He must have given me the wrong keys, I tell myself. A simple mistake. I sit on the front door step and wait. An hour and a half later, an elderly lady pulling a trolley arrives at the next-door flat and gets out her front door key. When I approach and ask her about the flat next door, she looks surprised. She tells me the same couple have lived there for fifteen years. He works for the post office, she for the Co-op. They are both at work at the moment.
Blind with mounting dread, I stumble back to the library and wait in turn for a computer. I log on, go to the local information webpage. The Cowley landlord’s details are gone.
I feel sick, make my way to the ladies, lock myself into a cubicle. I lift the seat just in time. My stomach erupts and I hurl my breakfast into the bowl. Wiping my mouth, I sit on the toilet and give in to the hot tears. Soon self-pity gives way to anger. I scold myself for my stupidity, then think of Yanit and Abebe and bully myself into a positive state of mind. I will be strong! I am strong!
I make my way to Tom’s house. I cannot bear to tell him the truth, so I explain that the flat is being decorated and ask him to store our stuff in his garage for a few days. He is polite but restless, keen to get off to work. Before he goes, he allows me a few minutes to pack a small holdall – toothbrushes, toiletries, Abebe’s asthma medication, a change of clothes for all.
I gather up the children and we walk back towards the library. Opposite, across the main road, is the police station. I go in and wait to be seen. A duty sergeant listens to my story and takes down my details. When I tell him about the deposit he raises his eyebrows. I can see he thinks I am an idiot. Who am I to disagree?
We walk over to the library. It is somewhere warm to rest and think. On the outside I suppose I look quite calm – the children certainly do not suspect a problem – but inside I am icy with fear. It is a Saturday, we have an emergency supply of a hundred pounds and are effectively homeless.
That day, yesterday, was the worst for me. We found a bed-and-breakfast on the Cowley Road last night and have enough money for tonight, too, but after that we are on the streets.
The children ask when we will be moving into the new place. I have kept to my decorating story and tell them to be patient for a few more days. For Abebe this ‘camping’ is still a novelty. I think Yanit suspects all is not well but she has not confronted me yet.
Am I failing again? I feel I am fumbling blindly, out of control, towards another disaster. I feel your gaze on me, you who are uniquely placed to judge my deficiencies. Please God, let me succeed, I have lost too much already. Any more, I fear, would kill me.
I must be strong. I will not let this setback harm the children. I will not let it affect our well-being. I am not bowed.
I have a plan. Yours in love, yours in strength.
Greg 3
He spends the early hours between dead-of-night and dawn face down with his cheek pressed to the sandy ground. His wrists have been bound together, his arms raised above his head in a diving position. Once, when Asrar’s screams become unbearable, he lifts his head to see what cruelty could be generating such pain. At once a foot presses down on his spine and a gun barrel prods the back of his neck. He closes his eyes and wills himself elsewhere.
When he is finally raised into a sitting position, he finds Rasheed and Munia on either side, also tied up, both dazed and terrified. He tries to catch their eye, to offer a weak smile of reassurance, but their expressions are distant, impenetrable.
There are eight or nine armed men milling around the village, two guarding Greg and the children, a couple tending the horses tied up near the kraal. He spots Husham outside one of the huts surrounded by several more militiamen. They seem to be questioning him, firing sharp questions to which he mutters muted responses. His head is bowed, his eyes averted. Two more men squat outside the hut nearest the kitchen. They are smoking, their rifles leaning against the mud Wall. There’s a shout from inside the hut that causes the interrogators to pause in their questioning. The others look up from their silent musing, their smoking, their idle chat. From the door of the hut, a bearded soldier emerges dragging Asrar behind him. Her hands are tied together like the others, but her clothes have been stripped off her. Greg takes in her nakedness, flushes with anger and shame and pity, immediately raises his gaze. Her face is expressionless, her eyes devoid of life.
***
Munia’s hands are numb, her wrists so tightly bound that the circulation has been cut off. She has spent the previous hours sitting next to her brother as her initial panic and fear has turned to a seething, icy fury. The white man had been lying motionless on his front and for a while she thought perhaps he had been killed, but he tried to raise himself once and eventually was hauled up into a sitting position. Now he sits quietly by her side as helpless as herself.
She hasn’t seen her mother since the raid, but knows that she is in the hut across from the fire. She has watched the armed men take it in turns to enter the hut, heard the screams of pain and misery.
She watches the men question her uncle. Every so often, when one of his answers displeases them, they bend down casually, swing a lazy fist in his face, slap his cheeks, grab a handful of hair and pull back his head sharply. Now his head is averted, his answers mumbled, but the last time he looked up, she saw that his face was almost unrecognisable, puffy eyes peeping through the swelling, his nose bloody and broken. The men are relaxed. They crack jokes, smoke, toy with their guns. She hates them with a passion she did not know she possessed.
There’s a shout from her mother’s hut and one of the soldiers pulls her out. Her hands are tied together and he has her by the arm, yanks her so hard she stumbles and falls onto the dusty ground by the fire. With horror, she sees that her mother is naked.
The man, bearded like a billy goat, dressed in army khaki with a pistol holster and hunting knife strapped to his waist belt, is laughing. He’s telling her mother that she is a black bitch, a worthless slave, less valuable than a goat, for a goat can provide tasty milk and delicious meat, less valuable than a dog, for a dog can stand as a guard and help when hunting. As he makes each point, he reaches down and slaps her face. Pow. Pow. Pow. Now, he is telling her, at last she has a use, a purpose, as a vessel for his fine, pure-bred seed. He reaches down and gives her a careless cuff. Pow. Now she will carry the child of a pure-bred, not a filthy insignificant slave. Pow.
There’s a scuffle to Munia’s right and she sees that her uncle has roused himself and is struggling to stand. His interrogators, momentarily absorbed in the entertainment, have not noticed his movement and by the time they realise what has happened, Husham is on his feet and has launched himself towards Goatman.
Despite his beating, he is moving fast, screaming curses, scrabbling across the dust. His arms are still bound together and Munia wonders what he will do when he reaches Goatman. Bite his opponent like a rabid dog? Kick him like an angry camel? Or launch himself through the air like an arrow?
But Goatman has stopped abusing Asrar and watches Husham’s approach with a half smile. He unholsters his pistol with a casual indifference, and shoots Husham in the head from a distance of two metres or so. There is a moment of stunned silence and then the soldiers break into laughter, cheers, excited chatter.
Munia has no time to absorb this act of obscene brutality. Now, she sees with alarm, it is Rasheed’s turn to lose his self control, to struggle to his feet, cursing and shouting that he will avenge his great uncle’s death. Rasheed is on the other side of Greg, out of her reach. She shoves Greg in the ribs, barks an urgent command to hold Rasheed back. Greg looks confused for a few seconds but to Munia’s immense relief he seems to understand, reaches out with his bound hands, catches hold of Rasheed’s sleeve, and pulls him back down to the ground. The young boy struggles but is no match for the adult’s grip.
The soldiers watch the struggle with interest, hoping that the boy will break free and provide more sport f
or their leader. But the spectacle is over. Goatman puts his firearm away and drags Asrar to her feet. She stands swaying by the fire, a pitiful figure as she tries unsuccessfully to hide her nakedness with her bound arms. Munia’s wrath is tight, suppressed, entirely concealed. She keeps her face perfectly vacant.
Now the Goatman is speaking. There, bitch. You see what happens to slaves who become rebellious. He gestures towards the prone figure of Asrar’s uncle lying face down in the dust at his feet. This dog tried to bite his master, so he paid with his life. Then his face softens. But these child slaves will not be foolish enough to try the same thing. He gestures to Munia and her brother. We’ll take them back home with us. They will learn to serve their superiors obediently. His smile is thin. The white man, too, may be valuable. He gives Greg a searching look, still unsure quite what to make of his presence here. As for you, bitch, you’ve served your purpose. We have no more use for you.
With that, Munia watches him unsheathe the hunting knife, move towards her teetering mother
No! she screams.
Goatman smiles again. Her reaches for Asrar’s wrists, slices through the cord. Asrar’s hands fall apart, still bunched into fists. She continues to try and cover her nakedness.
You think I’m going to kill your mother? he says to Munia. No, her only value is as a warning to other black slaves. She’s free to go now, to find her fellow dogs and warn them what will happen to them if they remain on this land. Tell them to run away, to head south to the jungles where they can live like monkeys. He laughs at his own wit.
For the first time that day, Asrar speaks. Her voice is hoarse, barely a whisper.
I can’t leave my children. Don’t make me leave my children. They are all I have left. My family...
Family? Ha! What do you people know about families. You go around opening your legs like a dirty animal, you daughter of a whore! Now get away with you. Go and spread your filth elsewhere!
Please, she says, her voice low, imploring. Let me stay.
Goatman looks at her for an instant, sighs, shrugs almost sadly, and begins to unholster his gun.
Looks like I will have to kill you after all, he says.
No, wait, says Asrar. At least let me say goodbye to my children.
She makes a dash for Munia, launches herself at her feet, clasps her hands over those of her daughter.
Listen, daughter, she rasps, breathless with fear. You must forget about me now, I am already dead. You must save Rasheed, bring him to safety. That is my command. Do you understand?
Munia feels her mother’s hands grasp her own. There’s a moment of confusion and then she realises that her mother’s drama has been a ruse, that she’s pressing something small and heavy into her bound hands. In an instant Goatman is on them. He reaches down, clasps a handful of her mother’s hair and yanks her away from Munia. Now it’s Munia’s turn to keep her hands bunched into fists to keep the object concealed. Without looking, she knows what her mother has passed to her. It’s the white man’s penknife, the one her mother had used to skin Rasheed’s hunting booty. While Goatman drags her mother away, Munia casually transfers the knife to the pocket of her dress.
Go on, slave bitch, get out of my sight, goat man says coolly. He gives her a final slap that almost detaches her head from her shoulders. If I can still see you by the time I count to twenty, you are dead.
No, please, no, she pleads.
One, two, three...
I can’t.
Four, five, six...
You can’t...
Seven, eight, nine...
Please...
Ten, eleven, oh what the hell. He shrugs, bored with his game. He looks over to the men who have been smoking by the hut door. Arkou, Hossein, take this mangy dog away and get rid of her.
No! scream Rasheed and Munia at the same time. Unable to contain themselves any longer, the children struggle to their feet, make to hurl themselves in the direction of their mother. Before they have taken a single step, the armed men are on them, forcing them down to the ground. They struggle, curse, twist their bodies to escape, but are pinned down by their captors. Asrar, seeing her children manhandled, attempts to throw herself at the soldiers but is intercepted by the two guards nominated by Goatman. They grab an arm each and start pulling her away from her children. She screams, her cries mingling with those of the young ones.
Greg looks around, his eyes revealing the alarm and confusion he feels. He has followed the action without much understanding, but even he can recognise that the horrific events are building to a climax. On either side, the soldiers are assaulting the children. One is kneeling on Rasheed, another holding down his shoulders as he thrashes around as if convulsed by some monstrous epileptic fit. Munia, too, is pinned to the ground by two of the men, her legs and arms held fast. Her mouth is open, lips drawn back, teeth bared in a snarl as she weaves her head backwards and forwards in an effort to bite the hands that hold down her shoulders.
Greg looks up, sees the terror in Asrar’s eyes as the two soldiers drag her away.
Since the bearded man shot Husham with such casual nonchalance Greg’s state of mind has moved into a kind of terrorised submission, too shocked to do more than witness the surrounding events in numbed detachment.
Asrar’s ordeal and the subsequent attack on the children bring him back out of himself. This is the last supreme outrage, the culmination of all that he has suffered since the crash: his own physical trauma, the vultures’ feasting, his shooting of the militiaman, the rape and murder he has been forced to witness. Galvanised by the children’s screams, by their mother’s struggles, he is spurred into action. His guard has been co-opted into dealing with Rasheed’s struggles. He edges backwards so that he’s out of the guards’ line of vision, gets to his feet, then charges at the two men holding Munia down. His first kick catches one of the guard’s squarely in the belly, the second catches the other guard under his chin. He turns to Rasheed’s captors, kicks one of them in the kidneys, picks his spot on the other’s torso and is about to launch another kick when he feels a sharp pain in the small of his back. As he swivels to face his attacker, he sees for an instant in the corner of his eye a rifle butt arc down towards his face, a dark fleeting blur, and then it makes contact with the side of his head and from one instant to another he’s plunged into darkness.
***
Rasheed guesses they’ve been riding for two or three hours when they stop next to a wadi. He is sitting on one of the horses wedged behind a soldier with a lazy eye. His hands, like those of his sister, are still tied in front of him. His mind is a fog of fear and misery. He won’t cry, mostly because his sister’s eyes have remained dry and he refuses to appear weaker than her, but he has never felt so at a loss, will not even bring himself to consider the fate of his mother. When she was frogmarched out of his uncle’s village by the two men, when they returned thirty minutes later without her, his mind simply saw her absence, their separation, as temporary. They will meet up again later, he keeps telling himself.
In front of him, sitting behind another of the militiamen, is his sister. Further on, the white man, Greg, lies face down across one of the horses like the carcass of a beast. The militia are taking no chances with him since his attack. They have trussed him up with snaking coils of thick rope and blindfolded him with a length of cloth torn from Asrar’s discarded dress.
The soldiers dismount under a clump of trees, tie up the horses, drag Rasheed and his sister down and leave them in the shade. They throw Greg down beside Munia and one of them hands Rasheed a canteen of water. He holds it clumsily in his bound hands, drinks, passes it to Munia, then splashes some on the white man’s face. Greg stirs, licks his lips, groans. Rasheed puts the bottle to the white man’s mouth and Greg sucks down the liquid greedily.
Meanwhile, Goatman is giving orders. Rasheed watches one of the men tend to the horses, two others saunter o
ff to collect firewood. A campfire is lit. When the jobs are done, the men sit around laughing, smoking, chewing on hunks of dried meat they unwrap from their saddles.
Rasheed looks at Greg. Beneath the blindfold, his complexion is chalky, the gash he’s been carrying on his temple since they first met has reopened and the blood has dried almost black down one side of his face. Unable to read his eyes, Rasheed can only guess what is going through his mind.
An hour passes. The soldiers grow sleepy and their conversation ebbs. Rasheed is just beginning to wonder whether they have camped down for the day when he hears the low drone of vehicle engines. The militiamen rouse themselves and pick up their semi-automatic weapons and RPG launchers. One of them is carrying the white man’s hunting rifle. He has attached a rope to the barrel and stock and has slung it over his shoulder. Rasheed notes the soldiers’ lack of haste and speculates that the new arrivals must be anticipated friends rather than unexpected foe.
Two jeeps pull into the clearing, one full of soldiers, the other occupied by driver and front passenger only. The passenger seems to be the commanding officer. He has a smarter uniform and a holstered pistol. He waits for the driver to open his door for him before stepping down onto the dusty ground. Rasheed watches the soldiers snap to attention and salute. Goatman emerges from his troops, shakes the man’s hand and they walk away from the clearing in deep conversation. Meanwhile the new arrivals mingle with the other soldiers. They shake hands, slap backs, offer cigarettes. There’s laughter and excitement as news is exchanged. For something to do, Rasheed starts to count the militiamen.
Divinity Road Page 16
