Thunderbolt

by Wilbur Smith

  It dawned on me slowly. Barrel-man and his co-pirates might not pick up on what I’d done immediately, but if the video was out there then somebody else would spot it in the end.

  And who would the pirates blame then? Me, sure, but also Mo for not pointing out what I’d done. He could pretend he hadn’t cottoned on all he liked, but I knew they wouldn’t believe him because over the past few days I’d seen the way they treated him. Like scum on the one hand, but scum they couldn’t deny was useful: they knew he understood stuff they didn’t. The way Barrel-man had walloped him in the boat said it all: we’ll make use of your brain though we hate you for it. If they so much as suspected he’d let my sarcasm pass on purpose, they’d be harder on him than on me.

  Mo was still staring at me, watching my expression change as I slowly realised what I’d done. It felt like the seconds after stubbing a toe, when I often want to kick whatever it was that I stubbed it on properly before the pain surges in. I wanted to apologise to Mo but instead I looked away from him.

  28.

  Mo was right in predicting the pirates would soon be moving us to a new location. Once Xander and Amelia had given their own little performances to Barrel-man – both of them reckoned they’d managed to pull off a bit of I’m-actually-OK insincerity – Flip-flops appeared in our little cell and said something to Mo which he translated as, ‘Time for a meeting with the boss.’

  To begin with I thought he meant the pirate captain. But he didn’t. This boss character was nowhere nearby. To get to him we’d be making a journey by land. At least we’d have a chance to take a look at the scenery, I thought, but I was mistaken. Barrel-man appeared behind Flip-flops, a clutch of hessian bags in his sinewy hand. He tossed them down.

  ‘You have to put these on, like this,’ said Mo. He picked up a bag and, as if this sort of thing happened every day – who knows, perhaps it did? – he calmly pulled it down over his head.

  Amelia, Xander and I looked at one another.

  ‘Er, no thanks,’ I said.

  Barrel-man kicked the bags across the dusty floor at us.

  ‘I’m not sure it’s negotiable,’ said Xander.

  Mo, his voice small, said, ‘Don’t worry, it’s not so bad.’

  ‘It’s all relative, I suppose,’ said Amelia. She lifted a bag from the heap and, trying to put a brave face on things, gave me a weak smile before pulling the bag over her face. Xander followed suit.

  They were right, of course. We didn’t have a choice. Still, I was seething inside as I slotted my head into the last bag available. It was damp, scratchy, and it smelled of rotten fish. But sackcloth is porous, meaning we could breathe through these bags, despite the duct tape Barrel-man and Flip-flops used to secure them, noose-like, around our necks. Using the same tape, they also secured my hands behind my back again.

  I’m not exactly claustrophobic, in that I can cope with being cooped up if necessary, but I don’t like it. Plunged into the darkness of that sack, a fluttery feeling of panic rose up inside me. To head it off I closed my eyes, shutting myself inside my own head rather than staring into the blackness of the sack, and I forced myself to take long slow breaths.

  Now that I couldn’t see, my other senses pressed in. The horrible fish-stink of the bag blotted out everything else smell-wise. In fact, the smell was so strong it filled my mouth as well as my nose; I swear I could taste bad fish. The sackcloth was rough and damp against my cheeks, forehead and chin, and the noise of the room was muffled but still somehow louder than it had been: scuffling footsteps, Barrel-man’s jabbering, the deeper growl of Flip-flops talking to him.

  Somebody took hold of my forearm. I pulled away at first, but the fingers tightened around my wrist again, pulling me forward. Blindfolded like that, we were taken outside one by one. Whoever was leading me was actually quite gentle. He had a palm in the small of my back and he steered me forward, making me feel less like I was about to nose-butt a wall. As I emerged into the compound, I heard a dog barking. It sounded close by. Outside, my guide led me twenty-two steps before turning me around to sit on the warm metal lip of a pickup’s lowered tailgate. He leaned me backwards and swung my legs into the tray. Amelia was already in it; I rolled blindly onto her ankle.

  ‘Ow!’ she said.

  ‘Sorry.’

  ‘Oh, it’s you.’

  ‘Yeah. What about Xander?’ I said.

  ‘I’m coming, I think.’ Xander’s voice was off in the direction of the dog. But soon he was banging down into the corrugated metal beside me, and saying, ‘That’s kind of you, thank you very much,’ with just enough sarcasm to make me smile under my hood. We jostled about until we were sitting in a line with our backs pressed to the same side of the pickup’s hold. I was in the middle with Xander on my right and Amelia on my left.

  Under my breath I said, ‘We’re together at least.’

  Quietly, Mo chipped in: ‘I’m here also.’

  ‘Good,’ I said, and I meant it. I was pleased to hear his voice.

  The pickup’s engine rattled to life and the tray shuddered beneath me. Doors banged shut. ‘Brace yourselves,’ I said, too late. We all lurched sideways into each other as the truck jumped forward. But we quickly righted ourselves. Until the pickup hit a pothole and swerved left, jumbling us all up again. The trouble was that, without being able to look at the scenery, let alone the road itself, I couldn’t anticipate what was coming. None of us could. This was going to be an uncomfortable journey.

  ‘How far is it?’ I asked in the general direction of Mo.

  ‘It depends.’

  ‘If you’ve been there before, surely you must know,’ I said.

  Amelia snorted. ‘Think about it,’ she said. ‘There could be traffic.’

  ‘You reckon? It felt like we came ashore pretty much in the middle of nowhere. It’s not like –’

  Mo cut me off. ‘Not traffic,’ he said. ‘But the roads. They are rough, damaged by the weather. Sometimes we have to go around.’

  As if to underline Mo’s point, at that moment the pickup lurched over what felt like a boulder-sized rut. I bounced clear off the tray and slammed back down into it with an audible – and painful – thump.

  ‘What’s the best-case scenario, journey-time-wise?’ asked Xander, once we were rolling smoothly again. He didn’t sound rattled, just interested, but he’s always great at keeping calm.

  ‘An hour and a half. Two, perhaps. If we’re going where I think we are,’ Mo replied.

  ‘Where’s that?’

  Mo didn’t reply at first. The pause became ominous. Eventually he said, ‘Let’s just wait and see, shall we.’

  I have no idea how long the journey took. It was like the storm again: with my head in that bag my sense of time evaporated. The physical battering the road and truck delivered as we bounced and jerked and thumped over what seemed to be never-ending sharp-edged rocks was all-consuming. In reality the tyres were probably just clattering across dried-out ruts, but it felt worse. I know it’s stupid, but I began to suspect that the driver was hitting obstacles deliberately.

  To begin with, sitting separately, I felt like I might actually be thrown clear of the truck. Why not let that happen? Help it, even, by jumping to my feet and leaping out. I thought about telling the others to do that with me but really, it would have been stupid. We couldn’t see where we were jumping and for all I knew one of the guards was probably in the back with us, keeping an eye.

  By sitting close we wedged ourselves together to ward off the smaller bumps, but every now and then the pickup hit what felt like a log, throwing all four of us (Mo had joined our little human chain the other side of Amelia) up in the air at once and slamming us back down onto the ribbed metal tray with a steel-band crescendo b-b-bang.

  Nobody complained.

  In fact, when we spoke at all, we tried to make light of the hardship.

  Xander’s fake indifference rubbed off on the rest of us. We said, ‘Nice!’ and ‘Great!’ and ‘Bring it on!’ instead of
‘Ow!’ and ‘Damnit!’ and ‘I can’t take much more!’

  And it helped. When the pickup eventually jerked to a halt, I felt like I’d spent a day inside an industrial tumble drier, but I hadn’t cracked. None of us had. Xander simply said, ‘Well, that was fun,’ and we waited beneath the beating sun, frightened, yes, but ready to face whatever would happen to us next.

  29.

  Somebody said something and Mo relayed it. ‘Sit still, very still,’ he said.

  I waited, unable to decipher what was happening.

  Xander said, ‘Thanks so much. No, really.’

  Then a hand gripped my shoulder and pulled me round. Fingers lifted the hem of the sack at the base of my throat. There was a ripping noise. Light broke in and a knife blade, carrying on past the duct tape and up into the hessian, passed a centimetre from my nose. Whoever it was yanked the sack – and a clump of my hair – clean off my head and tossed it aside. Blinking blindly, I followed Xander’s example, murmuring, ‘Too kind.’

  Amelia went for a more direct approach. When she realised what was happening, she hissed, ‘Be careful, will you, idiot!’

  Happily, Barrel-man was wielding the knife and he didn’t pick up on the insult. He cut Mo out of his hood last, then freed our hands and stood back from the truck while we got down and shook ourselves loose and adjusted to the brightness.

  If I’d thought the little fishing port where we’d come ashore was the middle of nowhere, I was mistaken. Compared with this place, that was a metropolis. It had some proper buildings at least. We were in scabby bush here, with nothing nearby except a clutch of ragged-looking tents. The biggest one, nearest the truck, had no ridge pole. This gave it a deflated look.

  A man emerged from between the tents. He was slight, about thirty years old, and he was wearing smart military fatigues. Despite the dusty surroundings his boots gleamed and his shirt was pressed. His scalp was also gleaming, oiled and as clean shaven as a conker. Tucked up under his left arm was a little black stick, a baton in fact, and he waved this in Barrel-man’s direction as he approached.

  Barrel-man took a deferential step backwards. The muscles in his neck were rigid. He said something quietly to the new guy, who ignored him in favour of looking us over.

  ‘Good morning. Welcome,’ he said. His mouth smiled but his eyes were unreadable. ‘My name is General Sir.’

  ‘General Sir what?’ said Amelia.

  ‘General Sir,’ the man repeated, his cold smile still in place.

  Amelia drew breath to say something else but I coughed and she got the message.

  ‘Please,’ said General Sir. ‘You must be thirsty. Hungry. Come this way.’

  Flanked by Barrel-man, the pickup driver and Flip-flops – the pirate captain appeared not to have made the journey with us – we four kids traipsed along in General Sir’s wake, skirting the shabby tent towards a clearing among the thorny, head-high bushes that seemed to be a speciality of this dust-bowl place. As well as thorn bushes, there were flies. Lots of them. They buzzed around my head and tried to land on my face. I waved them away constantly. There were people scattered around this clearing too. Quite a few, in fact. General Sir led us briskly along. Distracted by the flies, it took me a moment to realise that the people were children.

  ‘What is this place?’ Amelia asked loudly.

  Mo said, ‘This is General Sir’s camp.’

  ‘Who’s he when he’s at home?’ asked Xander.

  Mo looked confused. ‘At home he’s the same as –’

  ‘It’s just an expression,’ Amelia explained, swiping at a fly. ‘It means who is he? These insects …’ She whisked another away with her fingertips.

  ‘You’ll get used to them,’ said Mo.

  I doubted him, particularly as at precisely that moment a fly, its buzzing suddenly loud, landed just inside my ear. I shook my head hard to dislodge it and missed the first half of what Mo said next. It ended with, ‘… what he calls his covert operations.’

  ‘What operations?’ asked Amelia.

  General Sir, having arrived at a blackened fire pit surrounded by scattered picnic furniture, spun on his heel. A few tendrils of smoke rose lazily behind him. He seemed to be waiting to hear Mo’s response – how would the boy characterise what he, the General, was up to? – but Mo decided against giving an explanation for now. This seemed to please General Sir. He waggled the end of his baton at Mo and gave him a tiny nod of approval.

  General Sir turned aside to Barrel-man and Flip-flops and had a quiet word with them. I watched closely and saw General Sir slip Barrel-man a thick brown envelope. Barrel-man didn’t look inside it, just tapped the corner of the envelope against his forehead before shoving it unceremoniously into his back pocket. At which General Sir said something that had to do with Mo. I’ve no idea what it was, just that it made the pirates glance his way.

  General Sir shook his head as he spoke; it sounded like he was explaining a sad fact. When he finished, he spread out his hands in a take-it-or-leave-it gesture, in response to which Barrel-man took a few quick steps our way and struck Mo hard across the face. The boy reeled, dropped to one knee, then slowly stood back up, keeping his head lowered.

  General Sir spoke sharply to Barrel-man. It felt as if an argument would erupt between them. But then he softened and shrugged again, the beginnings of a smile playing on his lips. He burst out laughing. From the way the pirates joined in, it was clear they had to. Everyone laughs at the boss’s jokes.

  ‘Looks like I’m staying here with you,’ Mo murmured.

  ‘But why?’

  ‘The videos. General Sir has seen them. He asked why you were not sincere. It was my fault, apparently.’

  Mo rubbed the side of his head. Again, I felt bad about our stunt. Something didn’t add up though. ‘But why were they laughing?’ I asked.

  ‘Because General Sir is happy that the films, as proof-of-life, will work anyway. He is unconcerned and for that everyone is grateful.’

  When Flip-flops, Barrel-man and General Sir had finished their conversation they all shook hands and the pirates set off back in the direction from which we’d come without giving Mo, or indeed any of us, a second look.

  I know it’s ridiculous but I was almost sorry to see them go.

  Who the hell was this guy, and why were they leaving us with him?

  Mo knew, I supposed.

  General Sir now waved in the direction of the flung furniture – plastic chairs, mostly, on their sides or backs in their dirt. ‘Please, sit down,’ he said.

  This was more of an order than an invitation. We did as we were told. There was a dog asleep on its side in the middle of the furniture, a big ragged-looking hound of some sort. It opened one eye as I picked up a chair, saw General Sir beside me, and levered itself up warily. Flies rose from its dusty fur. General Sir helped it on its way with a kick. The dog’s tail curled up under its belly as it quickened away.

  I set the chair straight and realised it was almost identical to the one I have at my desk in my bedroom back in England. This one was dustier, and a whole lot further from whichever Ikea it had started out in. Something about the familiarity of that chair made me realise how far from home I was, and I thought of Mum. A terrible lurching sensation swept through me as I sat down.

  General Sir tucked his little baton back up under his armpit, sheathing it there for now. He looked us over blankly. What did he want with us, and why was he somehow more menacing than the pirates he had taken us from?

  30.

  ‘Now that you are our guests, we must offer you something to eat,’ General Sir said. ‘It’s the first rule of hospitality here.’ He turned and spoke to the group of kids by the fire pit and one of the boys, aged around eleven, jumped instantly to his feet and ran off in a hurry.

  General Sir watched him go, then looked back at us with the same fixed smile. ‘Jamal won’t be a minute,’ he said.

  In fact, the boy was gone for what felt like an age, possibly because General Sir ju
st stared at us without saying anything else until he returned. Eventually Jamal came back accompanied by another, even smaller boy, who couldn’t have been more than nine. They had a bowl in each hand. Without meeting our eyes, these two boys approached the four of us and offered us each a helping of the food they’d fetched from wherever.

  Xander said, ‘Thank you,’ taking his.

  Amelia and I followed suit.

  Mo said nothing.

  The boys backed away.

  I looked down at my bowl. It contained grey gloop, the consistency of mashed potato crossed with porridge. Amelia, frowning, said – quite loudly – ‘Do you think they’ll bring us some spoons?’

  ‘I somehow doubt it,’ said Xander, nodding at Mo, who had already pinched a blob of whatever it was between fingers and thumb and begun to knead it into a ball of sorts. Once satisfied the stuff would hold together, he popped the ball into his mouth. Evidently, he’d eaten this dish before, but whether or not he liked it I couldn’t say: his face gave nothing away.

  The gloop was stickier than it looked, a viscous paste. It clung to my fingertips. I was nowhere near as adept as Mo at making a bite-sized lump, and I can’t say I was expecting much when I eventually tasted it. In that I wasn’t disappointed. I thought: wet cardboard, with added grit. Perhaps that’s actually what it was?

  I glanced at Xander. He was chewing mechanically. When he caught my eye he pulled a micro-gag expression, puffing out his cheeks for a nanosecond. Unfortunately – but true to form – Amelia spelled out what we were all thinking.

  ‘This is revolting,’ she muttered, and went on more loudly: ‘I’m afraid I can’t eat it. I’m not hungry enough.’

  General Sir said, ‘You will be, you will be.’ There was no anger in his voice. He waved Jamal forward. The boy was wearing tatty jeans cut off at the knee and the natural dark brown of his lower legs, like his bare feet, was tinted red with dust. It was only as he retreated with Amelia’s more-or-less untouched bowl that I noticed he had a handgun sticking out of his waistband in the small of his back. I flinched. Jamal definitely wasn’t more than eleven or twelve years old. The shock of seeing his gun made me spoon up the gunk in my bowl with my fingers more rapidly. I ate without tasting, or indeed chewing much; I just thumbed the paste into my mouth and swallowed it down.