room was empty. I went down to the next. My sand-crusted socks rasped on the wooden floor.
This door had a spy-hole bored through it. There was a long bolt at the top. It looked like the schoolrooms doubled as cells; or maybe the kids weren’t allowed out until they’d learnt today’s chunk of the Good Book. I put my ear to the wood again and went in.
Nothing.
I moved along the corridor, now just checking the spy-holes left and right.
I could hear a voice. An old man’s voice, like tyres on gravel. It was coming from the room beyond the next one. The door was ajar.
I moved very slowly, my shoulder skimming the wall. As I got closer, the voice became stronger. I lowered myself to my knees, then flat on my stomach. I inched my head towards the gap between door and frame.
The mullah had a small knife against Stefan’s right eye. It looked like it came from a kitchen. He held it with his left arm around his throat so the flat of the blade rested on the little boy’s cheek. His right hand covered the kid’s mouth.
The old guy sat in a chair behind a desk. He had the boy in front of him as cover.
Stefan was a mini Frank, except that I’d never seen Frank with that expression on his face. The small boy was petrified. His brown eyes were wide with terror.
I got up and moved forward, the weapon down by my side.
‘Do you speak English? Come on, let the little one go. Let Stefan go, yeah?’
I spoke more with my eyes than my mouth. He barked something in dialect, and then he started shouting. He didn’t want me to get any closer.
I stopped, keeping eye-to-eye. That was always the most important thing.
I looked at him, almost begging. ‘Mate, you’re not going to get out of here. Help yourself. Give me the boy.’
I held out my left hand. ‘Let me have him. Please.’
I even gave him a bit of a smile.
Stefan’s shoulders heaved as he sobbed into the mullah’s palm. The old man leant forward, his beard draped over the boy’s face. He shouted at me big-time.
My eyes bored into his.
‘Mr Nick! Mr Nick!’
It sounded like Awaale was at the main entrance.
I moved my weapon to one side. ‘Look, mate, it’s OK.’ I didn’t want to get this lad sparked up. I took a step towards him.
The mullah’s eyes darted from me to the door I’d come through. He was unsure. He was getting worried.
‘Mr Nick! We’ve got to leave!’
I could hear flip-flops and the sound of running feet.
Awaale was at the door. I could hear him behind me.
‘Mr Nick!’
The old guy’s eyes went back to mine. They were no longer tense; no longer unsure. He knew he was fucked. I kept mine focused on his head, brought the weapon up, jamming it into my left hand as he raised his knife, ready to ram it into Stefan’s chest.
Stefan screamed. The old guy gripped his hair and pulled back his head.
I took first pressure on the trigger of the Makarov, my eyes glued to a point just above the muzzle. I caught a glimpse of cheekbone and moved the pistol until I had the clear and focused foresight dead centre of the face. The rear sight was out of focus, just as it should be. The first pad of my forefinger squeezed the trigger a couple of millimetres until I felt first pressure.
Stefan struggled. The knife quivered in the air.
I shut Awaale and every ounce of background noise out of my head.
The old guy yelled at me. I could see the veins in his temple swell, and spit fly from his lips.
Then he raised the knife a fraction more to get full force behind it.
His head and beard were fuzzy. My foresight was clear. I brought it up, just above his left eye, and took second pressure. The knife began to plunge. The pistol kicked in my hands and the old guy’s face imploded.
He dropped like liquid. The knife clattered on the wooden floor. The boy followed it under the table, screaming, out of control, curling up like a small, threatened animal.
I ran towards him. ‘It’s OK, Stefan. It’s OK …’
I had to yank him out from under the table. I scooped him up and made him face me, encouraged him to wrap his legs around my waist.
‘My name is Nick.’
Awaale was gobbing off behind me.
‘Shut the fuck up!’
‘We’ve got to go, Mr Nick.’
I got eye-to-eye with Stefan. ‘My name is Nick and I’m going to take you to your mum, OK?’
He wasn’t listening. He was totally freaked out. I was just one more monster in his nightmare. He was going to need a lot of help. But if his brain was wired the same way as his dad’s, he’d probably survive.
‘Come on, shall we go and see your mum?’
I turned to Awaale. Four of his crew had piled into the room. I started walking towards the door.
‘Mr Nick, you’re a lucky man! That was one lucky shot!’
I couldn’t be arsed to explain. ‘Yeah, yeah. Let’s get out. Where are Tracy and BB?’
A stream of gobbing off poured out of his radio. He put his hands up. ‘They’re OK. Come. We must join them.’
I held Stefan into me as tightly as I could.
‘Mummy … Mummy … I want Mummy …’
I did my best to soothe him as we headed towards the gang-fuck outside.
8
The technicals had gone from the compound. So had Tracy and BB. And there was definitely shit on down by the harbour. Tracer swirled into the sky above it from behind the court-house.
Awaale had already reached the obelisk and was standing there as if he had fifty layers of Kevlar, back and front.
‘Mr Nick, come on — we are waiting.’
I passed two of his crew kneeling in the open. They were giggling and arguing between themselves at the same time as they tried to load an RPG. Automatic fire still came from the fringes of the square.
Stefan clung to me, his legs trying to cut off the circulation in my waist. I gripped him tight with my left arm. Just as we passed the stoning holes the RPG cracked off behind us. The crew had fucked up. A split second later it smashed into the obelisk. The pressure wave hurled me to the ground. My ears were still ringing as I staggered to my feet in a cloud of sand and mortar dust.
‘It’s OK, Stefan. We’re all right. We’re nearly there. Nearly with your mummy.’
Maybe the lads hadn’t fucked up. Maybe they’d been aiming at the obelisk. Who knew? There were peals of laughter as they legged it towards us. I wondered if Awaale had enjoyed the joke. I gripped my hands under Stefan’s thighs so I could get my feet pounding across the open ground.
Bodies lay all over the place. AS, crew or crowd, it was hard to make out one from the other. Skull-cap’s body was draped over the railing of the veranda. Most of the arc lamps had been shot away. The dark liquid pooling beneath him glistened in the light of those that remained.
I pushed Stefan’s head into my shoulder. He didn’t have to see that shit. He’d had enough drama to be going on with.
I followed Awaale. My throat was so dry it felt like I’d been swallowing sand. It was a long time since I’d had
