Dead Centre (33 page)

The fucker was only about three metres away but he still wasn’t answering me. He was too busy shouting at everyone else on his radio.

‘
Awaale!
’

Screams and howls came from the crews both sides of the court-house as they revved up. An RPG kicked off to our right and flew straight down the middle of the square. It shaved the obelisk and slammed into a building fifty metres further on. There was a bright orange flash and lumps of concrete flew into the air.

‘
Awaale!
’

‘
Yes, Mr Nick!
’

‘Let’s take them down to the harbour. Remember, only on the road, dead centre. Let’s go!’

I grabbed BB. ‘Take her now, with these lads. I’ll get Stefan and we’ll RV at the boats. Awaale!’

The fucker had evaporated again.

Two technicals came screaming towards us from the direction we’d taken this morning. The guns’ heavy reports reverberated above the rest of the shit around us. Tracer zoomed over our heads. Some hit the obelisk.

‘
Awaale!
’

‘Yes, OK, I am here, Mr Nick!’

He stepped out of the gloom. He was soaked with sweat. His hands glinted with jewellery. Any passing Black Hawk wouldn’t have stood a chance while he was in this mood.

‘Get some fire down on those fucking technicals!’

‘It’s no problem, Mr Nick. It’s my crew. They landed in the wrong place so they took the AS technicals. This is very good, Mr Nick. This is a great victory.’

‘No, it fucking ain’t great! You’ve got to control them, mate.’

On cue, their tracer kicked into the compound building. Some of it scudded into the shallow graves the girls had finally pulled themselves out of. If they hadn’t, they would have been history.

‘You got fucking rounds going all over the place. Control them! Get the fucking technicals here, get this lot on board, and let’s get them down to the boats. I’m going to go and get the boy. He’s in the
madrasah
.’

Awaale waffled into his radio. His crew ran about laughing manically, firing, shouting.

I got up. ‘BB, take Tracy. Now. Get her on the technicals as soon as they come over.’

Tracy struggled to her knees. ‘No, Nick – no …’

‘Tracy, it’s OK. Stefan will be just fine.’ I pointed to Awaale. ‘You’re going to get the other two white lads out of there as well, remember. Erasto wants to kill them.’

‘No problems, Mr Nick. We’ll take care of them.’

The technicals came bouncing across the square, all guns blazing. If they’d heard Awaale tell them to stop firing, they weren’t taking any notice. As they bounced, tracer arced over the court-house. It was probably landing in the sea or zapping our own boats. Some of it scudded off the dirt and ricocheted into random buildings.

I pushed Tracy down once more. ‘Awaale!’

He was busy shouting orders. An RPG kicked off from fuck knew where.

We couldn’t move.

7

AS THE WAGONS came closer I caught sight of the gunner’s star-shaped, white-framed sun-gigs. The sun had gone down hours ago, but that didn’t bother him. And the driver, for fuck’s sake, was on his mobile. He looked like he was larging it with a blow-by-blow account for the benefit of the girls back home.

BB was out of ammunition. I threw him my day sack with the spare mags. I turned and shouted to one of the crew. I wanted the pistol he had tucked into the back of his jeans. He lay in the dust by the gate, firing at the completely strike-marked court-house. He gave me a big,
khat
-stained grin. ‘Fifty dollar!’

‘Fuck off! Give me the weapon!’

He shrugged and shouted to his mate the other side of the gate. They both laughed. Another RPG kicked off, this time from AS. It was way off. It almost went into orbit.

The kid with the pistol finally relented. He didn’t even check safety before he threw it. As it sailed through the air I could see it was a Makarov, and so old there was no parkerization anywhere near it. I caught it and pulled back the top slide. A brass case was already in the chamber. I pressed the mag-release catch. It dropped into my hand. The mag was full.

BB was now crouched over Tracy to protect her. He held her head down, trying to calm her.

Awaale and four of his crew peeled off and ran towards the compound building. They were going for Ant and Dec. Awaale was in the middle of the gang, still shouting into his radio as if he was controlling this shit. The technicals banged out 12.7 at every muzzle flash within reach. It didn’t seem to matter who was on the receiving end.

I got up and started running for the
madrasah
, head down, fast as I could. I reached the massive wooden doors. They were open. I stopped, looked and listened. Nothing. I walked into the hallway. Yellow low-current strip-lights hung from the ceilings. The plaster was pitted. What had probably once been colonial Italy’s pride and joy was now close to a ruin. Dark wooden doors led off it, left and right.

The sound of firing was muffled. The whoops of excitement and fear were mumbles. I ventured into the high-ceilinged building. If this place was a school, there was nothing to suggest it. There were no children’s drawings pinned to the walls; nothing to show children used the place at all.

The door of the first room I came to was open. Looking down the corridor, I could see a lot of the others were closed. This one was full of low desks. They were just inches from the floor, their tops at a reading angle. Each desk had a little cushion.

I crossed the corridor to the room opposite. The hinges were on the right. I put my ear to the wood but couldn’t hear anybody on the other side. I eased it open. The weak light from the strips was enough to show me the room was empty. I went down to the next. My sand-crusted socks rasped on the wooden floor.

This door had a spy-hole bored through it. There was a long bolt at the top. It looked like the schoolrooms doubled as cells; or maybe the kids weren’t allowed out until they’d learnt today’s chunk of the Good Book. I put my ear to the wood again and went in.

Nothing.

I moved along the corridor, now just checking the spy-holes left and right.

I could hear a voice. An old man’s voice, like tyres on gravel. It was coming from the room beyond the next one. The door was ajar.

I moved very slowly, my shoulder skimming the wall. As I got closer, the voice became stronger. I lowered myself to my knees, then flat on my stomach. I inched my head towards the gap between door and frame.

The mullah had a small knife against Stefan’s right eye. It looked like it came from a kitchen. He held it with his left arm around his throat so the flat of the blade rested on the little boy’s cheek. His right hand covered the kid’s mouth.

The old guy sat in a chair behind a desk. He had the boy in front of him as cover.

Stefan was a mini Frank, except that I’d never seen Frank with that expression on his face. The small boy was petrified. His brown eyes were wide with terror.

I got up and moved forward, the weapon down by my side.

‘Do you speak English? Come on, let the little one go. Let Stefan go, yeah?’

I spoke more with my eyes than my mouth. He barked something in dialect, and then he started shouting. He didn’t want me to get any closer.

I stopped, keeping eye-to-eye. That was always the most important thing.

I looked at him, almost begging. ‘Mate, you’re not going to get out of here. Help yourself. Give me the boy.’

I held out my left hand. ‘Let me have him. Please.’

I even gave him a bit of a smile.

Stefan’s shoulders heaved as he sobbed into the mullah’s palm. The old man leant forward, his beard draped over the boy’s face. He shouted at me big-time.

My eyes bored into his.

‘Mr Nick! Mr Nick!’

It sounded like Awaale was at the main entrance.

I moved my weapon to one side. ‘Look, mate, it’s OK.’ I didn’t want to get this lad sparked up. I took a step towards him.

The mullah’s eyes darted from me to the door I’d come through. He was unsure. He was getting worried.

‘Mr Nick! We’ve got to leave!’

I could hear flip-flops and the sound of running feet.

Awaale was at the door. I could hear him behind me.

‘Mr Nick!’

The old guy’s eyes went back to mine. They were no longer tense; no longer unsure. He knew he was fucked. I kept mine focused on his head, brought the weapon up, jamming it into my left hand as he raised his knife, ready to ram it into Stefan’s chest.

Stefan screamed. The old guy gripped his hair and pulled back his head.

I took first pressure on the trigger of the Makarov, my eyes glued to a point just above the muzzle. I caught a glimpse of cheekbone and moved the pistol until I had the clear and focused foresight dead centre of the face. The rear sight was out of focus, just as it should be. The first pad of my forefinger squeezed the trigger a couple of millimetres until I felt first pressure.

Stefan struggled. The knife quivered in the air.

I shut Awaale and every ounce of background noise out of my head.

The old guy yelled at me. I could see the veins in his temple swell, and spit fly from his lips.

Then he raised the knife a fraction more to get full force behind it.

His head and beard were fuzzy. My foresight was clear. I brought it up, just above his left eye, and took second pressure. The knife began to plunge. The pistol kicked in my hands and the old guy’s face imploded.

He dropped like liquid. The knife clattered on the wooden floor. The boy followed it under the table, screaming, out of control, curling up like a small, threatened animal.

I ran towards him. ‘It’s OK, Stefan. It’s OK …’

I had to yank him out from under the table. I scooped him up and made him face me, encouraged him to wrap his legs around my waist.

‘My name is Nick.’

Awaale was gobbing off behind me.

‘Shut the fuck up!’

‘We’ve got to go, Mr Nick.’

I got eye-to-eye with Stefan. ‘My name is Nick and I’m going to take you to your mum, OK?’

He wasn’t listening. He was totally freaked out. I was just one more monster in his nightmare. He was going to need a lot of help. But if his brain was wired the same way as his dad’s, he’d probably survive.

‘Come on, shall we go and see your mum?’

I turned to Awaale. Four of his crew had piled into the room. I started walking towards the door.

‘Mr Nick, you’re a lucky man! That was one lucky shot!’

I couldn’t be arsed to explain. ‘Yeah, yeah. Let’s get out. Where are Tracy and BB?’

A stream of gobbing off poured out of his radio. He put his hands up. ‘They’re OK. Come. We must join them.’

I held Stefan into me as tightly as I could.

‘Mummy … Mummy … I want Mummy …’

I did my best to soothe him as we headed towards the gang-fuck outside.

8

THE TECHNICALS HAD gone from the compound. So had Tracy and BB. And there was definitely shit on down by the harbour. Tracer swirled into the sky above it from behind the court-house.

Awaale had already reached the obelisk and was standing there as if he had fifty layers of Kevlar, back and front.

‘Mr Nick, come on – we are waiting.’

I passed two of his crew kneeling in the open. They were giggling and arguing between themselves at the same time as they tried to load an RPG. Automatic fire still came from the fringes of the square.

Stefan clung to me, his legs trying to cut off the circulation in my waist. I gripped him tight with my left arm. Just as we passed the stoning holes the RPG cracked off behind us. The crew had fucked up. A split second later it smashed into the obelisk. The pressure wave hurled me to the ground. My ears were still ringing as I staggered to my feet in a cloud of sand and mortar dust.

‘It’s OK, Stefan. We’re all right. We’re nearly there. Nearly with your mummy.’

Maybe the lads hadn’t fucked up. Maybe they’d been aiming at the obelisk. Who knew? There were peals of laughter as they legged it towards us. I wondered if Awaale had enjoyed the joke. I gripped my hands under Stefan’s thighs so I could get my feet pounding across the open ground.

Bodies lay all over the place. AS, crew or crowd, it was hard to make out one from the other. Skull-cap’s body was draped over the railing of the veranda. Most of the arc lamps had been shot away. The dark liquid pooling beneath him glistened in the light of those that remained.

I pushed Stefan’s head into my shoulder. He didn’t have to see that shit. He’d had enough drama to be going on with.

I followed Awaale. My throat was so dry it felt like I’d been swallowing sand. It was a long time since I’d had fluids. I was dehydrating.

We turned left between the court-house and the compound and then went right. At its far end, the alleyway intersected with the harbour road. I’d just turned into it when I saw a rocket trail at the bottom of the hill. It was heading our way.

‘RPG! RPG!’

I ducked back into the alleyway as the grenade screamed past us, less than a metre above the ground. It hit somewhere the other side of the court-house and exploded.

‘Not far now. It won’t be long.’

Stefan didn’t say a word. He gripped me harder. He buried his head deeper into my shoulder to get away from this nightmare.

I stuck my head round the corner and yelled, ‘Awaale! Where are you? Get them to stop! Not down the road! Not down the road!’

The RPG team who’d demolished the obelisk loaded up again, giggling with excitement, then ran out into the road to return fire towards the harbour.

‘No! No! No! That’s your crew! Awaale!’

I could hear his radio in a doorway further down.

‘It’s OK, Mr Nick, come on.’

He sauntered into the middle of the road, waving me on, as if I was holding up proceedings. ‘Come on, Mr Nick.’

‘Tell these lads to can it. No one’s to fire down or up the road.’

‘It’s OK.’

We’d gone no more than ten paces down the hill when the RPG kicked off behind us, heading back towards the square. I was buffeted by the shockwave, then the hot back blast washed over me. My nose filled with the acrid smell of cordite and spent propellant. My eardrums zinged.