Deep Black

7

Beardilocks gobbed off at the blanket that covered the door, then climbed into his Landcruiser and followed the rest of the vehicles down the track. It looked like he’d got what he wanted. The group of girls was brought to the two trucks. I lay there willing the Serbs to kick Zina faster towards the fucking things.

I was wrong: not all of them were going to the trucks. Five were being kept back.

Serbs closed in on them. Two girls, no older than sixteen, were pulled away from the others and frogmarched towards the office block. Their legs slipped and slid in the mud as they tried to resist.

I got my binos on Zina. She was being held outside the building with another two girls. She didn’t cry as she watched the trucks disappear down the track; she wasn’t even looking frightened. She stood there with the kind of dignity I’d never had, or that I’d lost years ago doing this sort of shit.

There were screams from upstairs. Both girls had been dragged to the third floor. One was hanging out of a window-frame, her blouse stripped off, arms flailing. She turned her head, screaming and begging, her body jerking as the first Serb pushed himself into her. The other girl was getting punched and kicked for resisting.

I time-checked: three minutes to go.

Another loud scream from the third floor. I swung the binos up in time to see the first girl’s body land on top of one of Mladic’s 4x4s, mangled by one of the .50 cals. She didn’t move again.

Mladic pushed his way through the blanket covering the door and strode over to the new vehicle, pointing animatedly at the blood running down the side panels.

Get back in that fucking building!

The bottle-washers scurried around; two jumped on to the flatbed and dragged the body away. Seconds later another appeared with a bucket of water and a cloth.

Two Serbs poked their heads through the upstairs window and Mladic laid into them, pointing at the state of the wagon as he disappeared back inside. Thank fuck for that.

Over the last few months, I’d seen women’s bodies hanging from trees as the Serbs advanced. Suicide was often a whole lot better than survival.

Thirty seconds to go. I got my head down below the lip of the shell scrape, fingers in my ears, and started counting.

Five, four, three. I braced myself.

Two, one. Nothing. I counted another five seconds. Maybe I’d got my timings wrong. I checked my watch. Spot on. Maybe it was the LTD. I got my head up and checked. It whined gently. The red light was still illuminated. I checked the cap was still up – everything was right.

The target was designated. Where the fuck was the Paveway?