Fearless

by Fiona Higgins

  To Lorenzo’s relief, the guard waved Cara on. He trailed her for a short distance, pausing next to the other guard at the café’s entrance. They watched as Cara continued over the bridge and down the stairs.

  Lorenzo’s stomach did several sickening backflips as he observed Cara through the gaps in the façade’s bamboo panelling. She walked quickly along the path to the toilet block, then disappeared into the section marked Wanita. Any moment now, she would begin calling for assistance, propelling Lorenzo and Remy into action.

  Lorenzo looked at Remy, whose face was rigid.

  Seconds later, they heard Cara call out, ‘Tolong, Tito sakit!’

  The guards looked at each other, frowning. ‘Ada apa sih?’ the first guard called to Cara, walking in the direction of the amenities block.

  She called back immediately, her voice high-pitched and panicked. Lorenzo knew it wasn’t all acting.

  The guard turned back to his partner and shrugged, then moved further along the path. He stopped near the entrance to the amenities block and called out to Cara. Their exchange continued, until Lorenzo began to fear that the guard would never enter the bathroom. Waiting, Lorenzo shifted his position into a crouch. Remy did the same, visibly shaking as he gingerly shifted Janelle onto the floor.

  After what felt like an eternity, the guard seemed to tire of his discussion with Cara. Evidently frustrated, he gesticulated at his colleague standing in the café entrance, then turned and walked into the ladies’ room.

  Just then, the call to prayer sounded from the laptop at the front of the café. A flock of ducks rose from a nearby pond, squawking loudly.

  Taking advantage of the brief flurry of noise, Lorenzo lurched upright and rocketed across the room, his limbs pumping like pistons. His vision seemed enhanced, and he instantly identified the quickest route to the entrance, dodging prone bodies. Shocked hostages gaped at him as he sprinted past. Remy was trailing somewhere behind, his feet slapping on the cold white tiles.

  The sound prompted the guard at the entrance to turn around, as if in slow motion, raising his rifle. Remy wasn’t close enough, and Lorenzo was already upon him. He slammed his shoulder into the guard’s chest, knocking him backwards with such force that they plunged together over the bridge, down the steps and onto the path below. The crack of the man’s head against the pavers was decisive. Lorenzo straddled him anyway, watched his eyes roll back in his head as blood pooled beneath his skull. A moment later, the guard’s body went limp.

  ‘Stay here,’ Lorenzo whispered to Remy, who now stood panting at his side. ‘Take this, just in case.’ He removed a box cutter from the guard’s belt. ‘Tell the hostages not to move until we say.’

  Remy nodded. Lorenzo yanked the strap of the rifle over the guard’s head, then stood up and began moving quickly towards the toilets.

  As he approached, he could hear Tito crying, and Cara and the guard continuing to converse, which suggested the guard hadn’t heard the commotion outside. Flattening himself against the outside wall of the toilet block, Lorenzo crept to the door, then stole a look around it. Cara was crouched next to the bak, a large tub filled with water, with Tito whimpering next to her. The boy’s face was blotchy with distress and the guard was bent over him, wiggling his fingers and making chk-chk-chk noises, trying to distract him.

  Without pausing for thought, Lorenzo rounded the corner and charged at the guard, swinging the butt of the rifle at his head. But the guard caught sight of Lorenzo’s reflection in the mirror, and dived aside. Rolling across the slippery floor, the man fumbled for his rifle. Before he could reach the trigger, Lorenzo tackled him.

  He rammed the man’s head against the bak, then hurled him face down into it. He held the man’s head beneath the water, pinned by his body weight. The guard moved jerkily, his movements frantic. But Lorenzo held his neck fast, even as the man thrashed about and, finally, began to lose strength.

  Suddenly Cara cried out and Lorenzo wheeled around, expecting to see more guards.

  ‘Don’t drown him,’ she cried. ‘Please, don’t drown him.’ She hugged Tito’s face to her chest.

  Lorenzo held the guard under for a few seconds longer, until his limbs stopped moving. Then he pulled him out by the back of his shirt and let him slump to the floor, motionless.

  ‘Come on.’ He strode into the cubicle with the window above it and climbed onto the toilet seat. Reaching up, he pulled off the window grille and cast it aside. He stepped up onto the cistern and then hoisted himself into the gap. The exterior wall lay less than a metre away, partially obstructed by foliage.

  ‘Give me that,’ he said to Cara, nodding at a large drain plunger on the floor beside the toilet. From the corner of the small cubicle, one arm still holding Tito, she grasped it and passed it up to him.

  He hacked at the foliage with it, clearing a way through. Then, realising that the exterior wall was slightly higher than the window, he half climbed, half jumped across the gap. The barbed wire on top of the wall scratched at his limbs and he crouched there a moment, peering over the wall. The drop was significant enough to break bones: he and Remy would have to help the hostages across the gap and down the other side.

  Someone cried out from the car park below, and Lorenzo realised he’d been spotted. He raised an arm above his head in acknowledgement, then pressed a finger to his lips, trying to communicate the need for silence. But the excitement in the car park grew, and a moment later, a group of uniformed officers rushed towards the wall with two long bamboo ladders. Lorenzo held up his palm to communicate wait.

  The officer at the front of the group held up his hand too, and the men behind him immediately halted. The leader looked up again. Lorenzo gave him a thumbs-up, then pressed his finger to his lips once more. Wait, he mouthed to the man, who nodded.

  Lorenzo clambered back across the gap into the window, his breath ragged. ‘Stand on the cistern and pass me Tito,’ he said.

  Cara nodded and coaxed Tito up onto the toilet seat, stepping up beside him. She put one foot on the cistern, but struggled to lift Tito any further.

  ‘I’ll take him,’ said Lorenzo, leaning down and grasping the boy with both hands.

  As Lorenzo pulled him up into the window, Tito began to whimper. Lorenzo hesitated, looking back at the gap. The boy was light, but attempting to jump across while holding him would be risky.

  A head appeared above the wall. It was the leader of the uniformed officers.

  ‘Ladder,’ whispered Lorenzo.

  The leader nodded, disappeared for a moment, then reappeared with one of the bamboo ladders. He pushed it through the gap in the foliage. Lorenzo pulled it across to the window, positioning it as a makeshift bridge. It wasn’t secure, but it would do.

  Holding Tito in one arm, Lorenzo moved carefully across the ladder, then passed the boy to the officer. At least half a dozen ladders were propped against the external wall now, Lorenzo saw.

  Panic gripped him. ‘Stay on that side!’ he whispered hoarsely. ‘We will pass you down the hostages.’

  The lead officer looked at him, expressionless. ‘I follow my commander’s orders,’ he said, before carrying Tito down the ladder.

  We need to get out now.

  Lorenzo turned to help Cara, already climbing through the window. Her feet slipped on the bamboo rungs as she clambered across, almost upsetting the ladder.

  ‘Tell the Indonesians they must wait,’ he urged, guiding her down onto an external ladder. ‘Tell them we have more than sixty hostages coming now.’

  She nodded. ‘Thank you, Lorenzo,’ she said, her eyes filling with tears.

  He smiled at her, then turned and hurried across the ladder once more. He slid down into the cubicle, then raced out of the toilet block, looking around. It was only a matter of time before Friday prayers would be over.

  At the café entrance, Remy stood by the guard’s unmoving body. Relief flooded his face at the sight of Lorenzo.

  ‘We’re out,’ Lorenzo whispered. ‘I need you
r help on the wall. Get Janelle ready.’

  Remy nodded. He ran into the café and swept Janelle over his shoulder in a fireman’s lift. As he did, several hostages near the entrance stood up and others began to murmur.

  Lorenzo had followed Remy inside. He stood on a chair near the entrance and held up his hands for silence. ‘We’ve found a way out,’ he said in a low voice. ‘But you must stay calm.’ He pointed at the amenities block. ‘Follow us quietly and we will get you out.’

  ‘No way,’ a voice said. A blond-haired man in board shorts and a Bintang singlet stood up. ‘They’ll be rescuing us soon. I’m staying put.’

  ‘Me too,’ said the woman next to him, and others nodded in agreement.

  There was no time to attempt to reason with them. ‘Go now, Remy,’ commanded Lorenzo. The Frenchman strode off towards the toilet block, carrying Janelle across his shoulders. ‘Anyone else who wants to come must come now.’

  Lorenzo jumped down and ran after Remy as a sudden, undesirable din erupted behind him. Chairs scraped on the café’s tiled floor, people urged one another to stand up, or quarrelled about what to do. Others were already following Lorenzo, the sound of their footsteps prompting him to run even faster.

  Back in the amenities block, Lorenzo found Remy already standing on the toilet seat, struggling to lift a limp Janelle through the window.

  ‘You go through first,’ said Lorenzo. ‘Crouch on the ladder and reach back. I will push her out.’

  After lowering Janelle into Lorenzo’s arms, Remy climbed through the window and onto the bamboo ladder. A moment later, his hands appeared in the gap. With one foot on the cistern, Lorenzo hauled Janelle up under the arms and pushed her upper body through the window. Her head lolled alarmingly. Remy leaned over and grasped her shoulders.

  ‘Okay,’ said Lorenzo. ‘Go!’ Together, they lifted Janelle across the gap.

  While Remy carefully lowered her over the outer wall to the waiting officers, Lorenzo turned to find the bathroom filled with panic-stricken hostages. They surged forward, some jostling each other.

  ‘Don’t push!’ said Lorenzo, and extended a hand to an African woman standing immediately in front of him. She was uninjured and climbed up through the window quickly. A middle-aged Indian man was next, then three frightened Japanese children. The eldest of the trio, a boy of no more than ten, insisted that his two younger sisters go first.

  ‘You’re a brave boy,’ Lorenzo told him, guiding him over the gap.

  As the hostages copied those before them, the process became smoother. The able-bodied moved quickly, with Lorenzo’s help inside the bathroom and Remy’s assistance on the ladder and at the wall. Lorenzo worked ceaselessly, steadily moving the hostages up and through the window, lifting those who needed more assistance, until sweat drenched his shirt and made his hands slippery.

  He’d counted twenty-six hostages crossed to safety when a short, gaunt man appeared in the line holding an elderly woman in his arms. Her skin was ashen and her eyes were closed. The man stumbled and almost dropped the woman, who Lorenzo presumed was his mother.

  ‘Here,’ said Lorenzo, reaching for her. ‘Let me help.’

  Taking the woman in his arms, Lorenzo noticed that she was cool to the touch. He squinted then, observing the set of her jaw and the stiffness of her limbs.

  ‘Sir,’ he said cautiously. ‘Your mother is …’

  ‘Unconscious,’ said the man, in a thick Slavic accent.

  Lorenzo looked again at the woman. ‘Sir,’ he repeated. ‘Perhaps we can put her—’

  ‘Get her out now!’ spat the man.

  Lorenzo nodded. Arguing would only cause further delays. He stood on the cistern and called for Remy’s assistance. ‘This one may be hard to move.’

  Remy’s eyes widened when he saw the woman, but he said nothing. Lorenzo attempted to lift her through the window, but the rigidity of her body made it difficult to manoeuvre.

  After several failed attempts, some of the waiting hostages became agitated. A man called out, ‘She’s dead! Put her down!’ and the group surged forward again.

  ‘No!’ cried Lorenzo, pushing them back with his foot. ‘We are not animals. Help me get this woman out.’ He pointed to a strapping man with a ginger beard. ‘You—help me.’

  Remy had moved into the window, straddling it, his upper body hunched forward. The Indonesian officer had leaped up onto the outside wall and crouched there, waiting.

  Lorenzo stood on the toilet seat and turned to the bearded man. ‘Okay—lift!’

  The man hoisted the woman up and Lorenzo shunted her partially through the window. Remy helped to move her onto the ladder bridge. The Indonesian officer leaned forward from the wall and gripped the woman’s shoulders. As he hauled her across, her shoe caught on a rung of the ladder. Remy leaned over to extricate it, and the ladder wobbled and tipped sideways. The woman’s body rolled off the ladder and fell between the walls, landing with a thud in the dirt below. The ladder clattered down on top of her.

  Remy and the officer stared down, horrified.

  ‘We have to leave her there,’ said Lorenzo.

  The woman’s son barged at Lorenzo then, pummelling his chest. The bearded man pushed him back against the cubicle wall and, without hesitation, slammed his fist into the man’s face. The man slid to the floor, unconscious.

  ‘Stop!’ gasped Lorenzo. ‘Stay calm!’

  The anticipated half-hour for Friday prayers was surely over. At any moment, the guards would return and find the café nearly empty.

  ‘Quick,’ said Lorenzo, reaching for the next hostage. ‘You’ll have to jump across. Careful of the gap.’

  Four Chinese hostages, an Australian trio, a man with a maple leaf sewn on his cap; Remy and the Indonesian officer reached for them from the wall, helping them across the gap. The bearded man passed his pretty, blonde daughter up to Lorenzo, and then helped two young women from Europe, and a couple who looked Indonesian. Finally, only a handful of hostages remained. As he lifted an older Australian woman through the window to Remy, Lorenzo heard a commotion behind him.

  He turned to see the bearded man now standing over the guard still lying on the floor outside the cubicle. The guard was regaining consciousness, spluttering and coughing as his head rolled from side to side. The bearded man held Lorenzo’s rifle, waving it near the guard’s head.

  The guard’s eyelids fluttered. The bearded man snarled, his finger hovering over the trigger.

  ‘Don’t shoot!’ Lorenzo called desperately.

  The guard’s eyes opened.

  An ear-splitting crack rang out, shattering the mirror on the wall, and the guard on the floor tried to roll away. Three more bangs and blood spurted across the tiles. The bearded man dropped the rifle immediately; the guard lay lifeless, and two hostages fell to the floor, hit by stray bullets.

  Lorenzo jumped down from the window and bent over the fallen hostages. Both were bleeding and shrieking in pain.

  Any moment, Lorenzo thought. ‘Go!’ he commanded the bearded man. ‘Get out!’

  The man pushed past him and climbed through the window. Lorenzo helped the two remaining able-bodied hostages up after him.

  ‘Climb up,’ Remy urged Lorenzo, from the outer wall. ‘Come now!’

  ‘Two more are injured here,’ he called back, turning to a woman with a neck wound. He looked around for something to stem the flow of blood. The man punched unconscious was starting to stir, too.

  ‘Leave them!’ Remy cried. Lorenzo pressed his bare hand to the wounded woman’s neck.

  Suddenly there were voices just outside the bathroom. Lorenzo looked towards the door and froze. Two guards came through the doorway and stalked across the tiles, their rifles trained on him. Lorenzo instinctively eyed the rifle on the floor, only a metre away.

  ‘Hands up,’ said a guard, following his gaze.

  Lorenzo lifted them.

  The second guard crouched down next to the dead guard on the floor. He stared for a moment, bef
ore looking furiously at Lorenzo. ‘Kneel,’ he commanded. ‘Hands behind your head.’

  Lorenzo obeyed, shaking.

  The two guards stood in front of him, their rifles raised.

  Lorenzo closed his eyes and saw Lavinia’s face on their wedding day, radiant with joy.

  A breeze whispered beyond the window, a rustling of leaves like a thousand soft footsteps.

  This is how it happens.

  A curious calm settled upon him. He opened his eyes and looked directly at the guards.

  This is how I meet nonna Marisa again.

  FAILURE

  Remy watched helplessly as two hospital wardsmen pushed Janelle’s stretcher towards an opaque sliding door marked Darurat—Emergency. Dozens of people lined the waiting room. Some were siege survivors, slumped in chairs or against walls. Others were translators, diplomatic personnel, relatives or friends.

  A cordon of police officers was positioned outside the hospital entrance, fending off the media throng. Inside, a triage team of local doctors and international volunteers was reviewing every new arrival and ongoing case. Having sustained only minor lacerations from the barbed wire, Remy had been deemed a low medical priority. He was exhausted, hungry and dehydrated, but all that could be easily fixed; he was soon offered food, drink and a change of clothes by a junior nurse. But given the grave and uncertain nature of her injuries, Janelle had been taken for assessment immediately.

  ‘Please don’t die, Janelle,’ he murmured, watching the light brown crown of her head disappear behind the emergency doors. ‘Not now that I have found you.’

  ‘Bonjour, Monsieur. Comment allez-vous? Vous avez subi un grand choc, j’imagine.’

  Remy looked up to see a white-haired woman standing beside his chair, a clipboard in her hands. Her impeccable outfit was entirely at odds with the chaotic scene around them.

  ‘I’m Marie, from the French consulate,’ she explained, continuing to address him in French. ‘What’s your name?’