The Abrupt Physics of Dying

by Paul E. Hardisty

  He pressed on, threading through the rhombic jumble of massive dolomite blocks and tilted sheets of sandstone. Every few minutes he paused to listen, but hearing only the whispers of the rock, continued on. His pursuers must have tracked down this way, beams of light jerking across the jagged landscape, weapons levelled. Perhaps some of them were in Al Urush now, waiting for him. His mind raced through the possibilities, each darker and more sinister. But he could not go back, could not go up. The only way was down.

  When he reached the last precipice the sky was lightening in the east. He stood at the edge of a flat dolostone sill wedged like a plank step between the sheer walls of the defile and looked down the featureless vertical face of the drop to the wadi floor below and then along the contour of the scree to the upper pool of the Al Urush ghayl in the distance. The dead palms were clearly visible against the canyon wall, but he could see no soldiers or Abdulkader – or any other soul.

  The drop must have been twenty metres, more. He moved to his left, along the sill towards the far wall. He peered over the side, searching for a route that would take him to the wadi floor and on to the ghayl. At the far wall he looked back across the full width and height of the rock face towards the other side of the gorge. There was no way down.

  He moved to the edge of the fall, put his good hand on the sheer wall of the canyon and looked back across the face. He studied each joint and crevasse in the improving light. The precipice was as smooth and accusatory as one-way glass, without fault, and with no flaw to seize. He stood for a long time gazing at the rock all around until each slab and face and all the wondrous diversity of it blended and blurred and there was no contrast or dissemblance to any of it.

  He slumped to the ground and closed his eyes as the pain overwhelmed his will. For what felt like a long time he sat and cradled his injured hand and let the barbiturates of agony wash through him. Yallah, Abdulkader had said. Go. Find it. He opened his eyes and looked across the valley.

  There, on the far wall, about a metre below the bench, was a small ledge. It was no more than a hand wide, less, jutting out along the canyon wall, a bedding plane in the limestone, only two or three metres long. Below it was another ledge and then another, each longer and wider than the next so that they formed a pyramid of steps building up from the wadi floor. It was the only way.

  He slung off the pack and removed the fleece jacket, pulling his bandaged hand gingerly through the sleeve, and then rolled up the jacket and put it in the pack. Then he tightened the shoulder straps a notch and shouldered the pack over his vest and moved to the edge of the step. The ledge was just wide enough for one boot side-on. He stepped forward and placed one foot on the ledge. He twisted his torso to face the rock and glued his cheek against the wall. With the fingers of his good hand he hooked into a fracture just above his head. Then he swung his back foot around and forward. He edged along the narrow strip of rock, one step at a time. High above, a falcon’s cry echoed off the canyon walls. The second ledge was now somewhere just below, although he could not see it. He would have to crouch down, use the first step as a handhold, and swing his legs over to the ledge below.

  The first part of the manoeuvre was simple enough. He crouched, balancing his weight on his front foot, and lowered the trailing leg slowly down into the void, searching for the step with the toe of his boot. His palm was splayed flat on the ledge behind him. Then, in one movement, he pivoted off his right hand and swung the other leg over the side, twisting his torso towards the ledge and taking the full weight of his body onto both forearms laid flat across the ledge. His feet flailed in the void below, boots scrabbling against the sheer canyon wall as he searched for the step.

  He pointed his toes and lowered his shoulders, probing further down the wall. The muscles in his upper arms burned with the effort. He lowered himself further, a few more inches, but still could not find the ledge. It had to be there, somewhere, just out of reach. He walked his forearms away from the wall, trying to keep weight off the bandaged hand, and gained a few more centimetres. He swung his legs back and forth, kicking at the wall. Nothing. Crumbs of loosened rock ticked and tapped down the cliff face to the wadi floor below. Now his forearms were right at the outer lip of the ledge. There was nowhere else to go. His shoulders screamed with the strain. He couldn’t hold this. He would either have to pull himself back up to the sill, or let go and trust that the ledge was where it should be and that he would somehow be able to cling to it.

  He started to slide into the void. Then the toe of his left boot touched something solid. He pushed his left arm out so that only his right hand was still on the ledge above. His left toe was now anchored on the lower ledge. He swung his right leg towards it and found the edge of the step so that he was glued almost diagonally to the rock face. He shuffled his right forearm ahead in small increments, righting himself, gradually shifting weight to his legs. He stood there for a long time, plastered against the wall, breathing heavily, his hands and feet tingling and his stomach hollow.

  He moved along the second ledge. Then he stopped and looked down. Below were three more levels, each about two vertical metres apart and then, further down, a bench of talus sloped up against the canyon wall. It was still a long way down. After he had rested for a while he started to move along the narrow bedding plane. He was about halfway to the start of the third step when the thin layer of rock beneath him gave way and he fell flailing into the canyon below.

  The Killing Price

  Abdulkader’s craggy bearded face loomed above him. He was lying on his back, his chest and face covered in a film of sweat. The heat was stifling. His head ached from the inside out, as if his skull had been peeled back in a vice.

  ‘Al hamdullah,’ said Abdulkader. ‘Thanks be to God most merciful.’ Abdulkader put a water bottle to Clay’s lips, tilted it. Clay tried to sit up but a barb of pain pinned him to the ground. He moved his legs, his shoulders. He must have hit his head in the fall.

  ‘Your hand.’

  Clay raised his bandaged hand. ‘Howzit, my broer. I’m sorry I doubted you.’

  Abdulkader blinked once.

  A gunshot rang out, echoed along the canyon walls. Abdulkader reached his arm behind Clay’s back, helped him to his feet. Raised voices from below, in the direction of the village. More gunfire cracked in the distance, diffracted, faded away up-wadi.

  ‘Soldiers?’ Clay asked.

  ‘We must hurry.’

  Clay followed Abdulkader down-wadi, moving in the shadow of the eastern cliffs, the wadi floor below on their right, towards the firing. As they neared the pools, the noise intensified, the rattle of automatic rifle fire, the single pops of handguns. Below, a ragged skirmish line strung out across the wadi. Soldiers in green uniforms, a dozen perhaps, had fanned out from the village and were moving up-wadi. Beyond, two vehicles, Army transports, sat apparently unguarded in the village square. Clay could see two, three, four tribesmen among the boulders, firing at the soldiers, moving, retreating up-wadi. The tribesmen were hemmed in.

  Abdulkader turned and handed him a Beretta and two magazines. ‘We must fight our way out.’ Abdulkader started to move down towards the tribesmen.

  ‘No,’ said Clay. ‘This way.’

  Clay led Abdulkader in the opposite direction, away from the firing, towards the eastern cliff. Soon they were skirting the base of the lower pool. Clay stopped at the ledge, the village far below, breathing hard, and looked down. The soldiers had pushed the tribesmen back and were now strung out across the wadi, east–west. As the wadi constricted, the tribesmen were being forced back into a narrowing funnel of crossfire. Puffs of smoke floated up and were caught in the breeze. Tracers zinged among the rocks. The noise was deafening. Abdulkader knelt beside him, raised his Kalashnikov and took aim at one of the soldiers below.

  Clay touched him on the shoulder. ‘No. Follow me.’

  It took him a moment to find the entrance, stumbling around among the rocks, the firing intensifying below. Everything looked
different going in than it had coming out that day, little Mohamed perched on his shoulders. Finally, Clay found the path. Running now, he descended into the rock, down the hewn steps. Abdulkader followed. As they moved deeper into the heart of the rock, the sounds of the battle diminished, muffled. It was cooler here, the walls shaded, close. Down they went, breathing hard, the sound of their footsteps primary now, gunfire fading into the background, then growing again, louder, and then the coastal plain came into view, a narrow vertical slice of it at first, opening up as they moved towards the base of the stairway.

  Clay stopped and pushed himself against the wall, the Beretta in his right hand. He could smell the cordite, the blood, that old drug flooding his senses now, an ancient addiction, like nothing he had felt since. Everything was clear, pure, the colours vibrant, living, a heart beating inside every single thing. The base of the stairway was only a step away, the bluff footpath Mohamed had led him along just short days ago. He could reach out and touch it.

  The firing was very close now, just off to the right, magnetic. He could hear the voices, shouts of command, the air hot and close like a lover’s breath. Abdulkader brought his rifle to the ready, checked the magazine. Clay checked the Beretta, fingered the trigger. Abdulkader looked skywards, mouthing something Clay could not make out.

  ‘Ready?’ Abdulkader whispered.

  Clay looked into his eyes. They were clear, bright. Clay nodded.

  Abdulkader stepped out onto the path, wheeled right. Clay followed him in a crouch, Beretta levelled, adrenaline pumping, the rush coming. Two soldiers turned to face them, close. They stood side-by-side, weapons facing up-wadi. The closest one was young, just a kid. His face opened into a question, bathed in the soft warmth of the morning light. Abdulkader’s AK roared. The first round tore into the kid’s side, shearing through his chest. The second round decapitated the man standing next to him. Both bodies toppled to the ground. A third soldier, ten metres beyond the first pair, spun to his right and started to bring his rifle around for a shot. Clay took aim, centred the Beretta’s barrel on the man’s torso, the biggest target. A kind of calm flooded through him, a certainty, everything he’d been taught, the things he’d honed with years of practice taking over. He pulled the trigger three times just as the soldier made to fire. The nine-millimetre slugs hit in rapid succession, a tight grouping that blew open the man’s chest cavity, splintering ribs, shredding his aorta, severing the carotid artery, tearing through the left ventricle. The kid, that’s all he was, probably had a moment, a few seconds maybe, just after, to register a last thought, to perhaps see the shower of blood erupting from his body, to take a last glimpse of the too-blue sky. Other soldiers, five of them further along the line turned, open-mouthed, surprise and terror frozen in their faces. They had been caught in enfilade. At the far end of the line, a man in a black jacket jumped from the path just as Abdulkader opened up on full automatic. Clay emptied his magazine into the line’s exposed flank. Three seconds later, five more soldiers lay sprawled in the dust, broken and bleeding.

  Clay stood staring down at the waste, the Beretta smoking in his hand. Abdulkader was already moving along the line, stepping over the twisted corpses, treading in their blood, tracking it across the sand. Clay took a few steps, stood looking down at the lifeless face of the man he’d killed, the question still frozen in the dark-brown eyes. He was very young. Moments ago he was alive. Now he was not. It didn’t seem possible, had never seemed proper or right or even mathematically feasible, time’s unassailable dominion over life, its ability to rob you of everything. Clay crouched, hung his head, closed his eyes, felt death’s touch, cloaked, merry, grateful.

  An AK opened up somewhere nearby. Rounds snapped over his head like electricity, raising the hairs on his neck, the back of his hand. He looked down-wadi. The remaining soldiers were breaking cover and running back to the village, the tribesmen in pursuit. From here they looked tiny, insignificant, like toys. Clay watched one uniformed man stumble, pull himself up, hobble a few steps, then crumple to the ground. The firing was ragged now, dying away. He peered down into the forest of boulders. A glimpse of movement, a flash of black. He waited, breathed deep, everything honed, heightened. There, again, fifty metres down-wadi, a lone figure shuffling between two slabs of limestone, a Ksyuka swinging from his neck. There was no mistaking that build, the fair hair. Clay jammed a fresh magazine into the Beretta’s grip, jumped to his feet and set off in a running crouch.

  The man was moving slowly, seemingly unaware that he was being pursued. Clay closed on him quickly, caught him in a small clearing, an amphitheatre of tall boulders.

  Clay levelled the Beretta. ‘Stop,’ he shouted.

  The man froze, hands at his sides.

  ‘Turn around. Slow.’

  Zdravko looked dazed. There was a deep gash on his forehead. His shirt was bunched up around his midsection, a bloody bandage around his torso.

  ‘Drop the weapon,’ said Clay.

  Zdravko raised his hands. He tried to smile. ‘My friend. Look what you do to me.’

  Clay raised his left hand. ‘Yeah, look, broer. Drop it.’

  Zdravko lifted the strap over his neck and dropped the Ksyuka to the ground.

  ‘Brother, yes. I know when we meet.’ He rapped a closed fist on his chest.

  ‘Afghanistan. Marines.’

  Brothers, then, as he’d suspected. Members of the same fuckedup family. ‘Step back,’ Clay said.

  Zdravko backed away.

  Clay picked up the Ksyuka, squared up, took a deep breath. He kept his voice low, sought as much control as he could find. ‘I’m going to ask you a few questions, brother. And if you don’t tell me what I want to know, I’m going to kill you. Right here, right now. Do you understand?’

  Zdravko’s eyes flickered. He wasn’t smiling anymore.

  ‘Who killed Champard?’

  Zdravko looked away, down at the ground, back up. ‘Al Shams kill him.’

  ‘We both know that’s bullshit.’

  Zdravko’s lip curled. ‘Fuck you, Straker.’

  ‘You don’t think I’m serious, do you?’

  Zdravko stared him in the eyes.

  Clay slung the Ksyuka, pointed the Beretta at Zdravko’s face. Zdravko’s eyes widened. Clay could see him composing himself. ‘I don’t have time to piss around, Zdravko. Who killed Champard? I know it wasn’t you. Who was it?’

  ‘Ask your terrorist friend, Straker.’

  Clay stepped closer, pushed Zdravko to the ground. ‘Why is Mansour for Import faking invoices?’

  Zdravko struggled to his feet, defiant.

  Clay’s stomach lurched. The pain that had somehow vanished during the battle came roaring back. His whole body was aflame.

  Abdulkader called his name. His voice seemed far off, thin, diffuse after the din of the shooting, the cries of dying men.

  Clay took a deep breath. ‘I won’t ask again.’

  Zdravko spat. ‘Fuck you, son of a whore.’

  Clay lowered the weapon and fired once. The pistol jerked in his hand. Zdravko fell to the ground, his knee a blossom of red pulp. He grabbed his smashed limb, screamed in pain. Clay crouched, put the gun to Zdravko’s head. ‘It was me, up in the rocks that day at Bawazir,’ he whispered. ‘I know what you did. I photographed it all.’

  Zdravko looked up at him, realisation in his eyes.

  ‘And if you don’t tell me what I want to know, I’m going to do to you exactly what you did to that chief.’

  Zdravko lay clutching his knee, panting.

  ‘Last chance, asshole.’

  Zdravko looked down at his knee, his face contorted in pain. ‘It wasn’t me,’ he cried. ‘I pay someone. They do it.’

  ‘I know, Zdravko. Who paid you?’

  Zdravko’s eyes fluttered, closed. He was going into shock.

  Abdulkader was standing behind Clay now, rifle slung muzzle down, staring down at Zdravko’s knee. ‘We must go,’ he said. ‘Now.’

  Clay look
ed up. Abdulkader gazed down at him, stone.

  Clay shook Zdravko awake. ‘Mansour for Import?’

  ‘I pay them.’

  ‘Who are they? Tell me.’

  Zdravko looked down at his knee and closed his eyes, shook his head. ‘Look what you do to me,’ he hissed through clenched teeth.

  ‘Worse coming.’

  ‘And I save you, motherfucker. Tell them kill only Champard. No one else. You live because of me.’ Zdravko pounded his chest. ‘You owe me, motherfucker.’

  There it was. Rania had been right.

  ‘You dead, Straker. I fucking kill you.’

  ‘We’ll leave that to Allah.’ Clay pushed the Beretta’s muzzle into Zdravko’s temple. ‘Last chance. Who did it?’

  Zdravko’s eyes widened. ‘Ansar Al-Sharia. They did. Mansour is cover.’

  Clay blinked twice. Holy Jesus. ‘Who paid you?’

  ‘The company,’ Zdravko blurted.

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Parnell.’

  Clay’s guts somersaulted. He glanced up at Abdulkader. ‘Why, Zdravko? Why did they do it?’

  Zdravko’s eyelids fluttered and closed. Clay grabbed him by the shoulders, shook hard. ‘Why, damn you, why?’

  Zdravko’s eyes opened, just a sliver. ‘I don’t know,’ he whispered. Then he was gone.

  A man appeared behind them, face swathed against the dust. He stopped for a moment then approached, white thaub flowing, unarmed. There was no mistaking the misshapen head, the dark intelligent eyes. He stopped a few paces away and looked at Clay. It was over. The wadi was quiet again, dead again. The violence echoed in Clay’s head. He turned and looked out over the plain as the vehicles disappeared into the distance trailing wefts of dust.