Kingdom Lock

by I. D. Roberts

  ‘You’ll still get there ahead of the lads,’ Connolly said.

  ‘I know.’ Lock smiled thinly. ‘Where’s Underhill?’ He walked to the flatbed at the back of the Rolls. His and the sergeant major’s packs were still there, but not the sergeant major himself. ‘Underhill!’

  ‘I don’t like leaving her, sir,’ Connolly said, a touch of unease in his voice. ‘The Abduls’ll strip her naked if they find her.’

  ‘Well, you’re not staying here. We march together. You can get the parts you need at Ahwaz later and come back. Underhill!’ Lock called again, agitated this time, as he continued to scan the landscape. ‘Under—’

  ‘All right, all right!’ a shout came from the left. Lock spotted the sergeant major scrambling over a nearby ridge, spade in hand. His face was red with anger. ‘Can’t a man have a shit in peace?’ he growled to himself, throwing the spade into the flatbed with a loud clatter. ‘So has the Mick fixed it?’ He glared at Connolly.

  ‘We’re walking. Grab your stuff. We only have a little daylight left so I want to get as far along the road as possible,’ Lock said, hauling his haversack from the back of the armoured Rolls and hitching it up over his shoulders.

  Underhill grumbled to himself as he pulled on his haversack, and when Connolly gathered up his own bag and his SMLE rifle, they set off leaving the broken-down Rolls to her fate.

  Connolly patted the vehicle. ‘Sorry ol’ girl. Take care.’

  They made their way along the road, which mirrored the course of the river to their left. The form of the oil pipeline loomed over them to their right, stretching off into the distance. Underhill, moaning and muttering under his breath, soon dropped behind, whilst Lock trudged along ahead with Connolly at his heels.

  ‘So what brings you here, Connolly?’ Lock said after ten minutes of listening to his boots scrunch ‘A-my, A-my’ along the dusty, rocky road.

  ‘Orders, sir, like the rest of us.’ But there was a glint in the Irishman’s eyes.

  Lock smiled. ‘Well, that’s something we have in common.’

  Connolly grunted and fell into step with Lock. He jerked his head back. ‘You known the sergeant major long, sir?’

  ‘Too long. How did you know?’

  ‘Ah, sir, you can smell genuine hatred a mile off. It’s like love, sir.’ Lock scoffed. ‘’Tis the truth, sir. My ma said you can only truly hate if you truly love. Both’s four-letter words.’

  ‘I know another four-letter word and you’re talking it, Lance Corporal.’

  ‘Aye, that’s what my father said about Ma’s philosophy, too.’

  Lock laughed. ‘So, really, why are you in the army?’

  ‘Better than starvin’, sir. There’s not much work in Skibbereen these days.’

  ‘You enlisted?’

  ‘That I did, sir.’

  Silence fell between the two men and Lock returned to listening to the taunting of his boots. Bugger his luck; if only he had explained to Amy what had happened. If only she hadn’t seen. If only Bingham-Smith didn’t exist.

  Lock paused to take a sip of water and stared up at the harsh iron tubes of the pipeline. They were like two giant snakes caught in the baking heat of the day. He wondered how much oil there was inside at that precise moment, rushing past on its way downriver for a hundred miles or so to Abbadan Island. Maybe there was no oil? Maybe they were empty and Wassmuss wasn’t ever held captive in a dank cell in Daurat. Maybe the Arabs had blown the pipeline to the north of Ahwaz already? Maybe they had taken over the oilfields at Maidan-i-Naftum? ‘Bollocks,’ he muttered, before moving on.

  It was dusk by the time the river began to worm away from the pipeline and the road. Lock stopped. His eyes scanned the run of the oil pipes, which continued on until they melted into the distance. The sun was now a burnt-orange orb hovering above the horizon to their left. The heat of the day was cooling fast and Lock could feel the chill start to pinch at his naked arms. Connolly tapped his elbow and held out his goggles. Lock nodded his thanks and put the tinted goggles down over his eyes and stared west directly into the sun. He watched as a flock of birds flew majestically across the pinking sky. He felt his spirits lift. It was a beautiful country and the distant mountains to the north were now bathed with the reflected sunlight. Lock guessed that they had less than an hour left before they would be forced to set up camp for the night. He was about to carry on when something on the ground a little way along caught his eye.

  Underhill came up beside him panting heavily. He squinted in the direction where Lock was staring. ‘Sah!’ He pointed at the object.

  ‘Yes, Sergeant Major, I saw. A body?’

  ‘Could be,’ Connolly said, his hand shading his eyes as he squinted.

  Lock fumbled in his pack for his field glasses. He flipped the goggles up and strained to focus on the object. ‘It’s not moving.’ He raised the field glasses again and followed the line of the land all the way up a slight slope to a rocky ridge that was about five hundred yards ahead of them.

  The three men set off again, and as they got closer it didn’t take long for them to recognise the object.

  ‘It’s a dead sheep,’ Underhill grunted.

  Connolly trotted on ahead and knelt beside the carcass. He touched its side. His hand came away red with blood.

  Lock paused and scanned the empty terrain thoughtfully. Something wasn’t right. Could there be Turks in the area? So far behind the British lines? He eased his haversack off his aching shoulders and lowered it to the ground. ‘We’ll set up camp by the river back there.’ He indicated in the direction they had come. ‘I’m going to walk up that ridge to see if I can see anything on the other side.’

  ‘Sah?’ Underhill said.

  ‘The thing is,’ Lock said, ‘where there’s sheep, there’s bound to be a shepherd.’

  He moved on. There were three more of the animals lying dead along the way. But when he came to a fourth, he stopped. This one was slumped at the foot of the ridge, bleating mournfully, its hindquarters a mass of bloodied wool. Lock took his Webley out of his holster and approached the animal. It jerked on sensing his approach and struggled to stand. Lock knelt down beside it and stroked its muzzle, trying to soothe it. He pulled back the hammer of his revolver and levelled the gun at the sheep’s head. He bit his lip, hesitating, and slowly eased the hammer of his gun back into place. He cocked his head slightly.

  As the day cooled the wind had picked up and was now blowing towards the ridge. Lock waited, listening. Then the wind changed direction. He could hear rushing water on the other side of the ridge, but there was something else, another sound. Faint, but familiar, not unlike the whining of a wounded animal. It too was coming from the other side of the ridge.

  Lock spun sharply, Webley raised. Connolly had crawled up behind him. Lock put his finger to his lips.

  The Irishman frowned, listening, then nodded his head. He drew his knife and made a quick cut in the injured sheep’s throat.

  ‘What are you doing here?’ Lock said, keeping his voice low.

  ‘The sergeant major told me to come and fetch you, sir. He’s found fresh tracks. Horses.’

  ‘He has, has he?’ Lock said. ‘Well, they’ll keep. Where’s your Enfield?’

  ‘Back by the river, sir.’

  Lock shook his head and Connolly shrugged. ‘I’ll be all right with this blade, sir.’

  ‘Come on.’

  Both men crouched low and crept up the scraggy ridge. The breeze kept changing direction, and as they got nearer to the top, they could clearly make out the sound of the rushing water. There was also the distinctive smell of burning wood, and cooked meat now, as well as voices behind the whimpering.

  ‘Turkish!’ Lock said.

  They reached the top and peered over the edge. Beyond, the ridge sloped down for one hundred and fifty yards, before levelling out again for another hundred yards of scrub grass until it hit the rocky bank of the Karun River. There it dropped to the rushing waters themselves, moving fast in a
natural trench cut through the rock.

  ‘Sir!’ Connolly whispered, pointing off down to their right.

  Amongst a group of boulders, a small campfire was dancing in the breeze, and around it sat four men. Lock was unable to make out their attire, but one had a kufiya on his head and another was wearing what seemed to be a sheepskin tunic. Lock was almost convinced that the men were shepherds until he saw their rifles, propped up in a neat stack of four the way soldiers are taught to do so. The men appeared to be arguing. Every now and again the odd word of harsh Turkish would be carried on the wind, but Lock couldn’t make any sense of what they were saying. A little way from the fire was an upturned cart. A dead mule, still in its harness, lay next to it. On the other side of the cart there was something else … Lock squinted against the setting sun. Something … a body was lying there. But it was moving, he was sure of it. Then the mournful cry came again.

  Lock went to lower the goggles to take away some of the sun’s glare, then stopped himself. He couldn’t risk the light reflecting off the lenses and giving their position away. He ripped the goggles from his head and gave them back to Connolly. ‘Let’s get closer,’ he said.

  Connolly nodded and, staying on their side of the ridge, both men crept off to the right. They stopped a few yards on, behind a group of boulders. Cautiously they peered over to see that one of the men, most definitely a soldier, judging by his khaki jacket and trousers and the puttees around his shins, was shouting as he approached the snivelling creature. Lock was shocked to see that it wasn’t a dog tied there after all, but a child. As the soldier stooped over the child, pointing angrily, his comrades broke into laughter. The soldier spat and kicked out at the prisoner, then returned to sit by the fire.

  Lock paused for a moment. ‘I think it’s just the four of them, Connolly! Let’s go,’ he said. The Irishman followed as Lock scrambled over the rocks, Webley at the ready.

  Keeping low and moving as carefully as they could over the uneven ground, Lock and Connolly wove their way down the ridge. Loose rocks made the going tricky and Lock tensed, all the while thinking one of the soldiers would hear them. But as they got further and further down the ridge, the sound of the river increased, and the more hidden from view they became.

  At the foot of the ridge they paused.

  The soldiers’ voices were more distinct now. Lock wondered if they had stumbled upon a patrol. Could there be more soldiers nearby? But what the hell were they doing so far into the British lines? Could this be a scouting party from the larger force Ross had said was encamped north of Ahwaz? Well, only one way to find out, Lock said to himself. He signalled to Connolly and both men edged towards the upturned cart. It was now about twenty yards away. The carcass of the mule blocked their view of the child.

  Lock and Connolly dropped to their bellies and lay flat, hardly daring to breathe.

  One of the soldiers was up again and walking in their direction, but his head was turned away as he was still talking to his comrades by the fire.

  ‘Kes sesini!’ the soldier yelled at the child.

  Lock heard the slap of hand against flesh and a cry of pain. But the wailing continued. The soldier cursed and hit the child again. Lock had seen enough. He sprang up, gun in hand.

  But Connolly was quicker. His knife fizzed through the air and thudded into the soldier’s spine. The soldier gave a muffled cry of surprise and sank to his knees, before collapsing, face first, to the ground. Lock gave Connolly a look of surprise. It was a good throw.

  Connolly shrugged. ‘Skibbereen’s a dangerous place after dark.’

  They scrambled over the mule and there, with her hands and her feet tied, and with a rope around her neck tethered to the broken axle of the cart, was a naked girl of no more than eight or nine years of age. She let out a scream.

  A second soldier rose to his feet to see what was going on. His jaw dropped as Lock ran at him. But he didn’t have a chance to shout a warning as Lock pulled the trigger of his Webley. The revolver kicked back in his hand and the soldier froze, a third eye having suddenly appeared in the middle of his forehead. He slowly sank from sight.

  Lock kept running. His heart was pounding in his chest as he rounded the cart. The other two soldiers were just getting to their feet, crying out in alarm as they made a grab for their rifles. Lock fired again, wildly. He instinctively adjusted his aim in a split second and pulled the trigger once more, this time hitting the third soldier in the shoulder, spinning him to the left. The soldier’s rifle flew from his grip. Lock fired a fourth bullet and the side of the soldier’s head exploded in a spray of red, and he fell sideways in a heap. The fourth soldier had his rifle levelled, ready to fire at Lock, when suddenly he arched his body and cried out. Blood burst from his chest and his eyes rolled up in his head. He crumpled to the ground, revealing Connolly standing behind him, one of the Turks’ rifles raised.

  Lock nodded his thanks. ‘If I ever get there, remind me to ask you to show me around Skibbereen.’

  Connolly grinned, then knelt down and turned the head of one of the bodies towards him. ‘Turkish Kurds, sir. A patrol maybe? Or deserters?’

  ‘I don’t think so, Connolly,’ Lock said. He picked up one of the saddlebags by the fire. It was heavy. Inside were papers, a notebook and what looked like coin bags.

  Just then the child cried out again.

  ‘The girl!’ Lock said, dropping the saddlebag.

  As Lock rounded the other side of the cart, Sergeant Major Underhill rose to his feet. He was standing over the girl who was shaking and whimpering uncontrollably. Her head spun round on hearing Lock approach. Her eyes were full of panic and her neck was raw as she strained against the rope tied around it. She made to scream again.

  ‘Get away from her!’ Lock said, shoving Underhill in the chest. The sergeant major grimaced and stepped away. Lock glared at him, then looked at the girl. He holstered his Webley, and opened his hands out reassuringly as he crouched down. ‘Shhh,’ he said. ‘There now, we mean you no harm … British … Does she understand?’

  ‘I was just tryin’ to tell the little bint that, sah,’ Underhill said.

  ‘She must be a nomad, one of the Persian tribes. Qashqai, Bakhtiari or Lur, sir,’ Connolly said, approaching.

  Lock glanced up. Connolly was carrying a flaming piece of driftwood in his hand. Lock turned back to the girl. Her long dark hair was matted, her tear-streaked face was cut and swollen, and her thin body was bruised black and blue and filthy with mud, dust and dried blood.

  Lock shook his head. ‘No, the Lurs are mostly in the Zagros mountain area, on the other side of the Karun, I believe. Qashqai?’ he said, turning to the girl. But she just began to whimper again. He put his hands up. ‘No, no … we British,’ he said, waving his hand back at Connolly and Underhill. ‘Breetaanee. Me, Australian, Ostraalee.’ He pointed to his chest. ‘You, Qashqai?’ He pointed at her.

  She shook her head faintly.

  ‘Bakhtiari? Lur?’ Lock said, but the girl just whimpered and drew her legs tighter to her body, hiding her nakedness. ‘Esmee Kingdom. Esmak ay?’

  ‘You’re wastin’ yer time, sah. She’s clearly dippy. You fanti, lass?’ Underhill shouted down at her. ‘’Ey?’

  ‘Shut up, Underhill!’ Lock said, as he removed his service jacket and offered it out to the girl. ‘Please,’ he said. ‘Tafadal,’ he repeated in Arabic, inching forward. He hoped the language would be common enough for the girl to know some words. If she were a nomad, then Arabic would be familiar to her from the traders her people would come across. The Qashqai spoke a form of Turkish, but he knew no Luri.

  The girl nervously glanced at Underhill, and then she focused on Lock again and sniffed.

  As the light from Connolly’s torch flickered over her face, her eyes momentarily transfixed Lock. They were a stunning turquoise, like two oasis pools in a burnt desert. Maybe that was how people regarded his own eyes, how he was regarding hers now, with surprise and wonder. He smiled softly, holding out the
jacket. He inched closer and closer, then carefully placed the jacket over her bony shoulders and moved back. The girl sniffed again, continuing to watch the three men with suspicion.

  Lock glanced at Connolly, who was looking to his right at the dead soldier with the knife between his shoulder blades. The Irishman walked over to him, kicked him, then leant down and tugged the knife out. It made a sickening, sucking pop as it came free. He made a show for the girl of wiping the blood on the dead soldier’s tunic and spitting at the body again.

  ‘We should get out of ’ere, sah,’ Underhill said.

  ‘Why, Sergeant Major?’ Lock said.

  ‘I count four dead soldiers and there’s four ’orses tied over there.’

  Lock glanced across at the animals. ‘So?’

  Underhill nodded to the mule cart. ‘If I’m not mistaken, them there’s snout bags.’

  ‘Your point, Sergeant Major?’ Lock was beginning to get irritated.

  ‘There’s five.’

  Lock frowned and Connolly quickly scampered over to the cart.

  ‘He’s right, sir. And all have fresh oats in.’ It meant there was another rider out there somewhere.

  ‘Right. Connolly,’ Lock said, ‘gather the horses. Sergeant Major, those saddlebags by the fire.’ He turned back to the girl, raised his wrists but held them together as if they were tied. He then pulled them apart. ‘Tafadal?’

  She understood and jerked her head up and down. Connolly approached with the horses and stood watching Lock and the girl. Underhill came up and threw the saddlebags over one of the horses, then mounted upon another.

  ‘Come on, sah, before we lose all the daylight.’

  ‘Connolly, your knife.’ Lock held his hand out, and the Irishman slapped the blade into his palm.

  Lock got to his feet, delicately, approaching the girl. She was terrified and was unable to pull her eyes from the glistening blade. ‘Tafadal,’ he repeated softly. The girl held out her trembling wrists and Lock slowly lifted the knife and cut her bonds with one slice. He cut her bound feet and finally, he sliced the rope from around her neck.