Trusted Mole: A Soldier’s Journey into Bosnia’s Heart of Darkness. Martin Bell

security, of protecting people’s identities … and what do we do with all that experience? Do we transfer it to the Balkans … ?’ I’m gulping for air. I didn’t wait for him to answer,‘… do we hell!! D’you know what names they gave the three of us? The first two they called Abbott and Costello. Can you believe it? And then I flew out as Laurel and then they changed my name to Stanley … Abbott, Costello, Laurel and Stanley. Big joke, Ian. Very funny if it wasn’t so serious. It’s our lives they’re playing with!’ I’m breathless, furious, almost shouting.

      And then quietly, ‘Ian, Abbott was blown after only three months there. The Croats found out who he was, threatened to kill him, just because he was a Serb. He was removed from theatre within twenty-four hours. He never came back.’ I lapse back into silence. Staring at my boots. Big joke.

      ‘Has it always been like this, Milos?’

      ‘Like what?’

      ‘This double life of yours. Has it got progressively worse or has it stayed the same? You’ve been back two-and-a-half years now …’

      I’m not sure what to say. I think hard for a moment, ‘...’ 95 was quite bad, the last half of ‘95. I had a naff job with the Territorial Army up north, did a parachute refresher course, my Company Commanders Course. It sort of kept me busy, but I was back there when I wasn’t busy. 1996 was so busy, that’s when I was Company Commanding in 1 PARA – twice in the States, once in Northern Ireland, once in France, in between exercises. Just didn’t stop, I wasn’t on the Dark Side much. Thought I’d cracked it. Put all my demons in the box and locked the lid.’

      ‘And?’

      ‘And then, Ian, I went to Shrivenham. Nightmare. Suddenly you’re a student along with ninety-nine others, all on an equal footing. No responsibility, except for yourself; no soldiers to look after; no careers to manage. This year has been a nightmare. It’s just got worse and worse. More and more polarised. It’s the routine.’

      ‘Routine?’

      ‘Predictable, bloody routine. Monday morning to Friday afternoon you’re a student. Live in a room there. Work hard. Drink Diet Coke only, watch the diet and become an obsessive fitness fanatic.’

      ‘And then?’

      ‘And then, get home Friday evening. Walk through the door of the museum. Tape starts playing and I’m there again on the Dark Side. Sink a bottle of red wine, stagger up to the pub, few pints of Guinness …’

      ‘How many?’

      ‘Five or six maybe. Sometimes I get a kebab, sometimes I forget to eat all weekend. Saturday’s the same. So’s Sunday. I’m there on the Dark Side with all my friends, dead and alive. And then Monday morning I drive to Shriven ham where I’m a student again, for another four and a half days. And that was my life. You keep it all inside you.’

      There’s a long silence. ‘That’s why I’m here, Ian. I’m here because when something like this happens, something big that explodes your fragile world, something that removes all your crutches and life-jackets …’ I can feel tears welling, that’s when you realise that all those things were nothing, that you’re still where you’ve always been – on the Dark Side … ’

      ‘Is that where you are now?’

      I shrug, not trusting myself to speak. Not really knowing the answer.

      Another long silence. Ian very quietly, ‘Do you want to come back?’

      I can’t speak. I nod my head and then shake it. I really don’t know.

      Ian’s scribbling something. I try to get a grip of myself.

      ‘How do you see the future?’ he asks quietly.

      ‘Sorry?’ He’s suddenly changed tack and caught me by surprise.

      ‘Do you see a future for yourself? I mean how do you see your future?’

      ‘I don’t. There isn’t one. There is no future on the Dark Side. I suppose I’ve been drifting ever since I got back. I’m still there, but I’m back. Does that make sense?’

      Ian nods. We’ve been at it over an hour. Me burbling, him listening and making the occasional note.

      I’m staring out at the sea again. It’s getting dark there. Winter’s definitely on its way. It’s dark, cold and lonely out there. Ian’s asking me a whole load of practical questions: sleep patterns, dreams, panic attacks? Alcohol intake, diet? How’s your libido? Sex life? Steady relationship? I answer him as best I can, but I don’t take my eyes off the sea. My answers are automatic. I know myself so well by now, I don’t even have to think about the answers.

      ‘If we’re to do any meaningful work we need some sort of structure to work from. When did you last see me?’ He sounds quite businesslike now.

      I’m still looking at the sea. ‘November ’93 after my first year there.’

      ‘That’s right. I’ve got the notes somewhere, but I think it would help if you took me through it … from the beginning …’

      ‘The beginning?’ The beginning? When was that? Where did it begin? This century? Last century? When I was born? The recruiting office in Plymouth? It began all over the place. Where to start? Kuwait in the desert, that’s as good a place as any.

      ‘Milos?’

      ‘Yes.’

      ‘Where did it start? What was it like?’ What was it like?

      I tear my eyes from the sea and stare at Ian. I don’t really see him. What was it like?

      I’m speaking slowly now, more measured. ‘It started in Kuwait and turned into a living nightmare. It was a completely upside down world – Alice-Through-the-Looking-Glass – warped, weird, back-to-front. I can’t begin to explain what it was like.’

      ‘Well, why don’t you just tell me about the job? Start there.’

      ‘Job? Interpreter?’ I pause for a moment. Was that it? Just that? ‘Only for a short while, Ian, just at the beginning.’ I’d hated interpreting. It had given me hideous headaches and in any case I just didn’t have that computer-like brain that the job requires.

      ‘Well, what was your job then?’ What was it? How do you describe it? It doesn’t exist in any job description that the Army has ever heard of. What was it … in a nutshell? I’m thinking hard now and it comes, absurd though it sounds.

      ‘Ian, I was a fixer.’

      ‘A fixer?’

      ‘Yeah, that’s right – a fixer, a sort of go-between … for the UN, for Rose and Smith … you know “go-and-wave-your-magic-wand” stuff.’

      ‘That’s the job they gave you?’ He sounds incredulous.

      ‘No, not really. It sort of just happened by accident. It evolved I guess … by accident.’

      ‘Okay then, but what exactly did it involve?’ I can see he’s not getting it.

      ‘Involve? Just about everything. As I’ve just said: “go and wave your magic wand at the Serbs … fix this … sort that problem out … get ’em to see it this way … get the hostages released …” on and on and on. There was no job description, just sort of made it up as I went along.’

      ‘How?’

      ‘History, that’s how. By prostituting myself, not my body … but my history, my family history … I was a sort of historical prostitute. I prostituted my background and my soul to get close to those people.’

      ‘Which people?’

      ‘The Serbs. Just them. Hid it from the others, the Muslims and Croats. They’d have killed me had they found out. They tried to kill Nick Abbott. This is serious shit, Ian. You don’t