Dead Centre

‘Tell them to fire left and right, if AS are following us. They can drop anything that moves left or right of us, but not down the middle.’

‘Yes, of course. No problem. Trust me. It will be a great victory.’

‘Good. Now keep the fucking noise down, and put your mobile on vibrate. Remember the diagram in the sand. Even if I’m too late to lift them, you must still come up, you must still support me. The fire support group down by the skiffs, they will still support you. All clear?’

‘Yes, Mr Nick. I have everything under control. We’re going to kill many, many al-Shabab.’

‘First we will rescue my friends. Killing al-Shabab is a bonus. You’ll be able to tell your war stories, but only if you keep your head. This is a rescue mission. This is the reason we’re here.’

‘Yes, yes. I remember. No problem, Mr Nick.’

His mobile vibrated. He answered. I didn’t wait to find out who it was. If Erasto had changed his mind, well, fuck him. I had to get up to the compound. With or without the crew, it was happening.

I skirted the body in the sand. The harbour wall was soon behind me. I faced the road that ran uphill. The light in the square sat like a glowing bubble in the inky black sky. Shadows danced in the dust. Bodies milled around. The faithful had finished their prayers.

I picked up my pace, the weapon back under the burqa, firmly by my side.

My iPhone vibrated in my pocket.

Fucking Awaale. He could really pick his moment.

I ducked into a doorway and pulled it from my pocket.

My eyes stared through the mesh towards the bodies at the top of the road. They were no more than a hundred metres away.

I muttered into the mouthpiece, ‘Just get on with it, for fuck’s sake.’

‘Nick? It’s me, Jules.’

‘It’s OK. I’ve found them. I—’

‘No, no. It’s not that, Nick. It’s Anna. She’s been shot.’

3

I leant heavily against the planks that made up the door. For a split second I felt nothing. Then a wave of dread surged through me.

‘How bad?’

‘Not sure yet. She’s on a casualty boat out of Misrata. They’re taking her to Benghazi. To the hospital at Al- Jaraa.’

‘They?’

‘The French. Benghazi is as far as it’s safe for her to be moved.’

‘I can’t do anything, mate. Can—’

‘Nick — stop. I’ll take care of it. She just wanted you to know.’

‘She called you?’

‘She didn’t want to worry you while you’re on the ground. Where are you now?’

‘Merca.’

I cut off. I couldn’t do anything about her at the moment. All I could do was try to speed things up this end. Get it done, and get north.

I headed towards the square. The arc lamps were blinding. Centre stage, above the holes, more spotlights strung along the fence made sure the punters wouldn’t miss any part of the drama.

The gates were open. I couldn’t see anyone in the compound. All I could see were four old wooden wheelbarrows beside the holes. They were full of rocks the size of cricket balls, all ready to go. It didn’t matter where my three were. They’d be coming out here any minute to face their punishment.

Crowds of people kept spilling out of the mosques. There were a lot of women dressed like me. There was no cheering; no raised voices. It was all very sombre. Only the madrasah kids, a hundred or so of the little fuckers, were getting sparked up. The mullahs were busy herding them towards the ringside. Even the two old guys we’d stepped aside for this morning had dragged their kids along for the show. Everyone else seemed almost scared.

I eased my way through the heaving mass, careful not to clip anyone I passed with the AK. I needed to be up close and personal, just like the blind kids. Bodies steamed around me. Flies and mosquitoes buzzed around the lights.

I got as near to the gate as I could. My eyes drilled into the compound. AKs slung over their chests, AS hard men herded us with thin, whippy sticks. We moved like a shoal of fish as the square continued to fill.

The door opened into the compound. A gasp rippled through the crowd.

Two AS brought out one of the three Somali men I’d seen hiding from the sun this morning. Behind him, another two AS, one of them the Pakistani, hefted a wooden table.

A guy in a white skull-cap and ginger beard appeared. A murmur spread through the crowd. This guy was feared. He followed the procession towards the gate.

The Somali wasn’t happy. He kept shaking his head, his hands joined in supplication. If he was expecting sympathy from Skullcap, he was about to be seriously disappointed. The AS turned him back, shoving him on with bunched fists. They halted him just short of the holes. The table was put in front of him.

Skull-cap was dressed in a brown dish-dash and cotton trouser combo, with a pair of rubber flip-flops. His ginger beard rested on the black-and-white check shemagh wrapped around his neck. A machete dangled from his waist. He was young, no more than early thirties. Smooth- skinned. Really hard eyes that glinted in the harsh light. Pupils dilated. He shouted at the crowd, pointing at the trembling wreck who’d been selected as the warm-up act.

There was no ceremony. The Pakistani forced the Somali’s exposed arm onto the tabletop. Skull-cap drew his machete, raised it high and brought it down. The blade took off the Somali’s hand and half his forearm. The Pakistani released his prisoner and he fell to the ground, at first numb with shock, then screaming with pain. The arm rolled off the other side of the table and fell onto the sand.

Skull-cap bent down and picked up the severed limb by the thumb. He held it up to the crowd as the clothes-stealer was led away towards the school. The kids parted like the Red Sea for Moses. They stared open- mouthed at the mess that was left of his stump and the blood it dripped into the dust.

The oldest of the mullahs, stern and grey, slapped the miserable offender across the head with his shoe. He then beat the sole across his back as he was dragged towards the school. This lad was going to be taught the error of his ways, Wahhabi style, before he received any medical treatment — if he ever did.

The other mullahs sorted out the kids and herded them back into the pack for the main event.

4

Skull-cap screamed and shouted as the Pakistani led his AS team back inside. He wasn’t shouting to them, but to the crowd. He pointed at us, then jabbed his finger skywards. His words were rapid and aggressive.

A different kind of murmur swept through the crowd as the two Somali couples were led out. This time it was disapproval. Some hissed.

All four moved very slowly. They didn’t have to be pushed. Their heads were down. They’d given up hope. The women had their heads covered but their faces showing. As they made their way through the compound they displayed no emotion, not even fear. They were led to where Skull-cap waited by the bloodstained table.

I couldn’t believe they wouldn’t at least try to run. They stood in front of their allotted holes, heads down, eyes half closed against the light.

Still screaming at the crowd at the top of his voice, Skull-cap thrust his hand under the chin of each prisoner, lifting the head for all to see.