Deep Black

42

She was still only semi-conscious but uttered another low moan as I turned her on to her side, so her tongue would fall forward and not block the airway.

I rolled away and sat on the floor just a couple of feet away, completely exhausted. Jerry leaned over her, talking into her ear in Arabic, brushing back her blood-matted hair. She moaned a bit louder.

I looked down at my naked body. I was covered in her blood; my hands were slippery with it. I’d also picked up a fair amount of glass from her – I could see slivers of it glittering in my palms. I looked over to the left. The TV had been knocked off the sideboard and was lying sideways on the floor. The picture was almost perfect now, but the sound had gone.

I tilted my head to watch as they broadcast pictures of the outside of the hotel. One RPG had hit a balcony, and all the fancy Star Wars concrete had been blown away. The camera zoomed in on another scorch-marked hole, less than a foot in diameter, where the RPG’s explosive charge had punched through into the building. These things were designed to pierce armour so they could fuck everybody inside the target. Anyone the other side of the hole would have been hit by a storm of flying glass and masonry.

They cut back to the reporter in body armour and early-morning, post-party, sticky-up hair. The tank had been hit. The scene behind him was a blur of soldiers, smoke, ambulances and medics.

There were voices in the corridor: American, male, macho. ‘Anybody injured? Anybody there?’

Jerry ran to the door. ‘In here! In here!’

A uniformed medical team hurried in, trauma packs on their backs. Jerry started to say something about her husband being downstairs to look for them, but they weren’t listening. They were already on the floor, running their checks.

One looked at me. ‘You OK, man?’

‘Yeah, fine.’ I held up my hands. ‘It’s hers.’

I got up and moved over to the bed to get out of their way. CNN’s cameras were now focused on the tank. It had taken a mobility hit: one track had been blasted off and lay flat behind the vehicle on the tarmac. The militants had had a good morning’s work.

The bride’s moans turned to sobs as the pain caught up with her. I went over to the balcony. The sun was nearly over the rooftops. I wiped my face free of her blood and started to pick the glass out of my hands.

Tracked vehicles surged up and down the streets. Fuck knows what they were hoping to achieve. The horse had well and truly bolted.

The sound of sirens filled the air and more ambulances screeched up outside. Down in the garden, groups of reporters and cameramen were doing interviews as if they were the only ones on the scene.

I looked across at the RPG’s firing point. It was about three hundred and fifty metres away; they were good for up to five hundred at a stationary target. The tower-block windows were missing and it had been burned out long ago. Maybe it had been a Ba’ath Party HQ. Now it had a big fresh fuck-off tank shell hole, and was peppered with .50 cal strike marks around the sixth or seventh floor. RPGs are great weapons, but they have a massive signature: a big flash, then a plume of grey-blue smoke. Once you’ve pulled the trigger, you’ve got to be quick on your feet.

It was all over and done with. They’d had a cabby at us, we’d had a cabby at them. I just felt sorry for the bride. She was going to have to go through the rest of her life with a face like a patchwork quilt. Then again, at least she was alive, and that made me feel quite good, I supposed.

There was a bit of a commotion down on the ground. The balcony that had taken the hit directly overlooked the pool. The huge slab of concrete had gone straight down, and a small group of people were now gathering round the remains of the madman who’d been getting some in beneath it.

I didn’t feel that good any more.