'Aii. Why not? Kiss him goodbye. Say agur. Taste him one more time. And I shall watch.'
Amy nodded, subserviently. She walked to the bonfire. And she stepped over the wood and she leaned to kiss David, softly, on the lips, and as she did she whispered, very quietly, and very clearly.
'Try not to breathe the smoke. Euphorbia wood. Just try.'
David was biting back his own terrified sadness. He nodded. Mute. He accepted a second kiss, then Amy retreated and Alan stepped forward.
'Gas mark five?'
Someone laughed.
'Who's got the lighter?'
The Frenchman, Jean Paul, was chucking petrol from a can on the dry firewood. David felt the cold splash of the gasoline on his ankles, the heady smell of raw petrol rose to his face and then Enoka took the lighter. The squat Basque man clicked and cupped the lighter flame with a hand, protecting it from the desert breeze, like a little bird, like a baby chick, and then he knelt and tended the lighter and he stepped back slowly, inquiringly, carefully — and then with a polite woooof of an explosion, the gasolined firewood burst into flame.
It was really happening. Here. Now. In the yellow Damara riverlands. With the Lanner falcons wheeling over the wistful Huab. He was going to burn alive.
The desert timber was so dry it burst into vivid flame at once: big roaring yellow flames. Angus and Amy were crouched around the fire, warming their hands. Miguel laughed.
'That's good. Warm your hands on your cooking friend! Me too.' Miguel flashed a glance at his colleagues, and snapped an order. 'Keep a gun on them.'
Miguel stepped near to watch his victim's ordeal. David's eyes were watering in the smoke; his feet were hot; he could feel the heat on his own legs, flames crawling up his body, like the arms of loathsome beggars. He tried not to breathe the smoke. Euphorbia. Was there some plan? He was almost passing out with fear. He was going to die. His mind swam with terror and tiny hope. What were they doing? Amy and Angus were upwind of the thick oily smoke issued by the dead, crackling branches. Glancing at Miguel, who was downwind.
Miguel was inhaling the smoke. Breathing in and smiling serenely.
'The smell. Smell of the meat, like lamb. A little like lamb, no? You can smell the wood and soon the meat? Yes? Ez? Bai? Amy? You can smell? That is…that is your friend…burning — and — ' Miguel began to mumble, through the fire-heat and the smoke — 'Yess…Marmatiko…he will be…'
David gazed from his own lashed and burning execution: astonished.
Miguel was stumbling, sideways. He was slurring and toppling — and then Miguel fell to his knees, half conscious.
The ETA terrorist was down.
And now Angus was on him like a predator; before anyone saw a chance to respond, Angus had leapt round the fire, grabbed Miguel by the neck; at the same time he snatched Miguel's own pistol — and put it to Miguel's lolling head.
The killer slurred a mumbled curse, barely conscious.
His guards were frozen with shock. Angus snapped: 'Stop! Or I kill him!'
The moment jarred. Hands on guns. Men half out of cars.
Now Amy grabbed the knife lying in the dust, the knife Miguel had used to slice the human flesh. Diving into the rising flames, she slashed the ropes that tied David to the stake; as the cords fell into the fire, he leapt away, Amy pulling him free. Angus was shouting:
'I will kill Miguel. Don't move!'
No one moved. Apart from Amy: who slapped at David's clothes, his smoking jeans and boots. The fire roared, as if in anger, denied its food. Amy put a hand to his face.
'You're OK?'
'I'm OK — I'm OK — ' He could barely hear her, over the blaze of the flames and the sound of his own choking coughs: he was spitting the vile taste of his own burning clothes.
A few yards away, Angus was dragging the semi-conscious Miguel through the dirt — as Miguel's men threw glances at each other. But their faces, in the clear morning light, flashed with extreme confusion. What to do, without Miguel? Without their commander?
Angus yelled: 'Come any closer he won't have a head, you fucks. Amy — grab all the car keys. And get the case with the bloods. David — get a gun and get to the car — get in the Land Rover — '
Again the men glanced at each other, confused, angry, and helpless. A few seconds, and Amy was done, brandishing a fistful of car keys in her hand.
'Angus. I got them! And the bloods.'
'Go to the car! David!'
Obedient, suppressing his fears, he raced to the car and jumped up and sat at the wheel. His burned, painful hand was poised on the key. Ready to flee the first moment Angus was safe.
The Scotsman was pulling the deadweight of Miguel closer to the Land Rover. Muzzle of the gun still close to his temple. Amy was in the seat next to David, watching. Ready to go. To escape. Ready.
But Miguel was stirring from his torpor, whatever the effect of the euphorbia smoke, it was wearing off — he was fitfully struggling in Angus's grip; David could see in the headlights — Miguel was trying to wriggle free.
'Angus!'
The scientist had the muzzle on Miguel's head, at the temple. David knew what was going to happen. Angus Nairn's face was set with grim satisfaction.
David watched, appalled, as Angus pulled the trigger: a point-blank execution.
But his grip was unsure: at the last possible moment, Miguel writhed, violently. Again he was the jentilak, the giant of the forest, unkillable, legendary: Angus got off a shot, and blood spat from Miguel's head, but it was a wound, just a wound in the scalp. The Wolf was alive, and down, and free. And signalling his men.
The first shot of a rifle zinged the morning air. David slammed the gears — then another shot spat against metal, with a chiming crack. The car door swung open and Amy grabbed at Angus — who leapt into the back seat: David floored the pedal, churning the sand, and then at last the wheels got a grip and they lurched forward, picking up speed. Faster. And faster.
The rear window smashed into a hundred shards as a bullet zapped the glass; Angus fired back, through the jagged void, random shots; one and two and three. One man seemed to fall, a squat figure: Enoka. Dead.
Angus screamed: 'Go!'
Swinging the car, wildly, David shouted: 'But where — '
'There!'
They jerked over a hillock at speed, a tongue-chomping vault into the air — then crashed into the sand and raced onwards, rattling everyone and everything: sliding in the gravelly dust, fishtailing. David gripped the wheel as they veered left and right through the dry river plains — slaloming between the camelthorns -
'David!'
Amy was screaming.
A huge elephant loomed ahead — they were going to crash into the elephant — the slow grey beast was crunching a branch in its mouth; it turned and looked at them, maudlin and pitying -
David tugged the wheel just in time and the car tilted, at speed, and he knew they were going to flip, right over, and pancake. They were going to be crushed, but then the car slammed back onto all four wheels and they raced ahead.
'The river. Take the river!'
It was an order from Angus. David obeyed.
The car slashed down the mudslide and cracked along the river bed, the wheels churned and the ducks and geese and weaver birds squawked and flailed. David crunched at the gears and accelerated. The big white car was fast and new.
For ten, twenty, thirty, minutes they scythed down the river road. Oryx, drinking placidly from the water, looked up at the noise, and fled. Springboks pronked in fear as the car came splashing over boulders and careering around riverine bends, dangerously fast.
'This way!'
Angus pointed; David took a fork along a dryer river bed. He grabbed the chance to check behind, once more
