Nicolette was sticking closer to Steven today. Her short-cropped hair and black eye gave her a funny, beaten-up-waif appearance, rather than the tough image she’d hoped for, but Steven wasn’t about to tell her that. She showed no sign of fear or hesitation today, and he noticed that when she got close to the crowd, she frequently checked her back. He saw the TV crew he had talked to the previous day, and signalled to her to follow him. From the top of the TV van, they had a good view of the Palace and the crowd.
At exactly one o’clock in the afternoon, the flower-covered coffin of President Boumedienne was lifted from the Grand Salon, where the President had rested for these past two days, and placed on a gun carriage, which was then pulled by officers of the armed forces. When it reached the gates it was surrounded by a cordon of motorbike police. The crowd went mad, pushing past the police to touch the coffin. The convoy of official cars tried to move forward, but the crowd blocked their path. Soldiers held their rifles close to their chest, the weapons useless and cumbersome in this crowd. Police officers lost their caps as people yelled Yaya Boumedienne – Long live Boumedienne – and Allah Akbar – God is great. The procession moved forward and the official cars tried to catch up but were hindered by people climbing onto the roofs of the cars.
‘Come on,’ Steven said after a few minutes. ‘We’re going with these guys. Get in the van.’
From within the van Nicolette kept her lens focussed on the crowd outside. The TV crew’s driver kept his fist on the horn and his foot on the accelerator, and the crowd moved to let them through. They turned into side streets, less crowded than before.
They reached the Place des Martyrs at the foot of the Casbah moments before the procession. Tens of thousands of mourners had gathered there. Trees and kiosks, unable to withstand the weight of those hoping for a better view, had collapsed and were squashed underfoot. The crowd was being held back by a double line of soldiers and police, and surprisingly, all was relatively calm. As the procession made its way along the Boulevard Che Guevara, in front of the ocean, dozens of sirens from boats at anchor sounded their respect.
The procession stopped in front of the Great Mosque. The coffin was taken into the Mosque by members of the President’s family, where the President of the Superior Islamic Council – Sheikh Ahmed Hamani – pronounced the ritual prayer. At that precise second the whole of Algeria became silent. Everywhere, in the cities and villages, in the streets and the houses of the rich and the poor, the people held one minute’s silence for the President they had lost. The silence was eerie after the shouts and sirens and cries. It was when the coffin was brought out again – to be taken to the green and white cemetery of Dar-El-Alia – that everything turned sour.
Thousands of people who had been following the coffin reached the seafront. The line of soldiers and police was unable to hold back this huge new wave of mourners, and they broke their cordon to run in the same direction as the crowd, hoping to regroup a little further forward. But the crowd was as fast as the police, and it was when they were just thirty metres from the coffin of the President that police began their bludgeoning, kicking and punching. The crowd slowed, many becoming hysterical. Some were knocked to the ground but still the crowd didn’t disperse. Abdelghani – the Minister of the Interior – gave the order to clear the street, so that water cannons and police in riot gear were brought in, adding to the chaos. People screamed, fell to the ground and were trampled underfoot. Others fainted. Still the police and Military attacked until the procession was able to make its way to the cemetery. But for Steven and Nicolette, and the TV van, it was impossible to move any further.
#
‘It’s funny you know. It was worse today, but I wasn’t as scared.’
‘You worked smarter today.’
‘Yeah, I did okay.’
‘Maybe.’
‘Not maybe. Definitely. Say it. Say You did well today, Nicolette.’
Steven smiled. They were on their way back to Lesage’s from the news bureau. Since the crowd of the funeral had dispersed, Nicolette had been in a playful mood. It was a reaction he could understand – she was still high from the adrenaline pumping through her body. ‘Okay – you weren’t bad today, kiddo.’
‘Hmm… It’ll have to do, I guess.’
She walked beside him for a while without talking. With her hands in the back pockets of her jeans, and her camera bag banging against her back, Steven thought she looked like a schoolgirl.
‘Jean-Paul was in a hurry to leave,’ she said then.
‘No reason for him to stay. He got his story.’
‘Yeah, true. I just thought he’d stay another day or so.’
‘Why? Would you?’
‘Actually, I wanted to talk to you about that. When are we going back to Constantine?’
‘What for?’
‘That gun negotiator story. I still want to chase it up.’
‘Don’t start on that again, Nicky. You saw what happened to that farmer. It’s too dangerous.’
‘Why are you so against it? I would have thought—’
‘Look, it could take months before we find out anything, and even then we’ve no guarantees. We don’t have that much time – we only came here for Boumedienne, remember?’
‘Yeah, I know. But it’ll be easier this time. Jean-Paul explained how it works – they use cells. I think if we start at the bottom and work our way up, we’ll get to the top guy.’
‘Yeah, I know about cells. All the more reason why you really don’t want to go there. You’ll never get anywhere.’
‘Yes I will. I can go see Jamilah – she said Rafiq was still fighting for the cause. She’d help. And you can ask your contacts. If we crack this, I can get a contract, even out of Reuters if I wanted to. I wouldn’t have to take my annual leave to follow anything interesting anymore.’
‘The answer’s no – you’re asking for trouble. You’re letting the excitement of the last few days cloud your judgement. And I’ve got other things on my plate.’
‘And I think you’re chickening out. A few extra days wouldn’t matter.’
Steven stopped walking. He looked at Nicolette walking ahead, hands still in her pockets, head up. She didn’t turn and he knew she was baiting him.
‘And if I don’t go,’ he said, catching up with her, ‘what will you do?’
‘I’ll do it on my own.’
‘And if you get in deeper than you thought?’
‘I’m tough, remember.’
He grabbed her by the shoulders and turned her to face him. ‘Stop it,’ he said, angry at the way she met his gaze. ‘This isn’t a game.’
‘I know.’
‘And you insist on going.’
‘Yes.’
‘You’re an idiot.’
‘Maybe.’
He sighed and let go of her. ‘So be it,’ he said.
‘Does that mean yes? You’ll come with me?’
‘I’ll come.’
Nicolette smiled. She had won.
24
The road to Constantine was almost free of traffic at this time of the morning; it wasn’t even light yet. Steven had woken her around one a.m., saying he couldn’t sleep and they might as well head off. Since then, he’d been sitting up front next to Amoud, barely saying a word. Nicolette was sure he was doing it on purpose, to make the trip as unpleasant as possible – his way of letting her know he didn’t approve. She had tried chatting to him, teasing him, even complimenting him on the new polo-necked jumper he was wearing, all to no avail.
She looked out of the car window into the darkness, and thought of the pictures she’d taken these last couple of days. She knew there were some good ones there; she might even make the front page. She’d been here just over two weeks, but it felt like months; she’d experienced so much, learned so much. She should find out where Steven was going next – see if they could team up again. But she’d wait until he was in a better mood before asking. She leaned back in her seat and closed her eyes. M
ight as well catch up on some sleep.
She felt the car slow, and heard Steven say something to Amoud. She sat up. Stifled a yawn. ‘What’s happening?’
In the beam of the car headlights she could see a jeep across the road ahead, and two men signalling them to stop.
‘Some sort of road block,’ Steven answered. ‘Let me handle this.’
As Amoud stopped the car, the men hurried towards them, rifles at the ready. From the description Jean-Paul had given her, she was pretty sure those were AK-47s.
‘Steven?’
But before Steven could answer her, the men ripped the doors open.
‘Get out! Out of the car. Now! Outoutoutoutout!’
Nicolette was hauled from her seat and thrown face down into the dirt. Small rocks pressed into her forehead and the fall reawakened the pain on her side. She turned her head slightly, but only for an instant before someone grabbed her by the hair and pushed her face down into the dirt once more. ‘Keep your head down,’ the man said in French.
But she’d seen Steven. He too was down on the ground, on the other side of the car, and so was Amoud. She felt the same rising panic she’d felt on the second day of Boumedienne’s funeral and she fought against it, pushing it down her body, down down down into the ground. Her senses were more acute. She could smell the stale sweat on her captors’ bodies. Hear the blood whooshing through her veins.
Someone yanked her hair, pulled her face off the ground and put a burlap sack over her head. Hoisted her to her feet. Her ears roared. The bones in her legs felt as if they were liquefying and could no longer hold her up. The sack smelt of stale urine and she retched. She heard the jeep start up. Her arms were pulled back and her wrists tied, so she twisted her hands out in an attempt to make the binding loose but her captor noticed and smashed the butt of a rifle into her back. White pain scorched its way up her spine and exploded into her head and she fell to her knees.
‘Get up. Now.’
The rope cut into her wrists, cutting of circulation.
‘Climb in.’
She sat as far back into the seat as she could, afraid of the swerving of the jeep. The speed of the vehicle made the burlap sack stick to her face and she thought she’d suffocate. The sockets in her shoulders throbbed from the awkward angle of her arms, her fingers numb from the too-tight rope. She wriggled them but the pins and needles were worse than the numbness.
From the angle of the car she judged they were heading down the mountainside. The noise of the engine echoed and she heard tyres scrunch on gravel. They must be going down the tracks leading down to the gorges. She sensed someone sitting next to her.
‘Steven? You there?’
‘No talking.’ The sudden slap silenced her. Warm liquid ran down to her upper lip. She licked it. Tasted blood. She concentrated on the pain in her shoulders, welcoming it, using it to force down the ever-present panic. The jeep bumped over rougher terrain and she muffled a cry as her arm sockets crunched. She leaned forwards in an attempt to ease the pain in her arms but was pushed back. The jeep stopped.
‘Out, out.’
She stumbled.
‘Walk.’
Slowly she moved forward. She strained to hear any sound that may give her a clue as to where she was. The crunch of boots. The screech of a bird. She shuffled on, the edge of her captor’s rifle guiding her direction. The sack around her head itched and a section of it had stuck to the blood under her nose. She rubbed her face against her shoulder, trying to ease the cloth from around her nose.
The muzzle of the rifle pressed against her back. Hands searched her pockets, her body, removing anything they found there. The rope burnt the skin of her wrists. The jeep start up some distance away, drove off.
‘Sit.’
She sat. Felt something cool and hard beneath her buttocks. The strong smell of unwashed flesh permeated past the urine stench of the sack, and she sensed someone close by. The sack was torn off her head.
Nicolette gasped a big gulp of cool air. The sudden light blinded her, and she closed her eyes. Opened them again, squinted in the early morning light. She was sitting on a rock, halfway inside of a small cave. She looked around, expecting to see Steven and Amoud.
No one. She was alone.
At the entrance of the cave stood one of her captors, his back to her, a rifle over his shoulder. A turban encircled his head. Outside, she could see a couple of cardboard boxes, some empty food tins. The remains of a campfire. A dirt track, then directly behind it the ground disappeared. Behind that, a wall of rock rose above her line of vision. She’d guessed right – they were down one of the gorges that rimmed the roads out of Constantine. The skin of her face itched, her throat felt dry and gritty.
‘Can I have some water?’ she called to her guard. He turned, looked at her, looked away again. ‘Please? Water?’
He turned once more. Raised the rifle to his shoulder, aiming at her head. Looked into her eyes. Smiled. Nicolette held her breath. She could feel her heart pounding and felt a sudden need to use her bowels. She could not control the tremors in her body. Her captor lowered the rifle, slung it over his shoulder once more and turned away. She closed her eyes and slouched forward, letting her breath out in one long slow stream.
She forced herself to breathe slowly, deeply, pursing her lips to exhale. She couldn’t stop shivering. A fly buzzed around her face and came to rest on the dried blood beneath her nose. She shook her head to dislodge it. It flew off, hovered around her face for a moment then returned to its meal. She blew upwards until the fly finally went. Outside the cave entrance she could hear voices and movement.
#
It had been dark for some time when they finally came. Two men, both in jeans, jumpers and jackets, one wearing a turban, the other bareheaded. Both carried rifles over their shoulders. They untied her hands from behind her back and retied them in front of her. The skin was raw with rubbing and she winced at the pain.
‘I need to go to the toilet,’ she said, and one of the men prodded her out of the cave with his rifle. She saw other men sitting around a fire, eating. A full moon lit the rock face. She could see other small caves, but no sign of Steven or Amoud. Her legs felt weak, her head light. Her tongue was thick in her mouth. Her guard pointed to a distance along the track. She walked. A few metres from the camp, he stopped her.
‘Over there,’ he said, pointing to a group of boulders.
She climbed, pulling herself up with her tied hands. Slipped. A rock tore the cloth of her jeans and ripped her knee.
The top of the boulder was eroded, basin shaped. By the moonlight she could see it half filled with excrement, a stinking mass that appeared to be moving, throbbing with insects and small creatures. She retched, heaving and gagging.
‘Hurry up,’ her captor yelled from below, rifle pointed at her. She edged her way to the very rim of the basin. A large cockroach scurried away. She fumbled with the button of her jeans, lowered them and relieved herself. Something crawled on the flesh of her buttock and she cringed, quickly pulling her jeans back up.
#
She’d been back in the cave for a while now. Her stomach felt tight, cramped. Her mouth dryer still. Her back spasmed from sitting too long upright on the rock. She lowered herself to the ground and rested her back against the rock. An owl screeched. One of her captors entered the cave, silhouetted in the entrance. He held out a Coca-Cola bottle, half filled with water.
‘Thirsty?’
Nicolette looked at the bottle, the water gleaming in the moonlight. Licked her lips. Nodded. Held up her tied hands towards him. ‘Please,’ she whispered.
Slowly he tipped the bottle, so that the water trickled out, just clear of her fingers. She lurched forwards, felt a few drops wet her hands, but he stepped back, laughing. She sucked her fingers, licked her hands, seeking every drop. He emptied the bottle, turned and walked out. She stared after him, close to tears.
But there was water on the rocky floor of the cave. Slowly, on her knees, sh
e inched her way to where he’d been standing. She could just make out the darker colour of the rock where he’d poured the water. She licked the cave floor like an animal, sucking every bit of moisture up into her mouth, but there was barely enough to wet her tongue. She lay down then, and cried great tearless sobs.
The noise outside lessened. The guard ignored her. She stared out at the moonlight shimmering on the rock wall. The night became colder and she curled up where she was, shivering. Heard a flutter of wings. Somewhere, someone coughed. She watched the moonlight dim, the rock face become lighter in the soft dawn grey. She slept.
#
She woke to the pain of a boot kicking her ribs.
‘Sit up.’
Nicolette pushed herself upwards. The early morning air smelt crisp, icy. The bindings around her wrists were caked with dried blood, and her efforts to sit pulled at the scabs and reopened the wounds.
Two men stood before her, one pointing a rifle. The other had a handgun tucked into his belt, a cigarette dangling from his mouth. He leaned towards her, his arm stretched out, palm up.
‘Mademoiselle?’ he said, smiling.
Nicolette stared at him, confused by his almost courtly manner.
‘I said: “Mademoiselle”,’ he repeated as he grabbed her arm and pulled her up onto the rock she had sat on the previous day. Ash from the tip of his cigarette fell onto her lap. ‘Now, Mademoiselle, we don’t wish to harm you. We only need some information. Who are you working for?’
‘The Herald. An Australian paper. I’m a photojournalist. My name is Nicolette de Derc—’
‘Liar.’ The blow toppled Nicolette off the rock. Her questioner grabbed her hair and pulled her upright. ‘Do not lie to me, Mademoiselle. Now, let’s try again. Who are you working for?’
‘The Herald.’
The man before her shook his head in mock disappointment. Looked down at her outstretched legs, then back at her. He placed the heel of his boot onto the bone of her shin, then smiled as he slowly transferred his weight onto that foot.
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