Fearless

by Fiona Higgins

  What the hell just happened? An earthquake?

  He pushed himself onto an elbow, then rolled onto his right side. Panting heavily, he curled his legs under him, dug his shoes into the dirt and pushed himself up onto his haunches. He lurched, crablike, to the front of the fig tree. Blackened fragments of metal were embedded up and down its sides. He stared at the shards, uncomprehending.

  An unearthly shriek prompted him to wheel around.

  In the middle of the concourse, the Asian tourist lay writhing in the dirt. Her camera still hung from its strap around her neck, but her clothes were ragged strips. The rest of her was a bloodied, charred mess. She was still alive, her hands pressed against her abdomen, barely stemming the flow of blood. Clutching the tree, Henry began pulling himself up to standing, determined to help. He heard voices calling out nearby.

  Thank God, someone is here.

  Two men rushed onto the concourse, pressing handkerchiefs against their faces and carrying long sticks. One of them darted the short distance to the iron gate separating the concourse from the ticket booth and car park beyond. The man tugged at the great gate, sliding it closed. He tapped a wall-mounted keypad next to it, then shouted, ‘Sudah!’

  Henry stared blankly. Why were they locking the only exit?

  The other man approached the woman writhing on the ground and prodded her casually with his foot. Henry squinted in confusion, before all at once realising that the stick he carried was a rifle. The man pointed it at the woman’s head.

  Henry gasped and threw himself behind the tree again. He crouched there, terrified. He looked around desperately for an escape route, but saw only the twelve-foot stone wall that surrounded the sanctuary on every side. A sickening bang reverberated and the woman’s wailing stopped.

  Henry screwed his eyes shut, appealing to a God he’d thumbed his nose at long ago. Dear Jesus, have mercy … help me now in my hour of need … do not forsake me. Childhood prayers, long dormant inside him, tumbled forth.

  Footsteps moved in his direction. Henry shrank back against the trunk of the fig, pressing himself into its lichen-filled furrows. I didn’t even say goodbye to my family, or to Jim. All the precious hours he’d squandered. The callous jokes, the unsaid words. He closed his eyes, whispering a prayer.

  The footsteps moved closer, then stopped in front of him. Something nudged his leg. Shaking violently, he opened his eyes. Brown feet with white soles in orange flip-flops stood in front of him, and the butt of a rifle rested in the dirt. Henry looked up, into the mismatched eyes of Yanto the drinks seller, who lifted his rifle and pointed it at Henry.

  ‘Please,’ Henry begged. ‘Don’t.’ He cowered against the trunk, covering his face.

  God help me.

  Random images accosted him. Zeroes and ones on a computer screen. Snowflakes falling across a field of bracken. Jim lying next to him on the heath, laughing.

  And Yanto the smiling drinks seller, pointing a rifle at his head.

  There was an earsplitting crack and dirt exploded around him. Henry lay face down, his whole body twitching. Then, inconceivably, the footsteps began to move away. Yanto called out, ‘Sudah!’ and the two men were gone.

  Henry sobbed into the dirt.

  Then, with his gut cramping in terror, he hauled himself to his feet again.

  I have to get out.

  He stumbled onto the concourse, turning his face away as he passed the woman’s corpse. He ran to the exit and tugged at the gate, but it held fast. Moving to the keypad, he began pressing random combinations.

  Think, think.

  At the base of the opposite wall, just inside the gate, he spied a fire hose. Affixed above it was a glass cabinet containing an axe. A sign on the cabinet read: Break in case of fire. If nothing else, the axe was a weapon.

  He scouted for something with which to shatter the glass, and decided his foot would do. Then he noticed the heavy bronze coupling on the end of the fire hose. He pulled a lever to release the hose, which unwound rapidly. Hauling a length over his shoulder, he aimed the coupling at the cabinet and swung it as hard as he could. It barely dented the glass.

  Sweet Jesus.

  He looked around the concourse again. Spotting a thick bamboo stake in the remains of the labyrinth garden, he raced towards it, fell to his knees and wrenched it out. Then he noticed something lying beneath a nearby bush. It was the limp body of a man with matted, silver hair.

  ‘Pak Tony?’ Henry whispered, scrambling towards him. The facilitator blinked.

  ‘Wait here.’ Henry bolted across the concourse and hurled the bamboo rod at the glass cabinet, smashing it. He pulled out the axe and began to hack maniacally at the lock on the gate. The blows made a loud clanging noise, and the action jarred his injured shoulder, but he kept swinging all the same. A moment later, he heard Indonesian voices in the distance.

  ‘Oh, dear God.’ He threw down the axe and ran back to Pak Tony, then dragged him out from under the bush. ‘Can you stand up?’

  Pak Tony lay unmoving, his eyes glassy and his lips working silently.

  ‘Get up!’ Henry yelled. His eyes roved to a large black skip bin not far from the fire hose, trash bulging against its lid.

  ‘Right.’ Henry pulled Pak Tony to his feet and shunted him over his good shoulder. Then, stumbling under the man’s weight, he carried him to the skip bin and sat him against the wall. The facilitator sagged forward, his eyes fixed on the ground. There was no evidence of bleeding; Henry could only assume he had internal injuries.

  With a grunt of exertion, Henry climbed onto the bin. The rubbish inside helped to reinforce the lid, and the top of the wall—set with a loose coil of barbed wire—was now within reach. He gripped the edge of the wall with both hands and, with one almighty pull, scrabbled upwards. The unevenly hewn stones provided several natural footholds, and he managed to raise his head over the wall. In the several seconds he kept himself suspended there, his arm muscles screaming with fatigue, Henry saw three things: a small crowd gathering outside, a precipitous drop into the car park below, and Pak Ketut pacing at the locked gate.

  ‘Ketut!’ he called. The driver looked up in astonishment, just as Henry’s arms gave out.

  He dropped back onto the skip bin, panting hard. The Indonesian voices behind him were moving closer, coming from the direction of the amphitheatre.

  Henry leaped down off the bin and snatched the fire hose, unravelling its entire length as quickly as he could. He coiled it into large loops in one hand, with the heavy coupling dangling at one end, then threw it at the top of the wall. It clattered back down to the ground.

  He tried again, coiling the loops more evenly this time, restraining his natural urge to rush. Then, rocking back and forth on his heels, he let go of the coupling. This time it soared like a lasso—up and over the wall—taking several metres of hose with it.

  Turning now to Pak Tony, Henry spoke into his ear. ‘I’ll get you to the top of the wall. Stand up.’

  Pak Tony mumbled something in Dutch. His knees buckled as Henry pulled him up to standing.

  ‘Stay there,’ said Henry, jumping up onto the lid of the skip bin once more. Reaching down, he hooked his arms under Pak Tony’s armpits. ‘Now, push!’ he said, hoisting him up as best he could. ‘Use your legs.’

  Pak Tony obeyed, groaning in pain. He slid up the side of the bin, then flopped face-first onto it.

  ‘Stand up,’ Henry urged again, hauling Pak Tony onto his knees and then into a precarious standing position. The facilitator collapsed against the wall, pale and trembling.

  ‘You’re doing well, Tony,’ he said, crouching down. ‘Step onto my back, I’ll give you a leg-up.’ He felt the bin wobble a little under their combined weight, but Pak Tony didn’t move.

  The garbled Indonesian voices came nearer. If they found Henry and Tony here, Henry knew, they’d shoot them.

  ‘Plan B,’ he announced. ‘I’m going to climb up first, then I’m going to pull you up onto the wall after me. Just don�
�t sit down, okay? Stay standing.’

  Henry bent his knees and, aiming at the top of the wall, sprang off the bin. He grabbed the edge of the wall and hung there for a moment, his legs dangling, seeking a foothold. Finding one, he pulled himself up. Rusted barbed wire pierced his flesh as he swung a leg over, straddling the wall. It wasn’t razor wire, he told himself, it was survivable. Breathing heavily, he extended his right arm, his strongest, towards Pak Tony.

  ‘Henry!’

  He glanced down over the other side of the wall. Ketut was already there, propping a flexible bamboo ladder directly beneath him, assisted by a group of Balinese men.

  ‘I’ve got Tony,’ Henry called down. ‘He’s injured.’

  Ketut nodded and spoke urgently to the other men. Then he slipped off his sandals and began to climb the ladder.

  Henry turned back to Tony now. ‘Reach up,’ he urged. ‘Give me your hand.’

  Pak Tony looked up, his face contorted. Slowly he raised a hand and Henry grasped it. Then, gripping either side of the wall with his feet and bracing his abdominals, he called, ‘Push up, Tony!’

  Pak Tony’s feet scrabbled at the wall, but it barely helped. Henry groaned aloud, pulling with all his might. His left shoulder was numb and his muscles were burning, but slowly, Tony began inching up. Expelling the last of the air in his lungs, Henry thrust his other arm under the man’s armpit and dragged him onto the top of the wall.

  The facilitator screamed as the barbed wire sank into his flesh. Then he lay prone and heaving, his legs dangling on either side of the wall, his eyes closed.

  ‘Tony, stay with me,’ said Henry.

  Pak Tony opened one eye, then closed it again.

  ‘Sit up.’ Henry pulled Tony up by the back of his shirt, and they sat astride the wall like men on horseback.

  Alerted by loud voices, Henry looked down into the animal sanctuary. Two men with bandanas over the lower half of their faces were sprinting down the path from the amphitheatre, rifles pointed.

  Grabbing the hose dangling over the wall, Henry thrust it into Tony’s hands. ‘Hold on!’ He pushed him over the wall, towards Ketut, who stood at the top of the ladder less than a metre below.

  Pak Tony swung out wildly, knocking into Ketut and unbalancing him. The pair slid down the ladder, tumbling onto several men at its base. Then the ladder fell, too.

  There was a thunderous crack and something grazed Henry’s earlobe.

  Dear Jesus.

  He didn’t turn to look. There was no time to wait for the ladder. With the sound of his own heartbeat hammering in his ears, Henry flung himself out over the expanse of grey concrete below. A giddy moment of weightlessness, his arms outstretched to touch the edges of the sky.

  Like a bird, poised to fly.

  DEATH

  Annie arrived fifteen minutes early, trying to secure the best vantage point for the bird show. The amphitheatre descended in tiers and was already filling fast. Tour groups had occupied the best seats at the front and centre of the stage, but then she spied two empty benches. One was on the right-hand side of the stage, in the very first row. The other was on the left, some six rows back, but shaded by a large tree that grew, somewhat crazily, between rows five and six. The Balinese were superstitious about certain trees, Annie knew, and could not be convinced to cut them down. This one was significant, it seemed, with a black-and-white checked poleng cloth stretched around its trunk. The owners of Paradise Animal Sanctuary probably had to ask the spirits permission to build the amphitheatre around it. Lucky for me they agreed, she thought, desperate for some shade.

  After carefully navigating the steps, she positioned her gear at intervals along the bench to save places for the others, and then sat down. For her intimacy bridge, she penned a letter to Kevin, shedding some tears as she wrote the final sentence: You’re irreplaceable, Kevin, but I’m getting to know someone special. Then she sealed her letter in an envelope and stood up to hail her friends.

  Cara and Janelle arrived first, shortly followed by Remy. They joined her in the shade of the tree as many more tourists, of predominantly Asian extraction, filed into the amphitheatre. As they exchanged small talk and waited for the show to begin, Annie admired the Asian women, their petite figures and flawless complexions shielded by dainty parasols. Their impeccable clothes and slender hands in white cotton gloves. Asian women were femininity and grace personified, she decided. At least in comparison to clammy oversized Westerners such as herself.

  Just before four o’clock, as an enthusiastic Balinese compere took to the stage and announced the imminent commencement of the bird show, Annie noticed Lorenzo picking his way along the row towards them. She lifted a bag off the bench to make room for him, keeping the remaining space for Henry and Pak Tony. Where have they gotten to? she wondered, feeling rather lightheaded, and realised that she’d forgotten her insulin again. The theatrical sound of trumpets drew her attention back to the stage, where three smiling bird trainers took their places.

  Two men in khaki uniforms, and a woman in a surprisingly short pink skirt, bowed in a choreographed fashion to the opening bars of Avril Lavigne’s ‘Fly’. The trainer in the miniskirt hurled a handful of raw titbits into the sky and launched a Javan hawk off her thick falconer’s glove. The bird swept into the air, did several tight somersaults, then snapped the falling meat into its beak. The crowd oohed and aahed and applauded.

  And then, a deafening explosion hurled her sideways.

  When Annie opened her eyes, she was lying face down and quivering, the taste of dirt and blood in her mouth. Another blast shook the earth, further away. After some time—she didn’t know how long—she pulled herself up onto her hands and knees and began to crawl, trying to find a way out. Almost immediately she encountered the trainer with the pink miniskirt, her legs a mottled, gelatinous mass, her face unrecognisable. Crying out, Annie turned away and bumped into Lorenzo, also on all fours. Blood trickled down his temple and she reached out to touch him, but he disappeared behind a choking cloud of dust.

  Suddenly she felt his strong arms lifting her up, and she wept aloud with gratitude. Gripping each other, they staggered across the rubble and timber and twisted metal and scattered possessions. A baby’s blackened soother, a blood-stained smartphone case, shattered bodies she couldn’t bear to look at. As the dust began to settle, Annie thought she detected Cara ahead of them and called out. The woman turned as if in slow motion. She was pale and limping, but it was Cara! Annie’s relief was inordinate. There are three of us, at least.

  They continued through the ruins together. It was slow-going and treacherous and Annie was terrified of further explosions. There had been more than one, after all, and soon it became clear that the rear wall of the amphitheatre, where dozens of audience members had been sitting, had collapsed. Some survivors were clambering over the dead and wounded amid the pandemonium, trying to find their way to an exit. Others were forming a human chain over the wreckage, helping one another to the top.

  ‘Up that way,’ Lorenzo said, pointing to a stairway which was still partially intact. Cara suddenly gasped and dropped to her hands and knees. She began pulling frantically at the rubble, where a small brown arm protruded from beneath a large piece of timber. Now Annie could hear a child’s whimpering.

  She and Lorenzo fell to their knees too, working frenziedly to move the debris. Finally, Lorenzo called out, ‘Stand back!’ and prised up the piece of timber.

  A little boy cringed in the cavity below, his right arm jutting out at an unnatural angle. A woman was curled around his body, her hijab stained with blood, her lifeless eyes trained upon him.

  Cara bent down and carefully scooped out the little boy, draping his unbroken arm around her neck. ‘You’re okay,’ she murmured, patting his back. ‘It’s alright.’

  Lorenzo went to help her.

  ‘It’s okay, he’s light,’ Cara said, cradling the boy to her chest.

  They started out again, the sounds of suffering humanity all around
them. As they guided each other over the jagged wasteland that only minutes earlier had been an orderly amphitheatre, Annie began to hope that help was near. That an emergency services crew would descend at any moment and pluck them out of the mayhem. But as they drew closer to the top of the amphitheatre, Annie saw armed men barring their way.

  Fresh fear seized her heart. ‘Who are they?’

  ‘Just do as they say,’ Lorenzo whispered.

  The armed men stood blocking the route to the park’s exit, rounding up survivors. On the ground nearby was a huddle of the sanctuary’s staff members, sitting with their hands on their heads. Some of the women were crying, and the men looked stunned and fearful.

  The armed men barked monosyllabic orders in English—Stop! Move! Now!—as they shepherded non-staff survivors down a path signposted Birdsong Café and Owl House. Annie focused on Lorenzo’s feet as she followed him, feeling strangely disconnected from her surrounds. As if she were acting in a Hollywood movie with bandits and bombs and brutality and at any moment, the director would yell, ‘Cut!’

  Reaching the Birdsong Café, Annie stared at the unusual-looking building, with its three polished concrete walls. In lieu of a fourth, wide bamboo panelling covered most of the façade. An understated entranceway marked the centre of the façade, set back behind three steps and a small bridge spanning a water feature. It was impossible to discern the café’s interior from the outside.

  They were herded inside and forced to surrender any personal effects that hadn’t been lost in the blast—handbags, backpacks, electronic devices—then instructed to sit on the floor. The chairs and tables were stacked at the rear of the room. As Annie lowered herself onto the white tiles and scanned the café for other exits—rapidly realising that there were none—the word bunker sprang to mind. There was a drinks bar on the left side of the room, and, behind that, a door leading to the kitchen. But there were no doors beyond, Annie saw, and even the kitchen windows were so high as to be inaccessible.

  To soften the effect of the windowless concrete, the internal walls were lined with fabrics from across the Indonesian archipelago, but in the absence of any skylights, the room could well have been underground. The usual lighting—comprised of both downlights and uplights—was not in operation, presumably to intimidate the captives or to conserve energy. There were at least twenty people in the room now, with more trickling in as the minutes passed.