A large unlit campfire had been set, already, by Alphonse and the other assistants. David stared at the pyre of dry wood, and wondered where those other camp-helpers might be. Probably sitting happily in their village huts, asleep or eating. Oblivious to this fatal encounter several miles away, way up the shallow canyon.
They were alone with Miguel and his men. They had no chance of rescue.
The four of them were forced to kneel in the dust. Like captives of some Islamic cult, kneeling in the dust, waiting to be decapitated. Nearby was the unlit bonfire, the pyramid of desiccated firewood.
They waited. The desert wind was cold now. Their captors were sitting and smoking in the doorways of their vehicles; still other men were minutely searching the Namcorp Land Rover.
‘Are they going to kill us?’
Amy’s voice was strained with tension. David felt a yearning to hug her, protect her, save her. The same old hunger. But he was hand-cuffed and kneeling. All he could do was lie. He lied to Amy.
‘No. They need us to find Eloise…What’s the point in killing us?’
‘What the fuck are you talking about? Of course they will fucking kill us.’ Angus was laughing. ‘We’re dead. We’re geology. We’re French fucking toast. You were witness to his father’s suicide! He probably thinks you caused it. He knows you know his terrible secret. The darkness of the Garovillos!’ His laughter was replete with anger. ‘They will torture us first, try and find out where Eloise is. Then they will murder us. Out here in the desert. But, hey, there are worse places to die. Cumbernauld. You ever been to Cumbernauld?’
Amy was crying.
Angus laughed: ‘In fact I’d rather fucking die here than live in Cumbernauld.’
Garovillo had returned.
‘Good. Jenika. Noski. And now…’ He looked at Angus Nairn, and then at Amy and Alphonse, and David. Then back at Angus. ‘Doctor Nairn. We really need to know where Eloise is, so I am going to rip it out of you. Rip it out of your fucking heart.’
‘Fuck you.’
The terrorist’s smile flickered with barely repressed anger, then he pointed at Alphonse.
‘Take him. The boyfriend. The sexuberekoi. Him.’
Miguel’s assistants dragged Alphonse to his feet. The young Namibian’s knees were trembling. Miguel glanced at each of the captives in turn. And spoke.
‘I always wonder…the witch burning stories, just a legend, no?’
A shrivel of fear tightened inside David.
‘But now I wonder –’ Miguel’s smile was deep and sad ‘– what was it like? Watching someone burn to death? Haven’t you ever wondered? You must have done your research? Ez? The witch burnings?’
Miguel put his face two inches from Angus’s face.
‘If you don’t tell us where Eloise is, we shall tie your little beige bumboy to a stake. And burn him alive. You like the pretty Baster boys, don’t you? The little ecru bastards? The marikoi coon?’ He swivelled. ‘So we cook him! A real faggot, fresh on the fire.’
David flashed a glance of horror at Angus. The Scotsman’s face was impassive, and yet riven with fury.
Then Angus spoke: ‘Cagot cunt.’
Garovillo’s eyes burned.
‘Que?’
‘We know you are a Cagot. A shit person. Like your dad. Cagot.’
Miguel’s face was twitching.
‘Absurd. But what do I care?’ He gestured, wildly. ‘Burn the boy. Agur.’
Behind him his men were hammering a stake into the dust, in the middle of the dry tinderwood. A big wooden stake.
Alphonse was writhing in the clutches of the silent men. His protestations were incoherent mumbles: he seemed over-whelmed by the horror, he was bleating, mewling. The stake was driven further. The moon was bright. Nightbirds scattered from dark trees somewhere out there in the wilderness. The Damara riverlands of dry canyons and camelthorns stretched all around, in the intensity of the dark.
Angus was shouting:
‘What’s the point, Miguel? You can’t hide it, we know it. Everyone fucking knows you are a cack person. Look at your twitching eye. What Cagot syndrome is that? What disorder do you have? Alperts? Hallervorden? What? Fasciculation. Twitching eye. That’s Cagot. The madness of the mountain –’
Garovillo struck Angus hard across the face, so hard a flash of blood spat from the Scotsman’s mouth, a gobbet of blood and spittle that glistened in the dust, illuminated by the car headlights. Then the terrorist barked.
‘Torch the black. Now.’
Alphonse was dragged to the stake. David watched, horrified, mesmerized. They were really going to do it.
Amy cried out: ‘Miguel. Stop. Please. What’s the point?’
‘The Zulo speaks? Yes? Bai? Ez? Tell me where Eloise Bentayou is and I will stop. Until then, I shall burn the