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After spending only one night in the Vraca camp, I head for the forest north-east of the old military fortress that’s situated on a hill above the old town. To the west I can see the Kosovo Stadium and the Olympic Hall, to the east is the road to Belgrade and, less than twenty miles away, Mladic’s bunker at Han Pijesak.

I’ve been spending more time away from camp, preferring the solitude of the hills to the moaning patriotism of the camp. I need this time by myself. I need the time to think and hatch my plot. My tent is pitched deep in the forest and well camouflaged. My only companion is a corpse in a copse a couple of hundred yards away. He looks – and stinks – as if he’s been there for several weeks. As is common in this war, his face has been cut away to prevent recognition or, possibly, the imparting of information. He isn’t going to be telling anyone anything, that’s for sure. I don’t suppose we knew each other anyway, even though I say hello and ask him how his day has been. He doesn’t bother to reply, which I think is very rude. What’s left of him is alive with maggots and flies and everything else in the forest that fancies a free feed.

At night the bombardments are spectacular. Mr Gilhooley and I will sometimes watch them together. They remind us of fireworks in Hyde Park. The missiles fizz as they fly overhead the darkened city, some glowing white, like the milky secretions of a celestial snail, arcing through the blackness. Sometimes the night is lit up by pink tracer or anti-aircraft fire. It’s as if the city’s besieged and their besiegers communicate by means of weaponry. The hissing of bullets, whistling of shells, fizzing of missiles, the crackling, booms, reports, thuds and hammerings are the various ways in which they talk to each other. And at times they can be quite eloquent.

Beside me, Mr Gilhooley oohs and aahs as he stares out at the man-made shooting stars in the night. It’s quite an education for the headmaster. I tell him what a reversal of roles this must be for him, a headmaster being asked to keep lookout, like some small boy at the door of a classroom, to shout ‘Cave!’ if anyone should appear. I receive the usual disdainful, superior grunt in reply, as if he’s unable to demean himself by talking to me, the school janitor.

I stay away from camp for several nights. I want to be alone, and am alone – apart from Mr Stinky just a short distance away. Finally I decide what I’ll do.