by T. M. Parris
“What’s your name?” he asks.
“Shut up!” I don’t like him talking. But he carries on anyway.
“I’m John. John Fairchild. So you’ll know who it is that you killed. Did you think it would be like this? Or did you think I would beg for my life?” There’s no trace of stress in his voice. But I can feel my own heart pumping. I glance at the gun itself, trying to gauge its weight. “Oh, it’s definitely loaded,” he says, noticing my look. “And I have no other weapons either. In case you were wondering.”
There’s a long silence. I become aware of the rushing sound of the water. “You’ll remember this moment for the rest of your life,” says John Fairchild. “The first person you killed.”
“Do you?” I ask.
His face becomes strained. “Yes. I do. It’s not something you do lightly. Not most people, anyway. That man back there with the beard, he wouldn’t be too worried, would he? If he were here now, he’d have done it already.”
I finger the trigger and hear Cesar’s words: do you have what it takes to look someone in the eye and pull the trigger? I’ve thought about it enough. I’m serving Allah, Ismael would say, standing here right now in this clearing with this gun. The cause is just. Taking up arms is the only way. I think of the bloodstained body of my aunt, lying there with so many others. My mother’s wails of grief, the white hot anger radiating from the men, as we stood there in silence. I’m justified. I have the right. But I can’t do it. I lower the gun.
John Fairchild watches, saying nothing. Slowly he unfastens the top of his rucksack and pulls out a pair of muddy trainers. “This is what I wanted to give you,” he says. “You could say you found them downriver.”
So he already knows I don’t have any shoes. He throws the trainers down on the ground in front of me. I kick them into the undergrowth. “I don’t need anything from you,” I repeat.
“Fair enough,” he says casually. He jumps to his feet and puts on his rucksack. “Don’t worry, I won’t be coming back. But if you ever want to find me, try the Trade Winds Cafe in Manila. Ask for me there.”
I smirk. “Why would I do a thing like that?”
I watch, holding the gun by my side, as he disappears into the trees. When he’s gone, I sit on the rock and put my head in my hands, waiting for my heart to slow down. I take the bullets out of the gun and hurl them into the bush, after John Fairchild. I throw the gun into the river. I realise I’m crying.
Back in the camp, Cesar is asleep, snoring in his hammock. He isn’t pleased at being woken. “I saw a boy,” I say. “Not far from here. He was swimming in the river near the waterfall.”
Cesar is instantly alert. “Did he see you?”
I nod. “He ran off. He left his shoes behind.”
Cesar stares at me. I stare back. Then he nods. “Don’t leave the camp. I’ve told you that before.” He gets up and raises his voice to wake the others.
I go back and find the trainers in the undergrowth. I return and give them to Yvonne. They are a good size for her. She smiles up at me timidly, and Lucien gives me a slight nod of the head.
She will need them. We have to move.
Metro Manila
Fairchild expected a long journey, and he was right. His was the last flight to leave Davao that day, taking off through horizontal rain as the winds continued to build. Landing at Manila, the wings juddered erratically as they approached touchdown. His taxi had only just entered the expressway when police sirens started to wail. A patrol car waved them over. Two plain clothes men got out and approached. One of them tapped on Fairchild’s window. He wound it down.
“NISA,” said the man.
“Am I under arrest?” NISA was the secret police.
“Come with us, please.” He was speaking English.
“I said, am I under arrest?”
“Please get out of the taxi, Mr Fairchild.”
“NISA, did he say? Holy mother Mary!” This was muttered by the taxi driver, looking round white-faced. Interactions with NISA were not welcomed by the general public. Fairchild sighed and got out of the taxi, which shot off at speed.
“Into the car, please, sir.” An unmarked dark saloon with tinted windows had quietly pulled in behind, engine humming. Fairchild got in. A woman was sitting on the back seat.
“Good afternoon, Mr Fairchild. We haven’t met. I’m Dolores Ocampo. Defence Secretary.”
“You know, you could just call and make an appointment,” said Fairchild. The woman had a firm handshake.
“But we were unsure how long you’d be in the country,” she replied. With her solid build, hair piled up in a bun and twinkling eyes, she looked like everyone’s favourite grandmother. In fact she’d just introduced herself as the Philippines’ most influential elected politician other than the president himself. “I was keen to catch up with you as soon as you landed. You’ve been on quite an interesting journey, I understand.”
“Understand from whom?” Fairchild didn’t like governments knowing his business. Unless he was working for them at the time, of course.
“We’ll go to my office,” she said, ignoring the question. The driver nodded and they set off. Out of the window, power lines swayed. The sky was starting to darken.
“This storm is really building,” said Fairchild. “I hope you’re prepared.”
“It’s just the tail end, I’m told,” she said placidly. “They don’t normally come this far west. The winds have made this part of the world what it is today, Mr Fairchild. Trade winds brought the Chinese, the Arabs, the Indians, the Europeans to these shores. The result is the cultural mix you see around you. The winds are part of our past, and our present. We have to endure the rough with the smooth.”
“Well, that may be,” said Fairchild. “But it’s still advisable to be indoors.”
“I won’t take up much of your time.”
“Looking at what’s coming, I’m not sure any of us has got any time.”
Street stalls lined the expressway, their awnings ballooning like sails. Women’s shawls flapped wildly and plastic detritus found life of its own, dancing under people’s feet. Ocampo remained unperturbed. “I understand you were in the south of the country. That you may have located the cell which captured the hostages. That’s pretty impressive work.” She smiled in a conspiratorial way.
He didn’t smile back. “Even if I did, they’ll have moved again by now. How long have Mindanao separatists been operating on those islands? Over a hundred years, isn’t it? Do you really think that trying to pick off their camps one by one is going to work?”
Ocampo opened her palms. “And what do you think will work?”
“They want some control over their lives. Some influence over their own destinies. Would it be so difficult to give them some measure of what they want?”
“Self-determination? Mr Fairchild, we’ve already done that. Mindanao has had a degree of autonomy since 2012. We’ve signed peace accords with the rebels, now we’re starting to talk about even more self-administration across the whole region. The problem, Mr Fairchild, is that not everybody wants the same thing. This is a pluralist country. People can express their religious and cultural identities within one overall political framework. If Mindanao becomes a place that only caters for Muslims, how will the Christians living there feel about it? Won’t they in turn become the oppressed minority?”
A broken wooden crate bounced into the road in front of them. The driver braked and steered sharply. The car screeched to a halt, side on. The crate clattered on and ploughed into a wall. They resumed.
Fairchild turned to his fellow passenger. “Have you been to Mindanao, Ms Ocampo?”
“Is that what you think of us, Mr Fairchild? That we sit here in Manila completely unaware of the state of our own country? Of course I’ve been to the south. I regularly travel to every region of this country. As often as time allows.” Her voice was grainy.
“Then you’ll know that most of the p
opulation are farmers trying to eke out a living. Yet the country as a whole has seen phenomenal economic growth. Hunger fuels anger.”
“We’re well aware of these inequalities, Mr Fairchild. But most inward investment is coming to the big cities. It’s up to the investors where they put their money. We can’t order them to spend it in the south. Besides, the unrest in Mindanao is itself holding it back. The region will never see real growth while it’s stricken with sectarian violence. What’s this?”
They pulled up behind a queue of stationary traffic. “Power lines are down. The road is blocked,” said the driver.
“Reverse. Find a way around.” They backed up sharply, turned across two lanes of streaming traffic to a cacophony of car horns, and entered a side street.
“Are you going to deny,” said Fairchild, “that the money isn’t reaching these areas because it’s ending up in people’s pockets?”
Her eyes were no longer twinkling. “We’ve moved away from that kind of regime, Mr Fairchild. Things are different now.”
“Are they? What about local officials who act above the law? The Maguindanao massacre was only a few years ago. Fifty-eight people were rounded up and shot on their way to register a candidate in a local election. Over half of them were journalists. Who’s been prosecuted for that?”
“As I’m sure you know, Mr Fairchild, a major case is being brought implicating almost two hundred people.”
“People don’t believe in that. The Ampatuan family still controls the island. They’re putting people forward in elections even now. And they still have their own private army. What exactly is the difference, Ms Ocampo, between a private army controlled by a local clan favoured by the government, and an armed group fighting on behalf of local people for autonomy? Neither is accountable.”
“I agree we need to do more to rein in local power bases and demonstrate accountability. But at the end of the day the government has a democratic mandate. Isn’t that something you believe in, Mr Fairchild?”
“It doesn’t matter what I believe in. You need to do a lot more to persuade others to believe in it. Or they will find other causes. The hijab, the white skull caps, they were rare twenty, thirty years ago. Those religious differences didn’t matter so much. Now they’ve become key to personal identity.”
They were travelling through narrow streets, more and more tightly crammed with people. They ground to a halt behind a crowd which seemed to be congregating further ahead. The driver swore in Tagalog and reversed abruptly to take a different turn.
Ocampo was observing the street watchfully as she responded. “If you’re blaming the Filipino government for the global rise in Islamic fundamentalism, that’s a little rich. As I said, we’re pluralists. We have mosques next to churches next to temples. That’s how this country has evolved, this entire region, Mr Fairchild.”
“But it’s changing, whether you like it or not. What will happen when these groups don’t want to live side by side any more?”
“That’s why we need a strong state. That’s why we need people like you, Mr Fairchild, to help us.”
He looked at her. Her pose seemed to become more solid. “You want my help?”
“You can talk to people, Mr Fairchild, and gain their trust. You understand what motivates people. You can bring them together. We need someone like you acting as a moderator, a mediator, if you will.”
“Working for the government?”
“Yes, working for me.”
“People here only trust me because I don’t work for the government.”
“An independent viewpoint would be part of your remit. Besides, I can’t believe you went all the way to Jolo Island out of the goodness of your heart, Mr Fairchild. You must have been working for someone. The Americans, perhaps?” This woman knew far too much about his business. “You have particular skills. Why not use them to save lives and work towards peace? As you say, we are all under threat if our social fabric falls apart. I’m trying to keep my country together.”
They bumped along ever smaller streets lined with rickety wooden frontages. Everything was dark outside the beam of the car headlights. Stalls and shoppers were gone. Instead, men in coats with collars turned up against the wind were gathering. At a junction the driver slowed, considering. A smash of shattering glass came from just behind them.
“Looters,” said Fairchild. “The power is out in this whole area.”
“Get us out of here,” said Ocampo, leaning forward.
“Yes! Yes!” The driver manoeuvred tightly and turned, taking them away from the shattering glass. No other vehicles were on the roads.
“It’s an interesting offer, Ms Ocampo,” said Fairchild, “but I’m not a politician.”
“I appreciate that. I am the politician. You will be a facilitator, a public servant working for me.”
“I’m not a diplomat either.”
“So what are you, Mr Fairchild?”
The car lurched to a halt. The street in front of them was full of men, pouring in and bearing down on them. In a moment they surrounded the car.
“I said, get us out of here!” Ocampo’s voice contained some urgency for the first time.
“I can’t! They’re all round us!” The driver had his hand on the horn but the surge continued. Most were going straight past but staring in through the tinted glass as they went. A man appeared carrying a metal pipe. He looked at the car, the make, the unmarked plates, the tinted windows. He was pointing excitedly, grabbing other people’s attention. Now a group of them was taking an active interest in the car.
“Reverse, can’t you?” said Ocampo to the driver. But the street behind them was full of people.
“Let me out,” said Fairchild. “I’ll speak to them.” He’d already tried the door. It was locked.
“No. Don’t unlock the doors.”
“I said, let me out!”
“If you go out there, they’ll kill you.”
“No they won’t.”
“Reverse, I said!”
“I can’t!” This from the driver. They were surrounded on all sides. The man in front gripped the iron bar and raised it above the windscreen.
“Shoot him.” Ocampo’s voice was low. The locks clicked. The guard in the passenger seat, gun in hand, opened the passenger door, set one foot on the ground and fired the gun into the air, shouting. The noise barely carried above the baying crowd. Bodies pressed closer. Someone was already yanking the car door back on its hinges. The man with the iron bar brought it down on the windscreen with a crunch. The glass cracked from side to side. The guard aimed and fired. The man’s head exploded into blood and brain. Lumps of red spattered the windscreen. The body slumped onto the bonnet and slid onto the ground, leaving a shiny trail over the car.
The shouting faded. Wide eyes were staring. The guard fired repeatedly into the air. Quiet escalated into panic as people ran. Now the street was almost clear. The guard stepped forward, leaned over the body, got back in the car and slammed the door.
“Is he dead?” asked Ocampo.
“Yes.”
“Let’s get out of here.”
The driver did a three point turn, running over the body as he reversed. Lumps of gore clung to the windscreen. They gained pace, the blaring of the horn scattering people in front of them.
“We’ll be safer once we get into Quezon,” said Ocampo to Fairchild.
“Stop the car and let me out.” Fairchild spoke quietly.
“You’re miles from anywhere. You’re going to walk by yourself through these streets?”
“Stop the car.”
“It was self-defence. That mob would have left us for dead. Or worse.”
“I said, stop the fucking car.”
She looked at him and saw something in his face she couldn’t argue with. “Do as he says.”
The driver pulled in, muttering. Fairchild got out and slammed the door. The car squealed as it took off. He didn’t loo
k round. A gust assaulted him, knocking him back as if physically pushed. He pulled his collar up and pressed on, bent against the wind.
The camp
I’m jolted awake to the end of the world. Huge explosions take away all sound. Great flashes of light blind us. People cry out in confusion. Then the gunfire starts. It comes from everywhere at once, a harsh hammering that buries bullets in tree trunks and smashes into rocks. The air is filled with the screams of voices I recognise.
Then it stops and that’s when they come. I daren’t lift my head but I hear them running in. So many feet on the ground! Many more of them than us. We’re all spread out, dotted here and there in the undergrowth. This is a temporary camp, a day’s walk from the last one. We are waiting here until the boats arrive. To rest we each find a spot where the leeches don’t crawl in or the ants don’t bite so much or the roots are less lumpy to lie on. I’m in a fork in a tree that I found, a little way off.
The footsteps pass under me. I see the backs of these giants as they stride in towards each other. These soldiers are solid with gear from head to foot, chunky vests, helmets, boots. They are scouring the vegetation looking in the ferns and bushes for us. I watch as they find someone, a guard. There’s a shout. One of them raises his gun and fires down at the ground. That’s it.
Some of them stand, weapons poised, facing out in all directions, while others rake through the undergrowth. A hideous screaming starts up from behind them. I hear one shot, then silence. I reach for my gun, hanging on a branch, and noiselessly struggle to get it into position. My hands are shaking. If I move too much they will see me. It would be easy for them to annihilate me from where they are standing. They missed me because they did not see me up here. But twigs and leaves will not stop bullets. When I start firing, that will be the end. But maybe I can slaughter a few of them first. If that is the will of God. I prepare myself.
“Au secours! Au secours! Nous sommes ici!” The unfamiliar words rise from the bushes. “We are here! Help us!” It’s Lucien. The soldiers regroup, backing in a circle. One of them comes forward carrying Lucien on his back. Lucien seems so slight compared with these men. I hesitate. I want to kill the soldiers who opened fire on us, not this sick old European. Then the man carrying him turns to take him off. Now I can aim cleanly at the infidel fighters. My finger is on the trigger. I am ready.
