Last Light

by Andy McNab

  Fuck it, I had to take a chance.

  I turned and charged straight at him, face down, bending forward so that only my back was exposed. My whole focus was on the area of the poncho where his stomach should have been.

  I screamed at the top of my voice, more for my own benefit than his. If I wasn't quick enough, I'd soon know because I'd feel the blade slice down between my shoulders.

  The Leatherman pliers were still in my right hand. I got into him and felt his body buckle with the impact as I wrapped my left arm around him and tried to pinion his gollock arm.

  Then I rammed the pointed tips against his stomach.

  Both of us moved backwards. The pliers hadn't penetrated his skin yet: they were held by the poncho and whatever was underneath. He screamed, too, probably feeling the steel trying to pierce him.

  We hit a tree. His back was against it and I lifted my head and body, using my weight to force the pliers to penetrate his clothing and flesh.

  He gave an agonized howl, and I felt his stomach tighten. It must have looked as if I was trying to have sex with him as I kept on pushing and bucking my body against him, using my weight against him with the pliers between us. At last I felt his stomach give way. It was like pushing into a sheet of rubber; and once they were in, there was no way they were coming out again.

  I churned my hand up and down and round in circles, any way that I could to maximize the damage. My head was over his left shoulder and I was breathing through clenched teeth as he screamed just inches from the side of my face. I saw his bared teeth as they tried to bite me, and head butted him to keep him away. Then he screamed so loudly into my face I could feel the force of his breath.

  By now I wasn't even sure if the gollock was still in his hands or not. I smelt cologne and felt his smooth skin against my neck as he thrashed his face around, his body bucking and writhing.

  The stab wound must have enlarged, as he was leaking over me. Blood had got past the hole in the poncho and I could feel the warmth of it on my hands. I continued to push in, keeping my body up against his, using my legs to keep him trapped between me and the tree.

  His noises were getting softer and I could feel his warm slobber on my neck. My hand was virtually inside his stomach now, taking the poncho with it. I could smell the contents of his intestinal tract.

  He collapsed forward on to me and took me down with him on to my knees. Only then did I withdraw my hand. As the Leatherman emerged and I kicked him off, he fell into the foetal position. He might have been crying; I couldn't really tell.

  I moved away quickly, picked up the gollock from where he'd dropped it, and went and sat against a tree, fighting for breath, unbelievably relieved it was all over. As my body calmed down, the pain came back to my leg and chest. I pulled up my slashed jeans on my right leg and inspected the damage. It was to the rear of the calf; the gash was only about four inches long and not very deep, but bad enough to be leaking quite badly.

  My hand, clenched around the Leatherman, looked much worse than it was as the rain diluted his blood. I tried to fold out the knife blade but it was difficult; my hand was shaking, now that I'd released my tight grip, and probably through shock as well. In the end I had to use my teeth, and when the blade was finally open I used it to cut my sweatshirt sleeves into wet strips.

  With these I improvised a bandage, wrapping it around my leg to apply pressure on the wound.

  I sat there in the mud for a good five minutes, rainwater streaming down my face and into my eyes and mouth, dripping off my nose. I stared at the man, still lying in a foetal position, covered in mud and leaf litter.

  The poncho was up around his chest like a pulled-up dress, and the rain still beat on it like a drums king Both his hands clutched his stomach; blood glistened as it seeped through the gaps between his fingers. His legs made small circular movements as if he was trying to run.

  I felt sorry for him, but I'd had no choice. Once that length of razor-sharp steel started flying around it was either him or me.

  I wasn't feeling too proud of myself, but placed that feeling in my mental bin with the lid back on when I began to see that this wasn't exactly the local woodcutter I'd stumbled across. His nails were clean and well manicured, and though his hair was a mess of mud and leaves, I could see it was well cut, with a square neck and neatly trimmed sideburns. He was maybe early thirties, Spanish, good-looking and clean-shaven. He had one unusual feature: instead of two distinct eyebrows, he had just one big one.

  This guy wasn't a farmhand, he was a city boy, the one who'd been standing in the back of the pickup. As Aaron had said, these people didn't fuck about and he would have sliced me up without a second thought. But what had he been doing in here?

  I sat and stared at him as it got darker and the rain and thunder did its thing above the canopy. This episode spelt the end of the recce, and both of us were going to have to disappear. For sure he was going to be missed. Maybe he had been already. They would come looking for him, and if they knew where he had been, it wouldn't take them long to find him if I left him here.

  I folded down my bloodstained Leatherman and put it back in its pouch, wondering if Jim Leatherman had ever imagined his invention would be used like this.

  I guessed that the fence must be closer than the road now: if I headed for that, at least I'd have something to guide me out of the jungle in the darkness.

  Unibrow's breathing was shallow and quick, and he was still gripping his stomach with both hands, his face screwed up in pain as he mumbled weakly to himself. I forced his eyes open. Even in this low light there should have been a better reaction in his pupils; they should have closed a lot quicker. He was definitely on his way out.

  I went in search of his hat, gollock in hand. It was a bottom-of-the-range thing, with a plastic handle riveted each side of very thin, rust-spotted steel.

  What to do with him once we were out of here? If he was still alive I couldn't take him to a hospital because he'd talk about me, which would alert Charlie and compromise the job. I certainly couldn't take him back to Aaron and Carrie's place because that would compromise them. All I knew was that I had to get him away from the immediate vicinity. I'd think of something later.

  Hat retrieved, I went back to Unibrow, got hold of his right arm, and hoisted him in a fireman's lift over my back and shoulder. There were moans and groans from him and he tried in a pathetic way to kick out at me.

  I grabbed his right arm and leg and held them together, jumping gently up and down to get him comfy round my shoulders. The small amounts of oxygen that his injuries allowed him to take in were knocked out of him again, no doubt making him feel even worse, but I couldn't help that. The poncho flapped over my face and I had to push it away. I grabbed his hat, and then, gollock back in hand, I checked the compass and headed for the fence line

  It was getting much darker; I could only just make out where my feet were going.

  I felt something warm and wet on my neck, warmer than the rain, and guessed it was his blood.

  Pushing myself hard I limped on, stopping occasionally to check the compass.

  Nothing else mattered but getting to the road and making the RV. Within minutes I came on to the fence line The BUBs were reaching a crescendo. In another quarter of an hour it was going to be pitch black.

  Ahead of me, in the open, semi-dark space, was a solid wall of rain, thumping into the mud with such force it was creating mini craters. Lights were already on in the house, and in one area, probably a hallway, an enormous chandelier shone through a high window. The fountain was illuminated but I couldn't see the statue. That was good, because it meant they couldn't see me.

  I followed the fence for a few minutes, my passenger's head and poncho constantly snagging on branches of wait-a-while so that I had to stop and backtrack to free him. All the time I kept my eyes glued on the house. I came across what looked like a small mammal track, paralleling the fence and about two feet in. I followed it, past caring about leaving sign in the
churned-up mud. The rain would sort that out.

  I'd gone no more than a dozen steps when my limping right leg was whipped away from under me and both of us went crashing into the undergrowth.

  I lashed out in a frenzy: it was as if an invisible hand had grabbed hold of my ankle and thrown me to one side. I tried to kick out but my right foot was stuck fast. I tried to crawl away but couldn't. Next to me on the ground, Unibrow gave a loud groan of pain.

  I looked down and saw a faint glimmer of metal. It was wire: I was caught in a snare; the more I struggled, the more it was gripping me.

  I turned round to make sure where Unibrow was. He was rolled up in his own little world, oblivious to the thunder and forked lightning rattling across the night sky.

  It was simple enough to ease open the loop. I got to my feet and went over and heaved him back up on to my shoulders, then set off along the track.

  Just another five minutes of stumbling brought us to the start of the whitewashed rough-stone wall and, ten metres or so later, the tall iron gates.

  It was good to feel tarmac under my feet. I turned left and moved as quickly as I could to get away from the area. If a vehicle came I'd just have to plunge back into the undergrowth and hope for the best.

  As I shuffled forward with the weight of the man over my shoulder, I became much more aware of the pain in my right calf. It hurt too much to raise my foot, so I kept my legs as straight as possible, pumping forward with my free arm. Rain ricocheted a good six inches off the tarmac, making a horrendous racket. I realized I'd never be able to hear a vehicle coming up behind us, so I had to keep stopping and turning round. Thunder and lightning roared and crackled behind me and I kept moving as though I was running away from it.

  It took over an hour but I finally got us both into the canopy at the loop. The rain had eased off but Unibrow's pain hadn't, and neither had mine. The jungle was so dark now I couldn't see my hand in front of my face, only the small luminous specks on the jungle floor, maybe phosphorescent spores or night-time beasties on the move.

  For an hour or so I sat, rubbed my leg, and waited for Aaron, listening to Unibrow's whimpers, and the sound of his legs moving about in the leaf litter.

  His groans faded, and eventually disappeared. I crawled over to him on my hands and knees, feeling for his body.

  Then, following his legs up to his face, all I could hear was weak, wheezy breath trying to force itself through his mucus-filled nostrils and mouth. I pulled out the Leatherman and jabbed his tongue with the blade. There was no reaction, it was just a matter of time.

  Rolling him on to his back, I lay on top of him and jammed my right forearm into his throat, pushing down with all my weight, my left hand on my right wrist.

  There was little resistance. His legs kicked out weakly, moving us about a bit, a hand floundered about my arm and another came up weakly to scratch at my face.

  I simply moved my head out of the way and listened to the insects and his low whimpers as I cut off the blood supply to his head, and oxygen to his lungs.

  FIFTEEN

  Wednesday 6 September It's Kev, Kelly's dad. He's lying on the living-room floor, eyes glazed and vacant, his head battered, an aluminium baseball bat lying beside him.

  There's blood on the glass coffee table and the thick shag-pile carpet, some even splattered on the patio windows.

  I put my foot on the bottom stair. The shag pile helps keep the noise down, but still it's like treading on ice, testing each step gently for creaks, always placing my feet to the inside edge, slowly and precisely. Sweat pours off my face, I worry if anyone is hiding up there, ready to attack.

  I get level with the landing, I point my pistol up above my head, using the wall as support, move up the stairs backwards, step by step ... The washing machine is on its final thundering spin downstairs, still the soft rock plays on the radio.

  As I get nearer to Kev and Marsha's room I can see that the door is slightly ajar, there's a faint, metallic tang ... I can also smell shit, I feel sick, I know I have to go in.

  Marsha: she's kneeling by the bed, her top half spreadeagled on the mattress, the bedspread covered with blood.

  Forcing myself to ignore her I move to the bathroom. Aida is lying on the floor, her five-year-old head nearly severed from her shoulders; I can see the vertebrae just holding on.

  Bang, I go back against the wall and slump on to the floor, blood is everywhere, I get it all over my shirt, my hands, I sit in a pool of it,

  soaking the seat of my trousers. There is a loud creak of wood splitting above me ... I drop my weapon, curl up and cover my head with my hands. Where's Kelly?

  Where the fuck is Kelly?

  "Shit! shit! shit!"

  There was the crash of branches, followed swiftly by the thud on the jungle floor, close enough that I felt the vibration in the ground as it does when two tonnes of dead tree have just given up the will to stay upright.

  The crash spooked not only me but also the birds lazing on branches high above.

  There was screeching and the heavy, slow flap of large wings getting their owners the hell out of there.

  A few gallons of canopy-held rain had followed the deadfall. I wiped the water from my face and stood up. Shit, it's getting bad. I've never had them on a job and never had them about Kev and his gang. It must be because I'm so knackered, I just feel totally drained ... I pushed hair off my forehead and got a grip of myself. Knackered? So what? Just get on with it. Work is work; cut away from that shit. You know where she is, she's safe, just do the job and try to keep her that way.

  Deadfall was a constant problem in the jungle, and checking to see if there were any dead trees or branches nearby or overhead when basha'ing up for the night was an SOP (Standard Operating Procedure) that was taken seriously. I marked time, trying to do something with my legs. I could feel pins and needles.

  Please, not here, not now.

  According to Baby-G it was 2.23, not long to pick-up.

  The rain had held off while I'd been here, but now and again a bucketful still fell after being dislodged, bouncing off the foliage on its way down with the sound of a finger tapping on a side drum, as if to accompany my static marching.

  I'd been here amongst the leaf litter for nearly six hours. It was like having a night out on belt-kit not having the comfort of being off the ground in a hammock and under a poncho, instead having to rough it with just the equipment that you have on your belt: ammunition, twenty-four hours of food, water and medical kit. Only I didn't even have that. Just guaranteed misery as I became part of the jungle floor.

  I finished with marking time: the sensation had gone away. I'd fought off jet lag, but my body still wanted desperately to curl into a ball and sink into a deep sleep. I felt my way back down against the hard rough bark of a tree and was surrounded by invisible crickets. As I stretched out my legs to ease the cramp in the good one and the pain in the other, I felt around to make sure the sweatshirt dressing was still tight around the wound; it didn't feel as if it was bleeding any more, but it was painful and, I imagined, messy down there. I could feel the pulse throbbing against the edge of the wound.

  As I moved to relieve the numbness in my arse once more, the soles of my Timber lands pushed against Unibrow. I'd searched him before we went into the treeline, and found a wallet and several metre lengths of copper wire tucked into a canvas pouch on his belt. He'd been setting traps. Maybe he was into that sort of stuff for fun: it wasn't as if the lot up at the house would be in need of the odd wild turkey.

  I thought back over some of the stuff I'd done over the years, and right now I hated all the jobs I'd ever been on. I hated Unibrow for making me kill him. I hated me. I was sitting in shit, getting attacked by everything that moved, and I'd still had to kill someone else. One way or another that was the way it had always been.

  Until midnight I'd heard only three vehicles moving along the road, and it was hard to tell if they were heading towards the house or away from it. After that, th
e only new sounds were the buzzing of insects. At one point a troop of howler monkeys passed us by, using the top of the canopy so they had some starlight to help them see what they were doing. Their booming barks and groans reverberated through the jungle, so loud they seemed to shake the trees. As they swung screeching and bellowing from tree to tree they disturbed the water caught in the giant leaves, and we were rained on again.

  I sat gently rubbing around the cut on my leg as more buzzes circled my head, stopping just before I felt something bite into my skin. I slapped my face just as I heard movement high above me in the canopy, sending another downpour.

  Whatever it was up there sounded like it was moving on rather than coming down to investigate, which was fine by me.

  At 2.58 I heard the low rumble of a vehicle. This time the noise didn't fade.

  The engine note took over gradually from the chirping of the crickets, passing my position until I could clearly hear the tyres splashing in puddled-up potholes. It stopped just past me, with a gentle squeak of not-too-good brakes. The engine ticked over erratically. It had to be the Mazda.

  Leaning on the gollock to help me get to my feet, I stretched my legs and tried to get them warmed up as I checked to make sure I still had my docs. The wound felt even more tender now I was standing again, and my clothing was sodden and heavy. Having given in to temptation hours ago, I scratched my lumpy back.

  I felt around for Unibrow, got hold of an arm and a leg, and heaved him over my shoulder. His body was slightly stiff, but far from rigid. The heat and humidity probably had something to do with that. His free arm and foot flopped around as I jiggled him into position.

  With the gollock and hat in my right hand I made my way slowly towards the edge of the treeline, my head and eyes at an angle of about forty-five degrees to the ground and half closed to protect them from the unseen wait-a-while. I might as well have closed them completely: I couldn't see a thing.

  The moment I emerged from the forest, I saw the silhouette of the Mazda, bathed in a glow of white and red reflecting off the wet tarmac. I laid Unibrow down with his hat in the mud and tall grass at the jungle's edge, and squelched towards the passenger side, gollock in hand, checking to make sure there was only one body shape in the cab.