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.