To the Lions

by Holly Watt

  She watched him for a moment, trying to assess how long he would stay in the square, how quickly she needed to pounce. There was no sign of the driver.

  Almost as if she had willed it, he drew closer and closer. He was making for their café. There wasn’t, in fact, anywhere else for him to sit in this square. And the Europeans were here, at these tables, and she’d thought that alone would draw him across.

  Now she watched him out of the corner of her eye. On the table to her right, Casey had left some bags, piles of them, from the souk.

  An ambush never looks like one. Once, in a hotel bar in Manchester, the Post’s team had filled almost every table in the room. They had done it gradually, over the hours. Each table filled swiftly as oblivious people finished their drinks and pottered away. And as the footballer swaggered into the busy room, thinking only of used fifties for some forgotten game, one couple stood up, all ready to leave.

  ‘Have this one; we’re just going.’

  ‘Thanks, mate. Nice one.’

  So the footballer sat down. Right in the middle of the hotel bar he’d chosen himself. And then talked for hours about how to fix the next game, and who would need a kickback, and – most fatally – how they’d done it before, again and again.

  But here in Djanet, the team was tiny. As Selby walked up, Casey reached for the bags, head down, digging through for some embroidered leather sandals – look, darling, aren’t these gorgeous?

  And the waiter, in a long white gandoura, rushed to seat the new foreigner at the empty iron table next to theirs.

  Selby looked at the menu, and the sprawls of Arabic.

  ‘Beer.’ He spoke slowly to the waiter. ‘I want a beer.’

  He became more abrupt. The waiter listened, head cocked to one side.

  ‘Beer.’ Selby was getting impatient. ‘Get me a fucking beer.’

  Laughing, charming, Casey turned to Selby. ‘He won’t be able to help. This bit of Algeria is basically dry. It’s a fucking nightmare.’

  There was an instant bond.

  ‘Shit,’ said Selby. ‘I forgot. I just want a fucking beer.’

  ‘These people, dude.’ Ed joined in against the waiter. ‘It’s such a pointless rule.’

  ‘Don’t panic,’ Casey said to Selby. ‘We’ve found some booze. We’ve got loads back at our hotel.’

  It hadn’t taken long to track down the local moonshine, in a back street of Djanet, while they were waiting for the Bombardier to arrive. It was still possible to drink in some parts of the country, the attitude to alcohol yoyoing to and fro, depending on the politics of the time. In the small towns, it was always harder.

  They had guessed that this visitor might want a drink that night. Might come looking for one, especially after being teased by Miranda.

  ‘I would love a drink,’ said Selby. ‘Sometimes you just bloody need one.’

  ‘Let’s head off,’ said Casey. ‘I’m Carrie, by the way.’

  She had planned to be Callie, again. But as he walked towards her, she decided to avoid the chance that the name might trigger a memory. Brendan might, just might, have been teased about a Callie, after that night in Gigi’s. She hoped Ed would follow the change, would remember Carrie.

  ‘Oliver,’ said Selby, not giving his surname.

  ‘Ed. Great to meet someone civilised out here. We’ve had it up to our fucking eyeballs with this town.’

  ‘Oh, you’re Ed . . . I met a girl who knew you . . .’

  And just like that, it was double-sourced, and he would never wonder how. Three sources, really, with the article in the Post. Now he knew Ed was someone like him.

  They had thrown some money to the unfortunate waiter and were walking towards their hotel.

  ‘Our car broke down,’ Casey explained. ‘And it’s taken for ever to get some new part. The moron mechanic keeps ordering the wrong thing.’

  ‘Nightmare,’ said Selby.

  Ed let Oliver turn the conversation to oil, as they wandered through the streets. After spending days trawling through the cuttings organised by Hessa, Ed was able to drop more breadcrumbs. Within just a few minutes, Oliver was laughing that Miranda should have bought shares in Liberian oil, and Ed – glancing sideways – was agreeing.

  They turned into the courtyard of Ed and Casey’s hotel. The pink bougainvillea glowed in the dusk.

  As soon as they were off the street, Ed turned to Casey, kissing her hard.

  ‘They get so pissed off about that sort of thing here,’ Ed moaned. ‘All that stuff does my head in.’

  They filled the courtyard with cigarette smoke and noise. Ed hooked up a cheap speaker that crackled out music.

  It took a few hours to get Selby very drunk. The palm wine distilled to lagmi, a spirit with a vicious kick. Soon they got him laughing, drinking fast, filling his glass again and again. He was fifteen years older than them, somewhere in his early forties. But, out amongst the Algerian hills, away from all the usual gauges, it wouldn’t take long to drift to familiarity.

  Afterwards, Selby wouldn’t have been able to say whose idea it was.

  Casey didn’t like this strategy. She had dismissed it the first time Miranda suggested it.

  ‘That’s just a stupid game,’ Casey had said, back then.

  ‘It’ll work,’ Miranda had persisted. ‘People love to boast, you know that. And most games are just practice for war anyway.’

  Take the pieces, thought Casey, and twist them. Be the stoned tourists, on some beach in Thailand, friends in minutes, forgotten next day.

  Miranda had faced her: ‘Do you have a better idea?’

  Kicking at the dust, Casey couldn’t think of another way.

  ‘Well, then.’ Miranda won.

  And the game had worked before, here and there. The first secret hastens the second secret. A burst of honesty from one, and the other opens up like a flower.

  The first time, it had been the chief executive of a pharmaceutical company who knew, knew, there was a problem with a contraceptive pill. A stroke here. A suicide there. The results coming in, but patchily. They were at a tedious convention, at the grim conference centre in Birmingham. They asked him where he got his tie, and spent an evening cackling in the bar at the Hyatt there. The sleek grey booth was their five-star castle, as the rain poured down out on Broad Street. I have never, have you ever? Drink, drink, drink.

  The barman made the chief executive’s drinks three times stronger than theirs and Casey never lost.

  The next day, they went to the company fast, with a series of impossible questions. His hangover must have felt like a murky haze, with no way out.

  That story ran under the health editor’s byline. The chief executive never even realised they were journalists, the two of them. He must have thought that the two pretty girls had woken up with a crisis of conscience, turned whistleblower, run to the Post. Nine months later there was one of those population bounces, the statistical hiccup that happens when thousands of women come off the pill, in a panic.

  ‘Better than being dead, though,’ said Casey. ‘Just about. Probably. I hope some of them are called Cassandra.’

  As she rocked to and fro in the hammock, she remembered Selby on the dance floor of Gigi’s, jeering as his army did shots. It could work.

  In the candlelit courtyard, under the bougainvillea, Selby was eager to play the game. Because games from Gigi’s would make Djanet feel safe, and he was so very far from home.

  I have never, it starts, have you ever . . . Been to Paris. Ridden a horse. Had a threesome?

  And if you have been to Paris, ridden a horse, had a threesome, you have to drink.

  And you can’t lie. You’ve got to tell the truth. Those are the rules.

  Except, of course, you can lie. You can always lie. And sometimes you can’t even remember the truth. It is the game that tourists play, when the television speaks Arabic and the locals shy away from the jokes.

  Out here, Selby could forget about being the chief executive of Cormium. K
eeping his secrets, he shied away from describing the company, his role. And that meant for the first time in a decade, he couldn’t use shorthand to establish his status. Which might, briefly, give them the advantage.

  ‘I have never,’ Casey began slowly, ‘have you ever, done a parachute jump?’

  Ed drank, a gulp of the lagmi. They had made up some bottles earlier, diluting the cloudy white liquid with watery milk. You couldn’t tell the difference, they were sure, especially in the flickering light of the candles.

  The bottle nearest Selby was pure, ferociously so.

  ‘Always wanted to do that,’ said Selby. ‘Haven’t got round to it, yet. I have never, have you ever bungee-jumped?’

  But no one had, so he lost that round. And that made it his turn to drink, again, more lagmi. Those are the rules. He drank more than he needed to. Nervous, diagnosed Casey. Stressed, even though he had chosen all this.

  ‘I’ve done all the rest of it, dude.’ Ed was flicking his hand back and forward through the candle flame. ‘Base jumping, hang-gliding, even fucking wing-suits. Pushing the limits.’

  ‘I have never, have you ever’ – Casey gave a silly laugh – ‘lost fifty grand on one poker hand.’

  Ed drank.

  ‘No way,’ said Selby. ‘On one fucking hand?’

  ‘What else is it all for?’ Ed shrugged. ‘Makes you feel alive, right? And it’s only fifty grand.’

  And they watched Selby’s perceptions of Ed shift, again, just slightly.

  It would have helped to have Miranda there, Casey thought, too late. Someone for Selby to flirt with, to balance out the four. But it was too far in, and anyway, Miranda might be needed again at some point.

  ‘I have never, have you ever, had sex in a car?’ Casey was lying, but she wanted to change up the mood.

  And Ed and Selby drank, clinking glasses, and catcalling in the dark.

  The old woman, who had listened to Miranda’s scrapings of Arabic, passed through the courtyard like a disapproving ghost.

  Thank God, she couldn’t understand what they were saying, thought Casey.

  ‘I have never, have you ever fucked someone on a plane?’ Selby asked.

  Ed paused for effect but then drank, ostentatiously. Casey rolled her eyes and laughed – ‘Bastard, when did you do that?’ – as Selby high-fived him across the table.

  Selby’s glass was empty, and suddenly he was reaching across the table for the bottle next to Ed.

  Casey smacked Ed, in mock outrage over the mile-high club, and swept the bottle away from Selby off the table.

  ‘Oh, bugger,’ she giggled at the smash of glass. ‘I’ll get another one.’

  She was careful as she replaced the drinks, putting down another two bottles, one in easy reach of Selby. Selby could barely focus now, anyway, reaching for his new glass of lagmi with exaggerated care.

  ‘I have never,’ Casey said, ‘have you ever, killed someone?’

  The words dropped into a sudden silence.

  Ed’s eyes flashed for a second, and then he leaned back in his chair.

  ‘No,’ he said, ‘but I’ve always wanted to. Out on the road here from In Ekker, you remember? About sixty miles out. We passed that guy, just walking along the road. And I thought, just for a second, that I could just accelerate. Kill him just like that. Who would ever know? And who, in this fucking country, would ever care? He’s no one, that guy out there, with his shitty wheelbarrow.’

  ‘That is so fucked up, Ed,’ Casey grimaced at him. ‘So dark.’

  ‘Most things are fucked up when you think about them.’

  ‘You couldn’t do that.’ She was almost flirting. ‘You wouldn’t.’

  ‘I bet I could.’

  ‘For me?’ She smiled.

  ‘For you.’

  They waited for Selby to join in, but he was silent.

  ‘Every man has thought about it,’ said Ed. ‘You must have thought about it, right?’

  But Selby shook his head, firm through the alcohol, and poured another drink.

  ‘Never have I ever,’ he changed the subject, ‘been arrested.’

  And Ed had to drink, laugh, ramble: ‘It was all a total misunderstanding. I can explain.’

  And almost an hour passed, before they could try again, fly to the salmon.

  ‘I have never, have you ever,’ Casey said, ‘killed an animal.’

  Ed drank. ‘Pheasants, sure. And on a stag weekend.’ A shrug.

  ‘You’re kidding.’ And was it real? Casey wondered. This story. ‘A stag weekend?’

  ‘We were all out in Cambodia, a few years ago,’ Ed was laughing at the memory. ‘We shot AKs, and all sorts, at some stray dogs out on a range. Just obliterated them.’

  ‘Why?’ Casey wrinkled her nose, ‘would you want to do that?’

  ‘The stag even took an RPG to a cow.’ Ed grinned. ‘It was brutal. You must have done something like that, Oliver?’

  A pause. ‘That sort of thing.’

  ‘And we talked about it,’ said Ed. ‘Out in Cambodia, what it would be like to take the next step.’

  Oliver was watching him, eyes half-closed.

  ‘Well, no wonder,’ Casey said, ‘you were thinking about that man, and his wheelbarrow.’

  ‘Why,’ Selby looked up, the slur in his voice, ‘didn’t you do it? Out there, on the road.’

  ‘It’d fuck up the car,’ said Ed. ‘Not that it isn’t fucked already. I don’t know. I almost wish I had. I guess I’ve always wondered about it. Always wanted to know what it felt like. Everyone has, right? It’s being a man.’

  But Selby shrugged, turned away. ‘What else did you get up to in Cambodia?’

  ‘That would be telling.’ Ed became serious again. ‘But you must have thought about it, right? Everyone has.’

  ‘You boys,’ said Casey. ‘When you’re small, even a twig is a gun. As soon as you can walk.’

  ‘Do you remember that sniper in Washington?’ said Ed. ‘Killed seventeen people, I think. From his car. He had it all set up. I remember wondering what would that feel like? As if it was almost a logistical exercise.’

  ‘But you wouldn’t want to do it.’ Oliver’s eyes gleamed.

  ‘I don’t know,’ said Ed. ‘Maybe. Maybe.’

  ‘Stop it,’ said Casey. ‘You’ll freak Olly out. Stuck out here with us, in the middle of nowhere.’

  ‘He won’t,’ said Selby. ‘He won’t.’

  ‘Thousands of people are murdered every year,’ said Ed. ‘It’s a human urge, and you can’t deny it. Do you reckon you’d do it, Olly, if you had the chance? Take that shot?’

  They let the pause lengthen; the laughter drying to silence.

  ‘I don’t know.’ Oliver flinched away at last. ‘No, of course not. Never.’

  But there was a hesitation there, just for a second. And they covered the moment in smiles.

  ‘It would be pretty awful though.’ Casey gave her lazy smile.

  ‘Turn you on?’ Ed leaned forward, reaching for her, and she folded into him.

  But Oliver stood up abruptly, jolted away from the table towards the arch. Casey couldn’t bear it. Don’t go, she willed. Stay. Stay.

  She spoke to Ed, light as air, ignoring the figure prowling round the courtyard.

  And Selby slowed, hesitated. A couple of seconds passed and she called out some question he could answer without thinking, and slowly, fish on a line, they edged him back in.

  He sat down, lit a cigarette, and she breathed.

  The conversation sprawled on.

  For a while, Ed spoke about the cave drawings. I want to go all across the Sahara. Ticking them off, one by one. They’re beautiful, you know? Course, you’ve got to be a bit careful out there, but whatever.

  Chad next, he said. Tibesti. Then Ennedi.

  Then it was back to oil. Ed hinting at a big find coming up in west Africa, flirting almost. Casey nudged the conversation here and there. Even through the alcohol, Selby was watching Ed, wanting his secrets. Ed fou
nd cigars in the room, and poured out more drinks.

  And finally Casey pounced.

  ‘So what the hell are you doing out here then?’ She was friendly, chatty, couldn’t bear for him to bolt.

  ‘Exploring,’ he shrugged. ‘Same as you.’

  ‘You’re not.’ She was watching him. ‘You’re out here for something else. It doesn’t make sense, otherwise.’

  ‘No,’ he insisted. ‘No.’

  ‘There’s something going on, though . . .’

  And he looked at her, just for a second.

  ‘Why?’ There was a slur in his voice, but also something like pride. ‘What do you think? Really.’

  ‘I don’t know!’ Excitement and fun in her smile. ‘A dare? A race?’

  ‘Something mad, isn’t it?’ Ed leaned forward. ‘I can tell.’

  ‘Romance?’ Casey gasped. ‘How exciting?’

  ‘A stag?’ said Ed. ‘You tying the knot?’

  They were all laughing, that uncertain laughter, on the edge of frenzy.

  ‘A business deal?’ Casey gestured wildly round the courtyard. ‘A treasure hunt?’

  And Selby’s laugh stopped.

  ‘Something’ – it was half-boast, half-confession – ‘like that.’

  ‘Some sort of hunt then,’ Ed said slowly. ‘Some sort of hunt.’

  ‘A hunt,’ Casey repeated. ‘But what would you be hunting, out here? There isn’t anything . . .’

  A mosquito buzzed round a candle.

  ‘Go on,’ persuaded Casey. ‘There’s no one out here for us to tell.’

  ‘You can trust us,’ said Ed. ‘And we couldn’t give a shit what you get up to anyway.’

  Selby was leaning forward for the bottle, the liquid splashing on the table. ‘Come on. Who’s next?’

  And this time, the silence ran on.

  ‘That’s why you’re out here, isn’t it?’ said Ed, so slowly. ‘You’re out here for the kill.’

  ‘But . . .’ Casey’s voice trailed away.

  ‘People.’ Ed put awe into his voice. ‘There are people. Out here.’ He leaned back in his chair, raking his hand through his hair, waiting, an odd sort of smile on his face.