THE HEART OF DANGER (30 page)

were most thick. To spread his weight, was what Ham had told him,

and

not to walk where it was easiest, where boot marks could be most

clearly seen. He had moved up the bank and there had been the open

space that he assumed was a path, and he had rolled across the space,

which was difficult with the backpack, and the pistol on his waist

had

bruised into his stomach. Past the open space, the path, he had

found,

as Ham had told him he would, a single low strand of barbed wire.

He

had found it because the barbs on the wire had suddenly trapped him,

become embedded in the material of his camouflage tunic. Ham had

171

told

him that he should not shake the wire because it would carry empty

tin

cans, and he should not go beyond the wire because it marked the

perimeter of an area where mines were buried. He had a sort of

reassurance when the barbs of the wire caught at him, proof that Ham

knew. He had picked the barbs off with small and careful movements,

then crawled in the darkness along the length of the wire, threading

the wire through the circle he had made with his thumb and forefinger

until his hand was a mess of blood from the barbs. He led himself,

on

his stomach, along the length of wire until his hand felt the post

and

then the twine binding the wire to the post. From the post the wire

twisted in direction and headed back and away from the river behind

him. It was as Ham had told him .. . another path, going away from

the

river, and he had searched for a small stick, as he had been told

to

do, and he had held the stick loose in front of him as he had walked

at

the side of the path. Ham had said that he should be at the side

of

the path because the mud that would betray his boot weight would be

in

the centre of the path. He had held the stick loose in front of his

knees because Ham had said, but didn't know, that there might be a

tripwire slung across the path, at knee height, and a tripwire might

rattle empty cans, or it might detonate a grenade. It was as Ham

had

told him .. . Penn stopped when he reckoned he had gone a full hundred

yards from the river bank. When he had stopped, he groped with his

fingers and found the barbed wire that ran two strides from the path,

and he followed the barbed wire deep into the birch wood. He had

sat

down on the old leaf mould, and waited. They were desperate hours

to

wait, especially when the rain had started. The rain dripped from

his

head to his chest and his shoulders. He tried to ration how often

he

looked down at the luminous hands of his watch. Should have rested,

should have catnapped, as Ham had told him, but he could not have

slept

and could not have dozed. He reckoned he heard each dribble and

splatter of the rain coming down from the tall birches, and each

172

minuscule shifting of his weight where he sat seemed a confined

explosion of sound. He waited for the dawn. The dawn was late

because

of the low cloud. The dawn coming late meant that he would have to

push faster when he moved off. When he could see where the weight

of

his boots would fall, then it was the time for him to move forward.

There was no going back. There was no inflatable waiting at his bank

of the Kupa river. There was no alternative to moving forward.

There

was nothing in his mind of sentimental crap, staying alive was going

forward. As Ham had told him .. . the most dangerous part of the

journey for him was the first five miles, and the worst of the most

dangerous ground was what he would cover in the first mile. He tried

to razor his concentration. The first mile was where the minefields

were most closely settled, where the tripwires were, where the

military

ruled. The first five miles were where the patrols would be most

frequent. It was the fucking contradiction, was what Ham had said,

that he must move most carefully in the first miles, and move fastest.

When he could see the path, Penn hoisted the backpack onto his

shoulders and went forward. Not running, not jogging, but going with

a

brisk pace. When he had gone half a mile, twelve minutes going on

thirteen, he realized the futility of the map drawn by Ham. He had

no

detail. The farmhouse was not marked on the map. The farmhouse was two-storey, brick-built from the ground up and then heavy-set

planking

for the upper floor. There was a wide balcony area at the front on

the

upper floor. He could see the man clearly. The man on the balcony

did

not bother to look out, to wonder if he were watched. The man opened

the front of his trousers and urinated through the bars of the balcony

and down onto the waste ground near to the front door of the farmhouse.

And then Penn saw the woman, nightdress under her coat and above her

black rubber boots, and she had the washing basket on the ground

beside

her and was starting to peg out the clothes a bloody early start for

the old house chores and she bawled. Penn heard her voice, full of

rich complaint, and was near enough then to see the man scratch, and

ignore her, and yawn and stretch and belch, and still ignore the beat

of her complaint, and turn to go back inside. Penn moved on. Each

time that he stopped he tried to be certain that he was against the

line of a thicker birch trunk. As Ham had told him .. . never to

173

be in

Silhouette, never to be the unnatural Shape, and Sound and Smell and

Shine could bloody wait, it was Silhouette and Shape that mattered.

At

the back of the farmhouse were outbuildings and barns, a mess of

slumped roofs and corrugated iron and abandoned harvest equipment

and

the corrals for cattle and pigs and sheep. Parked up amongst them

were

three military lorries and a jeep. He could no longer see the front

of

the farmhouse but the woman's yelling carried to him, and there were

new cries of encouragement and jeers from young troops. So young.

Half

asleep and paddling around in the mud, the troops, but they had their

rifles slung on their half-dressed bodies. Hesitation, to move or

not

to move, but the light was growing all the time .. . None of the

training on the Five surveillance courses seemed relevant. He had

only

his instincts to protect him, and the guidance that Ham had given

him,

and the instinct and the guidance seemed damn all of nothing. Going

so

carefully, tree to tree, along the track, and knowing that if the

movement were seen .. . holy shit.. . going carefully. One of the

troops, a fresh-faced young boy, a straggle of beard on his chin,

walked purposefully from the barns and up the field towards the track.

Carried his rifle and a small entrenching spade, and three dogs

gambolled and chased around him. Penn had to move, because the line

that the trooper had taken would cross the track ahead of where he

now

stood. He had to risk the movement. Going forward fast, too fast,

going from tree to tree, spurt rushes. Just a boy coming up the hill

behind the outbuildings, probably a shy boy, probably looking for

a

place where a shy boy could dig his small pit and defecate and not

be

watched. There was a terrier dog and a cross-collie dog and there

was

a big, slow, heavy-coated dog. His last surge, and the terrier had

its

hackles up and the cross-collie barked, and the heavy-coated dog

didn't

seem to know what the hell was happening. The boy was twenty paces

from him. Slow hands, trembling, feeling into the flap of the

174

backpack, twisting his arm round, finding the paper holding the

sandwiches that Ham had given him. Ham had said there was cheese

and

beef and pickle in the sandwiches. The terrier growling as the boy

dug. Slow hands, clumsy, un peeling the newspaper from the

sandwiches.

The cross-collie barking as the boy lowered his trousers and the rifle

was beside him. Penn put the sandwiches gently to the ground, on

the

wet dead leaves. The heavy-coated dog wagging its tail in vigour.

Penn

understood dogs because that was his childhood. Dogs had poor

eyesight

but had the sense of smell and the sense of hearing. They came close.

It was his luck that the boy had his crouched back to him. They were

close, and he looked into the sharp teeth lines of the terrier and

the

barking fangs of the cross-collie and the happy friendship of the

heavy-coated dog. With his boot he edged the sandwiches closer to

them. He went on his toes. He went in silence and behind him was

the

snarling for possession of his sandwiches. Penn went with his chest

heaving and his legs leaden and his heart pounding. He went, and all

the time that he moved he waited for the shout and the metal scrape

of

the rifle being armed, but he heard only the dogs disputing for his

sandwiches.

When he had gone past the farmhouse where the troops who guarded the

front line were billeted, he looked back. The boy was walking down

towards the farmhouse and with his bowels cleared the boy whistled.

He

wondered whether he could have knifed the boy. Just a shy boy, just

a

pack of farm dogs, and Penn understood what Ham had told him ... a

fucking dumb place to be.

He made ground, went hard, had to cover good distance before the

daylight settled.

It was a response to the rejection.

The rejection was of him, not his wife, which made it wound the more.

For his wife there was normality in Salika village. She was the

nurse.

She could still move amongst the people of the village, visit the

175

elderly, examine the children, weigh the babies, while her husband

stayed at home with his books and his loneliness. Each of the days

that she had gone out, since his challenge at the school and his

beating, the Headmaster had asked her what was said of him, how he

was

spoken of... She had thought she, too, would be rejected, and she

was

not, his wife could go into the homes of the village and talk, gossip,

advise and drink coffee .. . and she answered him straight, always

had

spoken to him in frankness since the youth of their marriage. Simply

nothing was said of him. It was as if, she had said the night before

and that morning as she hurried his breakfast, he did not exist in

the

life of the village. His wife had gone to visit the two sisters who

suffered from rheumatoid arthritis, to offer them comfort instead

of

drugs that were no longer available. He was alone in his house. He was with his loneliness and the books that he could read when he held

them as far as his arm would stretch in front of his face and when

he

sat close to the light of the window. 11 The Headmaster believed

there

were two women and one man who had cared about him, and the two women

and the one man had now rejected him.

Evica Stankovic had taken over the running of the school and used

his

office as her own.

The Priest had missed another evening when he might have called by.

To

counter the agony of his rejection the Headmaster determined, that

morning when there was still insufficient light for him to sit in

his

window and read, that he should pray to the good God, if the good

God

was there. He did not believe that the good God was known to his

former friend, the Priest who rejected him. Their bond had been

intellectual, not religious. He resolved that he would struggle in

his

own way, to find the necessary words of prayer. He was a communist,

of

course, and he would not have been elevated to the Headmaster's

position if he had not been a member of the Party; he did not know

the

176

way of prayer. His mother and his father, dead so long, knew of

prayer

and he would try to summon the memory of them. He would go in darkness

to that place of evil. He would pray alone where evil had been done.

He would pray in that place of evil for guidance as to how he should

utilize the secret he held. If they had not been sitting on the

track,

if they had not been squabbling over cigarettes, if they had not been

scuffling for the bottle, Penn would have walked into the patrol,

into

the arms of the five militia men. But they were sitting on the track

and one yelled as he snatched the cigarettes and one shouted as he

grabbed the bottle. First statue still, rock still, stone still,

then

retreating back along the track, cat careful, cat cautious. He edged