‘Mmmm,’ Kadri mumbled as Taher forced the barrel deeper. ‘You… can’t…’
‘I can.’ Taher pulled the trigger and something on the far side of the room shattered as the bullet hit it. Kadri shuddered and slumped over. Taher wrenched the gun free and crossed to the back of the living area where a corridor led to several small rooms. He ran to the first one to find Kadri’s brother staggering out in a daze, a pistol in his hand. Taher fired once and the man crumpled to the floor.
As Taher left the dwelling, Latif and Saabiq came out of the guest accommodation, woken by the gunshots.
‘Get your stuff,’ Taher said. He walked over to the brick building. There was a sliding metal door secured with two bolts. He slid the bolts and opened the door. In the darkness he could see nothing, but he could smell the urine and the shit and hear the low ululating.
‘You’re free to leave,’ he said. ‘Allez, allez.’
Taher strode away. Latif had found the keys to the minibus and was in the driver’s seat. Saabiq piled their kit into the rear. Taher climbed up and then turned back. The young girl stood a few steps away, a pale ghost under the starlight. For a moment, as she met his gaze, he wondered about her fate and what would become of her. A child could be changed by events, choose to take a certain path depending on circumstance. Left, right, straight ahead. Tomorrow is the first day of the rest of your life, little one, he whispered to himself. Choose wisely.
He faced forward and tapped Latif on the shoulder.
‘Go,’ he said.
Chapter Four
It had been three months since Silva had last seen her. A quarter of a year. A fraction of the lifespan left for Silva. All of that remaining for her mother.
A Saturday in Tunisia. Carthage International Airport crowded with people, a seemingly never-ending column of tourists disgorging into the arrivals hall. As Silva walked out, she scanned the waiting crowd. Francisca da Silva stood among the taxi drivers, holding up her own piece of paper, the word BecBec scrawled on in marker pen. The pet name was from Silva’s childhood, from when she was just toddler and could only say her own name in a garbled approximation. Her mother smiled, her face framed by long dark hair just beginning to grey. Fine lines at the eyes and mouth. Lips adorned with a subtle shade of pink lipstick. As Silva approached she launched into French, matching the buzz of the language echoing all around.
‘Êtes-vous Mademoiselle BecBec?’
‘Mum.’ Silva blushed. Somehow, whatever the situation, her mother had the ability to make Silva laugh. ‘Stop it.’
‘You’re not BecBec or you’re no longer a mademoiselle? If it’s the latter then you might at least have invited me to the wedding.’
Silva dropped her bag and hugged her mother. They’d always been close, but the past couple of years had reinforced their bond, and Silva had come to depend on her mother throughout her court-martial and during her time in the military prison.
‘I’m still single, Mum. With my prospects I will be for a while, I reckon.’
‘Nonsense.’ Francisca bent and hefted Silva’s bag onto her shoulder. She turned and gestured towards the exits. ‘What about that nice American boy you were seeing?’
‘Were seeing is the operative phrase. He’s past tense.’
‘He dumped you?’
‘No. It was the other way around.’
‘Well.’ Francisca led Silva across the concourse and they emerged into harsh sunlight. She raised a hand at the queue of taxis, and quipped as she did so. ‘There’ll be another one along soon.’
A battered yellow minicab took them into the centre of Tunis along palm-lined roads, Francisca pointing out various sights including the National Bardo Museum, infamous now for the terrorist attack that had taken place there rather than for its collection of wondrous mosaics.
Her mother had ensconced herself in a couple of rooms at a small hotel on the edge of the Medina souk. The hotel’s colonial facade had seen better days but inside the place was clean and tidy, if a little spartan. Francisca apologised for the surroundings.
‘Not like when I was with The Times.’ She walked to the window and opened the shutters. The sounds of the busy street drifted in. ‘In those days my expense account was bottomless.’
‘It’s better than I’m used to,’ Silva said. ‘Home or abroad.’
For a moment the street noise was all there was, Francisca standing by the window before turning.
‘I’m sorry, Rebecca. About what happened. Sorry you’re not over it.’
‘I don’t know if I’ll ever be over it. I don’t think it’s something you can recover from. Perhaps it’s something you’re not supposed to recover from.’
Francisca slipped across the room and embraced her daughter. ‘Hush. What sort of talk is that?’
Silva shrugged. Her mother held her for a moment and then went over to the bed. She sat and patted the mattress. Silva moved across and sat beside her.
‘When you were little, when you were BecBec, you had a rabbit, remember?’
‘Twitch,’ Silva said. ‘He escaped and you said he’d gone to find some bunny friends. Later, when I was older, you told me what really happened: Twitch had been killed by the dog next door.’
‘I think you were eleven or twelve by then. Some of my friends said I was cruel, but I thought it was important to tell you the truth. I wanted you to understand that life could be unpalatable.’
‘The boy in Afghanistan was a kid, Mum, not a rabbit. And it wasn’t next door’s dog that killed him, it was me.’
‘I wasn’t trying to draw a parallel, merely illustrating that shit happens. It happens to people it shouldn’t happen to, people who’ve done nothing to deserve it. It even happens to pet rabbits. There’s not much we can do but face up to reality.’
‘It didn’t just happen though, I pulled the trigger.’
‘You pulled the trigger, but if
