‘Whinger’s right, up to a point,’ said Mart, scratching at his blond scrub. ‘That briefing I got at the med centre about not touching anybody wounded unless I’m wearing rubber gloves — they reckon one in three of the population are carrying the HIV virus.’
‘Don’t touch ’em, then,’ said Pav. ‘Just let ’em carry on.’
There was a pause, and then Stringer said, ‘I reckon they’re all right.’
‘Who?’ Pav demanded.
‘The Alpha guys.’
‘Listen,’ I told him. ‘They’ve been all right so far, but these people are volatile as hell. They can turn in a flash. When I was in Zaire in ninety-one, the whole population went fucking berserk. In Kinshasa, the capital, they started looting shops and houses like savages, trashing everything. They were even nicking amputated limbs from the skips at the back of the hospital.’
‘What for?’ Stringer looked a bit sick.
‘To eat, of course.’
‘Christ!’
There was another silence while everyone took that in. Then Chalky said, ‘At least we can’t spend any money. There’s that.’
‘You wait,’ said Whinger. ‘If we get that week of R and R they promised us at the end, and end up in Sun City, you’ll spend everything you’ve got.’
Presently, through the bush in the opposite direction, we spotted headlights flaring and swinging in the distance as our supply truck came lurching back towards base. We got up, walking towards it, and within a minute it was pulling up on the open ground in front of our tents. The whole area was pretty dark, with no illumination except the flicker of cooking fires in the distance, but from the speed at which the lorry slid to a halt, I got the impression that something was wrong.
A cloud of dust rolled forward from behind it, boiling up into the headlights, and a figure I recognised as Andy jumped down off the tailboard.
‘Eh, Andy,’ I called. ‘What’s up?’
‘Geordie!’ he went, in a strange, tight voice. ‘There’s been an accident.’
‘You all right?’
‘Fine.’
‘What about Phil?’
‘He’s okay. It wasn’t us. We ran into a group of kids.’
‘Oh, Jesus! Anyone killed?’
‘I don’t think so. But two of them are quite bad. We brought them with us — in the back.’
Immediately I yelled for Mart.
‘Right here, Geordie.’ His voice came from close behind me.
‘Hear what Andy said?’
‘Sure.’
‘Get your kit, then.’
An African came running with a hurricane lamp. Moths swirled round the light as he held it aloft. I saw Phil Foster in the back of the truck, holding something in his arms. A moment later he handed the bundle down to me — a child wrapped in a dark-coloured blanket. Instinctively, I started out towards our own tents, which were nearest to the spot. The child was warm, but limp and not moving. It felt pathetically light.
Mart had moved with commendable speed. Under the fly-leaf of his tent a hurricane lamp was burning, and he’d got some of the contents of his medical pack spread out. I laid my burden gently on the ground and opened up the blanket. Inside was a boy of maybe eight or nine, barefoot, clad in a dirty brown T-shirt and dark-blue shorts, powdered all over with pale dust. His eyes were shut, but his little chest was lifting and falling in very short, quick breaths. The sight of him immediately made me think of Tim.
‘Gloves, Mart,’ I said.
‘It’s all right,’ he said. ‘There’s no blood. His skin’s not broken.’
He started to check the boy over, feeling carefully for broken bones. Then another blanket came to rest beside me. This one held a girl, also barefoot, wearing a simple dark-blue shift. She looked younger than the boy, perhaps only six. Blood was shining on her right temple, and down her right arm. Her eyes were open, but they were wide with fear.
‘You’re okay,’ I said gently. ‘Take it easy.’ I couldn’t tell if she understood English, but I hoped soft words would soothe her.
Looking round, I found Phil crouching beside me. In the harsh lamplight the hollows in his long, lean face were full of shadows. ‘What happened?’ I asked.
‘Joseph was driving. We were way out in the bush, well clear of the village. Already dark. Suddenly a load of kids jumped out of the grass into the road. I reckon they were after a lift.’
‘These clothes.’ I pointed to the dark blue and brown. ‘They can’t have shown up in the headlights. Arms and legs the same.’
Phil shook his head. ‘I was standing with my head out the top of the wagon. I never saw a fucking thing. It wasn’t Joseph’s fault. He stamped hell out of the brakes. Nobody could have stopped any quicker.’
‘Nothing broken,’ Mart reported of the boy. ‘But I don’t like the look of him. His breathing’s very shallow. He’s had a bad bang on the head. There — feel that.’
Gingerly I ran my fingers through the soft, furry stubble on the boy’s scalp. The skin seemed to be intact, but I could feel a large swelling high up over the left ear.
‘Is there anything you can do?’
‘Not much. Keep him wrapped up, that’s all. He needs to go to hospital soonest.’
‘Hospital!’ I exclaimed. ‘Some hope. What about the girl?’
Mart pulled on a pair of surgical gloves, took a swab and carefully wiped the blood off her forehead and arm. ‘Only scratches,’ he said. ‘Limbs seem okay. Looks like she was knocked into some thorns. It’s him we’ve got to worry about.’
Hearing voices behind us, I turned, to find we were surrounded by a crowd of maybe fifty Africans. Some of the men I recognised — members of Alpha, wrapped up in khaki cotton sweaters and tracksuit trousers — but the rest were strangers, people from the village. The lamplight glinted off white teeth and flashed on shiny black skin. As they pressed forward to see what was happening, their voices rose rapidly into an aggressive chorus. In the distance drums had started beating out some message.
I stood up, towering over most of the people, and made placatory gestures, moving my open hands gently up and down. ‘Take it easy,’ I said. ‘We’re only trying to help.’
Most of them already knew that Mart was our medic, and respected him, but now they sounded angry, as if the accident had been our fault, and they were accusing us of trying to kidnap the children.
‘What are they saying?’ I asked Godfrey, one of the Kamangan soldiers.
‘You give boy bad spirits.’
‘Bollocks. He was hit by the truck — got a blow on the head.’ I was going to remonstrate more, but I knew the guy’s English was poor. ‘Where’s Major Mvula? Get the major.’
‘Major coming.’
He was, too. I looked through the crowd and saw Joss hurrying towards us, dressed in the sky-blue tracksuit which he wore in the evenings. As usual he was grinning, eager to help.
‘Hey, Geordie,’ he went. ‘Mind if I join the party? What’s all this?’
His face fell as I explained. ‘The girl’s okay, but the boy’s pretty bad. We need a chopper, to get him to hospital.’
‘Not a chance.’ Joss used a phrase he’d picked up off me. ‘Not tonight, anyway. We can get on the radio, but they won’t fly at night. Can we send him by road?’
‘How far is it?’
‘Seven hours.’
‘The journey’d kill him.’
Joss nodded. Behind him the hubbub was getting louder. He turned and shouted something to quieten it. As the clamour dropped, he began to explain about the accident in a loud voice, and for a few moments his words seemed to be swaying opinion. Then a new wave of yelling started up, and the crowd opened to let a small woman through. With a screech she rushed past me and dropped beside the boy, lifting him up. His stick-like arms and legs hung down as she cradled him in her arms.