Dried blood stinks. Especially when it’s plastered across your mouth and nose in the form of a gag, soaked with your own blood over a number of hours. Dried sweat stinks. Diesel fumes stink. Even though Mac feared he would throw up at any second, his mouth was as dry as the thousands of square kilometres of burning desert that made up the southern reaches of Helmand Province.
Where the hell are you taking me?
He’d passed out at some stage but now he was awake again, in his own private hell. The heat under the filthy tarpaulin was unbearable – he felt as shrivelled as a bit of crispy bacon. The thought of which brought on another urge to vomit. But if he did that the gag would probably see to it that he suffocated.
It wasn’t quite the glorious end he’d imagined for himself.
Breathe slowly. Calm yourself down.
He was too angry to be completely calm, but cold rage would be of more use to him than hysteria, so he did everything he’d been trained to do to get a grip. Focus on breathing. Think about one problem at a time. Find a solution, then move onto the next.
The intensity of the heat told him it was midday or later, which meant they’d been driving south for six or seven hours. If there had been any stops, it wasn’t while he was conscious. Which meant they must stop sometime soon. He needed water and whoever was in the driver’s compartment would know that. A dead hostage has next to no value and very quickly becomes a dangerous inconvenience.
He considered his options. Limited options. Severely limited options. He couldn’t shout for help because of the gag. Assuming that he could somehow loosen it enough to call attention to himself, it was doubtful that anyone would hear him, or if perhaps passing through a village they did hear him, he could be almost certain that no one would help him.
Escape didn’t seem much of an option either.
Engaging with his captors?
Do you think they’ll speak English, stupid?
Wait for release and rescue. And pray to a God he’d long since stopped believing in.
The road was rougher than before, with bumps and potholes that jarred him against the metal truck bed again and again. He braced himself between the side of the truck and something solid that jutted out on one side, but it didn’t help much. His head juddered against the floor, magnifying the pain he was already suffering, but he couldn’t find a way of moving his arms up to act as a buffer.
The distraction of hearing voices raised in the vehicle’s cab did little to take his mind off his predicament. Try as he might, he couldn’t hear any recognisable words or place names – there was nothing that gave him a clue as to who they were or where they were taking him. Instead, he concentrated on rubbing the side of his head against his shoulder in an effort to shift the blindfold up enough to allow him to see. It was tied tightly at the back of his head, and as he pushed at it, he felt a sharp jag of pain behind his left ear – there was a swelling, where he’d taken some kind of knock.
Eventually, a chink of light became visible at the bottom of the dark cloth. It seemed bright after so long in darkness. He could only open his eyes a slit and he couldn’t really see anything, but for all that, it was welcome. He continued worrying at the material and, as the gap widened, he was able to open his eyes further. Underneath the light-coloured tarpaulin he could see the dim outline of his body. His clothes were filthy and stained with blood, but it didn’t jog his memory as to what had happened to him. However, he was now able to see, so he pushed against the side of the truck until he could lever himself up into a sitting position. The cover fell away from his upper body and he blinked, screwing up his gritty eyes against the unforgiving glare of the sun.
He took a deep breath, relieved to be out of the fetid air trapped under the canvas. He looked round, steadying himself against the side of the truck and tilting his head back so he could see under the edge of the blindfold. Poppy fields. As far as the eye could see, a bright tapestry of purple, pink and white flowers, wilting in the heat as if they’d taken a dose of their own sap. Helmand’s wealth by the hectare, but no sign of human life. The fields would become busy with workers once the petals had dropped and the resin could be collected – but for now the precious crop seemed abandoned.
It was a disquieting sight, beautiful as it was, and Mac wished he was anywhere else but here. The mere fact of being western put his life in danger, and he was miles from help or a safe haven.
They passed through a small village – a handful of mud dwellings crowded round a solitary well. It was quiet, deserted. The midday heat drove everyone indoors. There wasn’t a single stray dog sniffing for food or a kid scratching in the mud. Even without the gag, there would be no point shouting for help in a place like this.
The truck slowed down, then stopped. Mac quickly lay down and closed his eyes, feigning unconsciousness as he listened for what would happen next. The doors on both sides of the cab creaked open, and the truck bed rocked as two people climbed out. Their voices became more distinct out in the open – the men were speaking Pashto, the dominant language in Helmand. Footsteps crunched round to the back of the truck. A hand prodded Mac’s arm, but he didn’t respond. The owner of the hand shouted something to his mate, then pulled the tarpaulin back over Mac’s body, covering his head and roughly tucking it round him to stop it drifting off again. Mac hardly dared breathe.
The two men walked some distance from the truck. They were quiet for a minute, but then he heard a quiet muttering of prayers. Midday or afternoon prayer time, he wasn’t sure which, but it meant a ten-minute window during which their attention would be focused on something other than their prisoner.
He took a split-second decision.
Taking a deep breath, he pushed himself upright into a sitting position. He looked around quickly, but the truck’s cab blocked his view of the men. Good. It was difficult to move, even more so to do it without making a noise, but he shuffled on his arse to the edge of the truck bed and peered around the side of the cab. There they were, about four metres away from the vehicle, kneeling on their prayer mats with their heads bent low to the ground, luckily facing in the opposite direction to him.
Now was the moment to break free. It was a plan that would rely on a huge dollop of luck, but if he could get out of the truck, and if they got in and drove off without checking the back… He didn’t dare to hope, and he had no time to think about what he would do after that.
Long shot? It was his only bloody shot.
The problem would be climbing over the side of the truck with his hands tied and his ankles bound together. Climbing wasn’t in fact an option. He looked over the edge. It was about a metre drop to the ground. He sat up tall and leaned on the side, then swung his legs round to push himself up onto his knees. The ridged surface was painful to kneel on, but he wasn’t hanging around. He bent forward at the waist to lean over the side, and pushing up with his feet, launched himself out of the vehicle head first.
The drop wasn’t long enough to twist his body round, but he managed to tuck his head to one side and land on his left shoulder. The ground at the side of the road was strewn with stones and as he rolled onto his side, he heard a familiar snap. He’d broken a collarbone before so the immediate explosion of pain was no surprise, but crashing to the ground had winded him, adding another layer to his agony.
He lay in the shadow of the truck, waiting for breath. Surely the men had heard him crashing to the ground?
A few feet from the road, the edge of the nearest poppy field might offer shelter. The plants were densely packed and the flowers stood about a metre tall. If he could get in among them…
He knew it was a stupid idea. He wouldn’t be able to get any distance and his captors would easily see the disturbance he’d cause to the poppies. Better to roll underneath the truck, between the wheels, and hope they’d drive off without checking.
He could breathe now, but even the tiniest move precipitated a flare of pain at the front of his shoulder as the snapped ends of his collarbone rubbed together. He’d broken out in a heavy sweat, and all four of his limbs felt like jelly. Moving anywhere was a huge challenge and time was running out.
With a final ‘Allahu akbar’, the men finished their prayers. He heard them getting up and rolling their prayer mats. Then their footsteps approaching the vehicle.
He was halfway under the truck when the form of one of the men blocked out the sun above him. The man let out an angry cry and lunged for him. Mac tried to roll away, but it was a wasted effort. Within seconds, a hefty kick in the ribs made him yelp with pain. The other captor came running round to see what was going on, and the two of them shouted excitedly as the second one joined in with the kicking.
‘Wait… stop…’ But through the gag, the words sounded like grunts.
They didn’t stop until they were ready to. It was the most effective form of communication. He’d done something wrong. He was being punished for it. After a minute of relentless attack, finally one of them said a word and they both stepped back to look at their handiwork. There was a bit of a discussion, then each one of them grabbed an arm and manhandled him back into the truck.
Part of Mac wished they’d finished the job. Oblivion seemed far preferable to this. He’d been a bloody idiot, driven by panic and fear, and all he’d achieved was to make matters worse for himself.
As he lay panting in the back of the truck, the two men argued. Then one picked up a coil of nylon rope and passed the end of it twice around Mac’s waist. He threaded the other end around the rusted chrome light bar that ran along the back of the cab and tied it securely. There was no way Mac was going to be able to throw himself out of the truck now.
Desperate for water, Mac made a sound in the back of his throat. They had already turned away from him to get back into the cab. Mac made the noise again, louder and more forcefully. One of the men, the shorter of the two, who was dressed all in black and wearing a pakul hat, turned back towards him. Mac shook his head and moaned. How could he explain his need to them? Gagged, hands tied behind his back, there was no way to communicate.
The other man, tall and skinny, in a grubby, cream-coloured kameez with a black-and-white patterned keffiyeh wound around his head, said something, then headed round to the passenger side. A couple of seconds later, he tossed a water bottle over the back of the truck to his partner. The short man unscrewed the cap, tugged down Mac’s gag, and held the bottle to his lips.
It was the first moment of consideration his kidnappers had shown him.
He drank for as long as the man held up the bottle, pleased to clear the taste of blood from his mouth.
The man finally snatched the bottle away and screwed the cap. He tossed it in the back of the truck – there was no way that he or his fellow abductor would drink from it now after the infidel had contaminated it. Mac didn’t care – he was just grateful to have assuaged his thirst.
‘Thank you… mn’n’na, mn’n’na.’ It was literally the only word of Pashto he knew.
The two men ignored his thanks, climbed back into the vehicle, and the driver started the engine.
As they drove out of the village, Mac saw an old man watching surreptitiously from a doorway.
Thanks for your help, mate.
The sun was lower in the sky, but the heat was just as fierce. And on they drove, ever southwards.