But I was wrong about that. I was bundled into a Land Rover and, instead, escorted to the Field Hospital.
I was greeted by a stocky man in the uniform of the Royal Army Medical Corps.
“Miss Venzi, I’m Major Gibson. I understand you’re here to claim the body of Elizabeth Ashton.”
I swallowed, my throat suddenly dry, and stared at him.
“No, I…”
He frowned. “I understand you were her next of kin?”
“She was my friend,” I said, quietly.
“I’m sorry,” he said, shortly. “I understand this must be difficult for you. But her employers have given me her death-in-service contact list, and she’s named you as next of kin. She was quite specific about that.”
“I didn’t know,” I whispered. “But I don’t mind. What did she… what did she want to happen if…?”
“Her body will be repatriated to the UK. I understand she’s requested a cremation and a service at St Bride’s church, Fleet Street.”
That made sense. I remembered her telling me that the church’s rebuilding after the Second World War had been paid for by journalists – it was their special place. I liked that.
“What do I need to do?”
“There’s some paperwork,” he said, kindly, “and her personal effects. Her newspaper is arranging for everything else.”
I nodded slowly. “Can I see her?”
He looked me in the eye. “I’m sorry, Miss Venzi, that won’t be possible.”
I could guess the reason.
I signed the forms he gave me, and was given a box with Liz’s name on it. Her camera was on top, with her laptop and notebooks at the bottom.
I pulled out her Nikon D4 – six-thousand dollars worth of camera. Liz was – had been – serious about her work; she’d always had the best equipment.
“You can take anything you want, Miss Venzi,” said the Major.
“Thank you. Did she leave any letters?”
He shook his head. “Not that I know of. She probably filed something with her paper before she flew out.”
“Okay, thank you.”
We were interrupted by a young woman in scrubs.
“I’m sorry, Major, but we’ve got three Cat-A wounded coming in.”
He stood up, quickly. “I have to go. I’m sorry, Miss Venzi. Your escort will be out front – you’re booked on the next flight out to Kabul.”
He left abruptly. I didn’t mind: he couldn’t help Liz. Not anymore.
I sat for some minutes, staring at her box. Then I took her camera, stuffed it into my daypack, and headed out.
For the next two hours I sat in a hangar at Camp Bastion, waiting for my flight back to Kabul. I emailed my editor to explain that I needed a flight to the US, and sent the seven features that I’d already written with the photographs from the RPG attacks, as well as life at Leatherneck and from the compound. In other words, I did what Liz would have expected of me: I did my job. I would not let my paper be shortchanged – and I still had a lot to say.
Then, with my laptop balanced on my knee, I wrote Liz’s obituary. I wrote about her love of life, her compassion, her curiosity, her fine journalistic sense, her decency and belief in the value of all human life. I remembered her tall stories, her hipflask – always full of the best Scottish whisky, her sympathy, her stoicism and, most of all, her humanity.
As I wrote, I wondered what would have been said about me, had I died. Would anyone have mentioned Sebastian? Other than Liz, who knew of our affair, our crazy love? Marc knew a little, and Nicole had an inkling, but other than that, would he even have been a footnote?