Bonfire (6 page)

‘Mick, watch my back,’ I said. He swung round.

‘Okay, go,’ he said.

I dropped onto my side beyond the protection of the wall with the LMG held up and ready. The first two men were on the move in the open. Neither saw me. Two short bursts were all it took. The sound blended into one. The sight of them dying was a sight I knew well. The third man tried to check his run, but he had given me enough time. His body turned desperately and fear pumped his legs. An inch of the trigger was all it needed. My aim was clinical. The bullets thumped into his ribcage and through his breastplate and he went down.

The other two men held their positions and yelled Arabic words that were not in my vocabulary. Their voices were loud and anxious. I backtracked and stood up with my body pressed tight against the wall.

‘Banksy, have you got a shot?’ Cakes said. ‘Can you see them?’ I turned and saw Cakes crouching behind a van higher up the street. The head and torso of one man followed by another appeared from behind a low wall, fired briefly and then disappeared. They were like the cuckoos in a Swiss clock. Their haste ruined any shooting capability they may have had. Desperate to avoid taking a bullet, their own bullets were firing high and hitting the buildings. By moving, Cakes had lured them out and was now inviting Banksy to shoot them.

‘It’s a tight angle,’ Banksy said. ‘I can’t get a clear shot.’

‘Hold on,’ Cakes said. ‘Keep your sights on them. I’ll draw them out. Mick, watch my back.’

Mick rapidly scanned the street and the doorways. ‘Okay, but make it quick,’ he said.

Cakes stepped out from behind the van and stood in plain view. He held his LMG at his waist. One of the men jumped out and fired. His bullets went high. He hesitated, surprised by what he saw. He disappeared and then the other man appeared. He watched Cakes for a second and then taking more considered aim walked a few paces onto the pathway.

Even though I knew it was coming, the impact was dramatic. It was if a punch from a giant, invisible fist had struck the man in the chest.

Then Cakes did something unexpected. He sprinted diagonally across the road with the LMG pulled in tight and ready. His running feet pounded on the hard surface. “John Wayne” actions were not generally something Cakes did. He was angry that someone had set us up. Making Cakes angry was never a good idea. The other man lifted his head above the wall. It was the last thing he did. The LMG barked so fast that I doubt the man even had time to focus. Without checking his run, Cakes leapt over the wall and then dropped out of sight.

Watching Cakes had left the two men near to me unattended. Once again, they were on the move. Running together, and firing at the same time. They were trying to hit me, but only succeeding in peppering the wall. Neither of them noticed the catlike movement of Mick over the boot of the Mercedes into a shooting position. The angle allowed for a single burst of fire and produced a two-for-one result.

We were working through them rapidly. Of the twenty or so men at the start, they were now down to around thirteen.

It had fallen quiet. For a second, I wondered whether they had decided to withdraw but then I saw two more leave their hiding places and move cautiously up the street towards us.

The continuous firing came from my right where a determined countermove had successfully cornered Cakes between a wall and a doorway. Protected by the wall he returned fire, but his position was unsustainable. We needed to move.

‘It’s time to leave,’ I said. ‘Head for the car.’ Mick darted out from behind the Mercedes and sprinted to the tree trunk nearest the Ford. His FAMAS spat bullets in short volleys that proved enough to stall the advance on Cakes.

It was my turn. ‘Banksy, I’ll cover and then follow,’ I said.

‘Wait,’ Banksy said, ‘I’ve got a shot.’

I heard the distinctive report from the sniper rifle immediately followed by a second.

‘That’s two for two,’ Mick said. ‘Now would be a good time to leave.’

‘Okay, I’m coming down,’ Banksy said. ‘Hayes, are you covering the door?’

‘Yes, I’ve got it,’ I said. It was only then as I checked one more time and turned to look down the street that I saw him. He must have come out from a concealed position.

He was already set, and although I reacted instantly my accuracy and speed with the LMG were not enough to stop the man from firing.

It made the same noise it always makes. Imagine an uncontrolled sneeze by an ogre. That is the noise. The RPG [
RPG: rocket-propelled grenade
] was on its unstoppable path aimed at the window through which Banksy was shooting the sniper rifle.

The machine gun bullets from my LMG struck in a tight group just below the man’s sternum.

Before I could shout a warning, the RPG had travelled the short distance to its target.

Feeding on the air the fire rolled and balled skywards, the shockwave pounded my eardrums and debris scattered and fell.

My feet had already carried me halfway when Cakes leapt over the wall and sprinted towards the building. ‘Mick, get the car,’ he said.

I reached the door first. The stairwell ended between the second and third floor. The landing above was gone. Thick smoke funnelled through the gaping hole drawn out like a chimney.

Banksy was on his back and unconscious. He must have been turned and coming down the steps when the grenade hit. Blood leaked badly from a neck wound. It was a deep slicing cut caused by either flying shrapnel or glass. The blood loss was too much.

With a tight grip on his clothes, I pulled him up and over my shoulder. Using one hand to steady him and the other to point and fire my LMG I descended the steps and arrived at the open door where Cakes was firing off short, covering bursts. The attacking fire was closer. The advantage had swung against us. If we failed to escape in the next minute then we would never escape.

The Ford saloon screamed in reverse gear as Mick raced in a tight arc to the doorway. He braked late and hard. The car skidded. Cakes could reach the door handle without taking a step.

A man jumped out from behind the white Mercedes opposite. The point of his rifle barrel took all my attention. One-handed and aiming from the hip I held in the trigger. The bullets sprayed wildly, but it was enough to dissuade the man from taking a shot.

Banksy slipped off my shoulder and onto the backseat. A copious amount of blood flowed from the deep slash to his neck.

Cakes kept low and shot out rapid covering fire. Through the open car window, Mick did the same.

‘Get in,’ Mick said.

It was then that I felt it. All the strength in my legs went and I sat down heavily and then fell backwards. Knowing the importance of remaining conscious, I fought against the blackness that tried hard to fill my eyes. Cakes shouted at me, but they were jumbled words and some were missing. What was he saying? Then his hands were on me and he was pulling me up. I had somehow made it onto my knees.

‘Hayes, get up,’ Cakes said.

‘Get in the car,’ Mick said. His voice was very loud.

My hearing had returned and then so to my focus. The blackness lifted and I saw the open car door. Cakes pushed me and I scrambled inside.

The car accelerated rapidly and then gunfire drowned out the sound of the revving engine. We turned sharply and the car dipped heavily on its suspension before it swung back and then levelled.

The noise of the racing engine replaced the fading gunfire. Mick was driving fast. I sat up. Through the side window, I saw the buildings flash past. We were clear. We had gotten away.

Cakes turned in his seat to look at me. I was looking down at Banksy. My hand was on his neck. His blood had made it red. His blood had made everything red.

‘Hayes, are you okay?’ Cakes asked. I turned my face and looked into his eyes.

‘Banksy is dead,’ I said.

Magda Jbara drank the tea her father had made for her and it tasted better than any she had ever drunk before. They sat together in the sunny room with the outside door open. It was the room her mother had loved so much and in which she had died.

‘Where is Jamaal?’

‘Your brother is at the university, of course,’ her father said. ‘He studies hard. The law fascinates him. He is like you. He has great passion.’

‘Will I see him? When does he return?’

‘I have sent him a message. For you, he may stop studying and come home. When do you leave?’

‘I don’t know exactly,’ Magda said. ‘It will be sometime later today when those men return for me.’

‘Who are those men?’

‘They are soldiers, father.’

‘Why did they come?’ he asked.

‘Mr. Hayes told you, father. They represent the British government. They have come to ask you in person to write a constitution for our country and they have brought me with them as a show of trust and respect.’

‘What other purpose do they have for coming? They are unusual representatives of the British government. Why did they free Moha Hassan al-Barouni? Where are they now?’ her father said. Magda paused in thought. She, too, would like to know the answers to those questions.

‘Father, I do not know,’ she said.

Magda sipped her tea and her father watched her. She looked up and smiled.

‘Will you include the right of every woman to an education, to employment, to vote?’ she asked. Magda was excited. Nasser, her father, smiled.

‘I will include everything that is important and necessary,’ he said. ‘Yes, and everything you campaigned and fought for.’

‘A constitution must benefit all and bestow freedom equally,’ Magda said. Seriousness had replaced excitement. ‘Will you use the American constitution as a guide…as a place to start?’

‘I have already begun my preparations,’ he said.

‘Please, father, tell me about it,’ she said.

While Magda listened to her father talk about his constitutional vision for the future of Libya, she found her mind wandered to thoughts of Mr. Hayes. Why had he really come to Libya?

While growing up political discussions with her father were regular occurrences. Often, they had discussed the merits of federalism and the benefits they believed it would bring. Always a debate ensued about extremists. Would they ever accept a federalist state? Her father was a clever man, but intelligent reasoning cannot change the mind of those unwilling to hear.

On the journey back to Britain Magda determined to speak more with Mr. Hayes. Even perhaps to ask him some questions. Although, she doubted he would answer them.

Her father had stopped talking. They heard the sound of someone entering the house.

‘It will be Jamaal,’ Nasser said. ‘He has returned quickly to see his beloved sister.’

Both Magda and her father watched for Jamaal with smiles. A noise from the open, outside doorway made them both turn their heads to look.

A man stood in the entrance. His face was covered and he held an assault rifle. The smiles vanished. Magda screamed. The man rushed inside and Nasser stood up to confront him. Magda stood, too. She was frightened. Then a second man entered the room. He hurried through the internal door. His face was also covered. Nasser struggled with the first man who pushed him away and then raised the rifle butt. Using both hands, he struck Nasser in the face. It was a powerful blow and Nasser fell to the floor. Magda screamed again. The second intruder pulled a hood over her head and then together the two men manhandled her outside to a waiting van. Magda struggled, but without vision, the disorientation hampered her efforts and the two men were young and strong. They lifted her into the van and Magda heard the doors bang shut. Immediately, the van drove away.

The fear made it hard for Magda to breathe.