The Marks of Cain

36

In the gloom of the Damara twilight, Miguel looked older, more savage, even feral. The jentilak. He had a gun levelled at David’s head. Boots clattered on the sand as four, six, and now eight men got out of the black-windowed cars. One of them spoke, with an American accent. Enoka lurked at the back.

‘So that’s Angus Nairn,’ the American said. ‘And David Martinez and Amy Myerson?’

Miguel nodded. ‘Yes. But the Cagot girl, Eloise? Where is she?’

The accomplice shrugged.

‘Can’t see her – anywhere.’

Miguel spat the words:

‘Check! Check the cars and the camp. Alan! Jean Paul! Enoka!’

The men did as they were ordered; they moved swiftly between the Land Rover and the pink nylon tents, pitched along the dry river bed. The search took them barely half a minute, to confirm that it was just Alphonse and David, and Amy and Angus.

The tallest accomplice, Alan, spoke up. ‘Sorry, Mig. No sign. Must’ve moved her.’

‘We will find her. Mierda. Pincha puta! We will find her.’ Miguel scowled at the sky – and then seemed to master himself. ‘Cuff them.’

Someone came at David from the side. He was pulled to his feet, and his hands were yanked down and roughly hand-cuffed behind his back. The same was happening to Alphonse, Angus and Amy. Then he was rotated, facing away from the table, so he couldn’t see what was happening. Now he was staring out into the nocturnal silence of the desert; the blackness was darkened by the contrast of the car headlights.

‘Amy?’

‘I’m here,’ she said, her voice directly behind. ‘What are they doing? David?’

Her question was overcut by a louder voice. Miguel was interrogating Angus. Slapping him. David could just about see this for himself: it was happening to his left.

‘Tell me. Where is Eloise?’

Angus shook his head. Enoka came over. Once again the squat little man appeared painfully subordinate to Miguel – a cub seeking the approval of the alpha, the dominant male, the leader of the wolf pack. Miguel nodded.

Enoka grabbed Angus’s hand and bent back the fingers.

Angus grimaced with the pain.

Miguel stood close. ‘Tell me. Where is she? Have you done the testing yet? Have you?’

Angus spat a dusty answer: ‘Get to fuck.’

‘Just tell us. Or we will hurt you. More and more. And more.’

‘If you kill us you will never know. Do what you like.’

Miguel’s face twitched; he walked a few metres away, then turned.

‘Why are you in Damaraland? You haven’t finished the tests…have you?’

David craned to his left to see.

There were men surrounding the Kellerman Namcorp Land Rover, searching inside. A different voice, this time French accented, called across.

‘Nous avons! We have the blood samples, Miguel.’

Garovillo smiled. ‘Milesker. Make sure you get all the test tubes.’

The men continued their search.

Again David called, quietly: ‘Amy?’

He still couldn’t see her, she was right behind him. The dazzling headlights shone in the darkness, trained on the central drama. It was like a spotlit stage-set, in the very darkest of theatres.

And Miguel was the actor, the tragic hero, smiling wistfully into the moonlight. He gazed at David. He looked at Alphonse. His smile widened. He looked at Alphonse again, as if confirming a suspicion. He spoke, to no one in particular.

‘Ezina, ekinez egina…All we need to do is find Eloise. They haven’t finished the experiments. They still have the blood tests from their Namibian researches, still here – still to be analyzed. This much is clear.’ He moved towards Amy. ‘This is good. And yes…Amy Myerson, very nice of you to let my father kill himself. And my mother. Jakina…the little Zulo.’ Amy was visibly trembling, perceptibly terrified.

Miguel spat his anger.

‘Aizu! We need to persuade Angus Nairn to tell us where Eloise is. And for that we need help. I see you have a bonfire ready. The desert night is cold, no?’ The terrorist frowned and smiled, at the same time. ‘Let us go and warm up…’

David observed, quite helpless. Amy was being brusquely shoved along; then he felt a kick at his own calves, forcing him to move. They were being shunted into the wider clearing, away from the table, into the space between all the cars. A large unlit campfire had been set, already, by Alphonse and the other assistants. David stared at the pyre of dry wood, and wondered where those other camp-helpers might be. Probably sitting happily in their village huts, asleep or eating. Oblivious to this fatal encounter several miles away, way up the shallow canyon.

They were alone with Miguel and his men. They had no chance of rescue.

The four of them were forced to kneel in the dust. Like captives of some Islamic cult, kneeling in the dust, waiting to be decapitated. Nearby was the unlit bonfire, the pyramid of desiccated firewood.

They waited. The desert wind was cold now. Their captors were sitting and smoking in the doorways of their vehicles; still other men were minutely searching the Namcorp Land Rover.

‘Are they going to kill us?’

Amy’s voice was strained with tension. David felt a yearning to hug her, protect her, save her. The same old hunger. But he was hand-cuffed and kneeling. All he could do was lie. He lied to Amy.

‘No. They need us to find Eloise…What’s the point in killing us?’

‘What the fuck are you talking about? Of course they will fucking kill us.’ Angus was laughing. ‘We’re dead. We’re geology. We’re French fucking toast. You were witness to his father’s suicide! He probably thinks you caused it. He knows you know his terrible secret. The darkness of the Garovillos!’ His laughter was replete with anger. ‘They will torture us first, try and find out where Eloise is. Then they will murder us. Out here in the desert. But, hey, there are worse places to die. Cumbernauld. You ever been to Cumbernauld?’

Amy was crying.

Angus laughed: ‘In fact I’d rather fucking die here than live in Cumbernauld.’

Garovillo had returned.

‘Good. Jenika. Noski. And now…’ He looked at Angus Nairn, and then at Amy and Alphonse, and David. Then back at Angus. ‘Doctor Nairn. We really need to know where Eloise is, so I am going to rip it out of you. Rip it out of your fucking heart.’

‘Fuck you.’

The terrorist’s smile flickered with barely repressed anger, then he pointed at Alphonse.

‘Take him. The boyfriend. The sexuberekoi. Him.’

Miguel’s assistants dragged Alphonse to his feet. The young Namibian’s knees were trembling. Miguel glanced at each of the captives in turn. And spoke.

‘I always wonder…the witch burning stories, just a legend, no?’

A shrivel of fear tightened inside David.

‘But now I wonder -’ Miguel’s smile was deep and sad ‘- what was it like? Watching someone burn to death? Haven’t you ever wondered? You must have done your research? Ez? The witch burnings?’

Miguel put his face two inches from Angus’s face.

‘If you don’t tell us where Eloise is, we shall tie your little beige bumboy to a stake. And burn him alive. You like the pretty Baster boys, don’t you? The little ecru bastards? The marikoi coon?’ He swivelled. ‘So we cook him! A real faggot, fresh on the fire.’

David flashed a glance of horror at Angus. The Scotsman’s face was impassive, and yet riven with fury.

Then Angus spoke: ‘Cagot cunt.’

Garovillo’s eyes burned.

‘Que?’

‘We know you are a Cagot. A shit person. Like your dad. Cagot.’

Miguel’s face was twitching.

‘Absurd. But what do I care?’ He gestured, wildly. ‘Burn the boy. Agur.’

Behind him his men were hammering a stake into the dust, in the middle of the dry tinderwood. A big wooden stake.

Alphonse was writhing in the clutches of the silent men. His protestations were incoherent mumbles: he seemed over-whelmed by the horror, he was bleating, mewling. The stake was driven further. The moon was bright. Nightbirds scattered from dark trees somewhere out there in the wilderness. The Damara riverlands of dry canyons and camelthorns stretched all around, in the intensity of the dark.

Angus was shouting:

‘What’s the point, Miguel? You can’t hide it, we know it. Everyone fucking knows you are a cack person. Look at your twitching eye. What Cagot syndrome is that? What disorder do you have? Alperts? Hallervorden? What? Fasciculation. Twitching eye. That’s Cagot. The madness of the mountain -’

Garovillo struck Angus hard across the face, so hard a flash of blood spat from the Scotsman’s mouth, a gobbet of blood and spittle that glistened in the dust, illuminated by the car headlights. Then the terrorist barked.

‘Torch the black. Now.’

Alphonse was dragged to the stake. David watched, horrified, mesmerized. They were really going to do it.

Amy cried out: ‘Miguel. Stop. Please. What’s the point?’

‘The Zulo speaks? Yes? Bai? Ez? Tell me where Eloise Bentayou is and I will stop. Until then, I shall burn the fucking half caste – like they burned my people – tortured them – burned the Basques like witches -’

‘You’re not a Basque, you fucking moron.’ Angus spat the words. ‘You’re a Cagot. A shit person. Look at you -’

‘Angus, help me! Help me please!’

It was Alphonse, calling and wailing. He was now lashed to the stake; the sky was dark behind him. Amy’s face was wrenched with anger:

‘Stop this – Miguel -’

‘Only if you tell me. Where Eloise is? Eh?’

Angus spat: ‘Why? Cagot asshole. Why should we give her to you? You’ll just kill her, too. Won’t you?’

Miguel motioned a hand.

‘El fuego. Mesedez…’

David stared, appalled. One of the accomplices was stooping to the dry timber gathered around Alphonse’s feet. David noticed that Angus’s boyfriend was wearing Nike trainers. He found himself wondering if they would melt. David clenched himself for what he was about to witness. Enoka was flicking a Zippo. The tiny flame began to catch.

‘Angusss!’

Alphonse was screaming, his voice carrying like a church-bell, echoing up the canyon.

The first flames licked, hesitantly, as though they were investigating Alphonse – testing the flesh. Young predator cubs.

‘This will keep us warm,’ said Garovillo. ‘The roasting of the bastard. The toasting of the sinotsu.’

The flames rose, gaining confidence; they rose higher. The desert wood was very dry. The flames crackled in the cold clear air. A smell of woodsmoke filled the night. The desert moon shone down. Alphonse was crying out, shrieking, stretching against his bonds.

Garovillo sighed, expressively.

‘So there we are. Angus Nairn, the scientist Angus Nairn. Now you must tell me where she is. Alphonse is about to be die, to be cooked, pot roasted. You won’t want him then, will you? When he’s just a side of beef? So much…crackling?’

Angus looked directly at Miguel.

‘You’re going to kill us anyway. You can do what you like. What does it matter?’

Alphonse cried out. He was writhing, and yelling: ‘Angus – no, Angus – please tell him’!

Miguel smiled again.

‘He wants to live, Doctor Nairn. He doesn’t want to have his…boyish limbs toasted and grilled. And I feel sympathy. I am vegetarian. Barazkijalea naiz!’ He sighed. ‘So tell us.’

Angus said nothing. David saw a profound tremor in Angus’s cheek: the grinding of his teeth. Alphonse was wailing.

‘It hurts! Angus! I’m burning! Please!’

The flames were higher, a stray spark had caught in Alphonse’s hair; his hair was smoking, singeing, the smell of burnt hair mixed with the woodsmoke. Alphonse was catching: catching on fire. He was beginning to burn.

The seconds of waiting dilated in the darkness.

‘OK! Stop it!’ Angus was shouting. ‘I will tell you where she is! Eloise. Stop the burning.’

Miguel spun – and snapped:

‘Tell me now!

‘She’s in the Sperrgebiet.’

‘Where?’

‘Twenty-six kilometres due south of Diaz Point! Stop him burning, stop it -’

‘Where exactly?’

‘The Tamara Minehead. The Rosh road. Disguised as mine offices. Garovillo -’

Miguel smiled. And pivoted.

And gestured at his men.

‘Pour a little gasoline, onto the flames. It’s going to be a very cold night and we need a nice big fire.’

The following hour was the most grotesquely prolonged and awful hour of David’s life. It was worse than anything he had yet witnessed these last violent weeks.

Alphonse burned, slowly, and profoundly, and agonizingly. First his trainers smoked, and charred, and melted into stringy plastic, and then his cotton trousers dropped, blackened, from his brown limbs: charring rags of smoking cloth. Finally the flesh began to roast. Obscenely. The brown skin flashed away, showing the fat and muscles. And then the fat of the boy’s thighs began to melt, spitting in the fire. And all the time Alphonse screamed. The shrillest, cruellest scream David had ever heard. A shriek that carried across the silent desert, a man being slowly burned alive.

Then the screaming stopped, and resolved into a low, sussurating moan. The flames were big and monstrous but Alphonse was hymning his own death, almost singing. The hair was a mass of burned and charring black dreadlocks, the smell of roasting flesh was evil and sweet: a crematorium smell, a barbecue smell.

Bats winged about the smoke. David saw the eyes of desert animals attracted by the smell and the glow – jackals skulking in the gloom. Hoping for food. The smell of burning meat was attracting the shiny-eyed jackals.

Standing hard by the fire, Miguel gluttonously inhaled the smoke. The terrorist leaned to the roaring flames, and poked at the blackened body with a stick. Alphonse twitched. Still alive. Still alive. The fire roared.

‘Puerca? Urdaiazpiko?’

Amy was puking. She was leaning to her side and vomiting. David felt the same gag reflex. On his left, Angus had his eyes shut. The Scotsman’s face was blank and impassive. And yet it somehow expressed the deepest emotion. Utter desolation.

And then, at last, Alphonse died. The dark head lolled. The fire had wholly engulfed him. The deed was done. The fire began to subside. The body was a mass of red embers, glowing bones and meat. A black and scarlet effigy of a man, in the black desert night. The ribcage had collapsed and the heart was exposed: a vermilion knot of muscle.

Miguel was still greedily inhaling the smell of burning flesh. And Angus was watching him. Eyes narrowed. There was a cold yet incandescent fury in the Scotsman’s gaze, a shrewd and calculating anger. Ferocious anger.

David noted that even Miguel’s accomplices seemed repelled by the immolation.

They were looking away, glancing surreptitiously at each other, and shaking their heads. But they were obedient. There was no sense of disloyalty. More like fear. They were scared of the Wolf.

Garovillo gazed at David, assessingly.

‘That was impressive, Martinez.’ He ran fingers through his long black hair. ‘You are a man of some…courage. Or uncaring cruelty. Only you watched the whole show. Only you. And you did not vomit like Amy. You have a strong stomach. Strong constitution. You are stocky, like a bull. A wild boar.’

Then Miguel glanced at the sky. The woodsmoke was drifting across the heavens, turning the moon into the pale face of a young widow – veiled with funeral grey. The smoke was dwindling, the fire was nearly done.

‘We need to build another fire. Yes we are all warm and tostada now. But the flames are nearly gone. So we need a big new fire. To barbecue our next course. The big man…the American Basque-burger.’

Alan shook his head. ‘Ain’t got no wood, Mig.’

‘But we need to burn him. Burn him next!’ Miguel’s voice was stilted: with a hint of frustration. ‘If we kill and burn the Amerikako then Eloise will be offered up to us.’

David felt the rough hands of Miguel’s accomplices drag him to his feet. His knees were weak, he was sagging with the horror.

He was going to be burned alive. Like Alphonse.