The villagers stood back as Cooper laid Zola’s body in front of them, watching on edge as he waved his gun. His top was covered in blood and he had no doubt his face was smeared red as well.
‘I want you to bury her properly, you hear? This woman was a good woman. She had no evil in her, no Kindoki, nothing. The only thing she had inside her was love.’
He backed away from the sea of intrigued faces.
A black motorcycle, leaning up against the wall of one of the brick huts, grabbed his attention.
‘Who owns this bike…? À qui appartient ce vélo?’
A young man, no older than twenty, stepped forward. ‘I do.’
‘Well I’m going to borrow it, but I’ll bring it back, okay?’
With his eyes firmly fixed on Cooper’s gun, the man nodded. Went into his pocket. Shakily handed him the keys. No doubt feeling it was a small price to pay.