He turns and looks at me. He says nothing but smiles. Everything in our friendship seems contained in it. An Afghan proverb springs suddenly into my memory, and I hear myself repeating it quietly to myself.
Yak roz didi dost, roze dega didi bradar
. One day there is friendship, the next there is brotherhood.
The silence is broken by a single shot. I don’t see where it comes from because I am watching H, whose body suddenly jerks, then wavers at the water’s edge. He looks down slowly at his chest, where a dark stain has suddenly appeared, and looks up again in bewilderment. There’s another shot a few seconds later, and H’s body topples backwards into the water. I open my mouth but no sound comes out.
A momentary paralysis lifts, and I turn in the direction of the shot. A man is standing thirty yards away. His clothes are filthy and torn, and I realise it can only be the fourth man from the black pickup. I can see his face and the look of coldness on it as he swings his weapon towards me and takes aim. There’s a faint click. A scowl crosses his face as he throws the empty magazine to the ground and reaches for another in his webbing.
Then a raging energy enters me and I run across the open ground towards him. I’m already halfway to him as he sends the magazine home and draws back the bolt. I see the muzzle swing up and see his head tilt as he takes aim at me, and I realise I will die, but I’ll die trying.
I hear the shot but feel nothing. Something is happening I don’t understand. Another shot rings out, and then another and another, and the man’s weapon falls from his hands as he tumbles back under the rounds from H’s Browning. The man is dead by the time I reach him.
I look back towards H, who’s standing in the water with his pistol at his side, and for a second I wonder if it’s all been an illusion and he’s fine after all. But as I run back to him he sinks to his knees, and the water flowing behind him is red, as if someone has been pouring wine into it.
I catch him as his body falls sideways and yell to the others, and I carry him to the wall of the house. Sher Del and Momen have run out and tear strips of cloth to press against H’s chest where the blood is gushing as if from a broken tap. I prop him against the wall.
‘Did I get him?’ he asks. He’s trying to smile.
‘Yes,’ I say.
‘Good. I thought there might be one more. Everyone else alright?’
‘They’re fine,’ I say.
His eyes roll up then back again, like the bubbles in a spirit level. He’s dying.
‘Do me a favour? Help me up the hill, can you? I want to look at the view.’
I pick him up. The others stay behind because they know what’s going to happen. I carry him across the stream and through the line of poplars beyond, where the dappled light falls across his face as he tries to keep his head up. He’s struggling to hum a tune, but the sound only comes out as my feet fall against the ground, pushing the air from his lungs in tiny bursts. Then he coughs convulsively, and a trail of blood descends from his lips, and there is nothing I can do now but watch the life flow from him.
‘Here’s a good spot,’ I say. I lower him to the ground and lean him against a slope that allows him to look across the valley, and sit next to him, wiping the tears that are streaming from my eyes. I can’t stop them.
‘It’s nice here,’ he says. His head lolls forward, then corrects itself. ‘I think I might stay a while.’
We sit for a few minutes in silence as the mystery of death draws in. Then, as gently as if he has fallen asleep, his head comes to rest on my shoulder, and I have the distinct sense that something has been released, like a river that has finally reached the sea.
We wash his body in the stream and carry it into the old man’s courtyard. Two women from the village come to wrap him in white cloth. I dig the grave myself, concealing in it the boot which contains the tracker, though I have no idea how long it will give out a signal. The four of us carry him to the grave, Manny walking with one hand on my shoulder as a guide, and we’re watched from below by the old man, a few villagers who have emerged from their houses and some brightly dressed, curious children.
Sher Del and Momen offer prayers over the grave in turn, and as the first handful of dark soil falls onto the whiteness of the fabric, the grief is just too strong and I have to turn my eyes away.
I look up through a blur of tears, and my gaze falls on an eagle soaring high overhead in the centre of the lapis-blue sky. It seems to be circling us, and I watch its silhouette turning effortlessly through the pure clear air until the sound of the men’s prayers brings me back. When I look up again, the eagle is gone.
We agree to stay together, though I give Sher Del and Momen the choice.
‘Together,’ Sher Del says, ‘we will be stronger.’
We’ve still got the silk maps, the pistols, enough gold to sponsor a minor coup, and between us a healthy stock of stories to keep us entertained along the way. If we steer clear of the main tracks and roads we’re unlikely to be seen, and should be able to make our way to Kandahar within a few days and blend into the life of the city. From there we can split up and travel invisibly on public transport back to Kabul.
The old man gives me his own shalwar kameez to wear, and we roll our things into a
pattu
, which Sher Del throws over his shoulder as we prepare to set off, resembling nothing more than an impoverished team of weary native travellers.
I look up once more and search the air to see if the eagle has returned, but it’s gone now, and the sky is magnificently empty.
In memory of
H
1949–2001
A Sqn 22 SAS
B
EYOND THE LAST BLUE MOUNTAIN BARRED WITH SNOW
Acknowledgements
With special thanks to:
His Master’s Voice
Lola Beaumont
RayF, J & B
Mephisto
DE &
‘C’
A Note on the Author
Jason Elliot is a prize-winning British travel writer, whose works include
An Unexpected Light: Travels in Afghanistan
, a
New York Times
bestseller and winner of the Thomas Cook/
Daily Telegraph
Travel Book Award, and
Mirrors of the Unseen: Journeys in Iran
.
The Network
is his first novel.
First published in Great Britain 2010
Copyright © 2010 by Jason Elliot
This electronic edition published 2010 by Bloomsbury Publishing Plc
The right of Jason Elliot to be identified as the author of this work has been
asserted by her in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act, 1988
All rights reserved. You may not copy, distribute, transmit, reproduce or otherwise
make available this publication (or any part of it) in any form, or by any means
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printing, recording or otherwise), without the prior written permission of the
publisher. Any person who does any unauthorised act in relation to this publication
may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages.
Bloomsbury Publishing Plc, 36 Soho Square, London W1D 3QY
A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library
ISBN 978 1 4088 1443 7
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