Dead Centre

Maybe I can do everything myself — but I won’t know until you get me there and I see where and how they’re being held. You’ll do that for me, yeah?’

The top of the pepper-pot nodded once more. I turned towards the beach. ‘OK, let’s go, then.’

The heat really was unbearable under this thing.

21

We passed skiff after skiff along the shore line. Some bobbed up and down in the waves. Others had been dragged up onto the sand. In the distance, cargo ships and yachts were silhouetted against the horizon.

I moved closer to Awaale. ‘Is one of those the Maria Feodorovna?’

The top of the pepper-pot swivelled. His breath rasped as he laboured to speak. It was like a sauna inside these things.

‘The white one, on the far left.’

‘What happens now? They just sit there?’

‘AS — they will sell them to pirates. They offered it back to Erasto. But why would he want it? He can go and steal another one. They’ll stay here until someone buys them.’

‘Will they?’

‘No.’

‘So they stay there until they rot?’

Awaale didn’t need to answer. He waved an arm. We’d come to an area of rusting hulks and the remnants of boats that had broken up in storms and washed ashore.

Awaale went to move on but I held him. ‘Where is the jail from here?’

‘We stay on the beach for a while. But then we must go into the town. I’ll take you, Mr Nick, and then we leave and you work out how to free them, yes?’

‘Yes. Just as I said — and, yes, you will be paid if you help me get them back to the airport.’

He turned, no doubt relieved.

‘One more thing, mate. Why did Erasto want to know who killed Nadif? Why did it matter to him? It’s not as if you lads worry too much about that shit, is it?’

His voice dropped. ‘Nadif was his brother, Mr Nick. He was family. Erasto will find who killed his brother, and then he will kill him.’

22

Dung fires spilt a sweet, almost herbal smell from the chimneys as we made our way into the town. The main drag was about twenty metres wide. People were already out and about. They’d want to get their business done before the sun was at its fiercest. After midday, they’d bin it until last light — which would just leave the mad dogs and Englishmen to go about their business uninterrupted, with any luck.

Like everybody else, we kept in the shade. All the women were covered up, in one way or another. Most of them carried large empty plastic containers. On the way home they’d be full of water for the day’s washing and cooking.

I caught a glimpse of some al-Shabab hard men in tribal dish-dashes and shemaghs down a side road. Long, wild beards on top; bare feet and sandals beneath. They carried AKs or RPGs. I stooped even further and kept on shuffling.

I thought about the old guy at the house. Fuck knew what he thought about Awaale coming to knock on his door to ask for a couple of burqas. I hoped they weren’t distinctive in any way. I didn’t want one of their mates to come rattling over for a chat.

This looked like the newer part of town. It would have been built at the same time as the Soviets were installing a missile facility at the port of Berbera in the 1970s and transforming Somalia’s 17,000 armed forces into some of the strongest on the continent.

The bottom metre or so of the palm trees had been given a lick of white paint a few years ago. They were all bent away from the sea. The monsoon winds would have done their best to flatten them each year. I could have done with a bit of a breeze today, although I didn’t want our burqas to do a Marilyn Monroe.

The same photocopied A4 flyer seemed to be pinned to every door and fence. I kept my speed down, but didn’t move so slowly that I drew attention to myself. I bent forward, concentrating on the AK. I gripped it hard against me to stop the steel mag slipping out of my hand. I was sweating so much under this thing the skull band must be soaked on the outside. The mesh slit was a nightmare to look through. Even so, I could see this place was totally different from Mog. There was no grime, no burning tyres. But in other ways, it was scarier. Everyone looked anxious and uneasy.

On the other side of the road, four more AS sat in old armchairs under an acacia. They were smoking, and had a kettle boiling away on a little fire. All of them had AKs resting across their thighs. Two had canvas chest harnesses stuffed with mags. The other two had belts of 7.62 short slung over their shoulders, Mexican-bandit style. I couldn’t see any machine-guns, just AKs.

All of them wore traditional cotton dish-dashes down to their knees and matching baggy trousers beneath them. They all had black and white checked shemaghs round their necks and multicoloured skull-caps. Their watches glinted in the sun.

They laughed and shouted to each other.

Awaale coughed just behind me. It was a flat cough, one I’d heard many times this morning as he tried to control his breathing. I knew the feeling. He had little or no control of the situation, and no weapon to react with if everything went to ratshit. I switched off in these situations. I was going to walk down the road; I wasn’t going to turn back. I was committed. There was nothing to worry about because there was nothing I could do about it.

We came level with the AS. They were just five metres away, on the other side of the road. My eyes flicked to the side; I wasn’t going to turn my head. A couple of them glanced across at us, then away. One, darker-skinned and taller than the rest, perhaps a Pakistani, looked over, took two or three seconds to register what we were, and got back to the banter.

Two technicals came down the road towards us. One had a heavy gun mounted on the back. The other was weapons-free. Dark brown- or grey-cottoned legs and sandals dangled over the sides. I looked straight ahead and kept on walking. The wagons drove past and dust and shit swirled through the mesh of my visor. Behind me, Awaale had a coughing fit.

I steered us left at the first available turning.

23

It was an alleyway a couple of metres wide. Awaale shuffled alongside me, clutching one of the flyers. His head was inches from mine.

‘Mr Nick, they’re not in the jail.’ He lifted the sheet of paper. ‘This is not good, Mr Nick. We must hurry.’

I followed him across the road. He passed the four fighters and carried on down another alleyway. Two small boys were coming the other way, each leading an old man with a big grey beard and skull-cap, bent over much more than we were, their faces creased with age. As they got nearer, I realized the boys weren’t looking after the men, it was the other way round. The kids’ eyes were milky, clouded by what looked like cataracts. They could have been sorted out for a couple of dollars elsewhere — or for nothing if Somalia hadn’t been too dangerous for the NGOs and MONGOs to pour into. As for the happy-clappy hospital ships, I’d have liked to see what happened if they’d parked up and offered Jesus along with a couple of plasters.