Mac lay on the stony ground, coughing out a lungful of dust and absorbing the kick in the gut that came with the realisation of failure. His freedom had been short-lived – a little over twenty-four hours on the run before being recaptured by a young girl with a big stick. He must have dropped the gun somewhere during the night, and now he was defenceless.
He didn’t know what she’d said, but given that she looked quite capable of bringing her weapon down on his head, he assumed it was along the lines of ‘hands up’. So he showed her the palms of his hands while remaining as still as possible.
Without taking her eyes off him, she yelled loudly a couple of times. He rightly guessed she was calling for help, as a moment later a man emerged from the nearest dwelling and came running towards the goat pen. He came through the gate and she quickly handed the club to him, talking in rapid Pashto. The man was much older and similar looking – her father probably. His arrival meant that any hope Mac had of being able to jump up and wrestle the stick from the girl was dashed. It was a pathetic idea anyway. Mac was lying on the ground, winded, injured, weak from dysentery, and exhausted. He was kidding himself if he thought he was in a fit state for heroics.
The goats were still bleating loudly, disturbed by this intrusion into their compound, but Mac was relieved to see that the man had lowered the club and now held it loosely at his side. He was wearing black trousers and a kosai, a white felt coat. If Mac remembered rightly from his initial briefing when he arrived in Afghanistan, this would indicate he was a Kuchi – a member of the semi-nomadic tribes that herded sheep and goats across the country. He had a bulbous white turban and a pale woollen blanket draped over one shoulder.
‘Salaam alaikum,’ said Mac. His voice cracked and speaking set him off coughing again.
‘Alaikum a’salaam,’ said the older man. Then he said quite a lot more.
Mac sat up and shook his head. ‘English? You speak inglisi?’
The man shook his head and the girl stared down at Mac with wide-eyed interest. She asked her father something and in the answer Mac heard the words Englistani and Jamali. His heart sank. They knew who he was, and now they would hand him back to Jamali’s men and claim their reward.
The father waved the girl away and tucked the weapon somewhere inside his kosai. Then he helped Mac to his feet. It was getting light, and Mac could see the small village more clearly now – a cluster of mud houses with walled courtyards and flat roofs. The small fields closest to the dwellings seemed given over to vegetable cultivation, but there were still plenty of poppy fields stretching away beyond them.
The father beckoned Mac to follow him, while the girl scurried ahead. Feeling dejected and humiliated, Mac trudged after them. What was the point in trying to run? The man was fit and clearly had the upper hand. If he made a break for it, he could die here and now, or if he went willingly, he would no doubt die at some point later, when Jamali realised there would be no ransom forthcoming. It wasn’t much of a choice, but it seemed to make sense to delay the inevitable.
The man led him to the edge of the village and into the courtyard of the small dwelling from which he’d appeared. He closed the gate firmly behind them, and the girl disappeared into the house. There was nothing but dried dirt, goat shit and a couple of scrawny chickens in the courtyard, and the house itself was a primitive construction made from mud, straw and wooden poles. Along one side of the courtyard, a low wooden structure sheltered a giant, sleeping Kuchi dog, its pale golden fur brindled with brown patches. It woke at the sound of their arrival, barking loudly and yanking at the short chain that secured it. The man spoke softly to it, and it settled back down on its haunches, eyeing Mac – suspiciously or hungrily, he couldn’t be sure which. On the other side of the space, a lean-to wooden roof gave an area of shade for two low wooden chairs and a plain bench. The man pointed at one of the chairs, indicating Mac should sit down.
He did as he was told.
Creaking loudly, the door of the house opened a crack and the face of another young girl appeared, her head wrapped in a brightly embroidered shawl. The man shouted something at her and the door slammed shut. Mac looked away. He couldn’t be seen to take an interest in the women of the household. But he knew he would be an object of immense interest to them – a bedraggled westerner, lost and alone, in a part of Helmand that rarely saw people from beyond the next village, let alone foreigners.
The man said something to him, then realising he was wasting his breath, he disappeared into the house.
Mac looked at the compound gate. There was no guard here and he wasn’t tied up. There was nothing to prevent him from getting up and leaving. He had no idea what sort of reward Jamali would have put up for his return, but his host didn’t appear to be that bothered by the prospect of it simply walking out of the door.
And this was the reason Mac stayed.
It seemed that the man who’d taken him in didn’t view him as a captive. When he came outside again, he was carrying a tray. There was tea and a bowl of food – rice studded with nuts and herbs, a few beans and slices of soggy, over-cooked okra, with a piece of naan balanced on the edge. He put it down on the bench next to where Mac was sitting and made a gesture to encourage Mac to eat and drink.
‘Mn’n’na, thank you.’
Mac sipped the green tea, and the bitter taste he usually hated seemed like an elixir. Then he fell on the food, eating it with his fingers in the traditional Afghan manner, savouring every mouthful. Across the courtyard, the dog whined. Mac formed a little ball of rice in his hand, stood up and took it to within reach of the beast, where he dropped it on the ground. The dog wolfed it down and the man, who’d been watching him with a concerned look, laughed out loud.
‘Mantoo,’ he said, pointing at the dog. The dog’s ears pricked up at the mention of his name. Then the man pointed to himself. ‘Obaid.’
Mac put a hand to his chest. ‘Mac.’
The introductions out of the way, the man went back inside the house, leaving Mac and Mantoo to finish the food. The stinking pouch of goat meat must have fallen from his belt some time before, Mac realised with relief.
Mac sat back in the chair. Although the food had tasted good, his stomach cramped. He’d not yet recovered from the dirty water at Jamali’s compound, let alone the effects of eating raw goat meat. Hopefully the rice and bread would settle things down a bit.
After a while, Obaid returned for the tray.
‘Mn’n’na,’ said Mac again, pressing both his hands together and bowing his head.
An older man, similarly dressed but with a white beard, came out of the house. He studied Mac and spoke to Obaid. Then he left the compound. Obaid took the tray inside and came back a few minutes later with a bowl of water and some rags. He put them down by Mac’s chair, then reached out with one hand and touched Mac’s left shoulder. Mac winced and Obaid nodded. He understood that Mac was injured. He did the same with Mac’s knee and Mac nodded in return.
Obaid set to work. It seemed like he was something of a medic or a healer, or whatever these remote, rural communities relied on to tend to their ills. He cleaned up a number of minor abrasions and cuts, bandaged Mac’s knee to give it support and fashioned a sling for him using a keffiyeh scarf. Once he’d finished, he brought a thin canvas mattress out from the house and put it in the deep shade at the back of the lean-to. The sun was climbing now, and the heat was already punishing, but Mac couldn’t be invited inside the one-room house because, as a stranger, and an infidel at that, he couldn’t be allowed to mix with the women.
He lay down to sleep, wondering what would happen next. Had he been right in assuming that Obaid wasn’t going to hand him over to Jamali? And if he didn’t intend to do that, what did he intend to do? Sleep overtook him before he had any answers, but minutes later he was woken up again by the opening of the compound gate.
Immediately alert, he sat up.
It was the old man returning. He came straight over to Mac, holding out something in his hand. Mac stood up and reached for it – a satphone. ‘Mn’n’na, mn’n’na.’ With a rush of adrenalin, he dialled Baz’s number.
Pick up, pick up…
Obaid appeared in the doorway.
Pick up, for God’s sake pick up…
‘Hello, who’s this?’
‘Baz, it’s me.’
‘Mac!’ she practically screamed in his ear. ‘Thank God. Where are you?’
‘No fucking clue. Speak to my friend, Obaid.’ He gave the phone to his host.
Obaid talked animatedly for several minutes, listened for a bit, then talked some more. Just as Mac was reaching the point of grabbing the phone from him, he held it out. Mac snatched it and pressed it to his ear.
Baz spoke quickly. ‘Okay, you’re in a village called Sar Banader. Obaid is no friend of Jamali’s, who was holding you, but he knows there are search parties scouring the countryside for you. He wants rid of you ASAP.’
‘I don’t blame him,’ said Mac.
‘It will take us several hours to reach you – it’s quite a bit further than Najibullahkhan Kalay. Sit tight.’
‘Not going anywhere, babe.’
When Baz replied, he could tell she was crying. ‘I was so scared, so scared. You’re okay, right?’
Mac sniffed. ‘Sure, I’m fine. A bit bashed about, but nothing that seeing you won’t fix.’
‘Put Obaid back on for me. See you soon.’
Mac handed the phone back to Obaid, mouthing his thanks as he did. Obaid listened to Baz, a large grin breaking out on his face. He said a couple more things, then disconnected and handed the phone back to the old man, who disappeared out of the gate, presumably to return the phone to its owner.
Mac looked up at the azure sky and took a deep breath.
They were coming for him.
The nightmare was nearly over.