by Paul A. Rice
‘Take them!’ the man said. ‘They will remind you of this day!’
To say I was disappointed to be unable to accept such a gift would have been well wide of the mark. I was absolutely gutted. Reluctantly, I gave him my thanks for the offer, but told him that I would be unable to get the guns home, so they would be better off in his hands rather than in some customs officers’ display cabinet. He smiled in understanding, shook my hand, asked me to take a picture of him using his phone, which I gladly did, and then hurried away from us with my beautiful guns tucked nonchalantly under his arm…
It was absolutely bizarre, standing there beneath a wall of randomly-aimed gunfire and watching this, a day to remember, as it unfolded before our very eyes. The rebels were even dragging out the vehicles they had found in the fortress. Top-of-the-range Land Cruisers, police cars, ambulances and fleets of other expensive vehicles all ended the day lashed to a tow-rope, being dragged to their new owners’ homes.
After a while, Andi ended her call. She turned to me and asked: ‘How long were we live for – did I do enough?’ Her brow creased in frustration. Then, as she turned around and saw the madness of our surroundings, she suddenly realised where we were.
‘Oh, wow!’ she whispered. ‘This place is quite something else, huh?’ The sort of trance she had been in whilst trying to cope with all the things happening during a live broadcast, albeit by telephone, suddenly lifted. In a sudden burst of absolute clarity, Andi saw the madness of that day for what it really was.
‘Wow,’ she said, again. ‘Oh, wow, oh-wow, oh-fucking-wow!’
Then her legs wobbled and she staggered slightly.
I held her upper arm, bracing her until she gathered her senses a bit. ‘Easy does it, girl!’ I said. ‘Come on, let’s take five minutes and have a sit-down. I’ve got some chocolate. You haven’t eaten properly all day; let’s get something down our necks now, shall we?’
Looking relieved, Andi agreed to my plan and so we moved into the shelter of the guard-hut. I made sure that she was inside whilst I sat outside under the overhang of the concrete roof, which protruded out like a canopy. From my position I could keep an eye on things and also give Gino a shout when he came back. Andi and I were only a few feet apart, she had shuffled up to lean against the wall on the inside so that her back was pressed up to mine, with only a concrete wall separating us. I passed her some snacks and a bottle of water and took something for myself. Both us must have been starving as we both finished the lot in seconds. Finishing my water, I lobbed the bottle away to where a thick carpet of spent bullet-cases lay. Stifling a belch with the back of my hand, I fished out my smokes and lit one.
‘Can I have one of those, please?’ Andi asked.
I passed her the one I had just lit and pulled out another one for myself. ‘I didn’t know you smoked,’ I said, flicking my lighter for the second time.
‘Yeah, well…’ she said. ‘There are a lot of things that you don’t know about me, Jake Collins.’
I turned to look over my shoulder, wondering if she had suddenly dropped the mask and was now reverting to the standoffish, important, journo type. Sometimes they do that – when the danger’s past and they’ve got their piece, suddenly you are no longer important and the veil drops.
Turning, I was confronted by the vision of those blue eyes, sitting just inches in front of my face. She had a slight bit of colouring to her cheeks and that devilish dimple was deepening by the second. She had kneeled up and her face was now level with my own. For one second I very nearly leaned backwards and kissed her.
Just for one second I did, and then I woke up…
‘Oh dear,’ Andi whispered, staring into my face. ‘We’re gonna end-up in the shit here, aren’t we, Jake?’
The roar of gunfire seemed to fade, all I could hear was those softly-spoken words – they were like hot needles piercing my mind. I stared at her, those blue eyes slowly searching my face, looking deep into my own hazel-green orbs. The gold flecks in her eyes seemed to have enlarged; it was almost as though they were swimming amongst the blue. Everything seemed to stop for me, it was the weirdest feeling I have ever had. My mind seemed frozen, and yet some part of me still functioned – eyes scanning the crowd for a glimpse of the cameraman, as I had been doing almost the whole time I had been there, except for when she stared at me.
I couldn’t think, I felt sick, I felt excited, I…
‘Jake…’ she said, trying to get an answer from me. ‘Hello, this is Earth calling Jake Collins – come-in, please!’ Andi reached forward and ruffled my hair – she did it gently, like a lover, not like I was a kid.
I breathed out deeply, reaching up to take her hand off my head, holding it until she had dropped it back onto her lap.
‘Yeah, I pretty-much guess so,’ I said, wearily. ‘But this isn’t the time, and it definitely isn’t the place…’ Swivelling around on my backside, I sat sideways-on to her and lowered my head to look at the dusty floor beneath my thighs. ‘Yeah, we’re in the shit all right – properly in the shit!’ I murmured.
‘What do you want? You know, Jake – out of life, what do you want? Andi asked. She was so close to me that I could feel her breath in my ear. She smelled of cigarettes, of chocolate, and of fear.
Then, luckily for me, the last fading vestiges of my long-held professionalism, suddenly decided to make their reappearance.
‘Fuck-knows,’ I snorted, rising to my feet. Looking down at her, I said, ‘But the one thing I do know is that we should get the hell out of here!’ I reached down to give Andi a helping-hand to her feet, brushing the dust off her shoulders as I did so.
Why I did that, I have no idea whatsoever.
Who, me… in the shit? You better believe it.
I grabbed my pack, slung it over my shoulders and said, ‘Come on, let’s go and see where loony-tunes is, shall we? Maybe we can talk later, Okay?’
Andi looked at me and smiled.
It was a killer of a smile, and if she’d demanded that we talk right now and to hell with Gadaffi and the rebels, then I most-likely would have sat back down and blown my life completely out of the water.
But she didn’t, instead, and with that wicked smile on her face, Andi tucked her hair under her helmet and pushed me away from the door with a gentle shove. ‘Yeah – later would great!’ she said, bending down to get gather her things.
Clamping my helmet on my head and with Andi by my side, I turned and started to walk deeper into the compound, deeper into the shit. We never did find Gino that afternoon – what I didn’t know, until Andi told me later, was that Gino was an American of Arab descent and that he spoke fluent Arabic. Had I of known that, then I may have been able to guess exactly where he was. But I didn’t, and so, we walked right into the heart of the compound in search of him, spending more than an hour looking in vain. I felt angry at myself, betting on the fact that I must have missed him whilst I wasn’t paying attention. Loads of rebels and civilians came up to talk to us, all shouting and smiling about the fall of Gadaffi’s fortress. We asked them if they had seen Gino, gesticulating with our hands to show his height and the fact that he carried a camera and sported a ponytail.
It was a mistake.
Before long we had several dozen people who could swear they had seen him – it was just a shame that they all pointed in different directions. I tried ringing him on the number that Andi gave me, but there was no signal, yet again. Neither my local phones nor my sat-phone worked, it was driving me crazy. I asked her to try on her phone – she told me that it wouldn’t connect to a local number and that it was feeding through the satellite-dish back with the techs. Whether that was the case, or whether she just couldn’t be bothered, was never revealed to me. Journos, they’ve all got their little secrets.
‘He never answers, anyway,’ Andi said, seeing my frustration. ‘That way he can avoid being told what to do, the guy’s a nightmare!’
I shook my head in disgust and kept trying.
Eventually
I had a breakthrough, ringing Raouf’s phone for about the tenth time, I finally heard the ringing tone.
‘Yes, Mr Jake?’ the driver’s friendly voice said.
To say that I was relieved to hear him would have been an understatement in the very least.
‘Raouf, has Gino come past you?’ I asked. ‘We can’t find him, have you seen him?’
‘No, I don’t see him, sir – many, many people are coming out from inside… It’s crazy out here, very dangerous! There is much firing, and it will be dark soon, you must come now, please, Mr Jake – we must leave!’ I could hear the panic in his voice and knew that if someone as cool as Raouf was getting edgy, then maybe we should leave.
‘Right, no problem,’ I said. ‘Stay where you are, we’ll be out within half-an-hour, I promise, Okay?’
‘Okay, Mr Jake – don’t worry, I stay here and wait for you. I stay always.’
‘Thanks, Raouf – I owe you one, you’re a good man!’
‘No problems,’ he said. ‘But please hurry!’
I hung-up and turned to Andi, saying: ‘Right, we’ve got about twenty minutes and then we have to leave. This place is getting beyond a joke!’
It wasn’t an idle comment – during the time we had been looking for Gino our surroundings had become of secondary interest to us, the noise and madness taking a back seat whilst we frantically searched for the cameraman. I can remember seeing lots of burning buildings, lots of smashed-up things, furniture and the suchlike, and lots-and-lots of crazy people, but the rest of it was a blur. However, now that we were focussing on getting out, the sights and sounds of that place came rushing back to greet us like a long-lost, totally-insane cousin.
The invasion and looting had spiralled out of control. The rebels were now getting massively pissed-off with all the people who had turned up to help themselves to the booty that lay within the compound. Lines of armed rebels advanced down the main road into the compound, they were firing the weapons over the heads of the looters, herding them into columns and forcing them to turn and flee out of the gate.
RPGs were still detonating overhead, a rushing, whoosh of noise that was followed by a deafeningly-loud explosion. I could see them blowing-up all over the place. Below the other, nearer, noises of firing, I could also hear the sound of battle. It was barely discernible through the rampant cacophony of sound that filled the immediate area, but I suppose that my ears were attuned to such things – either way, there was definitely something big happening on the other side of the compound. That was the area in which the most ardent Gadaffi-supporters in Tripoli lived, and so it made sense to me.
The compound may have been finished, but they weren’t.
I was proved to be right in my assumptions – suddenly there was a massive burst of heavy-weapon fire. It came from behind a high wall that lay only a few metres in front of us. I instinctively ducked, dragging Andi down with me as the tracer rounds from some large-calibre weapon came hurtling overhead. Then the shouting started. The sound of hundreds of voices, screaming in panic and fear, filled the air. This was very quickly followed by what appeared to be, all the occupants of the now destroyed compound running like hell for the gates. There were literally hundreds of them, rebels hot on their heels, screaming and shouting, firing their weapons into the air and generally causing the chaos to magnify greatly.
‘Run, get out!’ They yelled at us in English. ‘The soldiers are coming back into the compound, everybody out. Run!’
Maybe it was true, or maybe the fighters were just annoyed at the fact that their hard-won spoils of war were being carried out of the compound right under their noses.
I held Andi down. ‘We’ll just take five minutes here,’ I said, as calmly as I could. ‘We don’t want to get caught up in that shit – people are gonna start getting killed if this carries on!’
She nodded in agreement.
So, in the midst of a mass retreat, and whilst surrounded by the most deranged sights one could imagine, my client and I calmly sat against a huge flower-pot, smoking cigarettes and watching as the end of the world happened. I’m not exaggerating when I say that – it was utter madness. If a giant meteorite was about to collide with the planet Earth, I doubt there would have been any more pandemonium. We sat there, calmly sucking on our smokes, mesmerised by the sights and sounds in front of us. It had all the makings of an asylum trip, a permanent one.
We saw a group of rebels running down the verge next to the road, they were dragging a guy with them, he looked to be an African and he was in trouble, big time. They were booting him and jabbing him with their rifle muzzles, blood was pouring down his head and it looked like one of his arms was broken. It dangled and flopped uselessly at his side, but he never made a sound.
I supposed that he was in shock. He was definitely in the shit.
Then a long line of rebel vehicles roared out from the inner compound, all their weapons were facing rearwards and I took that as a pretty good sign that all was not well behind them. Just as I was about to get to my feet and gamble on Andi and I not being crushed, run-over, or shot in a desperate attempt to get out amongst the rest of the rabid herd, I saw an overly-gunned technical pulling up next to the group of prisoners and their ebony-skinned prisoner.
A guy with a big beard leapt down from the passenger seat and went over to the men. He spent a moment talking to one of the rebels, before turning to their prisoner and leaning up close to speak vehemently into the guy’s face. The prisoner simply stood there with an inane grin upon his face. Either he was so shocked that he was unaware of his peril, or maybe he just didn’t see it coming.
Maybe he did, maybe he just didn’t care.
I could see it coming – it was always like this, a sudden rush of sickening adrenaline fills your chest as you read the script to a play that has no start, no middle and no sense. It only has an ending – a meaningless, bloody ending. An awful sensation crawls into your guts, a creeping feeling, one that makes your balls rise into your pelvis. I’d seen a few incidents like the one happening before us, and they don’t ever get any easier to watch. It’s awful because you’re helpless.
I grabbed Andi’s hand. ‘Look away,’ I said, my voice hoarse with adrenaline and cigarettes. ‘This is not going to end well – shut your eyes or look the other way!’
‘I can’t,’ she whispered. ‘I can’t, I just can’t!’
Her voice loudened.
‘Please don’t…’ she cried, trying to get to her feet.
I held her down, pulling firmly on her wrist.
‘Leave it, Andi – leave it!’ I hissed.
She stayed put, short, angry breaths pulsing her arm against my side. In frozen anticipation we watched as the events unfolded just thirty metres in front of our staring eyes.
Turning away from the prisoner, the bearded guy held out his hand, waiting whilst one of the men on the truck leaned down to pass him a weapon. Then, taking his rifle, he turned and walked casually over to the injured man, whereupon, without pausing or talking, he just shot the guy in the head – point-blank.
Even though we knew what was coming, both Andi and I still flinched at the sound of the weapon’s report. The prisoner went down like a puppet whose strings had been cut – dropping to the deck where he stood. A long, bright-crimson spurt of blood arched from his head to splatter over the feet of his assassin. The only thing worse was the fact that the dead man’s head was now on fire. The muzzle blast having been so close that it had ignited his hair. He laid there with his brains blown out, shattered head smouldering.
What a way to die, what a senseless mess.
Andi shuddered, ‘Those animals!’ she cursed. ‘Why the hell did they do that, what’s the sense in it – why?’
‘Keep quiet,’ I said, turning away from the terrible scene. ‘Come on, get your stuff – we’re getting the fuck out of here!’ I dragged Andi to her feet and walked into the fleeing masses, clutching her by the upper arm as I went. I could feel the eyes of the rebels burn
ing into my back as we hurried away.
Swept along by the wave of heavily-laden looters and revellers, we soon arrived back at the entrance where we had parked. Thankfully, Raouf was exactly where we had left him. The joy that crossed his face when he saw us walking toward him was plain to see. Whether he was genuinely pleased to see us, or simply relieved by the knowledge that he could now get the hell out that place, wasn’t something I gave a toss about. One way or the other, we had made it out of there.
Andi and I piled into the Land Cruiser, greedily cracking open the bottles of icy-cold water that Raouf passed us from his cool box.
‘Thanks, Raouf!’ I said. ‘Have you seen Gino?’
Raouf shook his head in a negative response.
I turned to Andi, asking: ‘What should we do? There’s no going back in there for us – I can’t leave you on your own, maybe we should…’
‘Fuck Gino!’ she said, cutting me off mid-sentence.
‘We’ve got a live-spot in one hour, and I’m not running around Tripoli looking for him now, let’s get to Green Square, Raouf. Go now!’ I could see by the expression on her face that the sharing-caring Andi was now on vacation. The professional journo was back.
‘Okay, you heard the lady,’ I said, to our grinning driver. ‘Green Square it is then – let’s go, big guy!’
Raouf nodded, saying: ‘It is called Martyr Square now, Mr Jake. From today there is no more ‘green’ in Libya!’ With a laugh, he pulled away from the gate and slipped into the chaotic traffic of a liberated Tripoli.
