Coincidence: A Novel

by J. W. Ironmonger

  Hall looked off into the middle distance. ‘I knew a kid called Azaliah once,’ he said. He let the thought float. ‘Is she your daughter?’

  Luke hesitated. ‘Adopted,’ he said.

  Hall nodded slowly.

  ‘You won’t put her at any risk?’ Luke said. ‘Tell me you won’t go in there with all guns blazing?’

  The big Manxman surveyed Luke through narrowed eyes. ‘Everyone thinks our job is about going in and shooting people.’ He paused. ‘Fact is, we hardly ever do that. If we did, we wouldn’t live very long.’

  ‘So how do you intend to get her out?’

  ‘Well, we have three options. Option One, we start a big firefight. Lots of people get killed. Some of our guys get killed. Maybe even your . . . Azaliah . . . gets killed.’ He was lost again in a reverie. ‘Mind you,’ he said, ‘it would be bloody revenge, if that’s what you want. If we go for Option One, it only works if we kill every one of them. It could come to it.’

  Luke waited.

  ‘Option Two,’ Hall said, ‘we try to break in under cover of darkness and steal the kids out. It could work, but it’s bloody dangerous. Those child soldiers have no idea when to shoot and when to wait – they just shoot. That’s what Kony wants them to do.’

  ‘And Option Three?’ asked Luke.

  ‘Ahh,’ said the soldier, ‘Option Three. We trade.’

  ‘You trade?’

  ‘Sure thing. We get there and we open up a dialogue.’

  Luke nodded. He liked Option Three. ‘What do you use to trade with?’ he asked.

  ‘Money,’ said Hall, ‘guns. Ammo.’

  Luke winced. The peacenik was never far away. ‘It would be good,’ he said, ‘if we could avoid giving them more guns.’

  Hall grinned. ‘Hell, if we give them money they’re only going to spend it on guns. Why not make it easy for us both?’ He laughed – a faintly cruel laugh. ‘Anyone who thinks we can take the guns out of Africa never sat on my side of the table.’ He rose from his chair. ‘Are we done? Only we should get started.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Luke weakly.

  ‘Final thing,’ said Hall. ‘No one gets to know about our arrangement. No one.’

  ‘That’s fine,’ said Luke, ‘I understand.’

  ‘Good. Don’t send anyone to look for us.’ He lifted his eyebrows. ‘If we never come back then the whole thing’s a bust. You get to keep your pretty house, but you’ll be damn sure that I’m dead, my boys are dead and all your kids are dead too.’

  ‘I get it,’ Luke said slowly.

  ‘We only get one go at this. If we screw up the first time, there won’t be a second time. Kony is the most merciless motherfucker on either side of the equator. If we screw up, we’re dog meat – all of us.’

  When the nondescript lorry crept up the approach road to the LRA camp, it would have been breakfast time back in Langadi. In the LRA camps there was no breakfast time.

  There were just two men in the lorry, John Hall and one of the Ugandans. They let the vehicle crawl up to the first barricade. The gaggle of guards looked terrified. Guns were waving. The Ugandan mercenary slowly wound down his window. ‘Tell your boss,’ he said, talking in Acholi, ‘that we’re here to trade with him.’

  Guards began to gather round the truck. Most were teenagers. All were thin. Some wore flip-flops, but most had no shoes. All carried guns.

  One man, who may have been the most senior, approached the lorry with hesitation. He stood a few feet away as if the whole vehicle might be a booby trap.

  ‘What are you wanting to trade?’ he shouted.

  The Ugandan mercenary looked supremely relaxed. ‘Two anti-tank guns and a box of grenades,’ he said.

  The LRA man looked doubtful.

  ‘And one hundred American dollars,’ said Hall, in English. The Ugandan translated.

  The guards conferred loudly. Their spokesman needed to look important. ‘Show me these weapons,’ he demanded.

  The Ugandan shook his head. ‘We don’t have them here,’ he said. He made eye contact with the LRA man. ‘But we have one gift for you. Just to prove our good intentions.’ He nodded his head towards the rear of the lorry. One of the boys made as if to investigate but the lead guard yelled at him. He suspected a trap.

  ‘It is OK,’ said the Ugandan mercenary. ‘He can get it.’

  The LRA man was weighing up his options. Finally he yelled something to one of the boys, who disappeared into the back of the lorry. There was a moment of danger. Then the boy reappeared with a whoop of excitement. He jumped down from the tailboard carrying an American-made Barrett M82A2 anti-tank rifle. At thirty or so pounds, it was almost too heavy for the frail boy to handle. He swung it around at knee height with feigned menace.

  ‘Take it to your commander,’ said Hall, while the Ugandan translated. ‘Tell him this is a token of our good faith. We have ammunition and one more of these. And other weapons.’

  The LRA man still looked hesitant. ‘And what do you want in return?’

  ‘Smart boy,’ said the mercenary. ‘You have some guests staying with you. Some guests visiting from a mission school in Moyo District.’ He stared directly at the guard. ‘We want to take them . . . for a safari.’

  For a few moments there was an impasse. The two men looked at each other. The boys around the lorry pressed in closer to share the excitement.

  ‘Go and discuss this with your commanding officer,’ said the Ugandan. He leaned back in his seat and pulled his beret down over his eyes as if now was a good time to sleep. ‘We are patient men,’ he said, ‘we can wait.’

  They waited as the day grew hotter. They had brought water and food. The cluster of LRA boys thinned a little, and after a while some of the boys grew bored and sat down to watch for further developments.

  Then a Toyota truck came heading towards them from the camp. An LRA commander in full military uniform climbed out of the truck. He was carrying the Barrett M82A2. He swaggered over to the lorry, aware of his audience. ‘Is this your gun?’ he demanded.

  The driver’s window slid down. ‘No, sir,’ said the Ugandan soldier. ‘This is your gun. It is a gift.’

  The LRA man strutted round to the back of the lorry and tossed the anti-tank gun inside with a gesture of contempt. ‘You can keep your gun,’ he said, and he offered a toothless grin. ‘We have no guests here to trade with you.’

  The two mercenaries exchanged glances. Hall said something in English and the Ugandan soldier nodded grimly. ‘In that case,’ he said to the LRA man, ‘we thank you for your time.’ He ground the lorry into gear and started up the engine. The vehicle began to reverse awkwardly up the dusty track.

  ‘Wait!’ The customs and tradition of negotiation are the same worldwide, and the LRA man fell into line. He approached the lorry.

  The mercenaries didn’t kill the engine.

  ‘We have just one guest,’ said the LRA man. ‘We will give you this one guest for four of these guns.’ He walked around the lorry and retrieved the Barrett. ‘And ammunition,’ he said.

  Hall shook his head. He held up two fingers. ‘We have two guns,’ he said in English, ‘and twelve grenades. But we want all the guests.’ He watched the LRA man’s reaction as this was relayed to him. ‘We have to hurry,’ he added, ‘before the army gets here.’

  The LRA man laughed. ‘The army are not coming here,’ he said.

  Hall looked impassive. ‘Oh yes they are. The British are very angry. Very very angry. Museveni will do what they ask.’ He let this sink in. ‘They are one hour away, so why not let us take the guests to meet them?’

  The lorry engine ticked over.

  ‘Just the muna muna, then,’ said the LRA man. ‘But we need to see the guns first.’

  Hall bobbed his head rhythmically. ‘All of the guests,’ he said, ‘including the Acholi children. But we will add one hundred American dollars and . . .’ he acted as if this concession was a struggle, ‘one rocket launcher.’

  This was translated. The LRA m
an’s eyes were widening. ‘How many rockets?’ he asked.

  ‘Six.’

  ‘Eight. We have eight guests.’

  John Hall raised his eyebrows very slightly. Luke Folley had only mentioned six abductees. ‘We only have six rockets. I’m sorry.’

  The man considered this. The crowd of boys was silent.

  ‘Ten thousand dollars then,’ the man demanded, switching to English.

  ‘All of the guests,’ repeated Hall very slowly and illustrating with his hands. ‘All eight. For two tank guns and ammunition, one launcher and six rockets, twelve grenades and two hundred dollars.’

  The two men held each other’s eyes.

  ‘Ten thousand dollars!’

  ‘I only have two hundred,’ said Hall, managing to look sorrowful.

  There was a moment of consideration. ‘What else do you have?’ asked the LRA man.

  Hall shrugged, ‘Nothing else.’

  ‘You have this lorry.’

  ‘We need this lorry to take the guests for their safari.’

  The commander gave a loud laugh. He had him now. ‘You must have another lorry,’ he said. ‘Or where are your guns? Where are your rockets?’

  Hall shook his head. ‘We cannot give you the lorry.’ He pulled a walkie-talkie from his pocket. ‘We can give you walkie-talkies.’

  The commander looked at this.

  ‘Where is the other one?’

  ‘In our other lorry.’ Hall smiled. He pressed the call button. ‘Just checking in,’ he said into the device.

  ‘Roger.’

  The commander looked at this with relish.

  ‘A range of ten miles,’ said Hall, holding up ten fingers.

  The LRA man reflected. Then he spat on his hand and held it out. ‘Fetch me the guns,’ he said.

  Hall spat on his own hand. They shook hands through the cab window and the Ugandan mercenary did the same.

  ‘You send one gun,’ said the man, ‘and we send one guest.’

  Hall agreed. He spoke into his walkie-talkie. The LRA man shouted some instructions and boys ran towards the camp.

  This was going to take all day.

  A long time passed. Then a man came hurrying up the track. He was leading Tebere.

  Hall spoke into the radio. A few minutes later, the second mercenary lorry approached slowly from the main road. The other Ugandan mercenary climbed out. He was carrying a box of ammunition. The exchange took place. The lorry, now with Tebere as passenger, reversed back up the track and a second hostage was sent for. Kila was exchanged for more ammunition. James was swapped for three rockets and Lubangakene for three more. The Lord’s Resistance Army were holding the English captives until last. But the mercenaries were holding back the guns, so honour was even. Anyeko came next. She earned the LRA a box of grenades.

  This was taking too long. Hall began tapping his fingers against the side of the lorry. He was impatient to see Azalea; impatient to see this adopted girl with the name of a child he once knew. He could feel the impatience gnawing at his bones.

  There was a long wait. A man came up the track with a white woman. Hall looked at her with interest. She was too tall, surely, to be Azalea. His Azalea, he thought, and then he checked himself for daring to entertain the idea. It was Lauren. She looked terrified. ‘It’s OK,’ Hall told her. ‘I’m not sure who you are, but it’s good to have you with us.’ He pointed towards the second lorry. She was exchanged for a Barrett anti-tank gun.

  A tall, athletic-looking white boy – Ritchie – was swapped for another Barrett. Now the LRA had three.

  ‘One more guest,’ said Hall.

  The LRA commander seemed to sense the mercenary’s anxiety. ‘Give me the money now,’ he said.

  Hall pulled two hundred dollars from his pocket. The money was counted once, twice, three times.

  ‘More,’ demanded the commander.

  Hall puckered his lips and shook his head. ‘No more,’ he said. ‘One more guest, and you get the rocket launcher.’

  Did the LRA man want to keep the lengthy exchanges going? Was he loath to see an end to this day-long charade?

  ‘What is the rocket launcher?’ the man said, suddenly. ‘What make is it?’

  Hall contrived to look bored. ‘It’s an Israeli weapon,’ he intoned, ‘the B-300. It’s a shoulder-launched assault weapon. Do you want it?’

  The man held his stare, then broke away. The command was given and a boy was sent to fetch the final hostage.

  It was growing dark as two men swaggered up the track with Azalea. In the low evening light John Hall could make out only the lissom, nondescript figure of a girl – just the shape of a girl in the gloom. The men held her at a safe distance while they waited for the lorry bearing the final trade. The equatorial sunset was nearly over. By the time the second mercenary lorry ground up the track towards the negotiation point, they were in a darkness relieved only by the flicker of a heavily shaded moon.

  But now, as the whole operation was almost done, the LRA man seemed to be growing cautious. ‘Show me the gun first,’ he said.

  John Hall considered this. He shouted to the second lorry and the Ugandan mercenary who had made all the weapons exchanges stepped out holding the launcher.

  ‘Show me,’ demanded the LRA man. ‘Show me how to work it.’

  John Hall climbed down from the lorry. He looked over towards Azalea, still only a shadow in the darkness. His heart was beating fast. He moved into the pool of light cast by the lorry’s headlamps and gave the LRA man a cursory description of the B-300.

  ‘Show me how to load it,’ said the man.

  ‘First give me the girl.’

  The LRA man nodded agreement. Azalea walked forwards alone towards the second lorry. In just the briefest flicker of moonlight Hall saw a stick-like girl wearing a long nightdress, with a shock of red hair – thick, curly red hair – the ghost, if ever there could be one, of Marion Yves. His heart skipped.

  The moon vanished and Azalea was in darkness. John Hall reached out an arm as if to call her back and then checked himself. Another momentary flicker of moonlight, and in that fragment of time John Hall saw her face. He saw the face of a girl he hadn’t seen since she was three years old. His hand flew to his mouth.

  But something wasn’t right. The LRA man was sliding a solid rocket with a high explosive tank round into the launcher. ‘Like this?’ he was asking.

  ‘Azalea run! RUN!’ John Hall shouted. He leaped onto the running plate of the first lorry. ‘Go go GO!’ He smacked his palm onto the windscreen. The Ugandan mercenary at the wheel hit reverse and the lorry shot backwards. Hall looked around to see what had happened to Azalea. She was visible now in the headlights of the second lorry – running towards it, her red hair flying out behind her.

  ‘Run RUN RUN!’

  The moon reappeared. In the cold light Hall could see figures in pursuit. Azalea jumped onto the footplate of the second lorry and now both vehicles were barrelling backwards. Somewhere in the light John Hall could see the LRA man raising the launcher to his shoulder.

  ‘Spin the lorry,’ he shouted to the Ugandan at the wheel. ‘SPIN IT!’

  The mercenary hauled down on the steering wheel and the lorry slid sideways in a hurricane of sand and dust. It came to a halt at a right angle across the track.

  ‘Now get the fuck out!’

  John Hall leaped from the running plate. The Ugandan in the cab wasn’t quick enough. There was a whoosh and a flash of flame and an eighty-two-millimetre missile smashed into the side of the lorry. The force of the explosion picked Hall up off his feet and threw him backwards in a slew of flame and debris. Everything was very dark. He blinked.

  Invisible hands grabbed at him. An Englishman’s voice was barely audible over the ringing in his ears. ‘Are you OK?’

  It was too bloody dark. ‘I can’t see you.’

  ‘Can you run?’

  Hall struggled to his feet. ‘I think so.’ He reached out and caught the Englishman’s arm. His
eyes were stinging badly. His face was wet with blood. ‘Lead me,’ he said.

  ‘Let’s go.’ The Englishman took his hand and they fled like lovers up the track, feet kicking up the sand. The Englishman helped the big Manxman into the back of the lorry, and with a roar of the engine the vehicle tore back towards the main road.

  ‘What about Rico?’ shouted Hall. His ears were humming.

  ‘Was he the other man with you?’ said the English voice.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I’m afraid we lost him.’

  ‘Shit,’ said John Hall, and he slumped down uncomfortably in a corner of the truck. ‘Shit, shit, shit!’ He put his hands to his face. His eyes felt as if someone had gouged them out with rusty nails. ‘I need a doctor,’ he said.

  ‘I’m a doctor,’ said the voice, and then it added, ‘almost.’

  The pick-up point was about three miles away – a roundhouse well off the main road. No wonder it had taken so long to choreograph every switch. The two South African mercenaries were guarding the place. All the other hostages and the Belgian mercenary were inside.

  Hands lifted John Hall out of the lorry and carried him into the hut. There was no light – not that Hall would have noticed. They laid him down on a rug of goatskins. The vehicle was then driven away, to be hidden out of sight.

  ‘What were you doing in the damn truck?’ John Hall asked Ritchie.

  ‘I went along for the ride,’ Ritchie said. ‘Just in case they needed a doctor.’

  He tried to examine John Hall in the faint gleam of a cigarette lighter. The Manxman’s face had been slashed by shards of glass from the exploding truck. This was not the kind of case Ritchie had ever seen at medical school. ‘You’re pretty fucked up,’ Ritchie told him.

  ‘Great bedside manner,’ said Hall.

  ‘I don’t have any painkillers, any sutures, any antibiotics, anything to clean you up with,’ said Ritchie. ‘Actually,’ he said, ‘I don’t have anything. We need to get you to a hospital.’

  ‘Boy, am I glad you came along,’ said Hall. ‘Do you have any idea where we are? We’re in the fucking desert. We’re in the middle of a civil war zone.’

  Outside, one of the South Africans called, ‘Down!’ There was silence in the hut. Careering down the main road came a truck. It shot past. On the back there were kids with guns.