I heard a shout from where the road met the harbour wall. A male voice, and angry. An AS fighter strode towards us, yelling the same word, over and over. I didn’t know what it was, but didn’t need Awaale to translate. We were in the shit and getting a bollocking, big-time.
AK slung over his shoulder, he gesticulated furiously at us as he moved closer. We stayed on our knees, kept our heads low, acting subservient. The AS kicked sand at us. I hoped he was just asking why the fuck we weren’t at prayers.
Awaale mumbled something in a high-pitched voice. It was pathetic. He shouldn’t have done it. Luckily the AS was too busy shouting and kicking sand to be able to hear. We tumbled to our feet, but kept submissive. Awaale started to walk away, back along the beach. I followed.
I glanced back. The AS picked up a couple of rocks and came after us, still yelling abuse. He hurled one of his freshly gathered missiles towards us. It missed me but hit Awaale square between his bony shoulder-blades. It must have hurt like fuck. I heard a grunt, then felt a kick on my left thigh. His sandal made contact first with the AK under the burqa. The magazine rattled. The sound was unmistakable. And I knew he would have felt the solid wooden stock.
He unslung his own weapon and stepped back. I started to raise my AK, but I knew I was a nanosecond behind the curve.
Awaale rushed past me, hand held high in the air. He brought the rock down hard on top of the AS warrior’s head.
The AS went down. Awaale dropped to his knees in the sand and the rock rose and fell again and again and again.
Awaale’s mobile started to ring.
The screen glowed in the sand. I picked it up.
‘Erasto? It’s Nick. Si o no? Si o no?’
Awaale stood over what was left of the AS, fighting for breath. He dropped the rock, knelt briefly beside the body and wiped his bloodied hand on the dead man’s shemagh.
I passed him the mobile. There was about fifteen seconds of waffle. He pulled off the head of his pepper-pot and threw it on the ground. ‘Erasto says yes.’
He began to fish his rings out of his pockets to put them back where they belonged.
I grabbed him with my spare hand, making sure I kept the other on the weapon. ‘Mate, I’m going now. By the time Erasto’s lads get here and you’ve sorted them out, we might have run out of time. If they do make it, remember this: the crew looking after the skiffs, the fire support group, they must not fire at anything coming up or down the road that leads to the harbour wall. Do you get that?’
‘Yes, Mr Nick. I know. They know.’
‘Tell them to fire left and right, if AS are following us. They can drop anything that moves left or right of us, but not down the middle.’
‘Yes, of course. No problem. Trust me. It will be a great victory.’
‘Good. Now keep the fucking noise down, and put your mobile on vibrate. Remember the diagram in the sand. Even if I’m too late to lift them, you must still come up, you must still support me. The fire support group down by the skiffs, they will still support you. All clear?’
‘Yes, Mr Nick. I have everything under control. We’re going to kill many, many al-Shabab.’
‘First we will rescue my friends. Killing al-Shabab is a bonus. You’ll be able to tell your war stories, but only if you keep your head. This is a rescue mission. This is the reason we’re here.’
‘Yes, yes. I remember. No problem, Mr Nick.’
His mobile vibrated. He answered. I didn’t wait to find out who it was. If Erasto had changed his mind, well, fuck him. I had to get up to the compound. With or without the crew, it was happening.
I skirted the body in the sand. The harbour wall was soon behind me. I faced the road that ran uphill. The light in the square sat like a glowing bubble in the inky black sky. Shadows danced in the dust. Bodies milled around. The faithful had finished their prayers.
I picked up my pace, the weapon back under the burqa, firmly by my side.
My iPhone vibrated in my pocket.
Fucking Awaale. He could really pick his moment.
I ducked into a doorway and pulled it from my pocket.
My eyes stared through the mesh towards the bodies at the top of the road. They were no more than a hundred metres away.
I muttered into the mouthpiece, ‘Just get on with it, for fuck’s sake.’
‘Nick? It’s me, Jules.’
‘It’s OK. I’ve found them. I—’
‘No, no. It’s not that, Nick. It’s Anna. She’s been shot.’
3
I leant heavily against the planks that made up the door. For a split second I felt nothing. Then a wave of dread surged through me.
‘How bad?’
‘Not sure yet. She’s on a casualty boat out of Misrata. They’re taking her to Benghazi. To the hospital at Al-Jaraa.’
‘They?’
‘The French. Benghazi is as far as it’s safe for her to be moved.’
‘I can’t do anything, mate. Can—’
‘Nick — stop. I’ll take care of it. She just wanted you to know.’
‘She called you?’
‘She didn’t want to worry you while you’re on the ground. Where are you now?’
‘Merca.’
I cut off. I couldn’t do anything about her at the moment. All I could do was try to speed things up this end. Get it done, and get north.
I headed towards the square. The arc lamps were blinding. Centre stage, above the holes, more spotlights strung along the fence made sure the punters wouldn’t miss any part of the drama.
The gates were open. I couldn’t see anyone in the compound. All I could see were four old wooden wheelbarrows beside the holes. They were full of rocks the size of cricket balls, all ready to go. It didn’t matter where my three were. They’d be coming out here any minute to face their punishment.
Crowds of people kept spilling out of the mosques. There were a lot of women dressed like me. There was no cheering; no raised voices. It was all very sombre. Only the madrasah kids, a hundred or so of the little fuckers, were getting sparked up. The mullahs were busy herding them towards the ringside. Even the two old guys we’d stepped aside for this morning had dragged their kids along for the show. Everyone else seemed almost scared.
I eased my way through the heaving mass, careful not to clip anyone I passed with the AK. I needed to be up close and personal, just like the blind kids. Bodies steamed around me. Flies and mosquitoes buzzed around the lights.
I got as near to the gate as I could. My eyes drilled into the compound. AKs slung over their chests, AS hard men herded us with thin, whippy sticks. We moved like a shoal of fish as the square continued to fill.
The door opened into the compound. A gasp rippled through the crowd.
Two AS brought out one of the three Somali men I’d seen hiding from the sun this morning. Behind him, another two AS, one of them the Pakistani, hefted a wooden table.
A guy in a white skull-cap and ginger beard appeared. A murmur spread through the crowd. This guy was feared. He followed the procession towards the gate.
The Somali wasn’t happy. He kept shaking his head, his hands joined in supplication. If he was expecting sympathy from Skullcap, he was about to be seriously disappointed. The AS turned him back, shoving him on with bunched fists. They halted him just short of the holes. The table was put in front of him.
Skull-cap was dressed in a brown dish-dash and cotton trouser combo, with a pair of rubber flip-flops. His ginger beard rested on the black-and-white check shemagh wrapped around his neck. A machete dangled from his waist. He was young, no more than early thirties. Smooth-skinned. Really hard eyes that glinted in the harsh light. Pupils dilated. He shouted at the crowd, pointing at the trembling wreck who’d been selected as the warm-up act.