Those in Peril (Unlocked) (32 page)

While they waited for the signal from the Mullah the men fondled their quarry stones, laughing and chattering with their companions, wagering amongst themselves as to who would be first to hit the head of the condemned woman. The Mullah recited a short prayer asking Allah for his blessing on their enterprise, and again citing the proven guilt of the woman.

The woman’s husband came forward to claim the honour of hurling the first rock at his helpless wife. The Mullah gave the man his blessing and commended him to the approval of Allah, and then he shouted through the loudhailer, ‘Do your duty under the law.’

The husband set himself up and took deliberate aim with the rock in his right hand, then he hurled it with a full sweep of his arm and his whole body behind it. It struck the woman on her shoulder and she shrieked with anguish. The men behind him hooted and ululated with delight, and then each of them launched the stone he was holding ready and even before it struck or missed the target they had stooped to pick up the next stone from the pile. The air was filled with flying stones, and at first most of them missed the target. One or two struck the woman’s body and she cried out at the shock and the pain and made blind and fruitless movements as though trying to dodge the sharp-edged missiles. Finally one struck her head. It hit her squarely in her forehead and the force of it whipped her head backwards. Almost immediately the bright blood welled up through the white cotton. The woman’s head drooped forward on her neck like a wilting flower on its stalk. She was struck again in the temple and her head flopped over to the other side. Soon there was no further sign of life but the flying rocks continued to thud and slog into the woman’s quiescent body.

At last the Mullah gave his thanks to Allah for guiding them in their holy duties, and he and the other clerics retired into the green mosque. The men threw the last stones they were still carrying and the crowd began to break up, and singly or in small groups drifted away still chattering animatedly. A few mischievous urchins gathered around the woman’s half-buried corpse and at point-blank range threw more rocks at the shattered head, screaming with laughter whenever one of them managed a hit.

‘We can go,’ Hector told Tariq quietly and they stood up and joined the spectators who were straggling out of the square. Hector glanced back only once to make sure that Hazel and the other two women were following them. Tariq led them through the bazaar where the stall keepers were once more spreading out their wares upon the dusty earth. After the distraction of the punishment the town was returning to normal life as if nothing out of the ordinary had taken place. On the far side of the bazaar was the large open space which served as a depot for the passenger buses and transport lorries, as well as a caravanserai for the passengers and travellers. They were camped out in the open, gathered around dozens of smoky cooking fires or around the wells dug at its centre.

Tariq bought a bundle of firewood from one of the vendors, and a sheep’s head and a few bloody shanks from another. Daliyah stood in line with other women waiting to draw water at the well. As soon as the fire was burning they gathered around it in a circle and watched the mutton bones grilling. As this was not a public but a family gathering, Hazel and Cayla could sit close behind Hector still wearing their burqas. They were silent and subdued by the gruesome performance they had been forced to witness. Hazel was the first to speak.

‘I told Cayla not to watch. Thank God that some of the other women succumbed so she did not draw undue attention. I wish I hadn’t watched it. It is something that I will never forget. These people are not human. Even in my worst nightmares I could never conjure up such terrible things as they have done to Cayla and those other poor wretches today. I thought Islam was a religion of peace and kindness, of love and forgiveness. Never this monstrous orgy of bigotry and brutality we witnessed today.’

‘Medieval Christianity was every bit as savage and barbaric,’ Hector pointed out. ‘You have only to look to the Spanish Inquisition and to the Crusades, or to the scores of other wars and persecutions waged in the name of Jesus Christ.’

‘But it’s not like that any more,’ Hazel protested.

‘Some Christian sects are still pretty raw in their thinking, but on the whole you’re right. Modern Christianity in general has evolved into something far more gentle and humane, closer to Judaism, Buddhism and Shinto. Likewise most thinking Muslims have adapted and moderated their philosophy. As they stand now both Christianity and Islam are fine and noble religions.’

‘Then how can such abominations as we witnessed today still be perpetrated?’ Hector could see her eyes flooding and she blinked at the tears.

‘If a handful of Roman Catholic priests use their power to sodomize small children, does that make Christianity evil?’ he asked her. ‘If a few blindly fanatical oafs like the Mullah who orchestrated today’s butchery remain trapped in the brutal philosophy and teaching of the sixth century, does it make Islam evil? Of course not.’

‘No, I have to agree with you. But those few extremists are able to influence the unsophisticated masses and create such a climate of hatred and brutality that the kind of horrors we saw today, and the kind of treatment that Cayla was subjected to, become commonplace.’ Hazel’s voice shook, and Hector cut in.

‘Darling, not all Muslims are terrorists.’

‘I know that. But I will oppose this extreme Sharia law with all my might and to the last drop of my blood.’

‘As will I and all enlightened men and women of whatever race or religion, including Islam. But you do realize, my love, that you might have to revise part of the code and doctrine that you expressed during our first meeting?’

‘You mean the part where I called you a blood-thirsty racist?’ she asked, and he could tell by her tone that behind the veil and through her tears she was smiling, probably for the first time since they had entered the village.

‘That would do for a start.’ He smiled back at her.

‘You are too late, Cross. That opinion was revised some time ago.’

At that moment Tariq returned and squatted beside Hector.

‘The man we discussed has brought the bus and the guns for you to see.’

T
he bus was parked among a dozen others at the far end of the campground. It was a sturdy TATA, built in India many years before. At a glance it was obvious that it had lived a hard life. It was almost indistinguishable from any of the other buses parked around it, except only in that it was not heaped high with passenger goods and chattels. Tariq introduced Hector to the owner. After they had gone through the elaborate ritual of greeting, Hector walked around the bus. Three of the windows were cracked and one was missing completely. Hector knelt down to look under the engine. Black oil dripped from the sump, but not in copious amounts. The engine bonnet was held in place with baling wire. Hector opened it and checked the oil level with the dipstick. It was almost full, as was the water in the radiator – clearly recently replenished for his benefit. He climbed up into the driver’s seat and disengaged the fuel cut-off plunger. Next he turned the starter key to heat and waited for the light to show on the panel, then he turned the key to ignition. The engine turned over sluggishly but did not fire. The owner had followed him into the cab.

‘If you will permit me, Effendi?’ Hector relinquished the seat to him. The owner began a practised routine with the throttle and starter key. At last the engine fired, backfired and farted before dying again. Unperturbed the owner repeated the procedure and at last the engine fired more convincingly, almost died, backfired again and then caught and ran up strongly. The owner beamed triumphantly. Hector congratulated him then walked around the vehicle again. Blue smoke blew from the exhaust and water dripped from the same pipe.

Cracked block
, Hector thought, and when he opened the bonnet again there was loud knocking from one of the cylinders.
For an African bus it’s in almost pristine condition. Should still be good for a few hundred miles, which is all I ask from it.

Then he looked the owner in the eye and said, ‘How much?’

‘Five hundred Americani,’ replied the man delicately.

‘Two hundred and fifty,’ Hector countered, and the man wailed and clutched his brow as though Hector had insulted both his mother and his father.

‘Five hundred,’ he insisted, and then allowed himself to be beaten down slowly to the figure of three hundred that both of them had fixed in their own minds from the outset. They spat on their palms and slapped hands to seal the contract. Then they climbed into the bus and went down the aisle between the seats to the wooden case in the rear. The owner threw back the lid, and with a flourish presented the contents: six AK-47 assault rifles and five hundred rounds of ammunition. The wooden butts of the rifles were chipped and scratched, the blueing had rubbed off on any high-spots on the metal and when Hector looked down the bore of one of the barrels he saw it was worn so badly that they would be inaccurate at any range over fifty yards. Hector and the man settled for twenty-five dollars each. Before they parted with sincere expressions of deepest respect the vendor handed over the papers of the bus and mentioned almost as an afterthought that the local jihadist militia were on the lookout for a gang of criminal infidels who had murdered the old Sheikh and stolen one of his vehicles. He gave the impression that he did not mourn the passing of the old Sheikh to any great extent. He went on to add that a few hours earlier the stolen vehicle had been found abandoned not far from the town. The new Sheikh, may Allah grant him long life and great wisdom, had declared a curfew and issued a warning that any traffic moving on the roads between sunset and sunrise or failing to halt at a roadblock would be fired upon.

‘I thought I should warn you.’ The man shrugged indifferently.

‘Thank you, brother,’ Hector said, and added a hundred-dollar bill to the wad of cash that changed hands. As soon as he was gone Hector turned back to Tariq.

‘Now we need some passengers to fill her. If there is no luggage piled on the roof and just the nine of us sitting like first-class passengers inside her, nobody would believe for a moment that we are pilgrims on our way to Mecca.’ By this time the sun had set and Tariq wandered off into the campground to tempt a full load of passengers on board the bus with offers of heavily discounted fares as far as Berbera on the coast. The three women and all the men of Hector’s party climbed aboard to reserve their seats by sleeping in them. The other seats filled up rapidly, and an hour before dawn there was standing room only in the interior, with half a dozen late arrivals clinging precariously to the mountain of luggage strapped to the roof racks. The bus was well down on its suspension with the weight of the load. Hazel, Cayla and Daliyah were squeezed into the bench seat at the rear. Cayla had managed to claim her place nearest to the window from which the glass was missing. Daliyah sat between them to field any questions that might be fired at them when they reached the roadblocks.

Cayla leaned across Daliyah to whisper to her mother, ‘At least I will get a little fresh air. The stink in here is eye-watering.’

Hazel was half-submerged under the spreading bulk of an extremely large lady who occupied the seat beside her, balancing on her abundant lap a basket of dried fish. The fish were only half-cured and their smell competed strongly with the body odour of the lady herself. Hector sat on the floor cross-legged in the middle of the aisle with a heap of luggage piled in front of him and his ancient AK rifle across his lap. Anyone attempting to get back to where the women sat would be forced to climb over both the luggage and Hector. Tariq was the driver. If questioned at one of the roadblocks his accent was authentically Puntlandian. The remaining four Cross Bow operatives had been strategically placed by Hector so that in an emergency they could cover and defend the whole interior of the vehicle.

As the new day dawned and the sun showed its red dome above the hills, the fourteen buses that had been forced by the curfew to pass the night in the campground started their engines and beeped their horns to assemble their passengers. They formed up in a long convoy, and with the occupants shouting prayers and supplications to Allah for a safe journey, they drove out onto the main highway heading northwards. Tariq had managed to push their bus into the middle of the line.

‘We don’t want to be the first or the last,’ he suggested to Hector. ‘Those are the ones who will receive the closest attention.’ Within a mile of leaving the town they ran into the first roadblock, manned by ten jihadists. The convoy ground to a halt while the driver and passengers of the first bus were forced at gunpoint to dismount and unload all their luggage into the road. Hector went forward and crouched down behind Tariq’s driving seat to watch the search procedure. It was almost half an hour before they allowed the first truck to pass. The second took half that time. Some of the men were made to dismount and one of them was, for no apparent reason, beaten unconscious with a rifle butt, and thrown into the rear of the lorry parked at the side of the road. By the time the fifth bus reached the roadblock the militia had very obviously lost real interest in the business. Three of the militia climbed aboard and the rest of them walked around the bus peering at the cowering passengers through the windows.