‘You’re making quite a collection of people who owe you their lives, Victor,’ she said as she filled the container from the bottle under the stairs. ‘Now you have a mercenary.’
‘I’m not a mercenary,’ Stratton said defensively. He wasn’t actually offended. He was too thick-skinned for that. But he wanted to avoid the word’s negative connotations.
‘Perhaps he just needs to look up the word,’ Louisa said to Victor as she took a bowl from a shelf and spooned some of the food into it. ‘Okay. So what are you if you’re not a mercenary?’ she asked, turning to face Stratton.
‘You wouldn’t call the Fedex man a mercenary.’
‘Why not? He delivers anything to anybody who pays.’
‘Don’t bother,’ Victor said, interrupting Stratton before he could reply. ‘You will never win with her.’
Louisa collected up the food and drink and went to the door.
Stratton opened it for her.
‘You have made an enemy of Hector tonight,’ she said, looking at Victor. ‘That was unwise.’
Victor shrugged. ‘Maybe you can put in a good word for me.’
The thinnest of smiles formed on her lips. ‘The Save the Victor club just keeps on growing.’
‘You can’t have too many members,’ he said, scraping the last contents from his bowl and sucking it off the spoon.
‘See you tomorrow,’ Louisa said. She glanced at Stratton holding the door open for her and although her instincts and breeding required a thank-you she could not bring herself to voice it and walked out without saying another word.
Stratton closed the door and sat back down in his chair.
Victor took a black cheroot from a pocket. ‘There’s a bunk upstairs,’ he said as he lit up. ‘I’ll try and get you out of here before the sun comes up. Hector has spies here. I don’t think he’ll pursue you but it’s best to take the safer option when you can.’
Stratton felt suddenly tired. The thought of lying down sounded very good. He stood, picked up his pack, parachute bag and carbine and walked up the stairs. ‘Thanks for dinner,’ he said.
‘My pleasure,’ Victor replied.
Stratton dumped his pack beside the bunk, unzipped the parachute bag and tipped the contents out onto the floor. He began to unravel the chute, picking out twigs and other debris from the material. Then he hooked the harness around the banister ball at the top of the stairs and walked the suspension lines to the far end of the room, untangling and stretching them out.
Victor came to the top of the stairs to see what he was doing. ‘We don’t have any planes if you’re planning on parachuting out of here.’
‘I’m drying it out.’
‘You are a professional, aren’t you?’ Victor asked, his tone rhetorical.
Stratton looked up at him.The comment was correct, but not in the way the other man intended.
‘I’ll see you in the morning,’ Victor said and headed back down the stairs. ‘I like to sleep below. The rats that live in the thatch irritate me.’
Stratton glanced up at the reed ceiling. His back suddenly ached from the day’s activities - a combination of the jump and the long yomp. He was looking forward to lying down and hurried to finish cleaning the chute.
Stratton had a fitful night’s sleep, waking up at every sound from inside and outside the cabin. The most annoying disturbance came from the family of rodents - or rats, as Victor had described them - that was living in the reed roof. They kept scurrying about, causing bits of thatch to fall on him, which eventually prompted him to erect his mosquito net. No sooner had he done that than the rain came down heavily. It got rid of the rodents, only to replace them with another irritation: a constant cascade of drips that the net could not shield him from. After shifting his wooden bunk around the floor more than once he eventually found a drip-free zone. Then, just as he thought he was finally dozing off, he heard one of the stairs creak. It felt like he had been asleep for barely minutes but when he opened his eyes he could make out objects in the room by the early morning light coming through gaps in the roof. He watched the top of the stairs, resting his hand on the stock of his M4.
Victor’s freshly shaven face appeared. ‘I see you did not trust my hospitality,’ he said.
Stratton did not understand and sat up.
‘You slept with your boots on,’ Victor explained.
‘Oh,’ Stratton said. ‘An old habit when I’m in a new place.’
‘I spent the first year of the campaign sleeping in my boots. And with good reason. We always seemed to be running away . . . You want some coffee?’
‘Sure,’ Stratton said, scratching the stubble on his chin.
‘Do you wash?’
Stratton thought it was an odd question. ‘When I get the chance.’
‘It’s a choice one makes in these circumstances. I’ll put some water on the stove,’ Victor said, going back downstairs.
Stratton opened his pack, removed a small bag and dug out a toothbrush and some paste. He went downstairs to the sink, which had no taps, and searched around it, looking inside a couple of jugs.
‘I just realised I used the last of the water. I’m going to get some more,’ Victor said, picking up a bucket. ‘Use the coffee.’ He held out a mug to Stratton.
The soldier took the advice, brushed his teeth and rinsed his mouth with the coffee.
‘Oh. I’ve just remembered - you’re not going anywhere today,’ Victor said as he reached the front door. ‘Sebastian wants you to stay and train the men as planned.’
Stratton choked back his impulse to tell Victor in crude terms that Sebastian could think again if he thought Stratton was some kind of serf who had to do what he was told. Exercising considerable restraint, he asked merely, ‘Don’t you think I might have some say in the matter?’
‘I thought it was just a job to you,’ Victor said, a hint of apology in his tone.
‘Haven’t circumstances changed just a little?’
Victor nodded, more to himself than to Stratton. ‘Is that okay by you?’
Stratton had grown used to the idea of getting out of this place as soon as he could and once again he found himself undecided about delaying further.
‘If you refuse I will understand,’ Victor said, waiting politely for an answer.
Once again Stratton felt unable to say no. He reasoned that a few hours more was no big deal. By the afternoon he would be gone. ‘Okay,’ he said.
‘Good. I told Sebastian you did not seem the type to frighten easily.’
Stratton headed back up the stairs to pack his parachute and kit.
‘After breakfast I’ll show you around the camp,’ Victor called out. ‘Have you had burro steaks before?’
‘Donkey?’
‘Yes.’
Stratton was out of Victor’s sight so he felt free to make an expression of distaste. ‘One of my favourites,’ he called out.
Victor smirked at the sarcasm he detected and removed a muslin-covered bundle from one of his pockets. ‘Hey!’
Stratton appeared on the balcony.
Victor threw the bundle up to him. ‘Why don’t you get the frying pan hot?’
Stratton opened the bundle to reveal two large bloody steaks, both with rinds that had long grey matted hair growing from them.
‘It’s almost as good as horse,’ Victor assured him as he left and closed the door.
It was a bright, clear morning as the two men walked across the compound. On the far horizon a thin line of dark clouds seemed to be waiting to roll in but for the moment the air was a perfect temperature with hardly any humidity.
The ground was slippery, unable to absorb the constant rains, and the path to the main camp area was peppered with deep pools of mud. Everything was mud-coloured except for a sprinkling of green and blue plastic
