“You can’t get out that way, David.”
Maratse ignored him.
“But there is another way. Less violent. More reasonable.”
Maratse slid the magazine into the rifle with a click, worked the bolt to chamber the first round, then slung the rifle over his shoulder as he spied the shotgun poking out of a barrel for broomsticks and boathooks in the corner of the storeroom. He grabbed a box of shells from the windowsill, then reached over to tug the shotgun out of the barrel.
“David?”
Think.
Maratse frowned as he slid three shells into the pump-action shotgun. Walcott was a threat, but Inniki’s voice was a distraction he didn’t need. He tried to ignore both, jacking one shell into the chamber of the shotgun before ducking down behind the shelves.
“We need to talk, Constable. Things have got out of hand. But it’s not too late to repair the damage.”
Maratse opened his mouth, curling his tongue around a name: Nukappi, as he considered asking Walcott how he could repair that damage.
“I’m sorry about the young man,” Walcott said, as if reading Maratse’s thoughts. “It’s tragic. But he had a gun, David. He pointed it at the helicopter. There was no other course of action available. The crew did what they had to do. It’s regrettable. I wish it hadn’t happened. But it did. He’s dead. But no one else has to die, David. We can stop this.”
Maratse leaned into the shelves, then called out, “You shot at me.”
“Yes. Yes, we did.” Walcott moved closer to the storeroom, giving Maratse a glimpse of his body as he crossed in front of the door. “But you shot back, David. That doesn’t help. And now…” Walcott lowered his voice, forcing Maratse to concentrate to hear him. “Now you’re stuck in the broom cupboard. There’s nowhere to go. We have you covered. If you just throw your pistol out of the door, and then…”
Walcott paused as Maratse tossed his pistol through the gap in the door.
“That’s good, David. I knew you could be reasonable.”
Maratse thought about what Kamiila said on the mountain – something about fighting. The fight for Greenland had waged to a greater or lesser degree through the years, for as long as he could remember, but actually fighting, physically, with weapons... Maratse struggled to recall ever thinking it would come to that. And yet, everything about the new reality, the sudden way the people of Greenland had been thrust into accepting Greenland’s new present and uncertain future – that fight was different.
You must be different.
Inniki was back, and her insistence brought a smile to Maratse’s lips. He glanced at the window, wondering if Inniki would have tried to crawl through it, or if she would have gone out blazing, just as he intended to do, now that they thought he was unarmed.
“But that’s not me,” he whispered, lowering the shotgun. “I must be different.”
He looked up as the IGA team scuffled around the door. He caught a flicker of movement as one of the team picked up his pistol. Maratse slid the shotgun onto the shelf, then tugged the rifle from around his chest. He put it on the shelf next to the shotgun.
Different, he realised, was open to personal interpretation. Should he act differently to how he normally acted? Or should he simply be different? Since his first assignment with IGA, and even before then, when guarding Inniki Rasmussen, Maratse was different from the American administration. But more than that. He was Greenlandic, different by his very nature, influenced by the nature around him. There was a time to hunt and kill, when food was needed, or game was plentiful. And in those moments, for a very brief moment, violent acts were necessary.
“But not today,” he whispered, standing up. “There are other ways to fight.”
“He’s coming out,” Mitchell said. “I see him.”
Maratse saw him too, although the mask and helmet obscured the IGA operator’s features. His shoulders, however, were just as broad. Maratse pressed his lips into a thin smile as he remembered tackling Mitchell to the ground when he chased Nukappi onto the beach.
“Take it slow, Constable,” Walcott said.
“Iiji.” Maratse raised his hands in front of his chest, palms pointing out. He kept his eyes on Mitchell – the craziest member of the IGA team, focusing on him alone as he opened the storeroom door with the toe of his boot and stepped out into the store.
“Knees.”
Mitchell took a step forward, jabbing the barrel of his carbine at Maratse’s chest. Maratse sank to the floor, still focused on Mitchell as another member of the team grabbed Maratse’s hands, tugged his arms behind his back, and looped two interlocked plastic ties around his wrists.
“He’s secure,” Isra said. She slapped Maratse on the back of his head before stepping back, clearing the way for Walcott.
“Well.” Walcott sighed as he removed his helmet. “This makes things easier.” He pressed his hand on the barrel of Mitchell’s rifle, nodding for the younger IGA man to step back.
“We’ll be outside,” Isra said. She clicked her fingers in front of Mitchell’s face, breaking the spell Maratse seemed to have cast on him, and pushed him to the front of the store. Downs muttered something as they approached, but the words were lost, as Walcott grabbed a chair from the office and placed it in front of Maratse. He rested his carbine across his knees and then reached into Maratse’s chest pocket.
“Cigarette?”
Maratse nodded.
“I thought so. And,” Walcott said, pressing a cigarette between Maratse’s lips and lighting it. “I know you don’t need your hands to smoke.” He slipped the last of Maratse’s cigarettes and his lighter back into his pocket. “It’s just us now.” Walcott glanced at the team waiting at the door before continuing. He turned back to Maratse, and said, “I’m sorry it had to turn out this way.”
Maratse
