Keep moving, keep hydrated. He trudged onwards, eating what little protein he could find, caterpillars, any number of small bugs. He stopped. Something lay across the path ahead, something covered in matted black hair, lying at an awkward angle, no longer fitting its skin. He placed a hand over his nose as he stepped over it, the rancid flesh alive with squirming yellow larvae.
Could he eat them? They’d be a good source of energy, but he’d have to boil them before they’d be safe, too many bacteria in the rotting flesh they were feasting on. No time. Not in this heat, not with the burning sensation he already felt coursing through his blood. The feverish temperature on his brow.
The wound in his side needed cleaning, the infection needed sterilising. That much he knew. He turned towards the half-chewed carcass of the monkey. If he could get a few maggots, place them on the wound, they’d eat away the dead flesh. That was the theory anyway, he’d heard his father describe the technique in one of his more gruesome anecdotes. Theory was one thing, putting it into practice another. He put a hand to his forehead, waves of dizziness contorting the world around him. Get a grip Jack, he told himself, reaching towards the carcass. The smell tugged at his stomach, the intestines of the animal had split and an angry swell of flies arose as he tried to grab a handful of maggots. They wriggled in his palm. It was all he could do not to hurl them into the jungle.
He stood up quickly, stumbling from the sight, gag reflex choking his throat. His hand alive with squirming larvae. He shoved them into his shirt pocket and kept moving. Got to keep going for as long as possible, keep moving. He’d rest only when his body could go on no more. Find a tree with a wide branch he could climb, get himself off the ground and give the maggots time to eat away at any dead flesh on the wound.
The day ground on. Regular stops to rehydrate didn’t cool his body, didn’t assuage the thirst that burnt the back of his throat. The shapes in the forest became more familiar now, the trees and their branches taking on other forms, forms from the outside world. A tall thin tree with branches reaching out in spindly arms was his Tutor at Cambridge. You must work harder Jack, you must reach your full potential, don’t throw this chance away, it preached at him sanctimoniously. He ducked low as another branch threw a punch in his direction, the opponent he’d knocked out in the Varsity boxing match, leering at him aggressively. Come on Jack, you didn’t think I’d stay down for the full ten did you? Other voices joined in the forest’s clamour. Tree trunks slipping into human form, stepping towards him. Ex-girlfriends asking why he hadn’t returned their calls, teachers from school telling him he’d never make it, never amount to anything. And then his brother, Paul.
Paul didn’t say anything, didn’t move. Just stood stock still a short distance in front of him. The clamour of voices faded away, the other figures disappeared. Jack stopped. Him and Paul alone amidst the tall trees. He could feel his heart pounding in his chest. The face that stared back had the sickly sheen of a waxwork, the eyes expressionless, two black holes beneath the hood of his Parker. Water dripping from the tips of his fingers. Jack walked slowly towards him, wanting to get closer. Wanting to see. He held out his hand. Paul’s mouth moved but no sound came out. He coughed, his breath cold on Jack’s cheek. He turned instinctively to find his father, his eight year old self returned to haunt him.
“Dad, dad, it’s Paul, I’ve found him, he’s right here, he’s okay, he’s just been hiding.” He shouted at the trees. “Paul’s here, he’s right here.” He could run home and get help, it wasn’t far, straight to the hospital this time. They could fix him.
“Dad! Dad!” he yelled into the jungle, “Paul’s here. We can fix him. He’ll get better.”
Archie stood in front of him, hands on hips.
“This way, we need to go back, we need to go back this way. Get Paul.” He said, dragging at his father’s hand. Archie shook his head.
“Leave it son.”
Jack felt himself hoisted upwards, a fireman’s lift over his father’s shoulder. And then more quietly, it wasn’t your fault. The last words he heard before he drifted into unconsciousness.
63
Harvey grinned across the broad dining table at Bob.
“That was Sir Clive. Confirmed Nbotou’s dead. Large chunk of his army out the way too.” It was all he could do not to shout I told you so at his colleague. Bob was always the pessimist, always questioning his decisions. Hadn’t believed Sir Clive would be capable of deposing the General. It gave Harvey a profound sense of satisfaction to know that on this occasion his judgment had proved correct.
Bob pursed his lips. “You given the signal to the Ugandan Liberation Army yet? Told them they can move in?”
“Already done old chap,” Harvey said, in his best imitation of the butler. “They’re marching across the border. And I have two of our Chinooks ready to fly in and lift out the coltan reserves. As we agreed, they get the territory and we get a steady supply of the metal.” Bob nodded. “Good. Then maybe we can pack up here and get home. We need it shipped to our contractors as soon as possible. The Whitehouse deadline is at the end of the month and they’ll be asking for money off if we don’t meet it. Besides,” he threw a quick, dismissive glance at the room around him, “this house smells of moths and cabbage. Gives me the creeps.”
Jack felt the cold cloth on his forehead, the hazy form checking the drip that fed into his arm. Voices somewhere above him.
“I don’t like this. What the hell was he doing, a white man wandering round the jungle in a business suit yelling his head off?” The accent was indistinct, sounded mid-European. Swiss maybe. Authoritative, an impatient arrogance to it. Another voice, a Spanish male, his tone more relaxed, responded.
“Who knows? What did the nurse say?” Jack could make out a blurred badge on the man’s arm. Red cross at the centre.
“Nothing, just that he was lying outside the emergency tent, in pretty bad shape, semi-conscious.”
“Maybe an eco-tourist who got lost? Plane crash survivor? Journalist wanting to get some footage of the refugee camps?” The Spanish man asked, his voice, although serious, sounded youthful. The Swiss man shrugged.
“With no papers or passport? No camera? No my friend, this is something else. A kidnapping maybe.” He scratched at the stubble on his chin. “Any of the embassies register activity in the area?” The Spanish man shook his head.
“No, but you know what they’re like. Not going to tell us anything unless it’s already caught the attention of the world’s press. And even then they keep pretty tight-lipped.” The Swiss doctor grunted in agreement, cleaning and sterilising the wound in Jack’s side. “I’ll stitch this up again then we’ll leave him be.” He leant close to the cut, an odd wound. “Surgical, not the result of trauma.” He shrugged, he had a million things to be getting on with. A day spent attending to the landmine victims, attempting to combat the ever-present threat of a cholera outbreak. “Where’d you put his gun?”
“Locked in the storeroom.” The Swiss man nodded, neatly suturing the wound. “I’ll contact the embassies. Ask them if them if any junior members of staff have wandered off into the jungle.”
Jack opened his eyes further. The antibiotics they’d pumped into him were bringing his temperature down. Clearing his fever, the hallucinations. The Swiss man vanished through a gap in the tarpaulin, the man who spoke with a Spanish accent was attending to someone else, another patient lying glassy-eyed on a nearby camp bed.