They repeated the test, and this time Calum pronounced himself satisfied.
‘Fine,’ he said. ‘Yir bollocks are safe. Now, tell me how much an’ Ah’ll be scootin’ on oot o’ here.’
Like two traders in an Arab suq, they haggled their way to an acceptable price. Calum unfastened his money-belt from round his waist and unzipped it. That was when he realized he’d made a mistake, one so elementary he couldn’t believe he’d made it. He’d put all his money into a single wad, and now he was forced to draw off single notes in order to make up the price he’d been asked. He saw Maurice watching him closely as he did so.
He handed the money over, a note at a time. Maurice counted it, and when it was done, he handed over the bag and the bottle.
‘Loadsa dough for fuck all, isn’t it?’ said Maurice.
‘Ah told you already, Jimbo, it’s no’ for maself.’
Calum got to his feet. He wanted to be out of here like a shot. Maurice stood too. He seemed on edge. A tic at the side of his mouth flickered a message of unease.
‘Maybe Ah’ll see ye round aboot Christmas. Buy you a wee dram. Ah ken where tae find ye now.’
He started to tie the money-belt back in place. Before he could finish, Maurice had pulled a gun and was pointing it at him.
‘Just nice and easy, son. Drop it on the floor next to me. Real gentle, mind.’
‘Are you pointin’ that stupid wee thing at me, Maurice? Ah cannae believe it. Ah thought ye had more sense in that wee head o’ yours. Do Ah look like some wee runaway fae Aberdeen or Peebles that disnae ken what he’s aboot?’
‘I don’t give a fuck where you’re from, Scottie. Just hand it over and clear on out.’
Calum looked at the gun, then at Maurice, half in anger, half in pity.
‘Ye realize what ye’ve done? Do ye? Ye realize you’re dead? Ye realize that, d’ye no’?’
‘Shut the fuck up. If you think I don’t know how to use this, you’re badly wrong. I spent a year in the fucking army. I was taught to shoot by professionals. I’ve fired more guns than you’ve had Chinese takeaways. Now, do yourself a favour and hand the fucking dosh over.’
Calum continued to stare at him. He was feeling decidedly pissed off. He doubted if Maurice had ever fired this or any other gun in anger. His only purpose in carrying a gun in the first place would be to put the frighteners on those of his clients whom he needed to impress. That would be the length and breadth of it.
Maurice didn’t really see what happened next. He saw the disputed money-belt fall to the floor, and felt gratified that common sense had prevailed. Next thing, Calum’s right arm swung round. Maurice felt something hit him hard. When he looked down, he saw a large kitchen knife protruding from his belly. He looked at it as if it was a joke of some kind, then it started hurting and he tried to pull it out. The pain as he did so was so severe he screamed out loud and collapsed backward into a sitting posture on the bed. The knife stayed where it was. The gun dropped from his hand.
Calum walked over slowly and picked up the gun.
‘Ye’ll no’ be needin’ this, likes?’ he said, and slipped the gun into a pocket.
He put his hand over Maurice’s mouth and pulled the knife out of his belly with a yank. The other man let out a second, muffled scream. He was bleeding badly, his blood leaking on to his clothes and the grubby bed linen.
‘Oh, Jesus. Fucking Jesus,’ cried Maurice. His cheeks had turned horribly pale. His lips trembled as he spoke. Behind him, Linda lay huddled in a small heap, as if she could shrink into something so insignificant it would not be seen. ‘You’ve killed me. Look. You’ve fuckin’ done for me.’
‘No’ yet, Jimmy. Ah’m a professional. Ah take ma time. Did ye know Ah wis in the Paras? Did ye?’ He balanced the knife in his hand as if it was a bayonet. He’d bought it in Harrods before catching the taxi. A nice-looking assistant called Eileen had sold it to him. She’d had a lovely smile. He’d been tempted to ask her out. Maybe he would when all this was over.
‘Look, I’m ... sorry I ... put the gun ... on you. I wasn’t serious, though. I mean, I ... wasn’t going to ... shoot you or anything.’ Maurice sensed that he was pleading for his life. The big Scotsman frightened him. He should have known better than to mess about with him in the first place. If it hadn’t been for the overly tempting glimpse of the wad he carried, he’d have done the deal and let him go.
‘Ah did warn you,’ Calum said, ‘but ye didnae listen. Ah said, if ye fucked wi’ me a secon’ time, ye’d be mincemeat. Ah might as well hae been gabbin’ tae masel’.’
‘I’m listening now, aren’t I? You tell me what to do, and I’ll fucking do it, honest I will. You didn’t have to stick a fucking knife in me. Christ’s sake!’
'Look, Ah’ll tell ye whit Ah want ye tae dae. Ah want ye tae unzip your troosers an’ take oot your prick if ye can manage tae find it in there.’
‘What? Fuckin’ hell, I’m not some poofter, you know. If you want to suck someone’s dick, I’ll find one for you.’
‘Ah’m nae poofter masel’. Ah’m a man o’ ma word. Now, come on - ye dae it half a dozen times a day.’
Calum looked at Linda, white and shivering, crouched on the thin pillows.
‘C’moan, doll, this is more in your line o’ work. Get yoursel’ doon here an’ treat our wee friend tae a hand job.’
She shook her head, frightened beyond belief. But Calum just stepped over to her, grabbed her by a scrawny wrist, and pulled her down to where Maurice was slowly bleeding to death. He wasn’t her boyfriend, at least not exclusively. They had sex from time to time. The truth was, he was her pimp, and the pimp of several other women, all supplied by Bernie. She had no feelings for Maurice, but she didn’t want to see him die, and she was scared to death that the Scotsman would kill her as well.
‘Ah willnae say it again, doll. A hand job or a blow job, whatever takes yir fancy. Jist get the wee fucker hard.’
She sat on the bed beside Maurice and unzipped his trousers with trembling fingers. With difficulty, she extracted his limp penis from the tangle of his underpants. It had shrivelled to almost nothing.
She took her time, using all the techniques she’d picked up on the job. At first, she thought nothing would happen. He was too ill, too distracted, too frightened. And then, as if by some miracle, she felt him stiffen just a little. She breathed a sigh of relief and went about her task with greater hope, and bit by bit the reluctant organ grew in her hand. She prayed she wouldn’t be asked to have sex with Maurice. Not with that wound in his front.
‘Thanks a lot, doll. Now, give it tae me.’
Calum pushed her aside and took hold of Maurice’s half-erect penis in his left hand.
‘You’ll no’ be needin’ this any longer, will ye? Jist close your eyes an’ it’ll be over in a second.’
He drew the knife to the base of the organ and, before it shrank again, sliced it wholesale from Maurice’s trunk. A quick fumble and another cut deprived him of his testicles as well.
Calum stood back, holding his trophies in one hand. Maurice had passed out. He lay prostrate on the bed while blood pumped freshly from his new wounds.
‘He’s gonna die,’ protested Linda. ‘You bastard, you’ve carved him up so much he’s fuckin’ bleedin’ to death.’
‘What’s wrong wi’ that?’
‘Why don’t you ring for an ambulance?’
‘What fuckin’ good would that do me, eh? Get some polis an’ that tae turn up here, and him talkin’ and you gabblin’. Not tae mention the waste o’ taxpayers’ money. Do ye realize the state the National Health Service is in? There’s citizens oot there that needs a ambiance more than this wee shite. Now, if ye dinnae mind, Ah’d like tae finish this off so’s Ah can get back tae the big job Ah have on. Ye’d no’ believe the money Ah stand tae make.’
Maurice had started to come round.
‘Ye feelin’ all right, Maurice? Ah’m sorry Ah called ye Murray, it wis careless of me. An’ Ah’m sorr
y Ah cut your willy off. But Ah said Ah would, so Ah felt obliged tae stick tae ma promise. Here, you may as well huv them as a souvenir.’
He pressed the freshly severed organs into Maurice’s limp hand.
‘Where would ye like the coup de grace, Maurice? Ah’m willin’ tae entertain any suggestions. They reckon the throat’s the best. But there’s plenty o’ good alternatives. Ah could gouge yer eyes oot. Shall Ah do that?’
‘Ah, Christ, leave my fucking eyes alone. I’m asking you, please, just leave me alone. Let her go for an ambulance. Please.’
‘Well, where would ye like me tae stick the knife in? Here any good?’
Calum thrust the knife hard into Maurice’s side, taking care to put his hand over his victim’s mouth while he did so. Maurice called out inarticulately, fighting now against the blow and the steel. Calum smiled at him and removed the knife, then plunged it into another part of his belly. He seemed to know exactly where to thrust in order to avoid a fatal wound. The knife went in and out, in and out, as though he was a doctor probing for a weak spot. Maurice started to go into convulsions. Froth and blood appeared at his lips, then he started to cough up thick gobbets of arterial blood.
‘Tough wee bugger, isn’t he, doll?’
Linda had gone into something like a trance.
‘What d’ye think? Is Murraymint still conscious? D’ye think he can hear what Ah’m sayin’?’
She didn’t answer. What was he saying, after all?
He picked up Maurice’s head and cradled him. Knife in hand, he began to croon to the dying man, a soft song he’d learned as a child, when he still had no knives to play with.
Speed bonny boat like a bird on the wing,
Onward, the sailors cry.
Carry the lad that’s born to be King,
Over the sea to Skye.
The knife dazzled his hand. He held it tight against Maurice’s white throat as he sang, and he imagined blue seas, tall mountains and green hills. He remembered cold days in Northern Ireland, huddled in a ditch, or walking slowly down a sniper’s run, his heart beating as though lubricated with hot oil.
‘Dinnae be mad with me, Murray, son. Ye wir never a proper squaddie, ye cannae unnerstan’.’
He wiped blood away from Maurice’s mouth with the back of his hand, then took the knife and let the blade slide across the waiting, throat. Maurice’s whole body jerked once and was still. Calum put his knife down on the bed.
‘Well, Linda, our wee friend’s gone tae meet his maker. Dae ye think it matters? Eh? D’ye think any bugger’U turn up at his funeral?’
She sat silently watching him out of the jungle of her trance. Her last fix was wearing off quickly, and she had nowhere to hide. She’d wet herself from fright, and she was frightened the smell might anger him.
He lifted his head and looked at her. He wanted to be merciful, compassionate, like some sort of God. There’d been days in the barracks when he’d sat out the rain and fancied himself Calum the merciful, receiver of accolades. Day after day he’d drive past them in the streets, a rifle in his hand, and never fire, and he came to count it an act of mercy on his part, and nothing to do with orders from above.
‘They’d be quiet a long time,’ he whispered, loud enough for her to hear. ‘Ye’d ken they wir oot there, watchin’ ye, and ye’d know they wir waitin’ their chance. Ah wis on patrol, an’ they shot ma mate in front o’ me, right in front o’ ma eyes. Ye were never sure, ye could never be sure when it would come. It’s nothin’ tae do wi’ mercy or humanity or that. It’s just doon tae opportunity. Now it’s his chance, now it’s yours.’
‘I’ve done nothing,’ said the girl. ‘You can have me as often as you like. Take me with you. Please.’
She’d always counted on men to settle her debts with them through sex. A blow job or a long-term commitment. It made little difference to her.
‘Ye looked at me,’ he said. ‘Ye fuckin’ looked at me. Ye ken ma face, ye ken ma name.’ He paused, then suddenly exploded in inexplicable rage, a torrent of anger that ripped through her and curled her into a ball.
‘You fuckin’ looked right at me! Why the fuck did ye do that, eh?! Yer just a wee hoor, an’ Ah’ve nae more need for ye than Ah have for the Queen of England.’
She lifted her head, pleading for her life. Her face was wet with tears, her lips were dry, she was gasping for breath. She opened her mouth and, as she did so, Calum pushed the knife into it all the way, until it hit the back of her skull. He didn’t look at her again.
He found Maurice’s stash before leaving and took everything in it. There were shirts in a wardrobe, and Calum changed into one that took his fancy, cutting his own bloodstained specimen into small pieces and flushing them down the toilet. It was time to head back to the digs he’d found, so he could change properly. Then he’d take a taxi to Knightsbridge. He wondered if Maddie would still be awake by the time he got there.
CHAPTER FIFTY-SIX
They would drowse and nod and fall into a fitful sleep that would last for minutes, then snatch themselves awake again into a dreadful darkness and a terrible roaring of sand. It was impossible to tell whether it was night or day. An inky darkness blotted everything out, and it felt as if the entire world had been erased, leaving them encased in what remained, until the sand swallowed it too.
David chafed at the indefinite delay the storm imposed on them. They were already under pressure to reach the weapons site before the first full-scale test. Every minute mattered, yet here they were, crouched in a prison of wind and sand, unable to move an inch.
He fell asleep again, and walked for miles through a dream of ancient cities ringed with stone, in search of something that had been lost centuries ago. When he woke, Nabila had gone.
He leaped to his feet, calling her name. Each time, the wind snatched it from his lips and tore it into tiny little pieces. ‘Na …’ he called, ‘Na … Na …’, but his voice tailed away and he was left with his own silence.
An unimaginable panic took hold of him. If she’d strayed even a few feet away, she would be irretrievably lost by now. No matter what direction he went in, he had only a fractional chance of finding her. And every false move she made would only compound her initial error.
By the time the storm lifted, they could be separated by a mile or more of blank sand.
He opened his mouth again, but this time he was facing directly into the wind. In seconds his mouth had filled with sand. He crumpled up, choking, coughing, spitting. But there was barely enough saliva to moisten the little grains and to clear his throat of them.
He staggered back to the camel behind him, and retrieved one of the water canteens. He drank and choked, and drank and choked again, simply grateful to get the sand out of his mouth. More careful now, he closed the canteen again. It was almost empty. In their hurry to get everything organized, they’d only drawn enough water for their immediate needs. Now, the two canteens needed filling again.
A rope joined their camel to the others, and David used it to trace his way to them. He found a water barrel, and managed to stand it on end in order to insert a tap. As he did so, he heard a muffled voice from somewhere to his right.
‘David? David, is that you?’
He felt a wave of relief pass through him. He tried calling back, but the wind snatched his words away. Nabila was upwind of him, and her voice, though flattened by the noise, still reached him. He fought his way back towards her, pushing physically against the powerful tide of wind-carried sand that was doing its best to push him back or throw him reeling to the ground.
At last he caught sight of a shadow that might have been Nabila. He made a last effort and reached her. She pulled him to her, then made him hunker down beside her, so they could talk without shouting too much. Even so, it was an effort to get the words out.
‘Where the … hell have you been?’ David asked. ‘I woke up ...and you were gone. No message… nothing ... I thought you were lost.’
‘I’m all right. I’
ve been … Look, why don’t you … come over this way … and give me a hand?’
He followed her through the whirling sand. It was a matter of only a few yards. Nabila knelt down in front of a mound of packages that had been carried on one of the runaway camels.
‘If you can … hold that, I’ll ... pull this out from … underneath. That’s it. Now just … No, pull that … back there.’
She switched on the torch and swung its beam in front of him. All at once, he saw what she’d been up to.
‘I remembered … that we’d packed … the tent on one of the … two leading camels. So … it was just a matter … of finding it.’
‘And setting it up … in this wind.’
‘That as well.’
‘Didn’t you think … I might have gone off … into the storm … looking for you?’
‘Of course not. You’re … not a fool.’
‘You don’t think … I love you that much?’
‘Yes, of course. You’re … very sweet. But you’re … not a fool. And please stop … being so angry. You should be … grateful I didn’t wake you up.’
They found as good a spot as they could in which to pitch the tent. It was an old People’s Liberation Army tent, the best Nabila had been able to find in the bazaar. She had repaired several holes before packing it, but there’d been nothing she could do to turn it from an unwieldy mess of canvas into anything remotely resembling a modern tent.
It took them over an hour to erect it. But once it was | up and they crawled in, zipping the opening firmly against the wind, it transformed everything. The howling was still there, admittedly, but it was outside. Inside, there was no wind, no sand, no constant buffeting. And, in time, the interior grew warm. It felt the greatest thing in the world to have a tent, and to be inside it and to be alive.
They fell asleep soon afterwards, still in the darkness. David had fashioned earplugs for them both out of wadding that he’d found on one of the saddles. The storm vanished while they slept, as though its world and theirs were entirely separate.
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