Recoil

10

The LRA coming up the valley were so close I could make out which football clubs they supported, and tell the men from the boys. But I couldn’t let Sunday go. I couldn’t let the poor little fucker slip through my hands.

It took just a few strides to catch him up behind Silky’s fire trench and jump on to his back. We both fell into the mud.

He scrabbled and bucked to get free, screaming in panic as rounds pinged over our heads. I pinned him by the shoulders, got hold of his wrists, and dragged him towards Silky.

‘It’s OK, Sunday, come on!’

His eyes looked like they were about to jump out of their sockets. He wasn’t going to come quietly.

I screamed for her: ‘Help me, help me!’

I half jumped, half fell the last few metres towards her.

A man came tearing towards us in cut-down jeans and a seriously distressed Bob Marley T-shirt. A gollock jerked in his hand like someone had just connected him up to the national grid.

I pulled Sunday towards me and rolled into the backblast channel. His eyes were fixed on mine.

Feet splashed mud against my neck and I could smell the crazed fucker’s rancid breath as he bent over me, gollock raised. His sweat dripped on to my face as he swung the blade.