Recoil

7

‘What the fuck do you think you’re doing? Get down!’

‘Where’s Tim going?’

‘Get into cover!’

I grabbed hold of her and dragged her back between the ANFO and the mound. She tried to protect her leg, but her anguished face showed it wasn’t happening.

‘He’s gone to get some gear. He won’t be long.’

‘To Nuka? Why didn’t you stop him? Why didn’t you go with him?’ She couldn’t disguise her horror as she stared in the direction of the river. ‘They’ll be here any minute! I heard Sam say so.’

‘He’s a grown man. I told him to stay here, but he wouldn’t. His call. Everyone’s responsible for their own actions.’

‘Why didn’t you go with him, protect him?’

‘He knew I had to come back here and help with the defences, or none of us will get out alive.’ I pointed in the direction of her Nuka contingent. ‘Including that lot.’

‘You know a lot about the jungle, don’t you?’

‘Now’s not the time . . .’ Now wasn’t the time to talk about anything, even though I had some questions myself. I got up and looked past the ANFO for Crucial. ‘Go back to Sam. I’ll get someone up here to—’

‘I’m not going, Nick. I want to know that Tim is safe. Besides, you need me to interpret, don’t you?’

She could see the cogs turning in my head. ‘You can waste your time arguing with me, or you can get back to whatever you were doing. I’ll help. I want to stay alive too, believe me.’

She was right. Every second counted. I turned and offered my back once more. Then I grabbed my AK and we headed towards the first claymore.

Crucial was in the valley, screaming at the miners, getting them to surrender their tools. He wasn’t going for the hearts-and-minds approach. A stream of them was snaking towards the dugout ahead of us, laden with picks, hammers, pots, pans, ladles, all sorts of shit.

We got to the claymore. ‘OK, work for your ride. Tell them to start stacking the tools in the dugout. Tell them to pack them in tight, all the way up to the roof. And tell them not to touch the brown cord coming out of the mud.’

‘Brown cord?’

‘It’s the detonation cord. Just tell them not to touch it, OK?’

She relayed my message. They still weren’t happy bunnies.

‘Tell them they’ll get new ones later on. Right now, every bit of metal counts.’

We got down into cover. My head was tilted so I could see the dugout to my right. I didn’t bother checking the time because it really didn’t matter. It wouldn’t matter until it was last light. All I could do was get these things rigged up as soon as possible.

She was just below me, by my feet, tucked well away. I was so tired I could hardly keep my eyes open.

I lifted my sleeve to check the boil-like bite on my forearm. It was pussed up, with a hard disc round the base the size of a 50p piece. I was dying to squeeze it, scratch it, do any fucking thing to it. It would make me feel better if I lanced it, but I knew that was a shortcut to infection. Better to keep the seal intact. I rubbed my face gently, pleased the lump hadn’t become another pus-filled volcano, waiting to erupt.

I lay on my front with my arms folded in front of me as a chin rest, and watched things take shape.

Silky shouted directions as the guys arrived at the site; they couldn’t wait to dump their metal and get back to the safety of the valley.

‘Nick?’

‘What?’

Her expression had changed. ‘Tell me about the jungle. Tell me about the bomb you were making. Tell me about you. I think I have a right to know, don’t you?’

I kept my eyes on the dugout. ‘I was going to tell you in Lugano, but . . . Well, it never seemed the right time. Maybe I was scared you’d go off me.’

‘One thing is certain in this very crazy world.’ She smiled up at me. ‘That will never happen.’