovered his little game, cut the head off his father and raped and killed his mother and sisters. The people in his village were too afraid to give him shelter for fear of Taliban reprisals and threw him out. News is he wound up in Sangin, north-east of Camp Bastion, begging for food, until he met a guy called Ahmed. The story goes Ahmed gave him food and a roof over his head... And now we come to the downside of things, Pinkie said, fidgeting with his can of beer. "I don’t suppose the words Bacha Bazi mean anything to you?"

No, should they?

No, they didn’t to me until I made a few enquiries. Loosely translated, the words stand for boys’ play. It’s an age-old cultural tradition recently banned by the Taliban that has reared his head again. Wealthy men offer money to poor families of good-looking boys between the ages of nine and fourteen, on the pretext they intend to train them to be dancers. Dressed with bangles and bells around their wrists and ankles, men pay to watch them dance, after which the boys are used for sex. No need to tell you access to women in Muslim countries is severely restricted, so these boys act as substitutes. It’s pretty much a form of sexual slavery, with little chance of escape. Anyway, this guy Ahmed is a local pimp always on the lookout for a few American dollars to pay his way to the States, and he’s found a buyer for Shafiq in Kabul – an ex-Mujahidin commander, a relic from the time of the Afghan–Soviet war with friends in high places, right up to the higher echelons of the Afghan government, so no one dare touch him.

How do you know all this, and why doesn’t he run away?

Word gets around, you know that. Anyway, where would he go? If the Taliban find him they’ll torture him to death for helping us, and if he leaves the Mujahidin commander after he paid a small fortune for him, he can expect the same treatment from him. Rumour is most don’t survive much past the age of eighteen; from then on they are classed as adults. They’re killed or they spend the remainder of their lives begging in the streets to survive.

And this shit is legal? This is the kind of crap we are fighting and dying for out there?

Legal, what’s legal? This is Afghanistan we are talking about. You know as well as I do they don’t give a shit for anything unless it reeks of money. And from what I’ve heard the competition’s pretty fierce between the owners of the best-looking boys; they are treated as status symbols.

Gillet sucked in his cheeks as a vivid image of Shafiq zoomed into his mind. The ever-smiling face framed by a mass of curly jet-black hair, the soft doe-like brown eyes, just another kid like millions of others all over the world. They didn’t ask to be born in some godforsaken dusty shithole, existing in much the same way as before the Bible was even written.

Why doesn’t he go to the police or the Afghan National Army? Surely something can be done?

As if they give a shit.

Okay. What about our lot? They rant and rave about hearts and minds, kiss the arse of every Muslim that walks on two legs. Tell them this kid and others like him have saved the lives of hundreds of coalition troops, and this is how they end up.

Pinkie grimaced. Whenever Gillet presented himself in this manner, common sense was never going to prevail. He glanced at the photograph of Gillet and Amy standing outside the chapel on their wedding day, a split second of joy and happiness frozen in time.

You know the answer to that as well as I do. Come on, let’s go down the pub and get rat-arsed.

Yeah, that’s not a bad idea. I’ll see if Debbie will sit with Luke for a couple of hours.

*

As hard as Gillet tried, sleep wouldn’t come that night. A skin full of strong lager along with half a dozen single malt whiskies did nothing to prevent the image of Shafiq visiting his troubled mind. There must be something he could do, someone who could help him – Children in Need, UNICEF, perhaps the Red Cross. He waited for his mood to cool. Even before finishing with the army he had sensed his pattern of life becoming distorted, leaving him wondering who he was and where he was going. He had put it down to fatigue, while at the same time always aware of what he was and that he would never change. Deep in the crevices of his troubled mind an ever-increasing urgency urged him to step away from his past. Accept that the time had come to learn to flow with the tide, make a go of his marriage and act like a responsible adult to his family, but Amy had immediately sensed the significance of the change of circumstances in his life and knew he wouldn’t settle for a normal life as other people knew it. She’d watched him brood, realising sooner or later he would have nothing left to hold onto, no grasp of life as it should be. When dawn pushed away the darkness in readiness for another day, he closed his eyes and slept.

Thirty minutes later, Luke leapt on him and ripped the quilt away.

Come on, Company Sergeant Major Gillet, you are late on parade, he squealed.

Gillet forced a grin.

Come here and give me a hug, you big wassock.

By the time Luke had left for school, Pinkie had just about managed to struggle from his bed in the spare room. Unshaven, and with bloodshot eyes, he made his way down the stairs and spent the remainder of the morning sobering up with endless mugs of coffee and, unable to kick the habit, chain-smoking Marlboro Lights. He’d never yet matched Gillet pint for pint, and more than likely never would, but last night Gillet went for the booze big time. He knew why and kept his mouth shut. Time heals, and one day his friend would get over the loss of Amy. At one o’clock that afternoon, the taxi pulled up and the two men did the man thing – a brief tight hug and numerous backslaps followed by a firm clasp of hands.

Forget the kid Shafiq, Tommo, get on with your life and look after Luke. He needs you more than ever now, Pinkie said, jabbing his forefinger into Gillet’s chest.

Gillet shrugged.

Yeah, maybe I’ll do that. If you hear any more of him, let me know ASAP. Take care of yourself, Pinkie, and keep your back covered.

For a brief moment Pinkie’s temper rose at Gillet’s nonchalant attitude towards Luke. He felt like blurting out that maybe he should see a doctor, get some medication to settle his nerves, relieve the stress. But he knew all about Gillet’s stubborn nature; his advice would fall on stony ground.

Yeah, you too, mate, he muttered.

Alone in the kitchen, Gillet felt hot and thick-headed from the previous night’s drinking, and toyed with a fresh cup of coffee while flipping through Luke’s video game magazine. It seemed pointless to try to read in his present state, so instead, he glanced idly at the pictures. The harsh ring of the phone startled him from his fitful concentration and, thumbing the green button, he checked the number. It was his mother. Amy had called to tell her they had split and that she was sorry she couldn’t be a better mother to Luke. Mrs Gillet told her to grow up and cut her off.

If you need time on your own, Luke can stay with me and your dad; we are only five minutes away. Apart from that, I won’t say anything more on the matter, she said.

For the best portion of the day he tried, without success, to slot Amy into a niche of his mind, somewhere he could summon or dismiss her at will. At night he slumbered in fitful spasms, waiting for time to stall and finally collapse. All the time, embedded in his heart the cold haunt of melancholy hung heavy like a wet blanket, and a sense of great sadness seemed to leap within him, leaving him feeling empty and drained. Out of nowhere the image of Shafiq loomed into his mind, pushing all away as if nothing else really mattered. For hour after hour he tossed and turned, unable to sleep, until finally he threw the quilt to one side and made his way downstairs. Dressed in just his pants, he sat at the kitchen table staring out the window as dawn brought forth the light of a new day. Hunched behind a shrub, Nettles, the neighbours’ black cat, waited, still and tensed, ready to pounce on a sparrow busily seeking material to build a nest. For no reason he could nail down, the vision of Shafiq persisted as if etched in his memory and he leaned forward and rested his chin on his steepled fingers. No matter how hard he tried to change, he saw most things as a form of provocation; the slightest disruption to his routine had become a pending confrontation. Separated from the only life he’d ever known, he needed something to fill his mind, something to grasp and channel his energies into. Then, at that precise moment, everything suddenly became uncommonly clear. The answer had been there all the time, staring him full in the face. Shafiq, he must find Shafiq, get him out of Afghanistan and help find him a new life away from those that treated life as if it were no more than a piss in a bucket. His resentment rose, getting the better of him, then dipped. The brown waters that swilled though his mind were no longer murky.

*

The following evening he made the short drive into town and entered the Maharajah Indian restaurant. A couple of leaves ago he’d thrown out a bunch of drunken troublemakers, and Aziz, the proprietor, glad to show his appreciation, had been more than happy to give him the occasional meal on the house. Tonight, raucous laughter drowned out the lilting Eastern music. Half a dozen men on a fishing trip necked alcohol direct from the bottle. By a window a couple sat studying the menu. Others reached out for a glass of water to quell the fiery spices balancing precariously on incandescent tongues.

It is always good to see you, Mr Gillet. Aziz smiled, holding out his hand.

And you, my friend. Unfortunately, I’m not here for a meal. Is Ari around?

Of course, he is in the back. Is something wrong?

No. I’d like a word, if that’s okay with you?

No problem. Please wait and I will fetch him. Aziz shrugged.

Ari was an Afghan, or so he said. No one seemed certain where he really came from, but he was an expert at Indian cuisine and that was all Aziz needed to know.

For twenty minutes Ari sat and scratched at his two-day-old beard as Gillet explained how Shafiq had saved his life. It was the moment Gillet mentioned the words Bacha Bazi that his demeanour changed dramatically. His eyes dimmed and he raised his arms theatrically in a gesture of futility.

Forget it, Mr Gillet, you’ll never be permitted to get this boy out of Afghanistan. Not only is it dangerous, it is impossible.

There must be something I can do. How about adoption?

Shaaria law does not recognise adoption. In some cases guardianship may be considered, but to a Christian family, it would be most unlikely. After thirty years of ongoing conflict there are thousands of orphans roaming the streets in every town and city of Afghanistan and Iraq. People the world over are prepared to adopt these unfortunate doe-eyed orphans, but as I have already said, it is against Islamic law, Ari said, taking a long drag on his cigarette and sending a stream of grey smoke up to the ceiling.

Aziz looked up at the no smoking sign.

If I could smuggle him over the border into Pakistan, at least he’d have a chance of a better life.

Mr Gillet, please try to understand what I say, Ari said, staring into Gillet’s eyes. "It would be as difficult as kidnapping one of your royal princes. Sure, these dancing boys exist, but they are the property of very influential people who exist beyond the realms of common morality. Should you be caught attempting to kidnap one of these boys, in all probability you will both be killed, or at least suffer horrible mutilation. You would be wise to forget both Bacha Bazi and the boy."

Gillet pushed the cup away, watching Ari nonchalantly flick ash on the floor. Aziz finally ran out of patience, snatched the cigarette from Ari’s hand and threw it from an open window.

Yeah, I hear you; now tell me how I can get into Afghanistan, Gillet said stubbornly.

In a moment of lucidity Ari rose without a word and, followed by Aziz, disappeared through the door leading into the kitchen area. Gillet shrugged. Maybe they had lost their appetite for the conversation, but he wasn’t about to give up. Outside, he glanced up at the dark wispy clouds drifting past the half-moon in the darkening sky; tomorrow was going to be another fine day. As he walked towards his car it was that word again, maybe; the word sounded like a curse, something sent to separate reason from hope. Yet he knew hope was a good thing. In its own time it comes and goes, and never dies. He stopped and gazed out over the dark grey sea, listening to the tide gently lap over the sand. Over the past few weeks the pain in his leg had eased and he decided to walk the last half-mile to his home. When he drew level with an alley separating a burger bar from a health food