Molly lay down in the makeshift dormitory. She dozed between blasts, almost sleeping. But it was a disoriented slumber, befuddled by a clouded, interrupted dream. She dreamt she was with the little girl in the photograph. They were hanging strings of jewels over their ears and wandering in a cornfield when they came across a tap, and then a soldier in a helmet. Just as he raised his rifle her dream changed and she was trying to open the door to Charles' bedroom in his parent's smart house in Bath. The door was locked and then there was a sudden crash and the smart pictures on the wall melted and suddenly she was back in the Malik's house and a faceless woman in a Burkka was cooking over the fire, while the water ran, unchecked in a glassy stream across the floor and out through the door. Then there was another shuddering explosion, which woke Molly up.

She lay, still in her helmet, listening to the shells, trying to get back to sleep, trying not to give in to fear. She wondered what Charles would be doing now, whether he'd got through to the big wigs at Bastion, what they'd be planning. Surely they'd get them out of there?

Eventually she gave up trying to get back to sleep and went to find Brains, who was coming off guard duty together with one of the few remaining Afghan policemen.

"Brains you're a smart guy. Have a look at these photos." She handed him the album. "Where do you think they were taken?"

"Ha, ha," he teased opening the album to a random page near the back of the book. "You bow to my superior intellect at last."

"Superior intellect? Don't flatter yourself! You're older than me, and there's some photos taken from before I was born, so I thought, who better?"

"Well if it's a question of age, the Bossman's older."

"He's never going to have time to look at some pictures when we've got shells raining down on us, is he?"

"I suppose not. Well that one was taken in front of the Alamo," he pointed to an image of three women entombed in dusty blue burqas. There was nothing identifiable about any of them, except the taller one wore black boots.

"Blimey, look at the size of that."

Molly peered at another photo of a little boy struggling to hold up a large weapon. Behind him stood a man in uniform and flip-flops, his grinning face partly obscured by wraparound dark glasses.

"It's fucked up, isn't it?" Brains added.

"You're not wrong there," she replied. "But it was these photos, at the front. I was wondering where you thought these were from."

"Brains flipped back to the beginning. "I dunno Molly. Isn't that Mecca?

He pointed at another photo: "Plenty of weapons there…"

"Look that's Karachi International Airport."

"Karachi? Where's that? It sounds like some glamorous holiday destination!"

"What like Majorca?" Brains teased. "I can't see any tattooed Brits puking up in the background. Why do you say that?"

"Well look at her swanky clothes and dark glasses."

"I don't think so Molly! Karachi is the capital of Pakistan, it's one of the biggest, most crime-ridden cities in Asia!"

Brains saw Molly's dispirited face and stopped laughing. Embarrassed he looked back at the album. "Why don't you ask Kushan here?" Brains gestured at the policeman. "He might even know whose album it is."

The policeman flicked disinterestedly through the pages. He stopped at a photo of two middle-aged men with eagles. "This is Gorbat," he explained to Brains. "He is the Malik. He is a good hunter with those… birds. And this is his wife. He pointed to a picture of a woman in a grey burka."

"How do you know that?" asked Dawes: "You can't even see her face."

I know, because she is also here, with children. This one," he pointed at a photo of a little boy, "is Salazar. Might be, he is 13 now. He is fighting with the other side."

"With the Taliban? Fighting that young?"

The policeman shrugged his shoulders: "In our country some boys join the army at 10."

"And what about that little girl?"

"I don't know where she is. Must be she will be married with children somewhere."

"But she can't be," Molly almost shouted. "She looks even younger than that boy."

"This is Afghanistan. Our girls like to marry young."

'You mean you men like to marry girls young' thought Molly, irritated. She opened her mouth to protest, and then closed it. There was no point in arguing. It was tense enough in here already. "

"What's the mother's name?"

"I don't know. She will be known as 'Mother of Salazar'. "She was from Kabul so she didn't grow up here," he derided, adding "We didn't see her under her burka like local girls. I don't tell what she is like."

He shrugged as if it was all of no consequence and handed the album back to Brains.

"How fucked up is that," Molly whispered to no one in particular: "She doesn't even have a name."

"I'm sure she does," reasoned Brains. "It's just that Kushan doesn't know."

Molly opened the album again. Somehow she couldn't stop herself. "So this little girl here, from the 70s, who wore shoes to a posh school somewhere and travelled to Karachi with her classy mum, she's probably the one who married Gorbat and this is her photo album. And that'll be her daughter and that'll be her son, that sweet little bleeder with the big weapon."

"Who probably grew up and joined the Taliban and is aiming it at our heads at this very moment, the little bastard," added Brains, looking across the town through binoculars."

"Anyway Molly, take your precious album away and get some scoff. Haven't you got an hour before changeover."

In the mess, someone, one of the policemen perhaps, had cooked rice and a vegetable curry. Just the sight of it put Molly off. She carried some corn on the cob and a black tea to the table where Fingers was shovelling down some nauseating-looking dried meat with his penknife.

"Want some reindeer Dawes?" he said stabbing a pink translucent slice and holding it up for her to look through.

"Reindeer?" She felt squeamish at the thought. "Do they even exist in Afghan? I thought they only came out in films at Christmas."

"Yep, Rudolph's for real, and he tastes damn good! Some Finnish troops left us their rations when they pulled out last month."

He jabbed his greasy penknife in the direction of Molly's tea. "No need to have it black. There's milk over there."

"Goat?"

Fingers sniggered. "Produced by my own fair hand this morning! If you knew how long it took to get those bleaty fuckers to stand still, you'd be damn grateful."

Molly looked at his grimy fingernails and shuddered.

"Fucking no thanks. You're not going to get me drinking that stuff."

"You'll have to, starting tomorrow, Dawes."

Molly's heart seemed to still at the sound of the Boss's voice at her shoulder. She put her sweet corn down carefully and looked up at him.

"Rationing starts tomorrow. We can't afford to run out of water and this latest firing makes another foray to the town very difficult."

"Sir."

She watched him walk away. Bloody hell, how did he have that way of making the screwiest requests seem completely fucking reasonable? So sensible in fact, that you felt like a tool for complaining?

She wished he would give her something. A faint smile maybe, some softness in his eyes perhaps, a slight warmth of voice even. Something to show her he still loved her - to give her the confidence she needed.

"What's this then?" Fingers picked up the album.

"It's a photo album I found in the house last night. Look, there's this woman…"

But Fingers was flipping through the photos too fast to notice. "Look at that littl'n firing an RPG7."

"He was about 10 years old when that was taken."

"Ten? Well he'll be a shit shot now then won't he?"

He flipped over another page: "Fuck me! That's a stinger, a man pad," he burst out. "That's probably the one responsible for downing your helicopter."

He grabbed the album and hurried over to the table where Captains James and Newlish were finishing their meal.

"Look at this photo Boss. They've got a SAM here. That's probably what they got the helicopter down with."

Molly watched Charles bent low, inspecting the photograph.

"What is this?" he quizzed, turning to the cover of the album. "Where did it come from?"

"Molls brought it from the house we were in last night."

Charles looked over, his eyebrows raised so Molly stood up and walked over to their table.

"Who are these men Dawes?"

Molly pointed at one of them: "That's the Malik. He's called Gorbut. That young boy, he's Gorbut's son, we believe. He's Taliban."

"And the third?"

"I don't know Sir."

"Well I want to know. See if any of the Police can identify him first. If they can't provide a name, we'll send a copy to Bastion. Get Ikram, the interpreter on it straight away."

He flipped through the pages quickly, scanning any photos showing weapons. "I want an ID on all the men with weapons, particularly our friend here with the SAM. Where was that picture taken? Can we identify the house? And I want to know everything you can find out about Gorbut from these pictures. Are any of them family members? Wives? Children?"

"Good work Dawes," he flashed her an admiring glance. "Nice to see you're still using your talents to get intel about the local community." He nodded at Captain Newlish. "This information may lead us to the SAM, but it might also be very useful if we have to negotiate."

"But," he glanced back at Molly, "I'm going to hand this over to Fingers to research now."

Oh fucking typical, though Dawes, resentfully.

"I know you'd probably prefer to do it yourself, but it's sensible to give it to Fingers. You need to prioritise medical duties while we're one man down with the potential for more shelling injuries and… he paused "I'm sorry to say, but realistically Finger's will have a better response from the Afghan police."

He was her Captain. He didn't have to explain his decisions to her. That was above and beyond. In normal circumstances she'd just be expected to follow his orders.

"Yes Boss."

She thought she'd kept the reluctance out of her voice, but he must have heard it because he looked over with some sort of understanding in his eyes and said softly: "I'm sorry Molly. It's high priority".

"No need to explain Captain James," conceded Newlish with a mollifying smile at Molly. "Dawes fully understands her responsibilities and limitations".

'Limitations! What, the limitations of being a woman working in a sexist country?' thought Molly. 'Well fuck him! He's might be my Captain, but he's sexist mansplainer and for that, fuck him!

In any case Charles wasn't listening. He was already pulling back the sticky pages and deftly removing photos from the album: "Fingers copy these first. I don't want to lose anything that might help us identify where that SAM is located."

Within seconds the album had been dismantled and Molly felt an irrational anger as she collected the discarded photos of the women and children, which had fluttered, unwanted to the floor.

'Why do I feel so upset about this? Why?' she asked herself later as she tucked the photos under her pillow. 'I don't know this woman, and she should mean nothing to me, and yet… I can't stop wondering what happened to her and her children.'

'She's got nothing. Probably not even a name to most of these people. And I've taken away her memories and now, because of yet more men, I'll never get them photos back to her," Molly scrubbed away an unexpected tear and then laughed.

"Christ Dawes, get a grip!" she chided out loud. "It's only hormones."

"Aw, are you on a 'code red' Molly?" asked Maisie unexpectedly from the bed behind her.

"What?" Molly swung around.

Maisie got off her bed and came to sit next to Molly. "You know, 'Bloody Mary'… 'on the rag'? It really gets me down sometimes."

Molly snapped: "As it happens…" She paused, realising she was being rude. It's just… this… this place. The Alamo. Being here day after day… It's depressing."

"Too right. Don't let it get you down though Molly. Got to keep our spirits up."

"If I have to stay here for much longer I'll probably end up three stops down from Plaistow!"

Maisie looked flummoxed: "Three stops down from where?"

"Plaistow. Three stops down from Plaistow on the district line is Barking."

Maisie looked embarrassed: "I still don't get it."

"You know, like 'Barking mad'… 'Ere you might have the accent, but you ain't much of a Cockney are you Richards!"

"Nah. I was born in Old St, but me and my mum moved to Colchester when my dad left and all them piss artists moved in."

"Colchester? Where's that then?"

"Essex. We speak Estuary down there. Not that cockney slang. It's like another… language" Maisie picked up a photo of the woman off the bed. "Who's this then?"

"She's the Malik's wife."

"Blimey. She can't even take off her Burka for a photograph. How crap is that?"

"Totally shit. And this is probably her daughter, see…" Molly started to explain.

"Mind you," interrupted Maisie with a cheeky giggle. "I'd love to wear one of those burka things. Imagine, I could parade down Colchester High St naked underneath one and no one would know!"

Hi everyone, sorry this chapter got delayed by a lot of RL work! As usual, thanks for your nice comments and encouragement! best wishes Dancex