Decoy

by Simon Mockler

  “Soon as you get a clear shot, press the trigger, take him out and all of it will disappear. All will be better.” He was almost whispering into the receiver, cajoling.

  The dull thud of a silenced rifle. Twice more. Sir Clive tensed.

  “What is it Denbigh, did you get him?” Denbigh watched as the scene below him, the jubilation, the drunkenness, the rhythms beaten out on the oil drums, fell slowly to pieces. Beats tripping over themselves, winding down to a gradual stop. Nbotou lay on the ground. Head split, lifeless. Only his left hand still moved, a twitching memory within the muscles.

  “Dead. General’s dead.” Denbigh replied. His voice sounding as if it belonged to someone else.

  “Excellent. Excellent work. Stay in position till nightfall then proceed to pick-up point.” Sir Clive put down the phone. Up to the soldier to pull himself together now. You could only hold a man’s hand so long. He dialled Harvey’s number.

  “Harve,” he said amiably, as he knew the man liked to be addressed. “Good news. You can begin phase two. Nbotou’s been taken out, his camp destroyed, half his army deserted or dead. You can send in your friendly Ugandan warlord to take over the camp and start shipping out your precious coltan.”

  Denbigh looked at the people below him, their arms outstretched, pointing in his direction. Guns aimed. He could hear the rattle of bullets but it didn’t matter, he was invincible. The bullets would bounce off. The ghastly grinning head in the Kevlar helmet had told him so. He stood up on the branch, leant forward. Pulled his knife from its sheath and clasped it between his teeth. Dive amongst them and cut them to pieces. The voice inside his head still speaking, echoing Sir Clive’s imperious tones, giving him clear instructions. He let himself go, wind rushing past his ears, didn’t feel the bullets, didn’t feel any pain as they tore through his airborne body.

  62

  The path Jack followed was well-used. Made him fear whom he might bump into as he pressed his way through the jungle. The wound in his side itched and was beginning to ooze a dull yellow puss. Bad news. His body felt hot too, even taking into account the temperature of the air around him. There were vicious spiked plants that veered dangerously close, venomous snakes rustling through the undergrowth. Jack was beginning to wonder if he should have taken his chances on the main road.

  He stopped to tap a bamboo stem. The sound hollow but muted. A sign there was water within. He dug the knife into the stem, breaking through the course fibres. Water flowed out, last night’s rainfall. He moved his face close to it and drank deeply, let it run over his head. Better. The water, though warm, had a cooling effect on his skin. He grabbed a cricket from a nearby branch, bit into it. The taste was bitter and unpleasant but he needed whatever protein he could get his hands on. A column of army ants made their way up tree trunk, each one almost an inch in length. He picked them one at a time off the bark, biting into them, crunching and swallowing through gritted teeth. One advantage to having a father in the SAS, he had been raised on survival stories.

  The jungle grew heavier around him, foliage thick overhead, enveloping him in a perpetual twilight. He had done his best to calculate the distance to the camp, breaking it down into lengths of twenty trees. Knew it would be hard to keep track of time once he was enveloped in the semi-darkness of the forest.

  Keep moving, keep hydrated. He trudged onwards, eating what little protein he could find, caterpillars, any number of small bugs. He stopped. Something lay across the path ahead, something covered in matted black hair, lying at an awkward angle, no longer fitting its skin. He placed a hand over his nose as he stepped over it, the rancid flesh alive with squirming yellow larvae.

  Could he eat them? They’d be a good source of energy, but he’d have to boil them before they’d be safe, too many bacteria in the rotting flesh they were feasting on. No time. Not in this heat, not with the burning sensation he already felt coursing through his blood. The feverish temperature on his brow.

  The wound in his side needed cleaning, the infection needed sterilising. That much he knew. He turned towards the half-chewed carcass of the monkey. If he could get a few maggots, place them on the wound, they’d eat away the dead flesh. That was the theory anyway, he’d heard his father describe the technique in one of his more gruesome anecdotes. Theory was one thing, putting it into practice another. He put a hand to his forehead, waves of dizziness contorting the world around him. Get a grip Jack, he told himself, reaching towards the carcass. The smell tugged at his stomach, the intestines of the animal had split and an angry swell of flies arose as he tried to grab a handful of maggots. They wriggled in his palm. It was all he could do not to hurl them into the jungle.

  He stood up quickly, stumbling from the sight, gag reflex choking his throat. His hand alive with squirming larvae. He shoved them into his shirt pocket and kept moving. Got to keep going for as long as possible, keep moving. He’d rest only when his body could go on no more. Find a tree with a wide branch he could climb, get himself off the ground and give the maggots time to eat away at any dead flesh on the wound.

  The day ground on. Regular stops to rehydrate didn’t cool his body, didn’t assuage the thirst that burnt the back of his throat. The shapes in the forest became more familiar now, the trees and their branches taking on other forms, forms from the outside world. A tall thin tree with branches reaching out in spindly arms was his Tutor at Cambridge. You must work harder Jack, you must reach your full potential, don’t throw this chance away, it preached at him sanctimoniously. He ducked low as another branch threw a punch in his direction, the opponent he’d knocked out in the Varsity boxing match, leering at him aggressively. Come on Jack, you didn’t think I’d stay down for the full ten did you? Other voices joined in the forest’s clamour. Tree trunks slipping into human form, stepping towards him. Ex-girlfriends asking why he hadn’t returned their calls, teachers from school telling him he’d never make it, never amount to anything. And then his brother, Paul.

  Paul didn’t say anything, didn’t move. Just stood stock still a short distance in front of him. The clamour of voices faded away, the other figures disappeared. Jack stopped. Him and Paul alone amidst the tall trees. He could feel his heart pounding in his chest. The face that stared back had the sickly sheen of a waxwork, the eyes expressionless, two black holes beneath the hood of his Parker. Water dripping from the tips of his fingers. Jack walked slowly towards him, wanting to get closer. Wanting to see. He held out his hand. Paul’s mouth moved but no sound came out. He coughed, his breath cold on Jack’s cheek. He turned instinctively to find his father, his eight year old self returned to haunt him.

  “Dad, dad, it’s Paul, I’ve found him, he’s right here, he’s okay, he’s just been hiding.” He shouted at the trees. “Paul’s here, he’s right here.” He could run home and get help, it wasn’t far, straight to the hospital this time. They could fix him.

  “Dad! Dad!” he yelled into the jungle, “Paul’s here. We can fix him. He’ll get better.”

  Archie stood in front of him, hands on hips.

  “This way, we need to go back, we need to go back this way. Get Paul.” He said, dragging at his father’s hand. Archie shook his head.

  “Leave it son.”

  Jack felt himself hoisted upwards, a fireman’s lift over his father’s shoulder. And then more quietly, it wasn’t your fault. The last words he heard before he drifted into unconsciousness.

  63

  Batley Hall, Hertfordshire

  Harvey grinned across the broad dining table at Bob.

  “That was Sir Clive. Confirmed Nbotou’s dead. Large chunk of his army out the way too.” It was all he could do not to shout I told you so at his colleague. Bob was always the pessimist, always questioning his decisions. Hadn’t believed Sir Clive would be capable of deposing the General. It gave Harvey a profound sense of satisfaction to know that on this occasion his judgment had proved correct.

 
Bob pursed his lips. “You given the signal to the Ugandan Liberation Army yet? Told them they can move in?”

  “Already done old chap,” Harvey said, in his best imitation of the butler. “They’re marching across the border. And I have two of our Chinooks ready to fly in and lift out the coltan reserves. As we agreed, they get the territory and we get a steady supply of the metal.” Bob nodded. “Good. Then maybe we can pack up here and get home. We need it shipped to our contractors as soon as possible. The Whitehouse deadline is at the end of the month and they’ll be asking for money off if we don’t meet it. Besides,” he threw a quick, dismissive glance at the room around him, “this house smells of moths and cabbage. Gives me the creeps.”

  Jack felt the cold cloth on his forehead, the hazy form checking the drip that fed into his arm. Voices somewhere above him.

  “I don’t like this. What the hell was he doing, a white man wandering round the jungle in a business suit yelling his head off?” The accent was indistinct, sounded mid-European. Swiss maybe. Authoritative, an impatient arrogance to it. Another voice, a Spanish male, his tone more relaxed, responded.

  “Who knows? What did the nurse say?” Jack could make out a blurred badge on the man’s arm. Red cross at the centre.

  “Nothing, just that he was lying outside the emergency tent, in pretty bad shape, semi-conscious.”

  “Maybe an eco-tourist who got lost? Plane crash survivor? Journalist wanting to get some footage of the refugee camps?” The Spanish man asked, his voice, although serious, sounded youthful. The Swiss man shrugged.

  “With no papers or passport? No camera? No my friend, this is something else. A kidnapping maybe.” He scratched at the stubble on his chin. “Any of the embassies register activity in the area?” The Spanish man shook his head.

  “No, but you know what they’re like. Not going to tell us anything unless it’s already caught the attention of the world’s press. And even then they keep pretty tight-lipped.” The Swiss doctor grunted in agreement, cleaning and sterilising the wound in Jack’s side. “I’ll stitch this up again then we’ll leave him be.” He leant close to the cut, an odd wound. “Surgical, not the result of trauma.” He shrugged, he had a million things to be getting on with. A day spent attending to the landmine victims, attempting to combat the ever-present threat of a cholera outbreak. “Where’d you put his gun?”

  “Locked in the storeroom.” The Swiss man nodded, neatly suturing the wound. “I’ll contact the embassies. Ask them if them if any junior members of staff have wandered off into the jungle.”

  Jack opened his eyes further. The antibiotics they’d pumped into him were bringing his temperature down. Clearing his fever, the hallucinations. The Swiss man vanished through a gap in the tarpaulin, the man who spoke with a Spanish accent was attending to someone else, another patient lying glassy-eyed on a nearby camp bed.

  “Where am I?” Jack asked, looking around him. The Spanish doctor jumped, turned quickly and walked towards him.

  “Camp 17 of the International Red Cross. Border of Uganda and the Democratic Republic of Congo.” He paused, taking in Jack’s frown. “A refugee camp. My name is Doctor Jose-Maria Murcia. You were in quite a state when you arrived yesterday evening.” Jack nodded, shook his head, the memories of the last few hours confused. He wasn’t even sure how he’d got there.

  “Didn’t embarrass myself did I?” he asked. The doctor shook his head.

  “No, but you were hallucinating. Because of the fever, the infection. Seemed convinced your father was here. Kept asking if we could see him.” He paused. “And then you started to sing. Quite loudly as a matter of fact.”

  Jack almost smiled. The Doctor’s face was world-weary but kind. Heavy-lidded brown eyes that gazed appraisingly out over square-framed glasses. A neatly trimmed black beard that added a few years. Jack put him in his early thirties.

  “Jack Hartman, pleased to meet you,” he said lifting his hand. The doctor took it and shook it gently.

  “I don’t suppose you’d like to tell us what you were doing in the jungle?” He asked. Jack remained silent. He liked the first suggestion he had overheard the most, an eco-tourist that had got lost.

  “An adventure holiday gone wrong,” he replied ruefully. “Do you have a phone, there are a few people that might be worried about me? I should call home.” The doctor shook his head.

  “They were stolen last week,” he sighed, “crime in a refugee camp is unfortunately just as common as it is elsewhere. There are a couple of laptops though, you can send e-mails. They’ll be bringing in a new batch of phones when the aid trucks arrive on Thursday.” Jack nodded.

  “What day is it today?” he asked. The doctor raised his eyebrows. “Tuesday,” he replied.

  “Right you are,” Jack said as he heaved himself up, shifting his weight to the edge of the bed.

  “Hold on, where do you think you’re going?” The doctor asked.

  “To use one of your laptops, where are they?” He asked, unhooking the drip from its stand and carrying the fluid-filled plastic pack with him.

  “Other side of the camp, but I don’t think you should be up and about yet. You need to give the antibiotics a couple of days to clear the infection out of your system.” Jack brushed him aside

  “What I need right now is for you to show me how I can get a message home.” The doctor raised a weary eyebrow and shrugged.

  “Very well, this way please,” he held open the flap of tarpaulin that covered the entrance to the tent. Jack stepped out, blinking into the daylight.

  He was not prepared for the scene that greeted him. When the doctor said refugee camp he imagined a few neat rows of tents, orderly queues to trestle tables dispensing cupfuls of grain. Instead he saw hundreds of untidy bundles of matted straw hunkered low to the ground, like yaks sunk to the knees in the black mud. Some had blue plastic sheeting over the top, the faded logo of the UN just visible, like a promise almost forgotten. Packaging from the food aid parachuted in. Nothing went to waste here. These were their shelters, their makeshift homes. Meagre fires in front of them, people crouched around, dressed in the tattered remnants of western brands.

  A miserable scene populated by unhappy people. Jack didn’t feel pity, he felt anger. Anger at men like Nbotou, Sir Clive, Monsieur Blanc. Someone was to blame for all of this, someone had to be held to account. He turned to Dr. Murcia.

  “Where are the troops? Pretty volatile region, shouldn’t there be some UN Peace Keepers around?”

  “They left late last week. Rumours of further instability in the region. Some of the Congolese also panicked and fled.”

  “But you’re still here?” Jack asked. Dr. Murcia nodded.

  “Possibly against our better judgement, Dr. Valentine and I both stayed on.” He cast a quick glance around the camp. “Don’t misunderstand me, neither of us is a saint. Dr.Valentine has a very profitable private practice in Basel and I work as a plastic surgeon in Barcelona. We are here for a month only. More out of guilt than good intentions.” Jack watched him closely, decided he didn’t quite believe the man, but let it go.

  “Here,” Dr. Murcia said, gesturing to another tent and heading inside. “The administrative centre. This is where we try and keep a record of the numbers in the camp. Get an idea of the scale of the problem facing the region. Marie will set you up on the computer.” A harassed-looking woman in her early forties stood up to greet him. She looked like she had more important things to do than speak to Jack, but she still smiled as she quickly shook his hand.

  “The singer from last night? Quite a voice on you, I’ll set you up with my password. Should be enough of a signal for you to send an e-mail.”

  64

  Amanda hung up her coat in the hallway. The night shift over, she trudged up to her room, ready to flake out on the bed. Her housemate’s boyfriend passed her on the stairs, off for a morning jog.

  “Morning Mands,” he mumbled, pulling his hood over his h
ead, “cold out?”

  Amanda frowned. She hadn’t noticed. “Don’t know. Maybe.” She opened the door to her bedroom, slowly, cautiously. A wariness to her movements ever since the events of the last week. No police had come to investigate the fracas on the doorstep, the bloodstain now all but washed away, nor had they asked questions about a stolen British Gas van. Even the local press had given up reporting on the fire at Marcon Pharmaceuticals, happy to accept the investigators’ conclusion that it was caused by leaking chemicals and an electrical fault.

  Was this really how these things happened? Their significance brushed to one side? Washed away? She feared for Jack, the resolute determination he had shown in agreeing to go along with whatever it was Sir Clive suggested. She hadn’t bothered to try to convince him not to do it, or even asked him to explain what exactly he would be doing. His mind was set.

  She reached up and closed the curtains, the weak February sun held at bay. Should be able to snatch a few hours kip from the semi-darkness, she thought, booting up the laptop. Her daily ritual, checking the messages morning and evening. Convincing herself there wouldn’t be any news from Jack. Still hoping there might be. She entered her password, waited for the inbox to appear on the screen.

  The usual spam, investment opportunities in Nigeria, lottery wins, miracle diet plans. Some info from the lacrosse team. She clicked on the junk mail folder half-heartedly, about to click delete all.

  Mands!

  So much to tell so little time. Crazy stories for the grandkids. Am alive (just), no thanks to Sir C. Absolute fucking fiasco. Writing from refugee camp on border of Uganda and Congo (don’t ask), miserable shit hole. No idea how I got here but should be back home in a week. Maybe two. Tricky without any papers. But miss you. Seriously. Must be due some more of your medicine ;)