The Watchman

Forty-Three

‘What the hell’s going on?’ Angela sat up as the shouting came nearer. The house had been quiet as the men upstairs settled down to sleep, then came the approach of engines and voices calling above their heads. She had heard Tober move in the darkness, then felt his presence close by.

‘Something’s got them fired up,’ he said softly. ‘Stay where you are.’

She sensed him move away, then heard the soft scrape of his shoes on the steps leading up to the trapdoor.

‘What are you doing?’ she hissed.

‘Just listening.’

He returned moments later. ‘Sounds like they’re giving somebody a hard time up there. A kid.’

‘Why do you say that?’

‘I heard crying.’

Moments later they heard a voice from outside. It rose and fell, the words indistinct but forceful, like somebody giving a lecture. When it fell silent it gave way to a burst of cheering. Seconds later the engines started up and moved away, leaving silence to settle back once more over the building.

The trapdoor to their prison was flung open and a voice cursed, followed by a body hitting the steps and rolling to the bottom. Then the trapdoor was slammed shut again.

‘Stay down,’ Tober warned her. ‘Don’t move until I say.’

She heard him move back towards the steps, followed by a groan of pain in the dark.

‘Doug?’

‘Not me. Wait.’

Another groan, then a coughing sound and a sob. Tober flicked on the flashlight, lighting up the area around the steps and revealing a slight figure lying in a heap.

‘It’s a kid,’ Tober confirmed softly, then looked more closely. ‘The one who brought the food.’

Angela shuffled across the cellar and knelt beside him. The youth wasn’t moving and at first she thought he was dead. But when she touched his shoulder, he jumped with a cry of fear and shrank away. His cotton shirt was flecked with blood and he had several cuts and bruises on his face. She estimated his age at no more than fifteen or sixteen.

‘Christ, what have they done to you?’

She didn’t expect an answer, and was stunned when he mumbled softly in English. ‘They beat me.’

‘Why?’

‘I ran away. I want to go to my home.’ He sounded miserable and choked back another sob, curling into a ball. ‘They say I am a traitor and no better than a girl and will die tomorrow with no honour.’

‘What’s your name, kid?’ Tober asked. ‘Where are you from?’

‘I am called Madar. I come from Mogadishu.’

‘What was all the noise about just now, Madar? The shouting and the cars.’

Madar struggled to sit up, wincing with pain. He hugged his knees and rested his head on his arms. ‘Men brought me from town. I asked some fishermen if they were going north, so I could go with them to my home. But they told others who asked me why I was leaving. Then they brought me back here.’ He sniffed. ‘I do not understand what is happening here. There is much badness. I just want to go home to my sister in Mogadishu. Mr Marc said I should go and gave me money.’

‘Mr Marc?’ Angela leaned forward. He’d pronounced the name with a slight French intonation. Could this Marc be European?

‘Yes. Your friend.’

‘I don’t understand.’ She glanced instinctively at Tober, but he looked just as baffled. What did this mean? Had this kid been put down here deliberately to unsettle them, perhaps to see if they knew about friendly forces in the area? If so, they were going to be in for disappointment.

‘He is English, like you. He has guns and hides in a hole very close by. I could almost throw a stone and hit him from here — I have very strong arms. He is very clever; he covers himself with strange netting, but not the same as fishermen use. This has pieces of cloth and some branches.’

‘I don’t believe it.’ Tober’s voice was a whisper. ‘A ghillie net.’

‘He says many bad things will happen to this house tomorrow,’ Madar continued. ‘That is why he told me I must leave.’

‘Why? What’s happening tomorrow?’

But the shock of the beating was too much for Madar, and he said, ‘I am sorry — I do not know. I feel sick.’ With that he turned and vomited, coughing and spitting into the corner.

Angela reached out a hand to comfort him. But he shrugged it off and moved away.

‘I don’t get it,’ she said to Tober, as they moved back to their mattresses and allowed the youth to settle down. ‘Is he saying there’s a Special Forces guy out there?’

‘No idea. There were no contingencies for it. It was a talk, so why bother?’ The irony in his voice was evident.

‘But the netting — and being so close to the house? It has to be. Who else could do that?’

‘Foreign Legion, maybe. They have specialist units.’

‘But?’

‘Unlikely, if it’s one man. And it’s a long way from their area of operations. He might be a forward observer for a bigger unit.’

She detected doubt in his voice. ‘But you don’t think so.’

‘Forward observers don’t get this close. They stay back and watch, and report.’

Angela felt a flutter of something in her chest. Relief? Excitement? She wasn’t sure. But the knowledge that there was somebody out there, close by and highly skilled at concealment, was enough.

It meant that they weren’t alone.

‘I wonder what the time is?’ The thought came out aloud.

‘Midnight or after. My timing’s shot to buggery locked away down here.’

She tried to put some levity in her voice, but her words came out shaky. ‘Really? I thought you guys had internal clocks zeroed to the nearest second.’

‘That’s SAS,’ he replied. ‘Bunch of time-keepers.’

‘And you’re different how?’

‘I’m a boat person.’ She could hear a smile in his voice. ‘SBS are more … spiritual in style. We go by the stars.’

‘Pity we can’t see any.’

‘Get some rest,’ he said. He switched off the flashlight. ‘No point worrying about it until they make a move.’

She stared hard towards his voice in the dark, remembering what he’d said earlier about getting one chance only and being ready to take it. ‘You think that time is here, don’t you? Our one chance.’

‘Yes.’ His voice was calm. Solid. ‘It looks like it.’

She lay down and tried to sleep, and wondered what the morning would bring.