Friday 8 July 2011
Chapter One
The three men huddled in the cab of the pick-up truck, their freezing breath fogging the windscreen. From the village below the bark of a dog echoed up the valley towards them. The adrenalin had long since drained from their bodies, the excited chatter and nervous laughter gone. They felt only the cold now, and as the consequences of their actions crept into their brains, fear also. The one called Abbas spoke. His beard grew in light wisps on a child’s face. He would not be sixteen before the moon became full again.
‘The Barbarian will not rest until he is avenged –
He wound down the window to retch over the sand. He had thrown up often since the massacre. Earlier, as arterial blood sprayed his face and clothing he had soiled himself. He retched again at the thought of what lay on the bed of the pick-up behind him. That had been nothing to do with him. It was the British who made them do it - the crazy one. He burped again, the bile bitter in his throat. For this the Barbarian would assuredly hunt them all to Hell. He gazed sightless through the windscreen at the mountain - black against the black of the night - to where he knew the pass wound high over the ridge, and down again on the other side, to Quetta. Soon the British brothers would be safe on the other side, urging their swift ponies down the slopes into Pakistan. In a trance Abbas dreamed that he rode with them. He flinched at a sudden sharp pain to the back of his head.
‘The Barbarian..? Such symbol of invincibility..! Such savagery to be feared..! It is Allah who is avenged! Allah to be feared! The Gorkha myth is smashed forever! The Barbarian feeds the earth with his blood! Who will fear them now? And who are you to speak of the wrath of the Barbarian? Where were you when the killing was to be done? Shitting yourself, Abbas, lion among men…’
The one called Hadir slapped the boy again, and turned to the other.
‘At the break of day we record our deeds…’
He motioned towards the camera bag at their feet. Laughing, the black brother from London had thrown it to them as he had mounted the pony.
‘…The world will know of us, and our work. It is God’s Will…’
Hadir shivered uncontrollably, suddenly afraid again; it had not been explained to them that the British brothers would leave so soon after the killing. He glanced down at the laptop computer that lay with the video camera. He didn’t even know how to switch it on.
‘Why do we wait here in this freezing hell when our wives lie warm for us, close at hand? And what of this..?’
Hadir jerked his head back towards the fertiliser sacks. It was the last thing he did. The fist that flashed through the open window - past the face of the one called Abbas - smashed into his temple, bursting blood vessels and splintering bone. The one beside him began to scream as Hadir’s inert figure slumped against him. Blood poured from his cousin’s ear, matting both their beards. The one called Rastagaar threw himself against the door as he fumbled for the handle. He scrabbled for the Kalashnikov at his feet, but Hadir was in his way. His screams filled the cab, ringing out through the open window the length of the valley. The arm reached through the cab - past Abbas - the fist on the end unclenched now to grip the one called Rastagaar by the throat. Abbas sat rigid, motionless, staring straight ahead past the face pressed snarling against his own. The screaming subsided into a gurgling sound. Kicking and struggling Rastagaar slumped at last, quiet and still, his windpipe - torn from his throat - twitching across his chest. The face disappeared. The driver’s door opened. Still frozen in shock, staring straight ahead the boy saw in his peripheral vision a figure drag the bodies out of the cab, and hump them onto the bed of the truck beside the plastic sacks. The hand reached in once more to drag Abbas across to the driver’s seat.
