‘And the girls, Master?’
‘At first, there were no women with us, but we soon realised that an army is like a village, and to work well a village needs everyone: men and boys, women and girls, even dogs and cattle. An army needs to be a family.’
They passed through an area of acacias sheltering kitchens: women pounding grain to make flour, women arriving with water from the river and one sewing together a large flag.
‘You see the colours, Kitafe? The Black is for our people, the red is for their blood, and the green is for the new growth that we will nurture. The colours are connected by a cross of gold to show the faith that holds everything together.’ Ngai took the corner of the flag, holding it out for Graham to see, and Graham made notes.
‘Here in these huts, we have just a small part of our arsenal; we have a hundred times this amount. I want you to tell the world how well armed we are, how even the mighty British Army will bow to us.’
Graham looked into the huts. RPGs, Kalashnikovs, boxes of grenades and other larger crates.
‘We are fighting a guerrilla war, we don’t need large armaments; we need to travel quickly and unobserved. The tanks and the large artillery that the British have are of little use to us, and they will be of little use against us.’
They came to a row of six pickups with heavy machine guns mounted on the back.
‘We took these from the British, but our friends have promised us more with rocket launchers. They are fast and manoeuvrable; we don’t need anything larger.’
‘Who are our friends, Master?’
Ngai put a hand on Graham’s shoulder and smiled. ‘We have many friends, Kitafe, many friends.’
*****
Two months later, after sundown, Graham sat at the feet of Henry Ngai with a pen and notebook, feeling a little like the mad king’s fool but content. He’d slipped easily into the role of the Prophet’s public relations man and scribe. He’d written down Ngai’s thoughts, however bizarre, turning them into easily digested paragraphs of propaganda. He’d taken down letters of encouragement for his followers, sprinkled with biblical quotes, to be read at meetings. He’d even sat in on Ngai’s briefings with his field commanders, hearing of their successes, and converting those to tales of courage against the White Occupation. The Army of Christ’s Inquisition was making serious gains, capturing supplies as well as people in it’s southerly progression. His reports bore a remarkable similarity to the match reports he’d once written. He’d reinterpreted Ngai’s stream of consciousness on how to run a country or empire, into something that made sense to the common man, and from that written a constitution resembling an amalgam of The Rights of Man, the Ten Commandments and a Stalinist manifesto. By the time he’d finished, he’d produced what, on the surface, appeared to be an entirely reasonable set of ideals and aims.
He was fitter than he’d ever been. A basic diet of foraged greens, millet and maize, the occasional addition of meat and eggs and rarely anything stronger than a cup of tea, had left him with more energy than he’d had since his teens. He’d followed Ngai about like a puppy, eager to please, and as a reward Ngai occasionally gave him a millet beer or a cigarette as a treat./
Twenty yards away a fire threw sparks into the air. Smoke could be seen against the stars, drifting over the river and above the acacias. Ngai was flanked by senior officers and around the clearing, groups of soldiers sat, some being offered food and drink by women, some chatting. The Army of Christ’s Inquisition was holding a Mass or a party, Graham wasn’t sure which, in celebration of the camp. The next day they were moving everything south.
Drums began to one side of the fire, away towards the cooking area, stuttering at first as the musicians prepared themselves. A young girl, barely clothed, her breasts exposed, came over carrying a half gourd. She bowed low to Ngai and he took her chin, lifted it and pointed it towards Graham. It was the same girl who’d been bringing him his breakfast.
‘You see Kitafe, I am blessed by The Lord.’
‘Master, you are blessed by The Lord,’ Graham responded.
‘Do you think she is beautiful?’
‘Master, she has the beauty of a bud about to flower, the freshness and promise of what is to be.’
Ngai laughed and slapped his knee. ‘Beautifully said, you are my poet as well as my scribe.’
He took the gourd, drank from it then passed it to Graham. ‘You must drink a little, and perhaps you will understand more.’
The liquid it contained had a distinctive, flowery perfume, sweet, alcoholic and very different from anything he’d had during his ordeal. The first gulp went straight down his throat. It was strong, burning, and there was something else, something that heightened the senses. He started to hand the gourd back, but deep down the vestiges of his old personality rebelled and asked for more, so he took another mouthful. The girl knelt down and stared blankly at him. She took the gourd back, but held it for him to take again if he so wished. He so wished and took another swig.
Ngai laughed. ‘So, you are greedy, that is good.’ He stood up and clapped his hands. The rhythm changed, and within the drumming drifted a chant, not some primitive song of war or love, but the Dies Iræ. A group of twenty women approached them, dancing to the rhythm, not dressed in tourist-friendly beads and kangas, but army fatigues.
‘The day of judgement and of wrath will soon be here,’ Ngai announced gleefully. ‘I am judging the world, Kitafe. It will be slow at first, but soon this land will fall on its knees before me, and I will rid it of it’s sins. My people, the people of this country, will love me. When the people of the world see what I have done, they will rise up against their governments and will overthrow them, even the Zionists and the Islamists. The world will be ruled according to the Laws of Moses and the Commandments of God. It will be a perfect place, a new Jerusalem. You will be part of that, Kitafe. In a hundred … in a thousand years time, people will know you as the follower, the disciple, who wrote down my thoughts.’ Ngai sat back and watched the chanting and dancing, his head nodding to the rhythm, smiling, his eyes half closed.
Graham stared at the fire until the flames became a white hard-edged image on his retina and then he stared at the girl and amused himself as the after image of the flames made parts of her face disappear then reappear as the image faded. She stared back and earnestly pushed the gourd towards him.
‘So you are starting to see a little of heaven? Drink some more!’ Ngai enthused.
Graham’s eyes drifted down from the girl’s eyes, over her breasts to the gourd. She pressed it forwards again, and he took it. Sparks drifted from the fires, flames dancing over faces and bodies; chanting, drumming, harmony and rhythm, light and colours, patterns flowing together. A warm wave of peace washed through him and he closed his eyes, gently nodding to the drumming, abruptly opening them moments later to screams and shouting, anger and terror.
The dancers parted as a man was dragged through them and pushed to the ground in front of Ngai. Graham recognised him, but couldn’t place him. A ragged, destroyed man, covered in scraggy clothes and stinking filth. He knew him, someone from his past, from before. He looked at the eyes, the beard. The beard was wrong, Paul shouldn’t have a beard … Paul, his friend Paul; emaciated, decrepit, but Paul. Good company for an evening’s drinking, a good mate. He smiled at him.
‘In God’s name do something!’ Paul screamed. ‘They’re going to kill me!’
Graham continued to smile, hoping his peaceful state of mind would somehow transfer. ‘Don’t worry mate, it will be all right.’
‘It won’t be all right you idiot, they’re going to kill me!’
Graham took the gourd from the girl and held it out a useless gesture; Paul’s arms were bound behind his back. He turned to Ngai. ‘Master, this man is my friend. He is thirsty.’
Ngai gestured to the guards and they released Paul, but to Graham’s surprise, instead of taking the gourd he tried to get away, receiving a blow from the butt of a rifle and getting
dragged back again.
‘Master, are you really going to kill him?’
‘It is the only way to save his soul.’ Ngai replied.
Graham nodded in agreement; saving his soul seemed the right thing to do.
‘A man’s soul is more important to God than his body,’ Ngai continued. ‘A body is only a temporary vessel, something to be discarded when it is finished with, like an old cardboard box.’
‘Or an empty beer bottle, Master.’
‘That’s right Kitafe!’ Ngai exclaimed, showing delight at the understanding. ‘But to prepare his soul, he must first show true repentance for his sins.’
‘A confession, Master.’
‘A confession, and to help him, as in purgatory, we will use fire. When he has confessed, we can cast away his body, leaving his soul free to embrace The Lord. Such will be the fate of all the heretics in this land.’
‘You’re all fucking mad!’ Paul screamed.
Graham started to worry. There was something wrong; something didn’t quite fit. This was his friend Paul, a good man who shouldn’t have his body cast into the flames or anywhere else. His subconscious played with the problem and an answer surfaced.
‘A confession, a man should free his conscience, but this man is a Catholic, not a heretic. Surely to burn him would be a sin, Master?’
Ngai frowned and turned to Paul. ‘Is this true?’
Paul looked at him with real hatred but had enough sense to consider his options. ‘It’s true … Bishop … Master … could you … could you take my confession?’
Ngai looked delighted, ‘of course I could! Dominus vobiscum!’
‘Et cum spiritu tuo,’ Paul responded automatically. A childhood spent in the tender care of the priests hadn’t been a total waste.
Ngai bounded to his feet and slapped his thighs. ‘Excellent! I will take your confession tomorrow.’ He gestured to the guards to take Paul away. ‘Tonight though, we will hold a wedding!’
‘You’re getting married, Master?’
‘I’m already married, ten times over. Not as many as King Solomon, but there is plenty of time. Kitafe, I have chosen a bride for you.’
‘But Master, I …’
‘Don’t you want to be one of my congregation?’
‘Oh, more than anything, Master.’
‘Then you must marry one of my followers. Rachel, come here.’
The young girl with the gourd came forward and knelt at Ngai’s feet. He made the sign of the cross on her forehead then turned to Graham.
‘Kitafe, Rachel will be your wife. She speaks little of your language but will learn in time. She is a strong girl and will bear you many sons.’
‘Master, she’s a girl not a woman. She can’t be more than thirteen.’
‘A good age, Kitafe; are you turning down my offer?’
‘Master, I … I am overawed by your generosity.’
‘Rachel was the wife of Jacob; for fourteen years he had to work for her father to gain her hand, but I will give you Rachel tonight, fourteen years is too long to wait. You can work for me for fourteen years after you are married … You are writing that down? Good, your marriage will make a fine story. Now we will hold the wedding mass. Take her hand and do as I say.’
So he did as he was told. The girl stared at him then at Ngai, she had no idea what was happening.
Ngai began the marriage ceremony, giving prompts when an action or vow was required. Then, putting a hand on each of their heads and with great glee, shouted out, ‘I now pronounce you man and wife!’
*****
The early morning light and early morning sounds of the camp woke Graham. He moved and felt something soft against his back. A girl, a child lay there, asleep … Rachel. He looked at her naked body and slowly shook his head. It wasn’t right, maybe in medieval times, maybe in some backward parts of the world, but they didn’t do that sort of thing in Manchester. He pieced together the previous night, the drums, the flames, chanting and dancing, and the marriage ceremony. He remembered the way reality moved in and out of focus, sounds merging with colour; every action, every thought, however strange, appearing so complete, so correct. Then Paul, they were going to kill Paul, burn him alive.
He got up, put on his white robe, holding his arms out in front and looked at them, confused. He found the girl’s white robe, covered her and shook his head, trying to remember how things used to be, how they should be. That night he’d dreamt in tangled threads, not of his wedding or the drumming and dancing, but of children killing each other, of Paul pleading for his life. He’d dreamt of being beaten and of beating a small boy to death; he dreamt of Amani lying dead outside their house. Had he really seen the killing? Had he killed? He put a hand behind his back and felt the scars; they were real, so was the terrified boy staring up at him as he brought the heavy stick down. No nightmare, he remembered the energy passing through him; it had happened. He felt lightheaded, nauseous. The boy had survived, he must have survived. It wasn’t in his nature to kill, he was Graham, not some madman’s psychotic puppet.
He left the tent. David still didn’t trust him completely, there was a guard outside though he stood away from the entrance, a rifle hanging over one shoulder. He brought it around as soon as he saw Graham, but kept it pointing at the ground. A hundred feet away he could see Paul, a rag doll hitched to a tree, his head lolling forward, his legs strangely contorted. Nearer the forest there were a couple of dozen army trucks, all neatly lined up. They’d started loading them up for the move south.
He headed towards Paul and saw him raise his head in his direction, but the guard blocked his way and nodded at the river. A month earlier, he’d asked for permission to have an early morning dip, a cleansing wash in preparation for another day at his master’s feet. Ngai had loved the idea, looking on it as symbolising spiritual renewal.
They arrived at the river, and passing his robe to the guard, he walked in. The water came up to his chest and turning towards Paul, he lowered himself underwater. It felt good, isolated from the noise of the camp; cool, calm, quiet. He felt the current wash dirt from his body and clear his mind. He started at the beginning, he remembered arriving at the camp, but then what had happened and what had he become? He stayed down until forced to surface by his lungs and wiped the river away from his face. Something wasn’t right, on the bank everyone was staring downstream. Two small dots, glinting in the early morning sun, grew larger as they headed towards them. He shouted at his guard to take cover, to make a run for the acacias.
The dots turned into planes, accompanied by a crescendo of jet engines. Graham tasted adrenaline as it prepared him for battle or flight, but like his guard he’d forgotten how to move, and transfixed, he watched the planes get larger. Through the camp a few were running for cover, but like him, most were standing still, staring. He watched the first release its payload, bombs falling from the wings, gliding into the camp as the plane screamed swiftly overhead.
‘Fuck!’ He dropped underwater, getting to the riverbed as the shockwave hit. A jolt, not too strong, not too close. Underwater, isolated, protected; he realised he was just an ostrich sticking its head in the sand, and wasn’t there something about shockwaves and water? But he could think, thirty seconds of clear thoughts before he’d have to surface. They were going to burn Paul … that wasn’t right. The girl, the children, Prophet Ngai, King Ngai … mad Ngai … they were all crazy; they all belonged in a hell that wasn’t his. He felt another shockwave, nearer, felt the air being pushed from his lungs, felt the sudden pulse of pressure on his ears. He could hear debris hitting the water and gasping he surfaced … chaos.
His guard was still on the bank; wide-eyed, terrified. His leg had been caught by shrapnel and was bleeding badly but he didn’t appear to notice. Graham headed towards him; half walking, half swimming through the current, shouting at him to get the hell out of it. He didn’t understand and stood rooted, undecided, glancing between Graham and the receding jets, desperation in his face b
ut unable to move. Away from the river, those that were still alive and able to, were panicking, running towards the woodland and the rows of trucks.
The jets turned smoothly, lazily and headed back. Graham stopped and watched and listened to the approaching planes, to the shouts and screams from the camp. The planes were getting closer, the panic in the camp increasing. Undamaged lorries were starting up, The Army of Christ’s Inquisition was in full flight, chasing after half-filled lorries as they headed into the surrounding forest. His guard finally threw Graham’s robe to the ground and ran; he wouldn’t make it.
Graham splashed his way quickly to the river’s edge and, as the jets arrived, threw himself up against a shallow wall of sand, hoping for protection. The Hawker Hunters used the river as a guide then swung away in a gentle curve, doubling back over him. He put his fingers into his ears and closed his eyes tight as they dropped more explosives into the camp. Explosions, screams, trees and bodies felled by blasts, shrapnel whining over his sandy shelter like furious wasps.
He looked across the camp, his guard was lying dead thirty feet away, joining other scattered corpses. Trucks were burning, and trees either felled or leaning over with torn trunks and branches. Paul’s tree was still standing and he was still tied to it, but he resembled a rag doll even more, kept upright by the rope that bound him, his head hanging down hard against his chest.
The planes came around again, screaming over Graham as he fell back down against the river bank. He heard cannon fire, and looked over the top to see one of the lorries turn into a firework display as the ammunition on board went up.
He fell flat again and waited for the last blast of high explosives, the last splash from debris falling into the river then gingerly raised his head. The planes had finished their job, the camp had been destroyed and they were heading home. He sat in the shallows, breathing deeply, wiping tears and river water from his eyes, and he watched them head south until they were just dots, and then they were gone.
He calmed down; slowed his breathing and waited for his heart rate to return to normal. The camp was quiet, no dogs barking, women chatting or recruits being shouted at; no jets flying overhead dropping high explosives. Paul was still limp and tied up to the tree, one of maybe a hundred bodies visible. Find a spade and bury him, it would be the decent thing to do. Can’t bury them all, but he could make a makeshift cross and bury Paul. He put on his robe and walked past the body of his guard, caught in the face by a steel splinter, life finished at fourteen.