THE HEART OF DANGER (42 page)

butchered in the pit dug by the bulldozer "Why was she important ..

.

?" Staring all the time into the face of the big man, and the eyes

above the matt of the beard darting away, and the tongue in the midst

of the beard sliding on dried lips. '.. . She was English, and that is why I came. She was not Serbian and not Croatian and not Muslim.

She was not a part of the quarrel. She was English and her name was

Dorrie .. ." Staring into the face, and hearing the drip of the

translation. He had spoken the name and there was a little gasp and

a

small murmur in the circle around him. He was trying to hold the

pain

and the tremble, trying to ape the mischief moments of Dorrie Mowat.

'.. . Her name was Dorrie Mowat, and there was no cause for her

killing. It was cowards' work killing Dorrie Mowat." "Who sent you?"

"I was sent by the mother of Dorrie Mowat. I came to find how Dorrie Mowat died. I came so that I could tell her mother how she died,

in a

pit. And I came so that I could tell her mother who killed her, the

name of the man, the man who was responsible .. ." Penn felt the

moment of power. He heard the engines of big vehicles away behind

the

door. No one moved in the circle around him. He didn't know where

it

would lead, couldn't know .. . "Who knew her? Who knew Dorrie Mowat?"

He heard the echoing ring of his voice. The woman interpreted. "Who met her when she lived in Rosenovici before the fight, before she

was

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butchered?" He turned from the shifting eyes, from the licked lips.

It was all a fraud. "Did you know her .. . ?" It was a fraud because it was pretence that he held the high ground, when he held fucking

nothing ... He searched the faces. An old man, a young man, a teenage

girl... It was a sham act. "You, did you know her .. . ?" He searched the faces, challenged them, and they would not meet him. He ranged

over the faces of the circle.

"Who met her ... ?"

He reached the woman who held the photographs, who interpreted the

questions and answers. She dropped her head.

"I met her."

Penn whispered, "Why did you meet her?"

"I met her so that I could talk English with her. I met her before the

fight for the village so that I could better my language of English."

Penn said, "I came so that I could tell Dorrie's mother the name of the

man who killed her daughter, so that she would know the name of that

man. I came to prepare a report for Dorrie's mother, I came to find

the evidence against that man .. ."

He saw the fingers of the woman twisting on the photographs, tearing

them and she did not notice.

"What was the name?"

The wall around him was of shame. He had won his dignity, as Dorrie

had claimed hers. He had stamped his death warrant, and fuck them.

The

circle about him was of guilt. She would be laughing at him, laughing

loud, from her mischief face. Dignity was won .. . Somewhere he heard

the roar of lorry engines pulling away .. . Fuck them, because they

couldn't hurt him, if he had his dignity, they could only kill him.

It

was Penn's moment. It was, to him, as if he were alone with the big

man facing him. It was as if all else was suppressed, as if each

other

person in the circle held no importance. It was a handsome face,

a

leader's strong, good face.

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"I have the evidence for my report that Dorrie Mowat was killed by

..

."

Penn heard the voice of the woman who interpreted.

'.. . Was murdered by Milan Stankovic."

And in front of him the face flushed in anger, and the fists caught

at

him.

Penn shouted, "His name is Milan Stankovic."

Men around him, the circle broken, hands grabbing him. He saw the

face

the last time, the anger flush in the matt of the beard, and the woman

who had interpreted was sobbing. He kicked and he struggled, and

he

was forced towards the door of the hall. He had his fucking dignity.

He bit at the hands that held him. His fucking dignity, what Dorrie

had had. He writhed with them as they pushed him through the door,

into the night. The lorry in the line was starting to roll. The

line

of the lorry lights speared the darkness of the village and the lorry

was in front of him, beginning to move. The opening of the door of

the

hall flushed the inside light onto the Union flag on the lorry's door.

Only two men were able to hold him as they came through the tight

space

of the doorway. Penn saw the small round startled face. He bit the hand on his arm. He elbowed into a stomach. It was his chance. He broke free. There was black darkness beyond the lorry. Penn

yelled,

"Kill your lights." The one chance only. The lights died. Night darkness around him. He ran. The darkness was his friend. He

threw

himself under the moving wheels of the lorry, and rolled. He didn't

know what the hell happened, but he had killed the lights. Just the

glow of the dashboard in the cab and the fluorescent buttons of his

radio. He was nudging the lorry forward. The far door of the cab

came

open and there was a quick blast of night air. There were hands

groping by his shins and ankles, and something, Benny didn't know

what,

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was thrown from the cab floor. It hit the wooden fence across the

road, clattered in the dark. There was weight across his legs and

panting, wriggling movement. Something else, Benny didn't know

what,

was thrown from the door of the cab, and that seemed to go further

and

it hit glass across the width of the road, perhaps a greenhouse,

perhaps a cold frame. The door closed quietly on the cab, and the

weight came over him and prised into the gap behind his seat and the

passenger seat. There were men running round the Seddy, going across

the road towards where something had hit the wooden fence, and

something else had smashed a glass surface. There was shooting, he

could see the gun flashes in the big side mirror of the Seddy, could

see the fireflies of the bullets going towards the fence and where

the

glass pane had been broken .. . and all the lorries were hammering

it

now, because of the shooting. The lorries swerved, each in their

turn,

for the road they should have taken. Benny was cool. He didn't

favour

panic. The radio in his cab was a jabber of voices, all calling for

the convoy to get the hell out, get the distance in. There was the

sharp panted breathing behind him, and Benny realized the man stank.

He was in cruise gear and they were doing good speed, and the village

was behind him, and the sound of shooting was fading. He was cool,

no

panic, and he could think well. Benny reckoned it to be about, give

or

take a bit, twenty-five minutes to the crossing point at Turanj ..

.

and he was in deep shit, deepest without a bloody bottom. Because

the

first rule, aid convoy driving, is don't get involved, but the yell

had

been English. The second rule is not to take sides, but the shout

had

been English and desperate. All the rules, up to one hundred and one

bloody rules, said the aid convoy system went through the window if

the

drivers weren't, all the way, impartial, but the cry of "Kill the

lights' had been English. What he had done was get involved, take

sides. And what he'd done, when they hit the crossing point at Turanj

... if back in that black village they'd gotten their act together,

raised the radio, lifted the telephone, sent a fast bloody pigeon

.. .

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what he'd done was to hazard the whole of the aid convoy programme.

People survived because the aid convoys went through without getting

involved. People would starve if the aid convoys were banned because

the drivers had taken sides. People depended on the aid convoys

crossing the lines, impartial .. . Perhaps, Benny thought, before

they

were at the crossing point at Turanj, he'd just chuck him out, push

him

clear. In the convoy queue, spearing the night with its lights, the

Seddy hammered forward, going sweet. Benny unhooked the pencil

torch

from the dashboard clip. He shone the light around his feet.

"Now then, my old cocker, you have just lost me my sandwich box, that my Becky gave me and you have just lost me my fire extinguisher, and

I

am not allowed to drive without a fire extinguisher in the cab and

I'm

thinking you should do the decent thing and, please, close the door

after you .. ."

Benny shone the torch behind him, into the gap behind his seat and

the

passenger seat. He turned to look fast behind him. In the narrow

beam, Benny saw the blood on the face and the cuts and the bruises.

Back to the road. He thought he had seen the face of a man who was

softened for death. He twisted again. Benny saw the stubble growth that dammed the blood, and the eyes that squinted between the puffed

bruising, and the swollen split lips. He dragged down the switch

of

his torch, and again the cab was in darkness.

"You are, my old cocker, a heap of trouble .. ."

Fourteen.

When the big torches came and the guns, they would have him against

the

stream. Milan shouted orders among the babble of the men of the

village. "Make a line .. . Search everything, coal sheds, tool

sheds,

the barns .. . Search your houses .. . Keep the line .. ." The men of

the village stood in line as they had been told to, waiting for the

big

torches and the guns to be brought. Between shouting the orders,

249

his

eyes flicked down to his watch. Milan stood on the steps of the

school

building and behind him were the two swing doors into the hall. They

had only their small torches, sufficient to light a way from their

homes to the hall for the social evening, and they had no rifles until

the firearms were brought from the locked armoury of the headquarters

building .. . Five clear minutes lost .. . Five minutes lost since

Branko had pushed his way back into the hall, licking at his wrist

that

was bitten, and Milo had followed him with his hands held across his

groin. Five minutes lost since they had blurted that the bastard

had

gone .. . and been heard to crash through Petar's fence, and been

heard

to run into the greenhouse where Dragon brought on his spring

lettuces.

He had not seen it for himself and he must take their word on trust

..

. Behind Petar's fence and Dragon's greenhouse was wire and then

sodden

fields, and then the stream. That was where they would get him, the

bastard, when he came to the stream. The first orders he had given

with his barely suppressed fury had been that they should run, shit

quick, to the bridge, alert the bridge guards and get themselves

across

the fields on the far side of the stream. They alone had guns and

a

torch. They'd gone fast, scuttling in their goddamn shame. Five

minutes lost and men were running back to the school steps with their

torches, and Vuk was panting his way back from the armoury at the

headquarters with an armful of rifles, with his pockets bulged by

the

magazines.

The line was formed.

It was a muddled story, it was something about the bastard breaking

clear, and rolling under the lorry, and then going through Petar's

fence, and then breaking Dragon's greenhouse .. . Where was the

goddamn

lorry? But Milan had to move the line. The torches caught at

Petar's

fence, and the broken glass of Dragon's greenhouse. There was the

clatter in the line of rifles being loaded and cocked.

250

He glanced again at his watch. They should be in position now on

the

far side of the stream, and they would be raking the bank with their

flashlights. They would drive the bastard to the bank ... He gave

the

order for the line to move .. . and the minutes were crawling and

lost.

Milan heard the curses from the line. The men wore their best

trousers, and their best shoes, and their best sweaters or jackets.

The

women in their best dresses were streaming from the doorway behind

him,

and they carried away on plates the bread that had been baked for

the

evening and the fruit and the cheeses that had been taken earlier

to

the hall. It had been an attempt by his trapped village to throw

off

the mood, his own mood and everybody's, of being held prisoner, and

the

bastard had destroyed the attempt. He searched the faces of the

women

who carried the food home, because they had all heard his name given,

and all heard the name of Dorrie Mowat, and the bastard had used the