Rotten Gods

by Greg Barron

  Now the words come in a flood, like a hurdler who has reached the final straight. ‘… the government which I represent is a farce and … lies to the world … I have been personally responsible for the death and persecution of …’ Again she looks out. These are good people. Not all, but in the main. Some have clutched at power above all else, but in her experience the majority want the best for their country, their people, and there is no misplaced higher purpose beyond that. Not religion. Not power for its own sake. She studies the next line. I have been the tool and puppet of the Jewish overlords … There is no truth there, not one sand grain in a beach of lies. There has to be a point, she realises, where truth carries more weight than any other consideration. That her life, even those of her children, no longer matter.

  She takes a deep breath. ‘I’m sorry, but I will read no more. I will not sign.’

  Zhyogal lashes out with an open hand, and the blow lands like a whip, stinging her skin and knocking her head sideways. He does this repeatedly, one side then the other, knocking her from the chair and to the carpet where she lies sobbing.

  Stepping back from her he takes the phone from his pocket and taps out a number. A short conversation in Arabic follows. When it is done he stands over her. ‘My colleague is on his way to the place where your daughters are held. He has assured me that he will execute them in the name of God. You have made your choice. Go back to your seat.’

  Isabella cannot hear through the roar of pain and helplessness in her head.

  Madoowbe purchases fuel in a village that comprises no more than a collection of hide tents, with camels tethered next to abandoned motor vehicles. It is still so dark that the only light emanates from a kerosene lantern belonging to the local mullah.

  There are no more refugees now. Nothing to see. Marika dozes off for short periods. Waking, on one occasion, she feels dreamily content, the desert bathed in tawny beauty, and the bike continuing its steady drone.

  Arms around his waist, she asks, ‘How much further?’

  ‘Soon we will reach the Wells of Wahbadi. That is the beginning of the mountains.’

  The landscape here is flat and empty, with few villages but for the occasional semi-nomadic camp, ten or less tukul covered in thatch, or hide and potato sacks sewn together. Rarely is there any sign of a serious attempt at cultivation. Camels and stoic, staring goats are the only livestock.

  The wells loom out of this wasteland, first marked by the crumbled walls of some ancient fortress, yellow stone blocks in rows, chimneys stark against the sky, and the fallen ramparts that must once have been ten paces thick. Marika wonders what defenders manned those walls, who they must have faced. Whether they won, or if time was the only victor here.

  Many of the wells have fallen into disuse and the most recent tracks lead to just one — a circular, earthen pit, a long stone’s throw across, a foot trail winding down to a muddy pool at the bottom. Camels must have often been tethered to the thorn trees nearby, for their dung lies in scattered piles on the sand.

  Marika waits while Madoowbe kicks down the bike stand in the shade, seeing, for the first time in daylight, the fading bruised and puffy patches around one eye and both cheeks from the beating Dalmar Asad’s men gave him.

  ‘You need attention for that cut under your eye,’ she says. ‘I can bathe it if you like.’

  ‘There is no need. I am a man, not a child.’

  ‘Suit yourself, but if it gets infected, don’t blame me.’

  They walk the path down towards the muddy water.

  ‘How long do you think these wells might have been in use?’ she asks.

  ‘Oh five hundred years, perhaps a thousand or more.’

  The thought makes Marika smile; five hundred years of feet, and camels led in single file down that narrow track. Five hundred years of warriors, lovers, quarrelling spouses and questioning children. ‘Do they ever dry up?’

  ‘Every few hundred years or so a new one might be dug.’

  ‘How did your ancestors find them?’

  ‘They say that elephants began most of the wells, but no elephants have been seen in these parts for many years.’

  ‘Where have they gone?’

  ‘As you have seen, this is a country where every man owns an AK47 assault rifle.’

  Marika is incredulous. ‘They kill elephants with a 7.62mm round?’

  ‘Ammunition is cheap compared to the price of ivory. It might take fifty bullets, but they fall in the end.’

  The descent takes longer than Marika expects. The well floor is as wide as a tennis court. The water is inches deep in places, and nonexistent in others. It smells of urine and earth. Here and there people have dug deeper with their hands to improve access.

  Marika watches Madoowbe sink to his knees and suck the cool water by making a straw with pursed lips. She, however, squats at the edge and uses cupped hands to raise water to her lips. As soon as she does so, however, sediment stains the surface, making the area filthy.

  Madoowbe grins at her. ‘Drink as I did.’

  ‘Yeah, yeah, a bit of dirt never hurt anyone.’

  Again she cups her hand, ignoring the rank taste, drinking until she feels satiated. She splashes her face and hair, enjoying the feel of it on her skin, watching Madoowbe fill the canvas water bag that hangs from the bike pillion.

  They sit down together on the shady, cool earth, resting. Madoowbe at first seems content to sit in silence, until finally he says, ‘You have lived all your life in the West. What do you think of Somalia?’

  Marika hesitates, resisting the temptation to throw out a dismissive, empty comment. A basket case. A lost cause. Yet the truth is so much sadder than that. ‘I think that Somalia embodies where we have gone wrong as a species.’

  ‘As a Westerner, you accept the blame?’

  Marika shrugs. ‘Not personally, but I have lived in a system that let this happen.’

  ‘Unfortunately,’ he says, ‘you are right. Somalia is full of guns, refugees, and feuding clans, but it is not us who will destroy the earth, but the West. The world cannot afford to give up its bounty indefinitely. Oil is running out now, the age of the internal combustion engine is almost over; plastics too are petroleum byproducts. Next the iron ore will go. The planet will be exhausted. Every creature that outstrips its natural resources must die out. That is what plague species do. We will be the same. The meeting in Dubai is a farce.’

  Marika looks sideways at him. ‘Careful — I’ll start to wonder whose side you’re on. Again.’

  ‘It is not a matter of sides. These guns you see everywhere in my country, we did not make them ourselves. They come from Russia, China, Pakistan, Korea, and America. This arming of the poorer nations of the world is not right. Militant Islam is not right either, but how can you blame a man who has seen his family starve, or be killed by American bombs, for picking up a gun? How can you blame him for hating? Your leaders can label him as evil, vilify and caricature him, yet you cannot, in all truth, blame him for standing up to what he sees as evil, in a direct and terrible way.’

  ‘Oh yes, I can.’ Marika thrusts out her chin. ‘Western culture is good as well as bad. Rabi al-Salah is our chance to turn things around. The Almohad have taken it over and will exploit it for their own ends. They do not care about the welfare of their people, only their God and what they see as His desires. How can you defend them?’

  ‘No.’ He looks down at the earth. ‘I do not defend them. They are misguided. But still, they have reasons for being what they are.’

  Marika stands, reversing her palms to slap dust from her buttocks. ‘Anyhow, this is all a little deep for this time of the morning. Especially when I’ve spent the whole night on a rattly old motorbike. Let’s just say that I am not concerned with Dr Abukar’s ideology — just his methods.’

  ‘Wait,’ Madoowbe says. ‘You are an Australian. Let us compare Australia’s history with that of Africa for a moment. Africa is, of course, much larger, and more densely populated, but th
ere are similarities. Both are resource rich, and both were seen as unpopulated by sophisticated European nations.

  ‘Africa’s downfall was its close proximity to the fast-developing West. The European colonialists wanted a piece of it, and the land grab proceeded. First Portugal, then Holland, the British, Belgians, Italians, French, and Germans. They all grabbed a slice of territory. They all exploited it. They removed generations of young people and shipped them overseas as slaves. Australia’s remoteness was its saviour, because it allowed for it to be settled by just one nation. That nation was able to eliminate the indigenous inhabitants as a political and military force, giving it a central and stable government. Now Australia seeks a voice on the world stage, yet will never be independent of the greater powers because it lies in a vulnerable, isolated position geographically. Look how close Japan came to making it the jewel in the Emperor’s crown in World War Two.’

  Marika starts to walk away, but Madoowbe has not finished, walking after her and taking her hand, turning her around.

  ‘Look at you,’ he says. ‘You have never missed a meal in your life. You are beautiful and confident, almost arrogantly so. That comes from a lifetime of privilege.’

  ‘I wouldn’t say that … and I am not arrogant.’

  ‘I do not mean to insult you, but that is how you seem to me.’

  Marika screws up her eyes. ‘So. You have all the answers. Do you think an Islamic state is the best thing for Somalia?’

  ‘Not at all. I am no Muslim, Miss Hartmann. I was once, but now I am what you Westerners would call godless. I believe that we are dust. We belong to the earth and we will return to it. That is the only truth worth knowing.’

  ‘You don’t believe in any god at all?’

  ‘Oh, I believe in them. I just think they are rotten. All of them and without exception. Gods pain me. I hate them. They enslave their followers and bring warfare and pain. The worst atrocities are committed with the name of some deity or another on the perpetrator’s lips. Religion is the most dangerous concept of all, because it infuses people with self-belief far beyond what is warranted.’

  ‘I don’t think you are right. Not in all cases. Think of Mother Teresa. Joan of Arc. Mary Mackillop.’

  ‘We were just talking about the Almohad a minute ago. They believe that God has authorised them to use evil to defeat His enemies. Would they be so violent and bloodthirsty without that belief?’

  Marika crosses her arms. ‘OK, but religion has also brought out the best of human nature.’

  ‘I will take the middle ground without the peaks and valleys, thank you.’ Now it is his turn to walk away.

  Marika follows him towards the surface, not sure whether to feel insulted. Arrogant? Perhaps we are all like that, only we don’t know because no one has ever told us.

  On the way to the bike, Madoowbe pauses at a bush and breaks off several twigs, passing one to her. She rolls the stick between thumb and forefinger.

  ‘What’s this for?’

  He grins. ‘This is mswaki, the toothbrush tree. Everyone in Somalia uses it.’

  ‘That’s probably why everyone in Somalia has rotten teeth.’

  ‘Even so, it is better than nothing.’

  Marika follows his lead, using the twig like a toothpick, finding that it has a subtle but pleasant taste. The process is fast and painless and she places a few more sticks in her top pocket for later use before following him back to the bike.

  Madoowbe pours the last few litres from the petrol tin into the motorcycle’s tank then ties it back onto the luggage rack. Straddling the machine, he strokes the starter with his right foot. The engine coughs in response, then dies.

  ‘Hell,’ he curses, and tries again. No response. Ten, fifteen times he kicks the starter before the motor catches and settles into a steady rhythm. He grins back at her, sweat streaming down his face from the growing heat and exertion. ‘I have the knack. Climb on.’

  Simon has only once before set foot on a warship, at the Maritime Museum across from the Isle of Dogs in Greenwich. They went one May Day holiday, before the crowds, with Hannah and Frances skipping ahead, peering into cramped cabins and cosy mess rooms, while the tour guide regurgitated tonnages, complements, names, and dates. This one, however, is a working ship, with cooking smells, diesel fumes and humming electronics.

  Having spent his professional life aboard aircraft, Simon appreciates the thoughtful layout and efficiency. The personnel who move down iron corridors under bundled pipes and cables do so purposefully, each knowing their job, relying on their shipmates to do the same.

  The captain, a man of around forty-five, is not what Simon might have expected, with dark, tightly curled hair, what people politely call a Roman nose and laughter lines around his lips. A couple of old tattoos show through the hair of his forearms. That he is good at his job, however, is not in doubt — that is obvious in the spotless efficiency of the ship. Everything from the shining signal lamps to the freshly painted bulkheads indicates a high degree of care.

  ‘Fantastic ship,’ Simon points out. They are on the bridge, looking out through the downward-sloping toughened glass windows of the foredeck. The officer of the watch occupies a central chair, radar operators to either side. At the rear is a Perspex-covered navigation table and beside it the sonar sets. Forward and below are the Sea Dart missile launchers, beyond that the rounded gun turrets, the jackstaff, and the dark sea. Instruments glow eerily, illuminating the faces and arms of the men and women who man them. ‘Must be, what,’ he muses, picturing a rugby field in his head, ‘a hundred and fifty metres long?’

  ‘Close. One-forty-one to be exact. Type 42 destroyer, Manchester class, 5200 tonnes.’

  Simon nods; he has heard of the Type 42 ships. And something about those Sea Dart missiles — hadn’t one done something newsworthy way back in the Second Gulf War? He tries to recall but it doesn’t come. ‘These ships have been around for a while, haven’t they?’

  Marshall smiles. ‘Oh yes, she’s an old girl. Upstaged some years ago by the Type 48 tubs. That’s why we’re poking around the Indian Ocean. Bloody navy’s too embarrassed to put us where someone might see us. Oh well, at least we’re in the right place at the right time. We picked up that rusty old tug — the Sa-baah — three hours ago. The crew gave us your bearing and told us what you did for them; thank you.’

  ‘It wasn’t just me — the two brothers helped.’ Deflecting praise was a habit with Simon, and besides, despite the problems with Ishmael, he and Lubayd had helped.

  ‘A pair of ratbags,’ Marshall grunts.

  Simon smiles back. The captain did not detain them, but insisted that they leave the area and return with their mother to the port of Aden immediately. He was pleased about that; neither of them meant any harm, and he wouldn’t be here without them.

  ‘The question is,’ Marshall rests one foot on a sill, and holds his dimpled chin between thumb and forefinger, ‘what the hell do we do with you? I’ve had orders from the top to bring you in.’

  ‘I want to find my daughters. End of story.’

  ‘How old are they?’

  ‘Hannah is eleven; Frances, fourteen.’ On impulse he takes out his wallet and passes across the photo. ‘Hannah’s being a bit silly — always hamming it up. She’s like that.’

  Marshall studies the print before handing it back. ‘I started young. I’ve got three. One still in high school, the other two have careers of their own now. One in the navy.’ He sniffs. ‘Expecting my first grandchild in December. Not bad going, eh?’

  ‘Then you know how I feel.’

  ‘Yes, but look, my orders are to keep you under lock and key, but that doesn’t sit right with me — you’re doing what any man would do for his children. Besides, it might be a few days before your SIS pals pick you up. If I let you remain at large, will you promise not to interfere?’

  ‘You have my word. If that changes, I’ll tell you.’

  ‘OK.’ Marshall clears his throat and reaches for a
bottle of spring water, air escaping rhythmically as he drinks. Finished, he wipes his lips, and screws the plastic cap back on. ‘There’s been satellite imagery of some suspicious activity around Khateer Island. Thirty nautical miles north of here. It’s a long shot, but I’ve been ordered to do some discreet surveillance, so we’re steaming that way. Now, how about a guided tour? Plenty of young lads laying around who need something to do.’

  Simon suspects that this is a ploy to get him out of the captain’s way for a while, but this, he decides, is understandable. ‘OK. I’d like that.’

  Marshall runs his eyes over Simon’s Middle Eastern garb. ‘Have a shower while you’re at it, and I’ll arrange some proper clothes. That is, unless you’d prefer to run around like that?’

  Simon smiles. ‘No, some clothes would be great.’

  Marshall touches his shoulder and leads the way out onto the signal deck. ‘We’ll let these gentlemen do their jobs, shall we?’

  Taking a last look through the glass screens, Simon decides that it is a fine feeling to be out on a warship, towering over the darkened sea, the breeze raising the hair on his forearms, knowing that there is nothing out there to fear. Not even the best armed Somali pirates would mess with a warship like this one.

  A pair of ladders take them down to the side decks, the awning above stacked with white canisters labelled as twenty-man lifeboats. Midships, Marshall stops in front of a notice board, studying what appears to be a roster sheet. ‘I’ll find someone to give you the grand tour.’ After a moment’s thought he picks up a handset and issues an order.

  The guide is a radar operator called Matt Wyman, a twenty-something Leading Seaman with rosy red cheeks and a perpetual smile. Simon is delighted to discover that he hails from Guildford, the county town of Surrey, on the River Wey. The revelation is like a breath of fresh air.

  ‘Guildford, Jesus, we used to play cricket against you blokes. Before your time, of course. What school did you go to?’

  ‘St Peters.’