Manus Xingue (17 page)

Lacy is soon sagging under the heavy load of Dublin’s body and makes for a half-submerged log. Sitting down, he slides the heavy Dublin onto his lap and immediately sees another chance to amuse himself at the unconscious man’s expense. As if in a music-hall act, Lacy places his hand behind Dublin’s head, He proceeds……’What’s your name, then?’

‘Gollocks!’ replies the ventriloquist’s dummy.

‘Would you like a nice gottle of gear and a slice of ged and gutter?’ Lacy asks. ‘Or this big Cockney knuckle-sandwich, right in your big fat ugly Irish mush?’

As Lacy laughs at his own humour, he is unaware of the appreciative audience watching from the gods!

High in a tree, Manus Xingue’s mutilated face peers through the foliage. The evil Shaman of the Cat-people is enjoying Lacy’s matinee act.

Suddenly Dublin wakes and finds himself sitting on Lacy’s knee.

‘What the fuck are you doing?’ explodes the Irishman, angrily.

‘Just keeping you out of the water, Frank.’ answers Lacy.

‘Get the fuck away – you faggot!’ Dublin orders. He gets up and staggers away towards a small dry rise in the swamp and collapses again. Lacy shouts after the comatose Irishman.

‘I wouldn’t touch an ugly, hairy bastard like you for an eighteen-carat Rolex.’ Lacy then collects the Bergens and wades over to the unconscious Irishman. He goes through Dublin’s Bergen, takes out the bottle of bourbon and drains it – then rolls a fag and studies the unconscious man.

Lacy is curious as to why the volatile Irishman is keeping his right arm covered. He pulls up the right sleeve of Dublin’s shirt and sees a shamrock tattoo on the Irishman’s thick, hairy, right forearm!

Lacy’s expression changes – he has found his torturer – the silent interrogator during Selection – the man who tried to kill him. Lacy takes the hollow-point bullet (dum-dum) from his pocket and places it in the breech of his rifle then, bringing the barrel of his rifle to Dublin’s ear, clicks off the safety.

After a long moment’s hesitation, Lacy changes his mind – shooting the Irishman now as opposed to later would lessen his own chances of survival. He knew Dublin’s jungle expertise was keeping them both alive in the hostile environment of the Matto Grosso.

Instead, Lacy gives Dublin two good kicks in the ribs.

Dublin groans then regains consciousness and notices Lacy’s barrel pointing at his head. Dublin staggers to his feet.

‘What the fuck’s going on?’ he demands, searching for his bottle and the packet of cocaine. Lacy points to the Irishman’s right arm.

‘Look over there, Frank.’ Dublin turns and receives a right-hander on the point of the chin. He drops like a sack of Murphys; Lacy grins and rubs his knuckles. ‘How’s that for a nice Cockney bunch of fives, you hairy-arsed Mick?’ He then helps himself to more packets of Dublin’s stolen Yank fags. After giving Dublin another kick in the ribs, he lights up a cigarette.

Dublin begins to recover again, sits up rubbing his chin and looks suspiciously at Lacy.

‘What happened?’ he asks.

‘You passed out again, Frank,’ replies Lacy, innocently.

‘It’s how I passed out - is what I’m thinking,’ remarks the Irishman. ‘I need more morphine,’ he demands.

Lacy gives the Irishman a shot of morphine, making sure it hurts. The pair move out of the swamp – the heavily laden Lacy is also forced to support Dublin.

An hour later, Jack Lacy is still keeping upright the semi-conscious Dublin. They are now in heavy jungle. Lacy is moaning about his bad luck. ‘Of all the useless, doubled-dyed tossers, I end up with an ape-faced, hairy, peat-pulling moron like you!’

Lacy suddenly stops and stares ahead, rubs his eyes and looks again. He can make out the faint outline of a native hut. The exhausted young SAS trooper noisily struggles towards the hut.

Maria and Tapia have noticed Lacy and Dublin’s noisy approach well in advance.

‘It’s the two white soldiers,’ whispers the terrified Tapia. ‘Let’s hide in the jungle.’

‘No,’ replies Maria, ‘we can’t move Chevez – he is still weak. Be calm, smile, there are only two, one is sick – I can deal with the other.’

Lacy reaches the hut’s compound and unceremoniously drops the unconscious Dublin in the dirt. Grinning, he approaches the two women and offers them a cigarette; the women accept. He looks around as if hoping to see a ‘Bar’ sign or, even better, ‘Bar and Whorehouse’.

It has not occurred to Lacy that this dwelling could be Chevez’s home. He lights Maria and Tapia’s cigarettes. ‘We have lost the trail heading north,’ he says, naively.

Maria smiles and speaks in her native tongue to Tapia.

‘Take the baby into the hut. Before leaving, give it a pinch – the baby’s crying will wake my husband – he will know something’s wrong!’ (Maria is careful not to use the word ‘Chevez’.)

Tapia takes the baby into the hut and returns, leaving the infant crying. Maria smiles at the young SAS trooper and offers him some water.

‘To find the north trail, Señor.,’ informs Maria, ‘you must head east, until you reach a small river. Follow the river upstream - you will find the trail that will take you north.’

Inside the hut the baby’s crying is not waking Chevez from his malarial stupor. However, the noise from the crying infant is bringing Frank Dublin around! The experienced SAS trooper surveys his surroundings through half-closed eyes. Dublin quickly becomes suspicious and cocks his rifle. The faint click attracts the attention of the two women and Lacy. Dublin springs to life, issuing orders to Lacy.

‘Cover the two women - shoot them if you have to – I’m going into the hut!’

Lacy instinctively obeys and covers the now very frightened Maria and Tapia. Dublin cautiously begins to enter the hut.

‘Please, Señor,’ pleads Maria, ‘Chevez has done you no harm. You are not Americano or Columbian – let him live, Señor - I beg you!’ Maria’s pleading falls on deaf ears – but her pleas are upsetting Lacy. He cranes his neck to see what Dublin is doing. He signals Maria and Tapia to stay put and then he follows Dublin, entering the hut doorway; Maria follows.

Dublin is checking the still unconscious Chevez’s left ear, looking for the tell-tale missing notch. He then places the barrel of his rifle to Chevez’s temple and is about to press the trigger!

Maria screams… ‘No, no – please Señor!’

Lacy can’t stand the situation any longer.

‘Pull that trigger, Frank – and I will put a round straight in your spine – that’s gospel!’ Lacy threatens.

Dublin freezes as he feels the barrel of Lacy’s rifle on his backbone.

‘You bloody stupid idiot!’ shouts the Irishman. ‘This is what we are here for–that’s what we do in the Regiment – kill in cold blood. We kill people sometimes just to keep them quiet!’

‘You forgot to mention killing people during interrogation,’ accuses Lacy, ‘and getting away with it – the Army protects sadistic pricks like you.’

‘What the fuck are you talking about - you useless Cockney ponce?’ hisses Dublin. ‘Interrogations have to be tough. You know what happens when a SAS man is captured by the enemy!’

‘But you are not the enemy, Frank,’ answers Lacy.

Dublin’s mind races, not with fear but practicalities. He will have to kill Lacy now – self-preservation demands it.

‘You were the silent interrogator, Frank,’ accuses Lacy. ‘If it wasn’t for Sgt Kane, you would have killed me! My death certificate would read… “Accidental death during Selection – witnessed by Corporal Frank Dublin!”.’

Maria takes advantage of this confrontation between the two soldiers and slowly backs away from the doorway towards the eves of the hut - and the hidden shotgun! She has a quick word with Tapia who squeezes into the hut past Lacy and carries the baby out, running into the jungle.

‘I heard you tell Sgt Kane that five died on the last Selection,’ says Lacy. ‘How many did you kill, Frank?’

Dublin is not a man to plead for his life – pleading never stopped him killing anyone!

‘I hate loud-mouth Cockneys like you - who slip through the net,’ replies Dublin. ‘Your type are a disgrace to the Regiment!’

‘I have changed my mind,’ announces Lacy coldly, ‘about that dum-dum bullet you gave me to use on Chevez. It’s up the spout, Frank – you’ll get it in the guts. I want to see you in pain before I finish you off. Now drop that rifle, Frank - turn around slowly,’ orders Lacy.

Dublin realises Jack Lacy is serious; still he is confident Lacy will drop his guard sooner or later – they always do. He lowers the rifle to the ground and slowly turns around. The experienced SAS trooper, Frank Dublin, has been in more dangerous situations. He was always full of tricks; there is still time - there always is!

As Lacy backs out of the hut’s door, keeping his eyes on the tricky Dublin, Maria has reached the shotgun hidden under the eves of the hut. As Lacy reaches the hut’s courtyard and Dublin’s powerful frame fills the doorway, the distinctive sound of a rifle bolt and a cartridge being rammed home in the breach causes Dublin to freeze – Chevez had woken from his malarial stupor!

Dublin slowly turns and looks down the barrel of a World War Two German Mauser rifle. He is furious.

‘Now look what you’ve done, you bloody twat,’ spits the Irishman. ‘I could’ve finished it by now – you useless Cockney cunt! Chevez’s left ear is worth a million dollars,’ continues Dublin. ‘We could have split the reward.’

‘It would be a cold day in Hell before you split anything with me,’ replies Lacy.

‘Drop your gun, Señor!’ Chevez orders Lacy, ‘or I will kill your compadre.’

‘No,’ replies Lacy, ‘your bullet would go straight through him and hit me - my bullet will also go through him and hit you.’

‘Lower your aim four inches,’ whispers Dublin to Lacy, ‘for a crippling spine shot. I’ll be watching your trigger finger and hit the deck a second before you squeeze it.’

A short stalemate occurs – until Lacy feels Maria’s shotgun in his back. ‘Listen to Chevez, Señor!’ orders Maria, firmly.

Lacy slowly places his rifle on the ground.

‘I knew you would be no good to the Regiment,’ shouts Dublin. ‘I should have kept the wet rag over your face – just five seconds longer!’

Lacy and Dublin are prodded into the courtyard by Chevez and forced to kneel down.

‘No, Chevez,’ says Maria. ‘The young one saved your life - show him mercy, caro mio.’

‘We are even,’ explains Chevez. ‘I could have taken his life at the riverbank.’

Chevez looks at Lacy, as if for confirmation. Lacy looks at Maria and nods, confirming Chevez’s statement.

‘But I also could have killed you,’ says Lacy, ‘when you stretched out for your spent cartridge. I could have shot you straight through the head.’ Chevez thinks for a moment.

‘What!’ exclaims the furious Dublin. ‘We could be on our way home by now – if you had pulled that trigger!’

‘Is this true, Chevez?’ Maria asks.

Chevez nods.

‘Let him go, Chevez,’ repeats Maria firmly.

With a jerk of his head, Chevez dismisses Lacy, who gives Chevez and Maria a grin - then looks at Dublin on his knees.

‘Sorry, Frank - I think I’ll give this one a miss.’

‘Useless bastard,’ swears the Irishman with an angry glare. Chevez indicates to Dublin to turn around. He shakes his head. Chevez, who is now becoming unsteady on his feet, offers Dublin a dirty handkerchief as a blindfold.

Dublin refuses but watches Chevez’s every move – like a circus big cat that constantly watches its trainer – waiting for a slip. Chevez raises his rifle then blinks as sweat runs down his forehead into his eyes. This is all the tricky, experienced Dublin needs to make his move.

In a flash, the Irishman produces a small but powerful Pit Bull handgun from somewhere. He is about to shoot Chevez when the blast of a shotgun shatters the late humid afternoon - and Dublin’s right hand!

Dublin does not make a sound but stares at his shattered right hand - two fingers are now bloody stumps!

‘Jesus, Mary and Joseph - would you look at that now, mother,’ Dublin mumbles sadly to himself. ‘My trigger-finger - gone!’

Chevez tells Maria to tie the hands of the dangerous Irishman. Maria soon has Dublin’s hands tied behind his back, covering her own hands in his blood. The tough, cold, sadistic, SAS trooper, Frank Dublin, has now played his last card; he accepts his fate with dignity.

Chevez raises his rifle; Maria notices a silver Madonna around Dublin’s thick neck.

‘Wait - Chevez!’ she shouts. ‘Let him make his peace with the Holy Virgin first.’

Chevez lowers his rifle reluctantly. Dublin nods towards one of his pockets; Maria takes from it a rosary and places it in Dublin’s good, left hand behind his back. The Irishman mumbles a faint confession and a swift Hail Mary – then he seems at peace with his God.

Frank Dublin looks Chevez straight in the eye. Chevez finds his unblinking stare unnerving. Taking a dirty cloth from his pocket he again offers the Irishman a blindfold.

‘Just get on with it!’ snaps Dublin.

‘I will kill you cleanly, Señor,’ responds Chevez.

Jack Lacy’s hate for his interrogator during Selection turns to admiration at Dublin’s bravery before death. Dublin gives Lacy a look, then a wink – turning, he faces the barrel of Chevez’s rifle. Chevez places the rifle barrel close to Dublin’s beetle brow and pulls the trigger – the only result is a loud click as the firing pin falls on a dud round!

‘Bollocks – to you and your bloody home-made cartridges,’ swears Dublin. ‘Use my rifle – it works!’

Chevez hurries to eject the dud and rams a fresh round home – he takes aim again.

‘No Chevez!’ Maria screams, ‘it was a sign – he prayed to the holy Madonna, the sacred Virgin – she saved his life – like she saved yours many times.’

‘You heard what the gringos said,’ argues Chevez. ‘A million dollars for my ear - others will come!’

‘If you kill him now,’ argues Maria, ‘you will lose the Madonna’s protection.’

Chevez is in a quandary; his religious beliefs are not as strong as his newly converted wife’s. But maybe it was the Madonna’s protection that kept him alive all these years. Chevez cannot make his mind up as the malarial parasite has weakened his brain.