the churning of cement mixers. The sun beat on the bus roof, minutes passed.
Maybe there was shade from a tree or a building, but the guards outside the bus came nearer, and Caleb could listen. It was drawled, slow talk.
'Me, I wouldn't have let any of them out. Me, I'd have kept them all here, here for the shed.'
'Three weeks, so I heard, ready for when the tribunals start up.'
'Are we going to hang them, inject them or fry them in the shed?'
'Each of them's too good for these bastards.'
'Do that and there's no chance for regrets, kind of final… I mean, who says those jerks are innocent and should be sent home?'
T reckon the high and mighty said it, and as usual their talk is probable shit.'
The engine started up ami he no longer heard the voices. Birds sang, and . there was the waft of salted air through the open door of the bus, and he heard gates open in front of them, then scrape shut after them. On his knee was a little plastic bag, compliments of the Joint Task Force, Guantanamo.
It contained a change of underpants, fresh socks, a bar of soap, a toothbrush and a small tube of paste. He did not know that beside the gate now closed behind them was the big board that said, 'Honor Bound to Defend Freedom.'
They drove for the ferry and the airfield on the far side of the bay. He wanted nothing of them, would carry with him only the bracelet on his wrist that gave his name, Fawzi al-Ateh. As the bus bumped through more checkpoints, past more guards, he put the plastic bag on the bus floor and kicked it back under the seat. He wanted nothing of them but that they should be hurt, by his hand.
The fly came back, settled on her lip. Beth swiped at it again with savagery. She saw him.
With short stumbled strides, his weight on the weapon, he came clear of the shelter and headed out over the sand. His robe was hooked into his waist, the sun caught the whiteness of the new dressing and his shadow stretched away in front of him. The guide's boy had come to her, told her she should leave in the night, and she had spoken of her bloody promise. She should have gone in the night to the snoring, tossing Bartholomew, and told him, ordered him, to load up the big dose to burn away the dream. She had not had the courage. He reached the guide.
At that distance Beth could not have heard words spoken between them. She screwed her eyes to see better and did not think words were spoken. He let his weight settle on the weapon that supported him, reached down to the guide's lap and lifted the rifle. There was no protest from the guide, no struggle for the rifle. He stood over the guide, the weapon as his crutch, and both his hands held it. She heard – as an echoed sound across the sand – the scrape of metal on metal as he cocked it.
He held the rifle in one hand and turned, with his weight on the weapon and the length of its tube, so that he faced vaguely towards her. He moved. She leaned her weight against the tyre and watched him. His face was contorted. The veins stood out on his neck and the lines cut his forehead, and his eyes were near closed as if that might hold back the pain. She saw the first blood trickle from his lip where he bit it. He came nearer to her and the sand scuffed out from under his bare feet. The guide still sat and she could not read his thought, and further back and higher the boy was on the shallow dune. She wriggled back against the tyre, but it was ungiving. Then she realized. He was not coming towards her. His target was at a shallow angle from her.
Beth swung her head.
The tail of the Mitsubishi was past the Land Rover's front fender.
Bart had his back to him, had not seen him, was stuffing packeted syringes, rolled dressings and tablet bottles into a plastic bag. He did not know that he was stalked.
The rifle was held out, but Beth saw the way the barrel wavered, wobbled, as if caught by the wind.
Bart had a small refrigerated box and unzipped it. He put the plastic bag into it. He reached into the tail of the Mitsubishi and lifted out a water bottle. First he mopped a handkerchief across his face, then he swigged from the bottle.
The rifle was raised. Its barrel seemed to shake. She thought he struggled to hold it steady, and to aim. He was a dozen yards behind Bart.
Beth screamed. No words of warning, only an anguished cry that pierced the quiet.
She saw Bart start up, saw his shock, saw him stare at her, then follow her line of sight. He fixed his gaze on the rifle barrel, then seemed to shrivel.
She heard Bart's voice. 'You don't have to do that, my friend. No cause for you to be worried by me. Snitch on you? No… no. Turn in a fighter? Been there. I've seen your face – it doesn't matter. Sort of made the decision last night. I'd go to my grave rather than turn in another fighter, done that long ago… I'm grateful to you. Coming down here and getting you on your feet has been kind of important to me – like the chains are off, my friend. What I'm saying is…'
She saw that the barrel of the rifle was steady. She pulled herself up against the tyre. She saw the finger slide from the guard to the trigger. She gulped in a breath, and ran.
Beth saw his head lift from the sight. Her boots ground and kicked in the sand as she slithered nearer to Bart.
For the slightest moment, there was irresolution on his face. .
The rifle dropped.
Beth reached Bart. She stood in front of him, panted, felt the heave of his chest against her back. She was a shield for him.
'You don't have to,' Bart's voice quavered in her ear.
'I do.'
Images cascaded in Beth's mind. His control over the men who would have killed her, his sweat dripping as he dug out the sand-locked wheels, his smile of gratitude as she passed him water, his frown of concern and patience as he cleaned the engine, his peace as he slept in the sand beside her, the stars and moon above h i m… The barrel was up, aimed. She looked into his face and searched for passion, loathing, madness, and saw only a strange calm. She thought his eyes had the emptiness of death, as if the light had gone from them.
'I've seen your face. I remember it. Be a hero, be a killer. Isn't that what you want?… Do you know what you said before the drip worked? I'll tell you: 'They'll hear my name, they'll know it…
Everyone will hear my name… When you hear my name, all of you bastards, it'll be because I've done what my family wants of me.'
Your family, big deal, have made an animal of you. Common Brit scum is what you are, always will be – and vain as a fucking peacock
… I've seen your face and I will not forget it.'
She stared back at the barrel of the rifle and she knew. Through the sights he must look into her eyes. She held her gaze steady, never lost his eyes. The finger was on the trigger.
She hadn't seen him come. One moment she faced the barrel, the next – the boy was in front of her. The boy protected her.
She felt the trembling of his slight sinewy body against her stomach, and against her back was Bart. Could he shoot? To save him, the boy had been near to death in the desert. To save him, the boy had trekked to her. Over the boy's head, she saw now the pain in his face, and it was not the pain from the wound. The sun caught the bracelet on his wrist, and she thought that when it had been put on him he had not weakened. Now he did. More movement from the corner of her eye. The boy's father walked past the long-flung shadow, and past him, never looked at him, and past the raised barrel. The boy's father spat into the sand, then turned and stood in front of his son. Beth knew he would not shoot. They made their untidy line, body to body, and faced him.
She did not taunt him again, did not need to.
At that moment, as Beth saw it, there was a vulnerability about him, and loneliness, and In snapped movements, those of a trained man, the rifle barrel was raised towards the brightened skies, there was the clatter of the mechanism as it was wrenched back and the bullet ejected. The bullet, its case gleaming, arched from the rifle and fell, and his finger was off the trigger. There was the click of the safety lever. The rifle was held out, and the guide went a dozen paces and took it. She wondered if he was broken – if she had isolated him, had killed him.
He walked away from them, using the weapon to lean on, struggling to walk.
Bart said softly, behind her, 'How's he going to get his name up in lights, murder half a city, if he can't blow
