5
Human Shield
‘You’ve been out cold for a couple of days,’ she was saying. They fed you intravenously. I guess they thought you were going to die. They beat me, but not like you.’
‘What are you doing here?’
‘They wanted me to write propaganda. I told them – no way. Not a chance in hell.’
Where had he heard her name? The answer was somewhere on the edge of his memory. ‘Are you a journalist?’ he probed cautiously.
‘Kind of.’ Her smile was tentative.
Hugo gazed round him, his awareness slowly returning. He was in a small, well equipped hospital ward, but despite the constant bustle in the corridor they were alone.
The name. Her name. Where had he heard it before? He searched the burnt-out hollows of his mind and still came up with nothing.
‘Do you see a pyramid?’
Now Hugo remembered where he had heard the name before.
‘Yes,’ he admitted, and was overwhelmed by a profound sense of relief.
The words tumbling over each other, clamouring for release, Hugo told Philippa Neville everything that had happened since the boy had knocked on the door of his hotel bedroom. When he had finished, he lay back exhausted, but exorcised.
‘What have you seen?’
‘Everything you’ve talked about.’ She spoke slowly, tentatively, but with a quiet authority. ‘There’s a few gaps. But the pyramid always came back.’
‘What does it all mean? I feel we’ve shared so much already – but how have we done that? How?’ Hugo was desperate that the good fortune – the breakthrough – should not suddenly evaporate, peter out into nothing more than half-remembered dreams.
‘That’s what we have to find out.’ She stood up. ‘Are you scared?’
‘Yes.’
‘What of?’
‘I don’t know,’ he admitted. ‘Whatever all this means – whatever it is – I feel we’re meant to be together, all three of us, and we have to go to the pyramid.’ But even in his own ears the conjecture sounded childish and incomprehensible.
‘Secret mission?’ She smiled. ‘Across the desert on a camel? Do you see yourself as the Sheikh of Araby? Should I be slung over the saddle?’
They laughed and then looked away as Hugo’s anxiety returned. ‘Maybe Brent isn’t mad after all, but has special knowledge. I don’t know how or why,’ he finished rather lamely.
But Philippa was impatient with his vagaries. ‘We have to work on this, Hugo. I’ve got this – this certainty that if we want to understand the connection the rest will follow. It’s all there, but we have to crack the code. But that’s what life’s about, code-cracking, isn’t it? That’s the way it’s sure been for me. You may have been a cynic, Hugo, but all my experiences tell me there’s a mystic side. It’s just that most folk don’t see. But I know it kind of runs parallel to our lives. Like in another room.’
‘I don’t think we should try too hard.’ Hugo sounded positive, as if he was slowly convincing himself of a finite truth rather than an ambiguous shadow. ‘Now that we’re together I’m sure we can do it – if I can peel away the layers of self-deceit’
‘I know what you mean,’ she said unexpectedly and for the first time her voice lacked confidence. ‘To go back to the people we were before we started inventing ourselves – that could be a downer.’
‘I’ve certainly invented most of myself – sometimes I think mainly for reasons of self-protection – but in doing so I’ve lost everything. How in God’s name do I get back to what I was – whatever I was? You say you invented yourself, too, but I don’t see much sign of that.’ He laughed, but without any humour.
Immediately Philippa reached out and lifted his hand to her lips. ‘We’ll go back together,’ she said. ‘You’re not unique, Hugo. We all paper over the cracks – and there sure is plenty of paper over mine. But there’s something buried, and that’s the link not just between us but with Brent too.’
‘I don’t think the Iraqis are going to let us do any personal exploration, do you? They’ll lock us up again. Separately.’
There was a long silence while they both recognized how powerless they were.
‘Tell me about how you became a writer?’ He realized that she had told him nothing – that he didn’t know her in any way. Hugo cursed himself for his usual arrogance.
‘There’s not much to say. I majored in Middle Eastern history, wrote a book about Iraq that got good notices in the press. When the Gulf War broke out, I got sent to a news agency in Kuwait to write up an eye-witness report. Then I was arrested.’
‘And earlier?’
‘My life story will have to wait. You need sleep. I’ve been in here a week. You haven’t’
Hugo nodded, his exhaustion was like a leaden weight. ‘You’ll still be here when I wake up?’
‘Sure.’ She let his wrist go and a wonderful drowsiness came over Hugo as if he was a child again and was being tucked up in bed by a mythical mother.
Hugo slept deeply for another twenty-four hours and when he woke he saw Philippa, reassuringly standing at the bottom of his bed. Her eyes met his and he could feel her relief. It was good to be needed again – even in these extreme circumstances. ‘What time is it?’
‘Just after 3 p.m.,’ she said quickly, but he could see that her original calm had disappeared and she looked drained and tense.
‘What’s the matter?’ he asked, sensing some new and unpleasant development.
‘An Iraqi CO showed up this morning. He said we’re being shifted.’
‘Where to?’ Hugo was weak and alarmed, not feeling up to being moved anywhere.
‘To an aircraft factory. We’re to be part of a human shield.’
‘What’s that supposed to mean?’ he asked, still muzzy from the long, dreamless, visionless sleep.
‘The Yanks have been told if they bomb key installations they’ll be knocking out hostages. Hostages like us – mainly British and American nationals.’
‘You mean they’re going to turn us into targets?’ Hugo tried to sit up but the weakness would not allow him to do anything so dramatic. ‘We’ve got to talk to the embassy – to Time Magazine. They can’t do this to us.’
‘They can,’ replied Philippa.
Just before sunset, some young soldiers arrived in combat fatigues and, ignoring his protests, briskly lifted Hugo on to a stretcher, but his outrage had become grim acceptance of yet another traumatic move. They were given no indication as to where they were being taken, hurrying silently along narrow, unpainted corridors which smelt of disinfectant and defecation. As they passed an open ward Hugo glimpsed the casualties of war sprawled upon mattresses, their bandages soiled with congealed blood. He shuddered, the bile rising in his throat, while Philippa, her face grey in the half light, whispered, ‘We’re together – and we’re going to stay together.’
The aircraft factory looked indecently exposed, with runways snaking out into the desert and uncamouflaged buildings which included two large hangars. The truck pulled up outside one of these, and as the rear doors opened and Hugo was carried out a distinguished-looking middle-aged man in uniform hurried towards them.
‘Welcome committee?’ murmured Philippa.
‘I am Colonel El Him Jala.’ He was benign and apologetic. ‘I am sorry to meet with you in these circumstances.’
‘So are we,’ said Hugo. He would have felt less at a disadvantage had he not been lying on the stretcher. ‘You realize you won’t get away with this. We have both been illegally arrested and subjected to torture – totally against the rules of the Geneva Convention. The war crimes commission will be – ’ But his set speech petered out as Colonel El Him Jala held up a hand in mock protest.
‘I am sorry, but we are at war. You are both civilians, and you were arrested in areas you should not have been in. But I am not here to debate that with you now. We will try to make you as comfortable as we can.’
‘This is way out of line.’ Phil
ippa tried half-heartedly to follow up Hugo’s tirade. But she knew there was little point in official protest. They were no longer human beings – simply insurance policies that might not hold good.
‘You will have to accept it. The allies have illegally declared they intend to bomb our installations. We are a small country; we have to take what measures we can against imperialist aggression.’
‘Don’t you think the invasion of Kuwait was just a touch imperialistic?’ asked Philippa, not prepared to give up entirely.
‘We are reclaiming territory that is rightfully ours and has been annexed from us,’ said the colonel dismissively.
‘Bollocks!’ said Hugo.
‘The allies have had sufficient warning not to bomb these buildings,’ he continued placatingly. ‘I’m sure you will all have a quiet night.’
‘When do we get out of here?’ asked Philippa.
‘As soon as hostilities cease. When the Americans come to their senses.’
‘They’re waiting for you to come to yours,’ observed Hugo drily.
*
The inside of the hangar smelt of oil, stale tobacco, unwashed bodies – and something less obvious that Hugo instinctively recognized as fear. Lying on mattresses, sprawled on incongruous red office chairs, leaning against dark-streaked walls, sitting on oil drums, were about fifty civilians. The atmosphere held such tension that Hugo could almost touch the raw nerves of the hostages. Judging by their beards they had been here some time, and he could detect from the fear in their eyes that they saw death approaching but did not quite know when it would come. He had seen that look before.
Their arrival only caused minimal interest, but as Hugo’s stretcher was placed on the floor a short, stocky man joined them. He had an official air to him.
‘Do you understand why you’re here?’
‘Sure,’ said Philippa, ‘we get it.’
‘I’m Robin Latimer. I was on the British Consul’s staff.’
Philippa gave an edited version of their experiences, sounding as smooth and polished as if she was at an embassy reception. Glancing round, Hugo sensed in the hostages the synthetically cheerful yet deadening spirit of ‘muddling through’; it was only their eyes that gave them away.
‘Can’t we form some kind of action committee?’ he asked.
‘We’ve tried,’ said Latimer. ‘But the building’s been surrounded and our negotiating potential is, to say the least, strictly limited. We don’t know what’s happening, what politicians are saying, what our chances are – whether the allies know we’re sitting targets and how they’ll react if they do know.’
‘So we’re going to sit back and wait for Armageddon?’
‘The great escape won’t help us,’ replied Latimer, with the calm detachment of the vintage British hero.
Who does he think he is, wondered Hugo. An officer in Colditz? ‘So what will?’
‘We’ve had various ideas. One was to try and protect ourselves by building some kind of shelter in here. But when we started ripping up the place, the Iraqis stopped us. Another was to try to tunnel out, but the ground’s rock solid. So, at the moment, I’m afraid you’ll find our imaginations a little infertile.’
Latimer stayed talking a little longer, but soon he moved apologetically away, muttering that ‘they must all get their thinking caps on again’ and perhaps they could do with a coffee. Hugo winked at Philippa and got slowly off the stretcher.
‘Dashed fine chap,’ he told her.
He leant against an oil drum, clasping the plastic beaker, finding the instant brew as comforting as childhood cocoa.
‘Tell me more about yourself,’ he asked Philippa. ‘I don’t even know if you’re married.’
‘No – I don’t have anyone.’
‘Tell me more.’
She paused, knowing that some at least of her life story might help to keep anxiety at bay. She sought for a starting point. ‘You know what we said – about peeling away the layers of the onion. I remembered something weird last night and maybe – maybe it’s a lead. I was born in La Jolla – a small town near San Diego. I guess I was a privileged kid; my dad was an attorney, Mom in real estate. I was the love-object, much prized, too much pampered, brought up by nannies. I was lonely. I could have had anything I wanted in the world – except my folks. When I was twelve this Mexican woman showed up. Her name was Elena and we got real close. She believed in reincarnation and at first I was always kidding her but she won me round.’
‘How?’ Hugo was suddenly alert, aware now that what she was saying was, in some way, of the utmost importance.
‘We were walking along the cliffs, down towards the surf. The light was so strong it gave the coast a bleached-out look – almost like a photographic negative. Elena looked down at the beach and said, “That’s what you were, Philippa – in your other life. In all your other lives.’” She paused and then continued slowly, digging deeply into a past she had swept away. ‘I saw this woman striding across the sand. She was naked and I remember giggling. Then I saw that she resembled me – could have been the big sister I knew I didn’t have – and I was scared. The woman was hand in hand with a man and he was naked too. It was as if they were both at the beginning of something.’
‘Who was the man?’ said Hugo, although he already knew the answer.
‘It was you,’ she continued slowly, confidently.
‘I know it was you. I identified you straight away. We’ve been together for a long time, Hugo. In other lives with other names.’ She waved away his incredulity. ‘Last night I dreamt we were watching this pyramid rise up out of the desert. Someone else was with us. Another guy. He was called Thoth.’
‘My son.’ The shock waves raced through Hugo and he felt an elation he had never experienced before.
Later, he slept, and this time he stood again in the beam of light inside the pyramid. Beside him was Philippa. They both gazed up towards the portal which was opening to reveal a slowly rising sun. Then he heard Brent’s voice.
‘Dad – ‘
‘Over here.’
‘I can’t see you.’
He was staggering towards them in his hospital dressing-gown, institutionalized, idiotic, pitiful. In one hand he clasped his journal. Pages were falling out of it, scattering around the floor of the pyramid and then slowly fluttering up towards the light.
‘I can’t see you.’
Hugo reached out for Brent’s hand, and then woke.
It was the early hours of the morning and the atmosphere in the hangar radiated apprehension.
‘How’s it going?’ she asked.
‘I feel stronger. Did you sleep?’
‘Sure.’
‘Did you dream?’
He was about to tell her what he had seen when a voice in the darkness cried out hysterically:
‘They’re coming!’
‘Try to keep calm,’ said Latimer. He reminded Hugo of an ageing Scoutmaster.
Now they could all hear the ominous whine of approaching aircraft – a whine that was becoming slowly, steadily, relentlessly louder until Hugo thought that the allied bombers must be directly overhead. Sirens began to wail.
The hostages were standing silently, straining to hear, and the tension was sharpening, becoming unbearable. Predictably, Latimer began to intone the Lord’s Prayer. Hugo took Philippa’s hand.
The first explosion shook the hangar. Then came another.
‘That was close.’ As Latimer spoke, part of the hangar roof began to collapse and Hugo and Philippa made a stumbling dash for some metal worktops a few metres away. As they ran, slabs of concrete began to fall, and choked by black dust they just reached sanctuary as more debris descended. They crouched there in silence, but the remainder of the flat roof held.
Hugo looked around him; men were getting to their feet, hazy in the floating dust.
‘Look,’ Philippa whispered.
A door had been blown in at the rear of the hangar.
The cold grey dawn of the des
ert brought them both to a standstill as dunes rolled to infinity below a sullen sky. The thread of a road snaked across the sand, but there was something so primeval and hostile in the dusty, relentless landscape that they stood transfixed.
A black pall of smoke hung over some of the smaller factory buildings and there were craters on the runways. Activity seemed concentrated around the smoke and he could see a couple of jeeps speeding towards the damage.
‘I might be able to start that truck over there if we can get in,’ said Hugo.
Philippa shrugged in disbelief. He might just as well have suggested commandeering the camel they had laughed about.
The battered vehicle was parked a few yards away from them, its square body still in shadow.
‘I guess that road might get us to the border,’ she said reluctantly, ‘but we stand a chance of being shot up – on the ground or by an aircraft.’
‘So what shall we do? Go back to Latimer and tell him we’ll be good hostages and wait for the rest of the roof to fall in? With the truck at least we’ll have a chance.’
Hugo walked over to the vehicle and tried the door. Why did he know that it would be open? He clambered inside and found keys in the ignition. ‘Christ.’
‘What’s going on?’
‘The keys are here. It’s as if we’re being offered an escape route.’
‘The hell we are.’ But she did not sound particularly surprised.
Shadows swept across the desert as the sun edged slowly over the horizon. The truck made a spluttering sound – and died. They exchanged glances, but when Hugo tried again the engine began to turn over.
‘The gates are open,’ Hugo said uneasily, feeling his strength returning. ‘This is too good to be true.’
‘Gas?’
‘Full tank.’ At the back of his mind was the halting knowledge that this was right – that this should be happening.
Philippa got in beside him and the high-sided truck rumbled out of the compound.
‘Security’s lax.’
‘They’re coping with the bomb damage,’ Philippa replied. The vehicle rolled wildly as Hugo negotiated potholes.
Hidden Gods Page 7