‘I didn’t want to fucking break them!’
‘You…didn’t?’
‘Not for one second!’
Mister Duck frowned and opened his mouth to reply, then appeared to check himself.
‘What?’ I snapped.
He shook his head, his features calming. When eventually he spoke I knew he wasn’t saying what was on his mind. ‘That was a cheap shot, Richard,’ he said quietly. ‘About me living in a dream world.’
‘You could have got me killed, but I hurt your feelings. God forgive me. I’m a monster.’
‘It’s your world I live in.’
‘That must be a comfort, considering you were the one who pointed out I’m…’
I cut myself off. While I’d been talking, I’d heard a sharp crack from somewhere in the DMZ.
‘…Did you hear that?’
Mister Duck hesitated, his eyes narrowing, and suddenly he looked extremely worried. ‘Yes. I heard something.’
‘You sure?’
‘Definite.’
We both waited.
Within five or six seconds the silence was exploded by a burst of gunfire. It was entirely unambiguous, somehow managing to ripple through the trees like a quick breeze and tear through them with shocking loudness. A single burst, but a long one. Long enough for me to blink and hunch my shoulders, and then be aware that the shooting was still going on.
When it finally did stop, the next thing I heard was Mister Duck, taking a deep breath and exhaling slowly.
‘Jesus…’ I muttered. ‘Jesus Christ…It’s happened. They’ve actually – ’
‘Been shot,’ he finished vacantly.
To my surprise, I nearly threw up. Out of nowhere, my stomach knotted and my throat tensed up. An image jumped into my head, the rafters’ bodies, their shirts scattered with spreading stains, limbs twisted. Swallowing hard, I turned to the DMZ. I suppose I was looking for a corroborating sign, maybe some vague blue smoke in the distance. But there was nothing.
‘Been shot,’ I heard once more, and then, very faintly, ‘Damn.’
A moment later I turned back to Mister Duck. He had gone.
? The Beach ?
85
Mama-San
It had all gone wrong or it had all gone right. I couldn’t decide which.
On the one hand, just like on the plateau, when it had come down to it I’d lost my nerve. I hadn’t been alert but calm, I’d been alert but queasy. But on the other hand, maybe that was how it should be. Right to panic on the plateau, right to feel sick when I heard the gunshots. I’ve read about it enough times, seen it in enough films: the first day on your first tour, you’re supposed to lose your shit in a contact. Later, more experienced, jaded, you are caught unawares one day that death still has the capacity to appal you. It is something you dwell on, and through it you gain strength.
I ran this second interpretation over and over as I made my way down to the waterfall. I also tried to look on other bright sides. Mainly that our problem with the new arrivals was over, and my part in compromising the beach’s secrecy was irreversibly closed. But they didn’t make a dent in the way I was feeling. Still battling with my contracting stomach, struggling to focus on the terrain ahead of me, trying to work through my urge to yell. I wanted to yell a lot. Not an Iron John, exorcizing kind of yell. More this kind: running down a road at top speed to catch a bus, and bashing your knee straight into a concrete bollard. Just like you’d done it deliberately, as hard as you possibly could. It isn’t a yell born from pain, because at that moment nothing hurts. It’s a yell that comes from a brain on overload, refusing to concede what has just happened, and refusing to try.
¦
Sal was waiting for me beneath the waterfall. ‘What the hell happened?’ she said, more angry than anxious, before I’d even finished swimming to the shore. ‘Why did I hear gunshots?’
I didn’t answer until I’d reached the shallows and was wading towards her. ‘The rafters,’ I puffed. The impact on hitting the water always knocked the air out of me, and this time it had been worse than usual.
‘They’ve been killed?’
‘Yes. I saw them get caught by the guards and then later I heard the firing.’
‘You didn’t see it?’
‘No.’
‘What happened when they were caught?’
‘They were beaten.’
‘Badly?’
‘Yes.’
‘Badly enough to scare them? Maybe just a message?’
‘Worse.’
‘Then?’
‘They got taken away somewhere. Dragged.’
‘Dragged…You didn’t follow.’
‘No.’
‘What next?’
‘The shooting…when I reached the pass.’
‘I see…’ Sal’s eyes bored holes into my head. ‘Badly beaten, you say…’
‘Very badly.’
‘You feel responsible for their deaths.’
I thought about this before replying, not wanting to give away my connection to Zeph and Sammy at this late stage. ‘It was their decision to come here,’ I said eventually, shifting my weight from my left foot to my right. I was still standing knee-deep in the pool and my feet were sinking slightly into the mud. ‘They made a lot of noise in the jungle. It was their fault.’
Sal nodded. ‘Others may have heard the shooting. What will you tell them?’
‘Nothing.’
‘I think Etienne might know about Christo. He’s being difficult again…’
‘I won’t tell Etienne,’ I interrupted. ‘I won’t tell Francoise or Keaty or anyone…Except Jed…You know I’ll tell Jed.’
‘Of course I do, Richard,’ she said crisply. ‘But it’s nice of you to ask permission.’ Then she spun on her heel and began walking away. She didn’t even wait for me to climb out of the pool, or to hear me whisper, ‘I wasn’t asking your fucking permission.’
? The Beach ?
86
Reanimator
I didn’t follow Sal back to the camp because I didn’t want to see everyone yet. In fact, I didn’t want to do anything much. Except maybe sleep. It was the idea of oblivion that appealed; nothing to do with tiredness. I wanted to get away from the brain that was still making me want to yell. The problem was, of the various benefits sleep might provide, oblivion wasn’t on the cards. If I slept I’d dream, and I knew dreams were not the place to avoid these things.
