‘Why are you weeping?’ Barocunas stood above him. ‘The master will not keep you. When the deed is done you will be free. I am sure of it.’
‘Perhaps,’ said Andagin, whose guts would hold no food, ‘you could find some meat for me.’
He had to do it. He had no idea how. He was alone in the cold world.
‘Judoc! Judoc!’
Voices hissed and barked for silence. Still Andagin cried out, as if he had done himself an injury.
‘Brother!’
‘You will give us all away.’
‘I cannot feel my hands. The binding is too tight. Let me be free of it.’
Judoc breathed hotly into his face. ‘Will you be quiet at last if I do?’
‘Yes.’
‘And you will obey me in everything?’
‘I will.’
His brother knelt beside him. Close enough to touch. ‘Do I have your word you will stay in this place until we have finished our work?’
‘You have it. I am so cold my fingers burn.’
Judoc left him and Andagin feared he would not come back, or might do so with the seer to consult on the request.
His brother returned with a blade and cut through the cordage. Andagin was glad of the cold and the pain in his body, for they made sense of his sobbing.
‘There. You are free now, stop crying.’
‘Thank you.’
‘And here is your pack.’ Judoc dropped it into his lap. ‘There is no food. Do you know we fast tonight?’
‘I know nothing.’
‘So you must go hungry like the rest of us. You are with us now. Do you understand? Our crime is yours. I never meant this for you but you followed me. We are both wanted men.’
‘Yes.’
‘Our lives do not belong to us.’
As soon as Judoc had gone, Andagin opened his pack and felt inside. The knife had been taken. Still, his hands were free. He buried them beneath his two coats. Under cover he warmed the stone with his cold, sluggish fingers.
Bring strength to me. Bring me courage, Mother.
From the shivering, hungry, night-drowned camp, a voice rose in wheedling protest. It sounded like Lugh: ‘We must light a fire. We must.’
‘No fires.’ That was the madman. Andagin could just make him out, huddled in furs with his great hound. ‘We must purge ourselves by this waiting.’
‘The cold will be fatal to him.’
‘Hush now.’
‘It will kill him.’ Bodies wrestled and whispered. Lugh was not to be silenced: ‘Why do we not do it now? Make the sacrifice so Aesu may be saved.’
The deep voice of the seer was not so gentle. ‘It has to be done in a fitting way to please the powers. Be quiet, Kei. Your cousin raves but there is no pain, for I have seen to that. Kei, will you be still?’ For the wolfhound had joined its whimpering to the men’s voices; it whined and loosed a deep bark, which its master answered with a kick.
The hound was not put off. It bayed at the stars. Barocunas came running.
‘The soldier is gone!’
There was silence for a time, save for the hound’s almost joyful noise. Andagin looked across the trampled, frozen grass. It was the other, the bald and bloodied one. The nearer captive sat hunched, letting his bonds and the stake hold him up.
‘To it, boys,’ cried the seer. Aesu and his suffering were forgotten. ‘Barocunas, Lugh – take Kei. He will find the scent. Judoc, see that he is caught, and quickly. Kill him if you must, we still have the other.’
The hound was in the woods already. Bodies rushed out of the grove after it, while Aesu gibbered alone in his dying.
Andagin left his place against the tree trunk. He crawled in darkness to the stake where the remaining soldier was captive. With his teeth he pulled the mittens off his hands; he felt with naked fingers for the knots in the rope. If the madman came their way now – if he checked on the bindings of his lone captive – all was lost.
Andagin’s fingers were deft despite the cold. A knot eased, though it hurt as if he were tearing his fingers on stone. The seer was with Aesu, tending to him. Andagin breathed into the soldier’s hands as he picked and tugged. The man must formerly have been unconscious, for he stiffened with awareness of the boy. Andagin put a hand on the man’s shoulder and pressed a trembling finger to his foreign lips.
He worked the knots loose. Now he urged the captive to his feet. The soldier stumbled and winced. Cold and his position had made an old man of him.
Andagin held tightly to the soldier’s hand. They sought a gap in the wall of yew.
The branches clutched and dragged. He feared the soldier would not get through. The yews resisted, whispering – then let go.
Boy and soldier said nothing. The man seemed to recognise his chance. They stumbled blindly into the wood.
11
No Man’s Land
Now that shouldn’t be here. Did someone plant the bulb last winter? Or could a jay have stolen it from a garden and stowed it forgetfully on the heath?
Bobbie kneels before the late daffodil and touches the moist silk of its petals. An outsider, exotic almost beside the ling and gorse. Contemplating the flower, she imagines the plenitude of summer on its way. Nightjars will return to their breeding grounds, trailing their hot purr from Africa. She hears goldfinches squabble, a murmur of bees, the cluck of a cock-pheasant in the scrub below the ramparts. Finally, a cuckoo! The robber bird, so rare these days, has made it through Sahel drought and sandstorms, past hunting rifles and lime traps, over warm seas and cold, to this hillside.
She shuts her eyes and lifts her face to the sun. The world glows blood orange; nothing but a film of skin between her and the home star. The same light is opening the chestnut leaves. She can hear the sap rising. It drums inside the clotted buds, a pulse forcing them open, capillaries filling with juice.
Would she notice this if her grandfather had not alerted her to it? Long ago, holding her small hand in his, pointing up at the branches. He is beside her now. She senses it in her shoulders …
A man is watching her. Young, clean-shaven. A tangle of tattoos on his arms. He wears a beige T-shirt, combat trousers and what look like army boots. Also – strangely, given the weather – a grey patterned scarf.
*
He tries a smile and thinks better of it. He doesn’t want to frighten her.
The girl gets up. Spiky short hair like a boy. Bites and bruises on her legs. ‘I thought I was the only one here,’ she says.
‘Me too.’ He keeps his hands where she can see them. No sudden moves. ‘Funny to think we’re a few miles from Bracknell town centre.’
She looks up at him and there’s no judgement in her eyes. Kind eyes. Chestnut brown. He sees her notice the twisters in his trousers, his polished boots. ‘Are you a soldier? I’m just wondering. There are lots round here, with Sandhurst and the ranges.’
‘I used to be,’ Aitch says. ‘Princess of Wales’s Royal Regiment, First Battalion. You, uh, military?’
‘I’m only twelve.’
‘I mean your family.’
‘Hardly. My mother works for the government. International development.’
‘Oh yeah, treehuggers.’ Dipstick! ‘What’s your dad do?’
‘He’s an archaeologist.’
‘Like Indiana Jones?’
‘Not so much fighting. Like, when they want to build a road, they sometimes dig up old bones or ruins. That’s when my dad comes in. He evaluates the find –’
‘You got the big words, ain’t ya?’
‘– and records what’s down there, so when they build over it, people know about it.’
‘What’s the point? If everything gets buried again?’
The girl shrugs. ‘It’s progress,’ she says.
*
Bobbie should be wary of strangers. Why would a guy like this want to talk to her? He’s just being polite. Few people in the woods, the fort unvisited: it would be rude not to pass the time of day. Her instincts ar
e quiet. Soldiers exist to protect us, don’t they?
‘This site,’ she says, ‘is of archaeological significance.’
‘Yeah, I know.’
‘Of course Caesar’s Camp is a misnomer.’
‘Miss Who?’
‘As Julius Caesar never actually conquered Britain, he just visited it.’
‘Bloody tourists. Mind you, all the emperors were called Caesar.’
‘Well,’ she says, taken aback. ‘But this was never a Roman settlement. It was built as a defensive fort by ancient Britons.’
‘You gonna be a school teacher when you grow up?’
‘It’s my dad. He knows these things.’
‘Not about, is he?’
‘He does know I’m here.’
She sees a flicker of worry on the soldier’s face, as if he can tell that he has just scared her a little. ‘I’m Aitch,’ he says.
‘Aitch?’
‘Short for Harry.’
‘I’m Bobbie, short for Roberta.’
‘All right, Bobbie.’
‘All right.’
*
He watches her bend at the waist and give a shin a good scratch. Looks satisfying.
‘So you know all about this place,’ he says, winning her trust, making her proud of herself. He tries this on Barry, or used to when he still saw the lad. ‘I bet you’re as smart as a whip, ain’t ya?’
‘Are you from nearby?’
‘Just down the road. Used to bike round here when I was a youngster. Motocross, you know.’
‘My dad hates motorbikes.’
‘No one’s perfect.’
She asks him how well he knows the heath. What heath? All of it – the place they’re standing in. ‘Dunno. I’ve always known it, not paid it much attention.’
She grins at him with what looks like mischief. ‘Do you want to see something?’
‘Sure.’
She beckons him to a gorse bush. He tells her what it is, in case she thinks he’s a total div.
‘There’s this game,’ she says. ‘Well, it’s not a game, just a fun thing. Look.’ Aitch watches as she stretches a finger towards the yellow flowers. She picks one out. ‘You have to press on the lower petal. Imagine you’re a bee.’ The gorse flower pops under the pressure of her finger and a tiny yellow mist escapes. She repeats the action with two new flowers and both open with a spray of pollen. ‘You have a go,’ she says.
Aitch does. A silent snap – a puff of yellow on his fingernail. He chuckles and now they’re both doing it, going at the flowers like kids popping bubble-wrap.
‘If my mates could see me now. Tickling flowers like some Rupert.’
She looks at him. ‘What’s a Rupert?’
‘Commissioned officer. It’s what we call ’em. Not to their faces, that’d be insubordination.’
‘Why Rupert? Like the bear?’
‘Dunno, it’s a posh name. Like Roberta.’
That was worth the risk: she laughs, not at all offended. He has a go at one more flower before he notices that each one, after it’s been depressed, hangs open like a jaw gaping on its broken hinges. That flipflop they caught trying to launch an RPG. Aitch smashed his jaw with his rifle butt. How it swung from his head as they dragged him into the belly of the Snatch.
‘Here,’ he says, ‘can I ask you something?’
‘Depends.’
He tells her that, when he saw her, he thought she was talking to herself. She blushes.
‘I suppose I was talking to my grandfather.’
‘Where’s he, then?’
‘He’s dead. I wasn’t really talking to him, just imagining I was.’
‘I used to do that. When you’re fighting there’s a voice, but it’s yours. I dunno how to explain it. You talk back.’
‘To yourself?’
‘With yourself. It doesn’t mean you’re crazy, it means you’re trying to get through it.’
Come off it, Aitch. Why would she want to hear any of this? She’s just humouring him, being polite. Maybe she’s scared of him, and with reason. There’s no one about – he could drag her into the scrub and rape her.
Just thinking this, it’s as if a lid of lead comes down over his head. He looks at her, this child, a virgin, and realises there’s no one to stop him.
‘Look,’ he says, ‘you’ve got somewhere to get to, ain’t ya?’
‘Not really.’
‘Sure you have. You got family waiting for you.’
‘Only my dad.’
‘I bet he’s wondering where you are.’ She doesn’t even have tits. Not the first buds of them. ‘Listen,’ he says. ‘Listen, thanks for the nature lesson.’
She looks bewildered.
Now he’s running. Legging it. Closet nonce. Scarpering from a tomboy.
Only when the girl is lost behind trees does he slow to a walk. About time, too – he’s gasping for breath. Not a click of ground covered and he’s sweating like a pig.
He’s unfit. The only place he’s running to is fat. Fat fucking disgrace.
What freaked him out? What spooked him?
The darkness inside. Preening its black feathers. How does he know the instinct survives in him to keep him from crossing the line? He’s done it before.
It began with just another fuck-up. An everyday ambush – VCP, government soldiers, but his team got sent in to mop up. They didn’t even have decent armour. Only the Snatches were fit for purpose, and that purpose wasn’t saving the lives of British toms. Aitch travelled in the rear Snatch, Chris and Gobby rode up front with a mobile armour everyone called Scoot. He was ten metres behind them. Saw their Snatch leap up – a black cloud tipping it on its side.
He was out and running before he could think. Bits and pieces were still falling when he and Dan got to them.
Scoot was torn to shreds, a smoking torso in the front of the wreckage. Chris was screaming as Dan burrowed into the Snatch to get to him. Aitch looked to Gobby, his mate since the first day in Paderborn. He’d been thrown clear of the vehicle and was out cold. His leg had been torn off above the knee. Aitch actually looked for it, as you might for a missing boot. Rolfie had abandoned the wheel and was shouting into the side of Aitch’s head as they dragged Gobby to the second Snatch. He strapped field dressings to his stump. Gobby smelt of shit and fireworks. They got the IV in, morphine, jacket over him for warmth, a roll mat under his neck.
Dan came back from the fragged Snatch with Chris over his shoulder and unloaded him on the floor of the Land Rover. Chris was covered in smoking wounds – too many to know where to concentrate the dressings. He was shaking and gasping and his eyes rolled. Dan had to slap Aitch about the helmet before he could reconnect with his training. His hands were tacky with blood.
Rolfie was back at the wheel and he gave no warning before turning the Snatch around. Aitch tipped over with the momentum and lay on the floor, in the blood bilge, while Dan checked Gobby for a pulse and tried to reassure Chris. ‘You can hack it, mate. You’re going home. Selly Oak and a hero’s welcome.’ Chris was losing colour. His hands shook near his face like the mandibles on a crab. ‘Don’t worry about a thing, mate. Gobby here’s taking a nap, the lazy cunt. We’ll get you back in no time, they’ll patch you up …’
Aitch remembers tearing towards the drop zone, the dust cloud churned up by the Slick’s rotors. Getting the lads on board.
That night in Camp Bastion, the CO came to see them. They were meant to be watching a DVD but Aitch couldn’t make sense of the film. Gobby and Chris were dead. They’d succumbed to their wounds before their Hercules reached Karachi.
The next day they went out on patrol. They’d insisted – they were professionals. It’s what their mates would have expected. The village was friendly, which pissed them off because they were itching for a fight, or at least to make arrests, knock some fucking heads together.
It wasn’t much of a village. More like a giant had shat houses and kicked his turds over a hillside. There was one place they did
n’t like the look of, east of the others, in a leafless orchard. A sixth sense had them braced for trouble before it came.
Everyone made it to cover behind a mud wall while the bullets zipped past, snapping and cracking in the air. That’s when the drill kicked in. They lay down suppressing fire with the Minimis while Rolfie called for back-up. Then the Minimis stopped. Aitch saw it for himself through a crack in the wall. He’d heard of the practice but never seen it, not in a contact.
Between them and the militants, two elderly women cowered, their heads bowed, their arms half raised in surrender or prayer. Human shields. Probably they’d been pushed out of the orchard the moment the firing started. They stood in the open like beasts awaiting slaughter.
The flipflops stopped firing so they could be heard. ‘Eh British! We blow up your friends!’
‘Fuck,’ said Rolfie.
The old women had worked out where Aitch and the lads were sheltering. They looked towards them, their hands open. Aitch could see their grey palms.
‘We kill your friends, British!’
Rolfie opened fire. It was contagious. Aitch let rip with his SA-80, Brewster and Dan with the Minimis. All four of them shooting into the trees, blasting away till dead man’s click.
The dust. The quiet. The orchard was tattered. They reloaded and walked over.
The elderly women were dead. From the way they lay, it was obvious who had done it.
They entered the orchard in a kind of daze. Two dead flipflops. AK-47s. Trees oozing sap where their bullets had cut into them.
‘We had no choice,’ Rolfie was saying. ‘It was them or us.’
They’d had no choice, but even so they needed a common story. Rolfie was talking sense into them. Explaining what had just happened. Brewster said nothing, Dan said nothing. Aitch nodded, his mouth so parched that he couldn’t speak. He nodded, while the dust turned black beneath the bodies of the women.
Five minutes from Caesar’s Camp, picking up the ghost of a signal, her mobile bleeps. She has to back into the shade to read the screen.
WHERE ARE YOU?
She quashes the temptation of a petulant reply.
The Devil's Highway Page 11