11

HE CLAMBERED OUT of what had once been a window. He was a very happy boy. ‘We killed some, Mr Nick, and the others turned and ran. No Lucky Justice, but this is still a good day. We’ll do this again. And again. Lucky’s crew will get the message. The general’s crew are back in town.’

He thrust up his bloodstained palm, inviting me to give him a high-five through the window. I fucking hated high-fives.

‘You’re right, Awaale. If Lucky’s still alive, you can see why he was given the name. Now, can we go and see my friends? I really need to know they’re safe.’

His boys were busy mutilating the bodies with knives, rocks, and then a burst of AK for good measure. The corpses were left behind; they were the message Awaale was talking about.

I slipped into the back of Awaale’s technical. Awaale wiped his hands clean on his trousers and resumed his place in front. Music blared from every cab. AK rounds stitched another message into the sky. Every mobile within reach sparked up, in case anyone hadn’t already heard the news.

As the lead wagon joined the celebration, green tracer snaked from the muzzle of its 12.7. The gunner lost control as they bounced back through the potholes and pummelled the buildings four hundred metres away.

Awaale didn’t seem to mind. ‘Mr Nick, that was good, yes? We kicked the ass, oh, yes indeed.’ He pulled the Marlboro pack from his sweat-soaked shirt and offered me one. When I shook my head he slapped the driver gleefully on the shoulder. He laughed, and his white teeth gleamed.

Everybody had had a great night out. Well, apart from the lad whose body now lay on the flatbed behind us. There was a curious innocence to their violence. There was no anger. They seemed to bear no hatred towards Lucky’s crew. Killing and maiming wasn’t an outrageous act to them. It was what they did. It was all they knew. They had no boundaries. And that was what made them so dangerous.

I leant forward. ‘You did really well, Awaale. I think your father will be very proud of you.’

‘I know. I know he will be.’

He pulled out his mobile, hit the speed dial and was soon waffling away. He sounded as excited as a child. I didn’t need to be a Somali speaker to understand the facial expressions and the boom-boom-boom. There were nods of agreement from the driver, and I twice heard my name.

Awaale turned to me with the world’s biggest grin and handed me the phone. ‘It’s my father, speak to him.’

‘What’s his name?’

He looked puzzled. ‘Awaale, of course.’

Of course.

To start with, I could just hear a female voice announcing that the Northwest flight from Chicago had been delayed. Minneapolis was eight hours behind. It must have been about midday there.

‘Hello, Mr Nick. My son tells me that you have helped him to do great deeds today. You’ve made me a very proud father.’

‘Thank you.’

‘You’re there to buy back your loved ones, yes?’

‘Yes. I’m hoping your son will be able to help me. Maybe you can too. One of them is the wife of a dead warrior. One of them is a small boy, a little boy. I know you’re a brave man, a famous man here in this city. Will you be able to help me?’

The Tannoy came to his rescue. The Jet Blue from LaGuardia had landed.

‘Mr Nick, I have to go. My passenger has arrived. Please tell my son I love him.’

He rang off. I passed the phone to Awaale. ‘Your father says he loves you.’

‘I know. I love him too. He’s a great man.’

It was smiles all round in the front of the cab as we drove past the Olympic Hotel. The streets came alive with movement and light. Everybody had a weapon. It was like we’d just come back from a carnival, all on a high, and we were the three winning floats.