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  Linda did tend to take things very seriously indeed. She was a thin, tense girl with a very straight back and an air of having been marvelous at hockey at school.

  O’Rourke lit a cigarette and stared straight ahead.

  Muhammad appeared in the compound, and I reeled when I saw him. His cheeks were sunken, the skin was pulling tight around his eyes. “Muhammad, look at you.”

  “We are on half rations, Rosie.”

  The thought crossed my mind that Muhammad might have made himself thin deliberately, to spur us into action. When I went down to the camp with him, I looked closely at everyone. Were they thinner already, weaker, or was I imagining it?

  I went to the feeding center to pick up the weight-for-height charts and took them to Muhammad’s shelter to discuss them with him. Instead of him, however, I found O’Rourke in there boiling the water for tea. He said Muhammad would be back in a moment.

  I sat on one of the beds and began looking at the charts. O’Rourke came and stood behind me, looking at them over my shoulder. “Who did these?” he said. “That can’t be right.”

  He pointed to a figure and his hand brushed mine. “It’s nowhere near as bad as that. I think there’s a certain amount of hype going on.”

  I turned round to look at him. He was looking straight at me. His eyes were hazel-colored today. I felt flustered and turned back to the chart.

  “So the UN say wait, which is typical. What’s Malcolm’s line on all this?” he asked.

  “He’s being cautious as well. He thinks I’m overreacting.”

  O’Rourke shook his head. “A triumph of the embalmer’s art, that boy.”

  Muhammad came back in and said, “We must act.”

  Layers of misinformation were shifting to and fro over the problem. I didn’t know what to think. The Keftians were definitely hyping it up, the UN playing it down.

  “André says someone should go up to Kefti and check it out,” I said.

  Muhammad had gone off to find some KPLF soldiers to discuss the idea with us. Officially the Keftian People’s Liberation Front were not allowed in the camp out of uniform, but how were we to know who was a soldier and who wasn’t? O’Rourke had walked to the other side of the shelter now and was standing opposite me across the room. I wasn’t quite sure why he was here. He seemed always to be around now when anything important was happening. It was good, him being there.

  Muhammad returned after a few moments. There were four beds in his shelter, made out of logs and rope, arranged in a horseshoe shape. The soldiers filed in and arranged themselves around the room, some on the beds, some standing behind.

  Muhammad started to talk to the men, and translated for us. “They are saying that they can take us to these locusts and to see these people who are traveling towards us with no food. They can meet us at the border with their vehicles.”

  “How long will it take?” I said. There was some discussion.

  “Maybe one day, or two.” I trebled it.

  “If we’re going to go at all,” I said, “we’ve got to go quickly, either tomorrow or the next day, take some photographs and get them up to the UN in El Daman.”

  “I will see if they can take us tomorrow,” said Muhammad.

  “Hang on, this is a war we’re talking about,” said O’Rourke. “Is this an acceptable risk? What are we looking at?”

  “We have only three problems,” said Muhammad. “The mines, the air raids and the ambushes from Aboutian troops.”

  “Oh, well, in that case, what are we waiting for?” said O’Rourke.

  “How dangerous is it, really?” I asked Muhammad.

  There was more consultation.

  “We must drive from the border through the foothills to the gorge and then across the plain to the highlands. This road from the border to the gorge has been mined, but the mines are cleared now. It is being used regularly by the KPLF vehicles and there has been no mine for many months. They will send a truck ahead of us and we can drive in its tracks, so that if there is a mine they will detonate it first, and we will be safe.”

  “Pretty hard on the guys in the truck,” said O’Rourke.

  “They are soldiers, it is war,” said Muhammad.

  “And what about the air raids?” I said.

  “They do not come close to the border, it is agreed with Nambula. Beyond the gorge we will travel at night. They are not flying at night.”

  “And the ambushes?”

  Muhammad said something to the men and they laughed.

  “They are saying there are no ambushes. The road is well defended.”

  “Is this reliable?” I said. “They want us to go, don’t they?”

  “I would not allow them to mislead you on this,” said Muhammad.

  “So do you think it’s safe?” I said.

  “I have told you what I believe to be the situation. I do not think there is great risk, but I do not think you should make the journey. I will go myself.”

  “But there’s no point in you going on your own. You’re a refugee, they won’t listen to you. It needs one of us as well.”

  “I’ll go,” said O’Rourke.

  “No. I’ll go,” I said.

  We both wanted to go. The purpose justified the risk, we had to know what was waiting up there for Safila. But there are few real adventures to be had in the modern world and this was a real adventure. We were being as self-indulgent as brave.

  “There is no reason for you to come, Rosie,” said Muhammad. “It is better that we take a doctor from the West to assess this situation, and in case of accident or sickness, and I will translate for Dr. O’Rourke.”

  “I’m the one who’s going to deal with the UN. If I’m going to be convincing, I have to have seen this for myself, and taken photographs.”

  “It is better that we take a man.”

  “Why?”

  “So we’ll go the day after tomorrow then,” O’Rourke said, eventually. “All three of us.”

  Over supper there was much indignation over the attitudes in El Daman. The plan to go into Kefti got a more mixed response.

  “If you go in and get shot at, someone’s going to have to come and get you out,” said Linda. “And it’s not going to look particularly good for SUSTAIN if it ends up all over the papers that their personnel are traveling with rebel enemies of the Abouti government.”

  “But it’s not going to look very good for SUSTAIN if we end up with a starving Safila on the BBC news, is it?” said O’Rourke.

  “It doesn’t compare,” said Linda.

  “It’s going to be much more of a job dealing with thousands on supplementary feeding than fetching three corpses out of Kefti.”

  “Oh, for God’s sake, Robert,” said Linda.

  “Bloody hell, bit too much Terry Tension around here for my liking, I’ll be the one under the bed wearing the flak jacket,” said Henry, and wandered out.

  “I just don’t want you to get killed,” said Debbie. “It’s not worth the risk, surely?”

  “We won’t get killed,” I said. “We’ve talked to Muhammad and the KPLF.”

  “I think it’s a reasonable risk, given the end in sight,” said O’Rourke.

  “Well, dears, you know, that’s all very well. But remember. It’s a war,” said Betty.

  Henry reappeared with a bottle of brandy. He must have been saving it. There was a lengthy palaver, pouring it out into the orange plastic mugs. Everyone had some. Even Linda, even Betty.

  After a while, O’Rourke said, “It’s a dangerous, foolhardy, irresponsible, disobedient, roguish plan.”

  “Yes, it’s completely irresponsible,” snapped Linda.

  “It’s a rash, reckless, willful, ill-advised, perfidious scheme,” I said.

  “I think we should go,” said O’Rourke.

  The door of my hut rattled.

  “Bloody hell, what’s going on? Have you got a black man in there?” Henry barged in carrying a bottle of gin and a packet of dried orange juice.
r />   “I say, have you got a bottle of water?” he said. “Thought we might have a last little drinkie together while you’re still in one piece, all goddesslike limbs still attached, so to speak.”

  I suddenly felt very affectionate, possibly because I was scared, and hugged him.

  “I say, steady on, old girl. Don’t want Sir Horace Hard-on joining the party or where will we be?”

  Henry had already had quite a few when he came in. When he’d had a few more he got uncharacteristically serious.

  “You sure about this barking mad, foolhardy, gung-ho, misguided, mercy-dash-style excursion?”

  We had a craze at the moment for using long strings of adjectives.

  “Don’t mince your words, Henry. Feel free to speak your mind.”

  “Road mined. Air raids. Job on line if you get caught. Camp left in lurch again for four days. Is it worth it, old thing?”

  “I wouldn’t go if I didn’t think so.”

  He was swigging from the bottle now.

  “Love to put absolute confidence in your judgment, old girl, absolutely love to. Choice of traveling companion worries me, have to say.”

  “But Muhammad’s a great man.”

  “Not talking about Muhammad. Talking about bloody Cedric Sex God.”

  “Who?”

  “Dr. Cedric Sex God.”

  So he was jealous of O’Rourke.

  “O’Rourke is not a sex god.” It was only half a lie. “He is a kindly, sensible, responsible, earnest, sturdily booted, borderline-bossy doctor. And you know why he has to come.”

  “Quite so, quite so. Need man. Need doctor to sew legs back on. Can’t take me. Have to leave deputy in charge, anyway, not doctor. Can’t take Betty, Betty doctor but not man. Also mad.”

  All memory of minor parts of speech had departed from the Montague brain.

  “That’s right. That’s why he should come.”

  “Wicked seducer.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous. There’s nothing going on between me and O’Rourke and he is not a wicked seducer. Apart from anything else you’re not in a position to cast aspersions, with your appalling romantic record.”

  He giggled. “Different.”

  “Not different.”

  “Think I better go ’stead of you.”

  I hadn’t seen Henry properly drunk before. I’d forgotten how young he was. He looked frightened. Maybe it was being left in charge of the camp which was the problem.

  “It’s only four days. You’ll be fine. We’ll go over everything. You know exactly what to do.”

  Suddenly he flopped over and put his arms round my neck, nuzzling his head against me, as if he was a small child. “Scared, Rosie. Everything out of control. Don’t want you blown up by bomb. Don’t want everything all blown up, starving dead people all over the shop.”

  Henry: not so well sealed and varnished as I had thought. I liked him better for that. I stroked his head and soothed him like a baby.

  It was about forty minutes after we had crossed the border between Nambula and Kefti. I could tell O’Rourke was tense because he was holding the wheel at ten to two, and gripping it tightly, instead of holding it at the bottom and leaning one elbow out of the window, which was his usual style. I was watching his knees in his jeans, next to my knees in my cotton trousers. I was doing that because it took my mind off what was happening. We were following the KPLF vehicle at two hundred yards, driving within its tracks. There were three soldiers in the KPLF truck and Muhammad, who wanted to ride with them until we got into the danger zone so he could speak with them. We had two soldiers with us in the Toyota, sitting in the back. When we got to the danger area we were going to park up till it got dark, then Muhammad was going to ride with us again and we were going to drive on with shades over the headlights. Now it was about three o’clock in the afternoon and the sun was still high.

  The road was starting to climb, we had left the desert and there were bushes and trees on either side of the road. It felt damp and cooler and the air smelt fresh. The KPLF vehicle had disappeared out of sight round a bend in the road. What we heard was a low boom. O’Rourke hit the brakes. Black smoke billowed up above the trees. The two soldiers behind us shouted and jumped out of the back, running off into the bushes to our left.

  I reached for the door handle.

  “Stay in the cab,” said O’Rourke quietly.

  “It could be an ambush. We’ve got to get out.” I was whispering too.

  “Wait.”

  “We must drive on, Muhammad’s in—”

  “Wait.”

  And then there was a second explosion ahead. The air in front of us danced like the air above hot tarmac. We waited again, straining with the tension. It seemed unbelievable that this had happened so soon.

  “OK,” said O’Rourke after a while. He put the truck in gear and started up. We followed the tracks slowly, tensed for another shock till we rounded the corner.

  “Oh, Jesus.”

  The cab had been blown fifty feet away from the rest of the vehicle. At the side of the track to the left I saw the bottom part of a leg lying by the road. The rear section of the truck was upright with a hole torn in the side and Muhammad’s djellaba was hanging out spattered, bright red, with blood. One of his legs was hanging limply over the side of the hole and the stump of the other, below the knee, was bleeding heavily. O’Rourke was already halfway out of the truck with his bag in his hand. I started opening the door at my side.”

  “Come out this side and follow me.”

  I did as he said. We went to Muhammad, who was conscious but incoherent.

  O’Rourke tied a tourniquet above Muhammad’s knee. The stump was still pumping out bright red arterial blood. I turned away and threw up. There were blotches in my vision. I thought I was going to pass out.

  “Just sit down where you are. Don’t look at anything.”

  “I’ll go and check out the cab,” I said, and started walking past the truck towards the track ahead.

  “Wait,” O’Rourke said. I carried on. I thought I was behaving normally. I felt his hand on my arm. He turned me round to face him, put his hands on my shoulders. He was looking at me very calmly. “Just wait,” he said. “Stand here for two minutes. Just stand here and watch me.”

  He went back and I saw him getting something out of his bag and giving Muhammad an injection. Muhammad was lying with his upper half on the bench seat of the truck, his lower half still hanging out of the gash in the side of the lorry. Then O’Rourke lifted what was left of Muhammad’s legs and laid him flat along the seat. I saw that the back of O’Rourke’s shirt had a huge dark patch of sweat and his arms were covered in blood up to the elbows. He wiped his hands on his jeans, then looked up at me.

  “OK.” He gave an energetic smile, as if we were performing some kind of challenge and doing very well at it. This time when he came up he put his hand on my back and guided me ahead towards the cab. “Now. Don’t look in here until I’ve seen what there is.”

  The wheels were gone so the cab was resting on the wheel arches. O’Rourke opened the door and climbed in. I looked over his back and saw the driver’s head which was smashed on the dashboard, leaking clear fluid and blood. The blood was coagulating in the hair. The older soldier seemed to be bent in half. I looked away again.

  “They’re both dead,” said O’Rourke, coming out of the cab. “Where’s the other one?”

  We found the soldier in a thicket a little way away. The man had a piece of metal from the side of the truck stuck in his stomach. I helped O’Rourke with the soldier, getting him the things he needed out of his bag. It was starting to get darker. Together we carried the soldier back to the truck, me holding his feet. O’Rourke had left the metal in his stomach. The bloodstain in the dressing grew like ink on blotting paper, darker round the edges. We laid the soldier on the floor at the back of the truck and I supported his legs while O’Rourke climbed up into the back. Then I climbed up too and we laid him along the bench on the
opposite side of Muhammad, whom O’Rourke had covered with a blanket. He was still unconscious from the painkiller.

  I sat down on the bench seat beyond Muhammad. I lifted his head onto my knee and stroked it. He was warm and breathing heavily. I was glad he didn’t know what had happened to him yet.

  “Do you think he’ll be OK?” I said.

  “Maybe,” O’Rourke whispered.

  It occurred to me then that I had first suggested this trip, so it was my fault that this had happened and Muhammad had lost his leg. My vision broke up, and then a long time later I could hear O’Rourke saying, “OK now, OK.” I was lying somewhere in the dark, covered in a blanket and I could just see O’Rourke in the light of a torch and I remembered what had happened. He was kneeling next to me, and gave me some water to drink.

  “Shouldn’t we get Muhammad back to Safila?” I said. “Can we move him?”

  “Shh. Just take it easy for a while.”

  “Don’t you think we should get back to the camp?”

  “I’ve got a feeling we’re only a few miles from Adi Wari. I think we should take him there and hope there’s a hospital, and if not, pick up an escort and go back to Safila.”

  “What do you think about driving?”

  “No.”

  “So wait until it’s light, then start walking?”

  “Guess so. Carry Muhammad.”

  “What about the soldier?”

  “He’ll be dead by tomorrow. If I take the metal out he’ll die now, if I don’t take it out he’ll be dead by tomorrow.”

  There was the sickly metallic smell of blood in the truck and we couldn’t smoke because there was kerosene all over the floor. So we stood outside for a while and had a cigarette. We could have lit a fire and made some tea, but we didn’t want to risk being seen from the air. Instead we just ate a little bread and drank some water. We climbed back in the truck, sat down side by side on the seat next to Muhammad and wrapped the blankets round us. We would all have been more comfortable in the Toyota but we didn’t want to move the injured men again. Muhammad was quiet but the soldier was delirious and shouting every so often.