She was his chattel, and she had been stolen from him. It was only the
insult that had significance for him. She had rejected and humiliated
him, and for that she was going to die.
He felt the old thrill run through his blood at the thought of the kill.
Killing had always been his trade and his vocation, but no matter how
often he exercised his craft the thrill was never blunted, the pleasure
never satiated. Perhaps it was the only true pleasure left to him, pure
and unjaded - not even the vodka could weaken and dilute it as it had
the physical act of copulation. He would enjoy killing her even more
than he had once enjoyed coupling with her.
These past few years he had hunted only the lower animals, but he had
never forgotten what it was like to hunt down and to kill a human being,
more especially a woman. He wanted Mek Nimmur, but he wanted the woman
more.
In the days of President Mengistu, when he had been the head of
counter-intelligence, -his men had known his tastes and had picked the
pretty ones for him. He had only one regret now, and that was that this
time he would have to do it swiftly. There could be no question of
drawing it i out and savouring the pleasure. Not like some of the other
experiences, which had lasted for hours, sometimes for days.
'Bitch,' he mouthed, and kicked at the dust, stamping on the faint
outline of her footprint, obliterating it just as he would do to her.
'Black fomicating bitch.'
He ran now with fresh strength and determination as he left the trail
and climbed up towards the deformed tree and the beginning of the goat
track up, the cliff.
Exactly where he expected it, he found the start of the track and
followed it upwards. The higher he climbed, the steeper it became. Often
he had to use both hands to haul himself up a gradient, or to work his
way along a narrow traverse.
The first time he had climbed this mountain he had been following the
blood spoor of the wounded ibex, but now he did not have those
splattered droplets to guide him, and twice he missed the path and found
himself in a dead end on the cliff face. He was forced to edge back from
the drop and retrace his footsteps until he found the correct urning.
Each time he did so he was aware that he was losing time, and that Mek
Nimmur might pass before he was able to intercept him.
Once he startled a small troop of wild goats which were lying on a ledge
halfway up the cliff. They went bounding away up the rock face, more
like birds than animals bound by the laws of gravity. They were led by a
huge male with a streaming beard and long spiral horns, which in its
flight showed Boris a direct route to the top of the cliff.
He tore the skin off his fingertips dragging himself up the last steep
pitch, but finally he reached the top and wormed his way over the
skyline, never lifting his head. A i human form silhouetted against the
clear, eggshell-blue sky would be visible from miles around. He moved
along behind the crest until he found a small clump of sanseveria to
give him cover, and used the erect, spiny leaves to break up the outline
of his head as he surveyed the valley a thousand feet below through the
binoculars.
