Crossfire

'Don't worry, mate. It's not mine.' I peeled off some notes. 'I just want your van. I'll pay you for it. I've got eight hundred dollars with me.' I grinned. 'You could buy three vans for that, maybe.'

He held up his hands. 'Please, Mr Nick, I no want your money. You already pay. I drive you hotel.'

I got down on one knee and fished in my sock. 'That's the problem, mate. I'm not going back. All that shooting up there… It was a prison. There were young girls being tortured and raped. My friend was a prisoner too. I came to get him out, and now I must find somewhere to hide him while he recovers. He's been badly hurt.'

I stood up and offered him the money.

'Let me pay for your van. My friend's behind the houses here. I don't want to involve you in this, mate.'

'No. I drive you. I drive you where you want. I you friend, Mr Nick.'

I punched his arm. I knew I was beaten. 'Give us a hand, then. His name's Dom.'

He followed me into the darkness behind the two houses. The flashing blues had almost reached the target. The Turks' searchlights kept sweeping the hillside.

'Mr Nick, I take you to my brother woodstore, maybe. Not far. In valley.' He looked down at the mess in the sleeping-bag. 'Oh…'

'Dom, this is my mate Magreb.'

He nodded weakly, then kept mumbling, 'Thank you,' over and over. I wished he'd shut the fuck up.

I turned back to Magreb. 'He'll be all right. Come on, let's get him to the van.'

I slid my hands under his armpits and Magreb took his legs. We staggered down the hill.

'You go to bar to find these bad people?'

'No. The people in the bar were all right.' I nodded in the direction of Noah's place. 'The bad ones were up there. So bad they weren't even allowed into the bar.'

'They dead now, Mr Nick?'

'Yes. Very.' I didn't want to beat about the bush. I needed him to know what he was getting himself into.

We lowered Dom on to the ground when we got back to the Hiace, and Magreb went to open the side-door. 'No, mate. We'd better get in the back and you cover us over.'

He didn't miss a trick. 'Checkpoint, maybe?' He opened the tailgate and we lifted Dom in. I followed and unzipped the bag to cover us both.

Magreb stood motionless at the back of the van.

I reached over and put a hand on his shoulder. 'You sure you want to do this?'

He leant towards me, his expression serious. 'I want my children live in peace, Mr Nick.' He pointed at the building beside us. 'I want them go school, be doctor, maybe. Those bad men, I no want here. I want leave us in peace. You make my home little safer now, Mr Nick. You my friend…'

I smiled and gave his shoulder a squeeze before we went into gratitude overload. 'If we're stopped, act normal. Tell them you're going to work, OK?'

He nodded and stepped back. The tailgate closed, immediately sheltering us from the chill wind.

We huddled together in the space between the seat and the back of the vehicle. I held Dom against my chest to give him as much extra warmth as I could muster. His head rested just below my chin. He moistened his swollen lips and tried to talk. 'Peter… I did not kill him, Nick. I did not kill him…'

The van lurched off downhill and we were catapulted forward against the seats. I adjusted the Bergen lower down my back. 'Who did?'

'You must believe me…' His breath was warm and rancid.

'I know about the drugs, the FCO connection, all that shit. But what's so important about the Dublin film?'

'I did not kill Peter.' The boy was on a loop.

'Listen, mate. You need to level with me here. I need to know what the fuck's happening.'

Magreb had spotted a problem. 'Please, quiet, Mr Nick. Police…'

I found Dom's lips with my thumb and forefinger and held them tight. I hugged him to me, and tried to shuffle us a few inches lower. I checked that the bag was covering us as the brakes squealed and the wagon came to a standstill.

I could hear radio traffic. It got louder as Magreb rolled his window down. A voice gobbed off in Pashtun and Magreb responded in kind. It sounded like they were having an argument. It's that kind of language. Vehicles stopped, engines idled. The only words I could make out from Magreb were 'Serena' and 'hotel'.

Dom's breath rasped. I pressed my hand over his face as I heard footsteps making their way round the vehicle. A hazy light washed across the rear window and the cheap nylon sleeping-bag. Dom whimpered. I pulled his head more firmly against my chest. It was pointless flapping. There were only two things that could happen. Either they would find us or they wouldn't. All I could do was shut Dom up and wait.

The light faded and the footsteps moved back to the driver's window. There was another short exchange, and the van jolted forwards. We drove maybe fifty metres further down the track and then on to the metalled road. We were soon cruising along the flat of the valley. 'We're nearly there, Mr Nick.'

I lifted Dom's head and took my hand away from his mouth. Dribble poured down his chin and soon worked its way through my T-shirt.

'Siobhan?'

'She's OK. I saw her a few days ago.'

'Does she know I'm OK? Can I talk to her?'

'Not yet. Let's just get to my mate's brother's place, get your head straight. Then you're going to tell me what the fuck's going on.'

'Nick…' His stinking breath was just inches from my face again. 'I did not kill Peter, I swear.'

Magreb was getting a bit worried about the waffle. I didn't think he could hear Dom but he could certainly hear me. 'Mr Nick, please, quiet and stay down, maybe. Just few minutes. Thank you.'

We turned off the metalled road and bounced along another track. The brakes squealed and the van came to a halt. Everything went quiet. 'We here, Mr Nick.'

I didn't know why he was whispering. It wasn't as if he had a Stealth Hiace.

The tailgate opened and I pushed back the sleeping-bag. All I could see were huge wood-stacks, maybe fifteen metres high, tree-trunks, branches, bundles of twigs for tinder. I clambered out. In front of the wagon was a collection of corrugated-iron shacks. TV Hill was to our right, maybe a K away. The target was still floodlit and flashing blue like a UFO landing site.

Either side of us were runs of half-finished buildings, exposed reinforcing rods jutting into the starlit sky. A car drove past on the main the other side of the woodpiles.

We carried Dom over the tyre-rutted mud into one of the shacks. The place stank of old woodsmoke. We put him down on a pile of furry nylon carpets that had been spread across a minging old mattress tucked into the corner. Magreb lit an oil lamp. 'My brother get wood. Three days, maybe.'

There was a fireplace of sorts, with a badly sooted cooking-pot sitting on old embers. Hundreds of books were piled in one corner.

Magreb held the lamp over Dom. I touched his arm. 'Listen, mate, I'll get a fire going, heat up some water. You find some good stuff to drink, OK?'

It got him sparked up. 'Of course, Mr Nick. I get food also. I not long.'

As the rickety old door closed behind him I slipped the Bergen off my shoulders, took the lamp to the fireplace and tucked a couple of blankets round Dom.

The door creaked open again. 'Mr Nick?'

'What's the matter, mate?' As I opened my mouth I knew there were just too many footsteps.

The next thing I heard was 'Stay where you are, son — or you'll get it right now.'

I didn't need to turn to do a headcount. Where you had Sundance, you had Trainers.

'Now face me.'

They were both in the room, carrying shorts. Trainers kicked Magreb off towards the left of the shack. He wasn't controlling his fear too well. Dom just kept quiet and still.

Sundance and Trainers weren't interested in him, or even Magreb. I seemed to be the star of the show.

'Don't move a muscle, you fuck.'