To the Lions

by Holly Watt

  The girl slipped. Falling to the ground with a cry, and scraping her arm. The rest of the group stopped. One of the men walked back, waited.

  Casey looked up at Ed. Blood trickled from her cut, surprisingly bright. ‘Come on, Carrie.’ He pulled her to her feet, almost rough. ‘Come on. We’re here now.’

  His eyes were blank. He turned, and walked to where the other three waited.

  ‘Sorry, guys,’ she found the words.

  ‘No worries.’ Josh turned up the path.

  A spiny shrub tore at her shirt. The sun beat down, a too-bright inferno. A bird screamed in the sky, and she flinched. She could feel a thread of blood trickling down her arm.

  On that scratchy path, Casey felt reality float away. It was impossible that she was here, on a dusty track in Libya. She should be in London, cosy in her flat. Door closed, and all so safe. Not here, with no rules and no sanctuary. It wasn’t possible. Surely, something would come and stop it all. Surely, someone would see sense. It wasn’t real, surely. Someone will die, the voices screamed in her head. Don’t let this happen. And don’t – for God’s sake, don’t – watch this happen.

  Casey dug her fingers into the cut on her arm, shooting agony and smearing blood. The shriek of pain snapped her back to the hillside.

  She felt Rory’s eyes on her. He had turned back to her, a few steps up the path.

  ‘They call it henhouse syndrome.’ His voice was sing-song. ‘But maybe that’s the world now. There aren’t many animals that kill for the hell of it, you know. Foxes and lynx, sometimes. And even then, it’s freak behaviour. It doesn’t make sense, you see, using up food when you don’t need it. Animals kill to eat. Or occasionally for the practice. It’s just us who do it for the hell,’ he paused on the word, ‘of it. Everything all right there, Carrie?’

  ‘Fine.’ She managed a twirl of the hair and that careless smile. ‘I’m fine.’

  ‘Only humans,’ he hummed. ‘We’re only human.’

  It seemed to take hours to reach the viewpoint, one step, then another, and another, remembering to breathe. Rory and Josh were chatting in desultory tones. Oliver had gone quiet.

  Casey couldn’t bear to turn to Ed, and see herself reflected. A sudden flood of shame, now, as Oliver strode ahead. It would brand them for ever, this. Be part of them, for ever.

  Stop it, she thought. Stop it. You’re Carrie now. It’s not real. It’s not you.

  Asim and a little green toy car. No doors and no bonnet, but so very precious. Car noises, a giggle. And a tiny face, covered in chocolate. His mother rubbing him clean.

  It is real.

  It is.

  It is you.

  She couldn’t remember why she was here, like a gap in her mind.

  Was I not enough?

  How could you leave me?

  And finally, Josh signalled and the men dropped to the ground. They crawled the last few yards, and Salama spread out beneath them.

  Casey hung behind. She had to find a place to watch. That was all that mattered, now. She needed her viewing spot.

  The thought came from a distance, slow as Morse code.

  Rory looked round again, and she managed, somehow, to force a smile. Her mouth felt unfamiliar.

  Yara, screaming down the path, racing from the horror. Run, little girl, hide.

  She touched her hand to the cut again, skin rough where it should have been smooth. The blood smeared, and when she moved her hand there was a metallic glint in the air. A fly buzzed inquisitive.

  ‘I’ll go up there.’ She fumbled for the words, gesturing to a rock further back, slightly higher. ‘I can see better from up there.’

  But the four men barely heard her. Ed was moving more easily now. As if he had realised that there was no other choice. The best way out is always through. And, just for a second, Casey raged against him, too.

  The chief executive of Cormium was arrested today, after the Post revealed . . .

  Quite deliberately, Casey rammed her arm against the rock, reality flickering like a dying candle. Her arm left a sticky pattern of blood.

  They had stopped just short of the cliff overlooking the camp. Josh unclipped the gun case, and Casey saw Ed’s eyes flicker to the gun.

  One last time, he turned and looked back at her, two, three, four seconds.

  It is real. It is.

  But she met his stare, somehow. Because every time he glanced across, she must find a way to hold on to him. Hold on. Everything depended on that.

  I could save her.

  Don’t do it, Casey pleaded. Don’t stop them. Let them kill this one last person. We’ll die out here if you don’t. And they’ll carry on doing it for ever. Please don’t. Please. Make it real.

  And then her worst thought: Don’t ruin it, Ed. Don’t spoil it.

  Let it happen.

  Our last chance.

  They’ll kill us, you know. If you shift now.

  Let them shoot.

  And let them die.

  Now Oliver’s eyes were fixed on the target, sliding forward with the gun in his hand.

  Josh was spotting Oliver, because looking down the sight of a sniper rifle is like looking at the horizon with a drinking straw. And someone needs to be searching around, always.

  Ed looked away from Casey, down to the camp, and she felt her face crumple.

  I can’t watch, she screamed in her head. I can’t bear it. It will be all I see when I close my eyes, for ever.

  I can’t.

  And then the different voice: You must. You have to watch. You have to see every last second, and tell the world what they did.

  It’s the only reason for anything.

  Bear witness.

  I can’t bear it.

  You must.

  Josh glanced at the wind-speed monitor. ‘It’s just very slight, from right behind us.’

  ‘Perfect,’ grunted Oliver.

  From her rock, Casey could see straight over the four heads. Far below, Salama looked just as it had the day before, and the day before, and the day before.

  The flags under a harsh blue sky. The beige of the tents faded into dust, with just the bright tarpaulins fluttering colour.

  And there were a few small figures dotted around the school, the school with the huge mural of pink tulips.

  Children.

  Sure now that the men would not look back, Casey pointed her phone at them. It watched impassively. Her hand shook, and she steadied it with an effort of will. The four heads were completely focused on the faraway camp.

  Oliver lined up the gun. He couldn’t get it straight, at first, kept fiddling about. He seemed almost calm.

  And then she realised. He was choosing. Far below, the children had formed a little circle. Ring-a-ring o’ roses . . .

  ‘Pass me that rock, Ed,’ Oliver whispered.

  As Carey watched, Ed picked up a small chunk of rock and handed it across.

  Oliver got the gun straight, balanced on the lump of sandstone.

  ‘Right.’

  A daughter screaming and screaming, until her voice disappeared. God knows what happened to her.

  Casey gazed on as Oliver stared down the sights. He was completely still under the blazing sun. She couldn’t breathe.

  Yara, dancing. Little green car.

  Not the child. Not the child.

  I am Malak.

  The gun fired, and the tiny figure crumpled.

  37

  There were a few seconds of silence.

  ‘You got her,’ said Josh. ‘Clean kill.’

  ‘Holy shit,’ said Oliver. ‘Fuck.’

  Leaving the gun on its tripod, he rolled on to his side, arms raised.

  ‘Good shot.’ Rory punched his shoulder. ‘Nice.’

  Casey jolted her camera out of sight, mechanical, frozen inside.

  Ed was still staring at the tiny figure. She was sprawled on her side, all alone. The other children had fled, disappearing like smoke.

  A murderous rage flooded Casey. S
he could kill Josh, kill Oliver, kill them all.

  ‘What do you think?’ Josh was grinning up at her. ‘Pretty wild?’

  ‘Pretty wild.’ It was as if someone else was speaking. A pause and then the question she always asked: ‘How are you feeling, Oliver?’

  ‘I’ve always wanted to do it.’ A huge grin split his face. ‘And now I have. I’ve always wanted that experience. To know what it feels like.’

  He lay on his back for a moment, staring up at the huge African sky.

  Josh was looking down at the camp through his binoculars.

  ‘They’ve all scarpered,’ he said. ‘That’s why you’ll have to come back tomorrow, Ed. You can’t do two in a row. They’ll all be hidden for the rest of the day now. Like rabbits when a hawk goes overhead.’ He turned back to Oliver, hand on his shoulder.

  But as Casey watched, a woman exploded on to the patch of dirt next to the school. She dived on to the small body, throwing herself across the child, distress in every line. They couldn’t hear the screams. It was too far away. Another figure, a man, appeared. Frantic, running as fast as he could, limbs flailing with desperate speed. He stumbled to a halt as he saw them there. The woman had the child in her lap now, curled over the body, twisted in grief.

  The man fell upon them, wrapped his body around both, holding the woman as she threw back her head, wailed up to the sky. Oliver and Rory were looking at Casey, while Josh fidgeted with the spotting scope.

  ‘Sorry, missed what you were saying.’ She had to snap back to attention. Had to, or it would be the end.

  ‘You play Call of Duty or Grand Theft Auto or Battlefield all the time,’ said Oliver. ‘And suddenly it’s real.’

  And Casey smiled at him, somehow.

  Ed was still frozen, still watching the little broken family, down by the school.

  Casey slipped off her rock. She walked over to Ed, threw herself carelessly on the ground beside him.

  ‘All right, darling?’ She stared into his eyes. They were blank, empty, lost.

  Come back to me, Ed.

  She leaned forward, kissed him deliberately. He didn’t respond.

  Come back to me. She bit him hard, on the bottom lip, and saw the flash of pain in his eyes.

  ‘Hey, baby.’ She stroked his hair, hugging him close, just for a second.

  The others were locked in congratulations, oblivious.

  ‘Right,’ Josh broke in at last. ‘You ready to head back to Euzma?’

  ‘Sure,’ said Oliver.

  Oliver didn’t look back at the camp as he picked up the gun.

  Behind him, the man and woman were still tangled together, hopelessly.

  Oliver brushed himself down, reached for the water bottle. Then the five of them walked back to the pickup. Josh, coolly efficient, unloaded the gun. He checked it, and stowed it in the back of the car.

  ‘Right,’ he said. ‘Ready?’

  ‘Sure.’

  Casey couldn’t remember much of the drive back to Euzma.

  There were figures at the edge of her sight now. Fading, as she twisted to see them. Small bodies, tiny ghosts. Yara, a bullet hole in her forehead. Malak, bleeding from her mouth. Eyes unseeing, lying sprawled.

  Another truck hurtled past, and this time, she looked away. No more. I can’t.

  I won’t.

  The long drive up the avenue, and she waited, in silence.

  The car stopped.

  ‘I’ve got to have a shower,’ Casey muttered.

  ‘I’ll come with you,’ Ed managed.

  They didn’t speak as they walked back to the room.

  Within seconds, Casey was sending the file back to London. Ed watched her. When she glanced up, he looked away. By the time she had finished, he had pulled a chair over to the balcony, and was watching the drifting sands.

  Casey switched the music on, instinctively. She crouched down on the floor next to his chair, and stroked his hand.

  ‘I’m sorry, Ed,’ she whispered, although apologies could never be enough.

  He stared at her for a long time, as if he could barely recognise her.

  ‘Don’t,’ he said. ‘Don’t. You wanted to see it. You chose this, Casey.’

  She stumbled away, into a corner of the room.

  Finally he stood up, walked to her.

  ‘It’s done now,’ he said at last. ‘It’s done and over.’

  She leaned back against him, and almost without meaning to, his arms went round her waist.

  ‘I’m sorry.’ Her voice was sand blowing across the desert. ‘I’m sorry.’

  ‘I know.’ He let her turn to him.

  He let her hug him.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ she whispered again.

  ‘We need to get out of here. Right now.’

  She hid her head closer to his neck.

  ‘Not yet,’ murmured Casey. ‘Please. Not quite yet.’

  ‘What the hell do you mean, not yet?’ He stiffened away from her. ‘We’ve got everything we need.’

  ‘Just a little bit longer, please.’

  He pulled away from her. His hands on hers, unwinding them from his neck.

  ‘I can’t stand it,’ Ed said. ‘I can’t bear these people. I want to . . . I want to kill them. We’ve got to get out of here.’

  ‘We need to get the diaries.’ Casey kept her voice a whisper. ‘In Rory’s room. We’ve got to.’

  ‘No, Ca— . . . No.’ It was almost a shout.

  She made a gesture, fast, hushing him.

  ‘I’ve got to, then.’ Her voice was low. ‘I’m not leaving without them.’

  He stared at her for a long time, hard-eyed again.

  ‘I knew you were manipulative, Casey.’ He only just kept his voice low. ‘But not like this. Not like this . . .’

  The curtains blew in the breeze, the desert sprawling golden in the setting sun. Hundreds of miles to the north, the Mediterranean lapped abandoned beaches.

  ‘I am sorry, Ed. I never planned for it to be like this . . .’

  ‘You’re mad,’ he said. ‘Completely mad. We’ve got it, the story. We can go home.’

  ‘We need to know what the diaries say,’ said Casey. ‘And who’s been out here. We’ll never know otherwise. The minute the story runs, everything will be lost. All those people, who came here. They’ll all get away with it.’

  ‘You don’t know what the diaries say.’ Ed’s hands clenched. ‘It could be nothing.’

  A message bleeped in, on her phone.

  ‘Brilliant stuff.’ It was Miranda. ‘Outstanding. Now get the fuck out of there.’

  Casey put the phone back in her pocket.

  ‘Just a few more hours, Ed, I promise you. Then we’ll be gone.’

  ‘I’m not going back up to Salama.’ There was panic in his eyes. ‘Not tomorrow. I can’t, Casey. I just can’t.’

  ‘We won’t go back up to Salama,’ Casey said. ‘I promise you. That’s over.’

  ‘He sleeps in those rooms, you know,’ said Ed. ‘And he’ll see as soon as those diaries are gone. He’s sharp, Rory, and he’ll kill us without thinking about it. They could be another ambush, for all you know. That’s how his mind works.’

  Everything a trap.

  ‘I will work it out,’ said Casey. ‘I can do this.’

  She went into the bathroom and locked the door behind her. She stared at herself in the mirror. Then she showered for a long time, turning the water as hot as she could bear, clouds of steam billowing round the huge bathroom.

  ‘Always have clean knickers,’ Miranda had said once. ‘Sometimes clean knickers make all the difference.’

  ‘Emergency knickers,’ Casey had laughed.

  But Miranda was right, and the shower steadied her.

  When she came back into the bedroom, Ed was lying on the bed, staring up at the dusty chandelier.

  ‘You don’t need to come down,’ she said. ‘I can say you’re ill . . . Drank some of the water by mistake or something.’

  ‘Casey.’ His
eyes were haunted. ‘I’m not letting you go down there on your own.’

  ‘Well’ – she knew her voice sounded brutal – ‘if you’re coming down, you’ve got to focus.’

  And she reached for her phone, pulling up Miranda’s number.

  38

  In Djanet, Miranda was waiting for the dusk. She always hated the support role, the understudy waiting for her moment. But Casey was relying on her. And it was critical, this role. One person, a step back from the chaos, scanning the horizon for disaster, while the other focuses everything on the target. Miranda ran over her plans again. In the last few days, she’d walked a hundred miles round Djanet, pacing the alleys of the dusty town and watching the scraps of rubbish blowing in the breeze.

  She ticked off the risks one by one. She was trained to focus on the small, tedious tasks. Because she couldn’t afford to slip up; not for a second. It was the small things that mattered. From a safe distance, Miranda had watched Ed and Casey race down the road towards Libya. Then she went and bought Amina some new glasses and a beautiful bowl.

  Amina had sulked, but a few minutes later she’d looked at the bowl, blue and white and delicate, and smiled. At least journalists know how to patch things up the morning after the night before.

  Miranda implied that she and Casey had fallen out; Miranda a victim too. So the hotel was fine again, and she sat under the bougainvillea and drifted in the hammock.

  She left money, but no explanation, at the Palais front desk, for Isa. She worked hard, in her hammock, focused on logistics, notepad in hand. She sent another message to Hessa. Within seconds, she had a detailed response. The young reporter had blossomed, working on this job. Hessa’s shyness, Miranda discovered, masked an absolute determination to get the job done. She’d barely been home for days.

  ‘Thanks, Hessa,’ Miranda tapped. ‘Great work.’

  Now Miranda’s phone bleeped again. A message from her husband, her lovely, kind husband.

  ‘When will you be back?’

  Tom and their snug home, that pretty house in Queen’s Park, seemed implausible. He was used to her disappearing; he didn’t like it.

  ‘Not sure. Sorry. A few days.’

  ‘You’ll miss the Lyons’ dinner party.’

  ‘I know. Sorry. Tell them I am really sorry.’