by Greg Barron
Now, however, she faces not one or two, but half-a-dozen men with automatic weapons — at least three have her covered. In the centre stands Captain Wanami, his sunglasses reflecting back the stunted desert landscape, gold earring shining in the sun.
With just a split second to respond, Marika turns to look at Madoowbe, who is a few paces further away from them. Their eyes meet, and even as she is ready to lower the assault rifle she remembers the dead men, women and children back on the trail. Anger at these killers blurs her vision. Anger at the arrogance of men who use guns as playthings. Her finger begins to squeeze the trigger.
‘Whas ghaba.’ Wanami hisses out the words, his AK steady, aimed so that she can see only the obscene black circle of the muzzle. Marika suspects that he would probably enjoy killing her — boast about it later to his cronies around the campfire.
Before she can make a decision, something moves on the periphery of her vision — Madoowbe. At first she does not understand what he is doing. He leaps to his feet and sprints away, jinking and sidestepping like a rugby fullback. The departure is so abrupt that for several moments no one reacts. Then, a burst of 7.62mm follows him through the scrub, bullets ripping and tearing at the undergrowth, breaking sticks and leaves. The smell of nitro fills the air.
Madoowbe, however, is soon out of sight and away. The gunmen, to her surprise, do not follow him. Instead she watches as the point men move out onto the flanks so she cannot escape.
Again her finger tightens on the trigger, furious now, ready to spray bullets into those arrogant faces. But there is no point in dying now. Not when Sufia is so close.
‘Shit, shit, shit,’ Marika says, dropping her assault rifle to the earth so hard she half expects it to discharge. She stands, raising her arms in reluctant surrender. ‘OK, you bastards. You want another prisoner, you got one.’
They come forwards warily, as if expecting her to produce a hidden weapon. When this does not happen, Captain Wanami steps up close, swinging one hand like a whip across her cheek.
Marika recovers slowly, still holding her cheek, glaring through her captor’s sunglasses. His jaw never ceases moving, chewing qat like the others, one cheek bulging with leaf. ‘Your breath stinks. Didn’t your mother teach you not to breathe on people?’
Ignoring her now, he barks orders at two of his men, who take an arm each. A third follows, gun barrel jammed into the small of her back.
As they lead her away, Marika’s nails bite into the sweating skin of her palms. Now she will face Dalmar Asad. The man who ordered the murder of the family of nomads — even the children. Some small part of her hopes that she might have the opportunity and the courage to kill him herself.
Captain Wanami leads the way through the compound, smoking a cigarette, shooting her the occasional look of pure, unadulterated hatred. Of course, losing her from the patrol would have led to not inconsiderable inconvenience. Dalmar Asad would have taken much of his rage out on the captain. Marika feels the chill in her heart reach the temperature of dry ice as the guards push her on, through a tent flap.
The interior of the tent belies the plain green canvas of the exterior: a cavernous space that incorporates several rooms, the first of which is more luxurious than Marika ever imagined a tent could be. The floor is a woven polyethylene sheet, covered with scattered Persian rugs. Folding chairs and tables in the centre of the main room are lit by a pair of hissing gas lanterns. The heat in here is intense — cloying and humid.
Dalmar Asad stands as she enters, dressed in a parody of a traditional English safari outfit, lacking only the pith hat. The albino stripes across one side of his face and neck appear more livid than last time she saw him. He wears an expression more of triumph than pleasure. ‘You are here,’ he says.
‘Yes. Rather against my wishes.’
‘Your Somali friend is a coward. He ran away.’
‘Better by far to be a coward than a killer.’
‘Killing is sometimes necessary for a man in my position to survive. As I have told you, my people respond only to fear.’
‘The dead babies out in the desert — they were a threat to you? Is that right?’
‘Babies grow into adults, and avenge their parents. Why create a problem for the future? Prudence dictates that they be killed now.’
‘What had any of them ever done to you?’
Dalmar Asad’s voice betrays a hint of irritation. ‘It was necessary.’
A face appears at the door. The warlord confers with the man then returns, smiling. ‘My soldiers caught up with your irascible friend. They executed him as per my orders.’
Marika reaches out to grip the top of a chair, fighting to keep her reaction from her face. Madoowbe. Dead? It seems incredible. At first she cannot speak, but then she stares, open mouthed. ‘I’ve seen rats with more decency than you.’
Asad inclines his head, as if accepting a compliment. ‘I dismissed the man as ineffectual once before. I gave him the opportunity to escape when I should have had him shot. He proved to be a thorn in my side. My mistake — now it has been rectified, and we have business to attend to.’
‘What business?’
‘You and I, my fair lady, have a deal. The highly sought after Sufia is in my care, and I am ready to pass her over to you. It remains only for you to fulfil your end of the bargain.’
‘Never, you swine.’
Dalmar Asad spreads his hands. ‘Of course, you may choose to renege on our bargain, in which case I will take my frustrations out on Sufia. When I am done my men can have her — women do not live long in their hands, especially not one with such rare beauty as she.’
Stall for time, Marika tells herself. ‘Where is she? I want to see her.’
‘She is very close, I assure you.’
‘Prove it,’ she says, folding her arms and locking her eyes on his until he relents and shouts an order.
In response, a guard leads Sufia into the room by one arm. Tall, regal and beautiful, Marika recognises her from the photos: her stateliness, the elegance that has seen several Somali women forge successful careers on the catwalks of Milan, New York, and Paris.
Dalmar Asad addresses Sufia, reaching out to take her hand. Her arm remains limp, falling back to her side when he releases it.
‘This kufr woman is your saviour,’ he says, ‘should she choose to be. Do you understand?’
The woman does not flinch, nor acknowledge him in any way, yet moves her eyes to look at Marika. Understanding passes between them in that moment, women of vastly disparate cultures, yet both strong and worldly in their own way.
Words are not necessary as Marika communicates with her eyes. I will get you out of here, somehow.
The reply is clear. Thank you. I will be waiting.
Marika sees something else too, behind the proud face. Worry that must eat at her soul like a disease. Worry for her husband and what he has done. What will happen to him? Is there a place in the sun for them some day? There is nothing reassuring worth saying. Much is at stake. The world for both women is changing. Ending. There is no guarantee of a new beginning.
‘Take her away,’ Dalmar Asad orders. A moment later the woman is gone.
Marika focuses her attention on the warlord. She wants to go at him with her fingernails, scratch out his eyes and smash his balls to pulp with her knee. ‘You’re like a medieval overlord — you suck the blood from your people to build your palace and equip your army. Now you are holding two innocent women so you can fulfil some pointless male desire. You kill a couple of families out in the desert. For what? Sex?’
‘Fulfil your side of the bargain, and you and the woman may go — my men will not impede you. Fail to do so and I will hand you over to Wanami. He feels that you betrayed our trust, and looks forward to levelling the score.’
Marika swallows down the fear that rises up from her chest. What choice does she have? What if she does play the game, and Dalmar Asad keeps his promise? What then? What can she do in the middle of the desert
with no means of communication?
‘I will remind you again. We had a deal. I fulfilled my part of the bargain. You chose to abuse my trust, but as far as I am concerned the deal stands.’
‘Really? Now? It’s the middle of the day.’
‘The time is immaterial to me.’
‘OK,’ her voice rises, ‘let’s get this over with. Where do you want to do it. Here? On the chair? Or just on the floor like animals — I guess it would be appropriate.’
The big man appears to relax. ‘There is another room. Come with me.’
Marika follows him through a gap in the canvas, finding herself in a large space with a sleeping mat in the middle.
‘Take off your clothes,’ he says. ‘I want to look at you.’
‘No.’
‘Take them off, or I will do it for you.’
Marika unbuttons her shirt, then reaches around to unclip her bra. His eyes have, so far, not left her face, but now she sees them flick down to her naked breasts — so white, tipped with rose.
‘The rest,’ he orders. ‘Hurry.’
Dalmar Asad takes off his own clothes, underwear last. ‘When I was a child,’ he says, ‘my brothers called my member Adh-Dhikh. The hyena.’
Marika sees the aptness of the description. Apart from the mottled colouring, the thing is huge and misshapen, enlarged behind the bulb in the shape of hunched shoulders.
Seeing her watching, he drops one massive hand and begins to manipulate it. Little happens apart from a slight thickening along its length. He steps forward so he is in front of her. ‘Touch it.’
Hating him more, she drops one hand and feels the warm clamminess.
‘Stroke it.’
She obeys.
‘Lie down, woman.’
Marika stares back venomously as she obeys; squatting, sitting down and then stretching out on her back. A tear comes to her eye as she thinks of Madoowbe and what they did just the previous night. For comfort; lust, perhaps. For reasons infinitely better than this misbegotten deal. She has slept with men for love, sympathy — even to give in to the kind of relentless emotional pressure Australian men can exert. This, however, will be the first time she has been penetrated in pure, unadulterated hate.
Looking agitated, he lies down beside her. While his hand walks down her belly she pictures dead children on the desert sand. They died — for this. The thought makes her tense, clenching her thighs, locking them together.
‘No,’ he orders, ‘move them apart.’
She complies, almost sobbing with shame and anger, but when he raises himself to his knees and swings Adh-Dhikh near her face she realises the truth. It remains flaccid. This giant of a man cannot get it up.
Feeling a repugnance and hatred that overwhelms her, Marika does something stupid. She laughs. Loud and cruel. Then she says, ‘That’s why you went to such lengths to have me. You thought maybe I could help you get a hard-on.’
Dalmar Asad’s face changes, teeth coming together, lips curling up from his front teeth. Veins stand out in his forehead and his neck becomes a fibrous cable drawn taut. One hand is now a blade as straight and hard as a shovel, arm muscles bunching and compressing as he slaps the side of her face.
The slap rattles her brain in her skull and crushes her cheek against her back teeth. The shock robs her of the ability to breathe. She sees the hand change, bunching into a fist the size of a lunch box, coiling back to gather strength for the blow aimed squarely at her face. She realises her folly — that no man will suffer his sexual prowess being mocked. Her one chance, she decides, is to make him angrier still.
‘Can’t get it up, can you? The hyena can bark but not bite.’
Asad abandons the punch; breathes like an automaton, reaching for his trousers and the gun belt, fumbling with the holster and bringing out the nickel-plated automatic pistol.
Time seems to stand still, and Marika can do nothing but stare as he pulls back the slide, seeing the cartridges waiting their turn below the first one slipping into the chamber. As the barrel swings towards her she realises that he was always going to kill her, because that is the only way he can excite himself.
Closing her eyes, waiting, Marika is aware of two things: one is a sound similar to that of a zip being undone; the other is a grunt of surprise from Dalmar Asad.
Opening her eyes she sees the slim form of Madoowbe, very much alive, coming through a newly torn hole in the side of the tent, holding his bilau overhand. Dalmar Asad raises his arms to stop the blow, but the razor-sharp point strikes him at the temple, and, driven with all the strength of a desperate man’s arm, flies on into the brain to just an inch shy of the hilt.
The body jerks and vibrates, before thumping backwards onto the floor, eyes staring at the canvas ceiling in apparent surprise.
Footsteps sound on the canvas outside the room. ‘Are you OK, Aaba?’
Marika bites her lip, thinks for a moment, then simulates a soft cry of pleasure. ‘Of course we are, leave us.’
The footsteps fade away. Marika dresses, then hugs her rescuer’s arm. ‘Sufia is here, in this tent. I saw her.’
‘We must hurry. They are suspicious already.’
Marika goes to the body of Dalmar Asad, and extricates the handgun, still held by the sausage like fingers. It is a Colt Commander .45, heavy and powerful. If ever a girl wanted a gun to shoot her way out of trouble, she thinks, this would be the one. She looks back at Madoowbe, who sheaths the knife and unslings his AK47, checking the load with practised efficiency.
‘I feel bad — I thought you were deserting me when you ran away into the bush.’
‘I saw no point letting them catch both of us, and I was sure they would not kill you — not when you can be used as a bargaining chip.’
‘I wonder why he told me you were dead.’
‘Because he wanted you to despair.’
Marika grips his hand. ‘Let’s find Sufia and get out of here.’ Walking to the door flap, she opens it a crack, holding the .45 on the other side of the canvas, out of view.
‘You are wanted,’ she calls.
A face appears.
Marika mimics the act of holding a water bottle and drinking, then uses the Arab word for bottle, boo-til, that she heard so often at Rabi al-Salah. Finally she holds up two fingers. ‘Two,’ she says, ‘two boo-til.’
The man’s eyebrows rise, surprised, it seems, at these orders issued from a woman.
Marika smiles and lowers her voice. ‘Dalmar is exhausted, the poor man.’
The guard grins and moves away, returning moments later with two bottles of Kenyan packaged spring water. Marika waits until he is just a pace or two away before she fires, the roar of the discharge deafening. The heavy .45 slug takes him in the chest, his body collapsing. The recoil jars her wrist. Not looking at the body, not wanting to, she changes the gun to the other hand, shaking the pain away.
They leave the room and enter the next, meeting Sufia’s guard coming to check on the commotion. Marika shoots him at point-blank range, then pushes aside another flap. The partitioned space inside is no larger than a closet, with a greasy woollen blanket in a rumpled heap on the floor.
Sufia stands. ‘What is happening?’
‘Hurry, you must come with us.’
‘Who are you?’
‘There’ll be time for that later.’ Marika turns to Madoowbe. ‘The front entrance will be dangerous. Is there another way out?’
Madoowbe slits the tent wall and they step out into the night. Running men converge across a canvas of grass and acacia trees. The gunshot has raised the alarm.
‘To the vehicles,’ Marika cries. ‘Run with me.’
Gunfire arcs out towards them, the occasional tracer round stinging through the air like a phosphorescent bee. Marika is aware of Madoowbe turning, firing a long, searching burst, cut off by a misfire and jam.
The first of the vehicles looms ahead, a converted Ford pickup. An F100, Marika decides. Her uncle once owned one, a rusted heap that af
ter thirty years showed no sign of packing it in.
‘You go for the gun,’ she calls to Madoowbe, ‘I’ll drive, and pray those stupid bastards left the keys in the ignition.’ She turns to look at Sufia, running beside her. ‘You OK?’
‘Yes. Confused but alive. That is a good start.’
‘Go for the passenger side.’
Almost there, Marika turns and fires three shots from the Colt, picking out running targets. One falls. The others stop and go to ground. Return fire splits the air around her. The slim figure of Captain Wanami remains upright. Marika fires at him twice before he too takes cover.
Throwing open the driver’s door, Marika gropes for the key. The heat of the vehicle interior hits her like a sauna. There are two AK47 assault rifles wedged between the seats, long magazines curving up towards the ceiling.
‘Damn,’ she shouts, finding the ignition slot empty, leaning down to feel the floor and finding nothing. Then, raising one hand, she explores the upper side of the folded sun visor and her hands close on a pair of keys on a ring. ‘Bingo!’
Sufia dives in, slamming the door. The vehicle body bounces as Madoowbe leaps onto the tray behind them. The key slips into the slot and the engine fires. Starting the big Ford in second gear, Marika eases off the clutch and it shoots forwards, just as the heavy machine gun behind them spews out the first burst, followed by the tinkle of spent cartridge cases onto the metal tray.
The rear-vision mirror shows the flare of automatic fire, and heavy lead projectiles thud into the vehicle body. Marika flinches each time it happens. ‘Oh shit,’ she sighs, ‘I think I’ve killed three men today.’
