third sweep they've done, but Blythe must think we're still here so he's getting them to do it over and over. Just pray he gives up soon. I don't want to starve to death up here.' He gave a quiet, sardonic laugh.
'Back when I first met you, you told me you were a celebrity blogger,' I said.
Tariq nodded. 'I used to blog about life in Basra under the occupation. I had two hundred thousand readers. Some of it was printed in a British paper and a publishing company wanted to do a book. A few other bloggers did it, made big bucks. I'd just signed the bloody deal when everyone started dying. Just my luck.'
'So how…'
'Did I become a soldier? My knowledge of covert stuff made me a natural, I suppose.'
I was confused. 'But how does a blogger become an expert in covert stuff? I mean, why would you need it?'
'You really know nothing about what life here was like, do you,' he said, shaking his head in wonder. He wasn't annoyed at my ignorance, merely resigned, as if he expected the rest of the world to be blind, stupid and uninterested.
'Enlighten me.'
'Bloggers were targets. If I dared to criticize one of the militias, there was a very good chance they would find me and kill me. And that's just for writing about how hard it was to buy bread in their district.'
'People would try and kill you just for blogging?'
'And I did more than that. I investigated. I chased stories, played the journalist, tried to find the truth about certain things.'
'Like?'
'Kidnappings, massacres, bombings. It wasn't hard. Basra was not a huge city, the grapevine was very good. And all the time I had to keep my identity secret. If anyone ever connected me with my blog, I was dead.'
'And did anybody ever realize it was you?'
'No, but they laid a trap for me. I thought I was so careful, but they threatened the family of one of my contacts and lured me into an ambush. I was looking into the looting of the stores outside town. My contact told me he knew a British soldier who was helping the looters. But the militia was waiting for me at the rendezvous. Luckily a routine patrol came past, and I was able to just walk away. One in a million chance.
'But after that they knew who I was, so I could never go home again. I had to go into hiding, which is why I ended up working with your dad. I was lucky. Some of my friends, fellow bloggers here and in Baghdad, they were not so lucky.'
'And now you lead the resistance.'
'What's left of it. Anyway, I've got nothing better to do; my laptop's run out of batteries. If only I had an XO, with wireless mesh networking and some good cantennas we could have a local network up and running in no time.'
'Stop,' I laughed. 'I have no idea what you're saying. I can use computers but I have no idea how they work'
'So what were you going to be, huh?' asked Tariq. 'Before The Cull turned you into soldier boy. You were going to university to study?'
'I have no idea. I wasn't a failure at school, but I didn't exactly get the greatest grades either. I'd probably have ended up doing English at some crappy university, assuming I got in. After that, God knows.
'All my life I've had my dad telling me what he didn't want me to be – a soldier. I never had a clue what I wanted to be. Rich, I suppose. Irresistibly attractive to women. I dunno. I was fourteen when The Cull hit. I hadn't even chosen my GCSEs yet, although I had one meeting with a careers advisor to help me choose.'
'Careers advisor? Someone who tells you what jobs you'd be good at, yeah?'
'Yeah, something like that.'
'What did they recommend for you?'
'Promise not to laugh?'
'I swear on the grave of Warren Ellis.'
'They said I should go into banking.'
'Ha!'
'Yeah, that was my reaction too.'
He fell silent, and I could see he was trying to frame a question.
'What you did,' he said eventually, 'was insane. You know that, right?'
'Which bit? Flying here, giving myself up to Blythe, trying to escape, letting him strap me into an electric chair?'
'All of it. Fucking insane. I mean, I know a lot of it was my idea, but honestly, if someone had tried to persuade me to do what you did I'd have told them to go fuck themselves.'
'He's my dad.'
'Is that all, though? I wonder if maybe you do not have a death wish.'
'Don't be daft,' I said, but he didn't seem convinced.
He pressed on. 'You would not be the first. Many of the people who survived The Cull took their own lives. Those who could not do that looked for people to do it for them.'
I felt a sudden surge of anger. 'Well that's not me, right?'
He just looked at me, head cocked slightly to one side, his face asking silently 'are you sure?'
'Fuck you, Tariq,' I hissed and made to rise. He grabbed my arm and I shook it off angrily before walking back to my clear patch of roof and lying back down.
I lay there seething. How fucking dare he!
'Why so angry, Nine Lives?' said the voice in my head. 'Touch a nerve, did he?'
I lay there a long time watching the night turn to grey twilight before the soft glow of morning bled across the skyline. David didn't move a muscle in all that time. Tariq, on the other hand, was restless and unsettled. He moved from one side of the roof to another, checking the area, keeping his head low to avoid being spotted. He must have been worried sick about his friends.
Dad slept like a log, proving that he was the only real soldier amongst us; he once told me that the ability to fall asleep anywhere, at any time, is one of the best tricks a combat soldier can learn.
He woke with the sun and we gathered in the centre of the roof. No-one would make eye contact with me.
'Sitrep?' asked Dad.
'They've stopped searching, and the generator's fixed,' said Tariq. 'I think we can go now.'
No sooner had he said that than there was a hum of power, a screech of feedback, and Blythe's voice echoed across the compound.
'Good morning,' he said.
'Oh crap,' said David.
None of us moved, waiting to hear what the general had to say.
'I hope you slept well,' said the echoey tannoy voice. 'I know you're still inside the walls. Your chances of getting out of here alive are not that great.'
'How the fuck…' began Tariq, but David shushed him urgently and ran to the edge of the roof, looking north. He gestured us to come and see. Blythe was standing on a clear patch of ground off in the distance, with a small group of men. It was too far to make out details, but I assumed he had a mic headset on, patched into the speakers which I now saw were hanging from every lamppost. But we were close enough to make out the detail that mattered. Five stakes driven into the ground, each with a person kneeling beside them, their hands bound behind their back.
I heard Tariq gasp in horror. My dad put his arm around him and hugged him tightly. It was a comradely, even paternal gesture and I felt an unexpected pang of jealousy.
'Is that all of them?' I asked.
Tariq nodded.
'I have with me,' the general continued, 'five of your friends. I am going to kill them whether you give yourselves up or not. But you have a choice.'
'Always a bloody choice,' said Dad.
'If you surrender now,' said the general, 'I will kill you all quickly and painlessly. You have my word.'
