Doctor Who: Combat Rock (19 page)

Jamie felt the heat of the flash burn on his own face. The torturer collapsed on top of him, ousted brains seared and fused with flesh, blood and bone into a grisly ice-cream whip sculpture. Jamie rolled free, panting.

A guerrilla stood in the doorway, pulse rifle lowered, his face twisted with disbelief. ‘Bornese Bitch-man,’ he hissed.

‘You lucky I come.’

Jamie patted him on the shoulder, and after both of them had checked to make sure every box contained only dead men and women, they left the room and all its horror and hurried back up the stairwell. At the top, Jamie offered to help carry the former prisoner, but the rebel shook his head slowly, obviously more clear-headed than the others Jamie had entered with. They couldn’t afford to carry bodies now, there wasn’t enough room in the cruiser for all of them.

As they emerged into the courtyard again, the last sniper’s body was just landing, having been propelled from its vantage point by a shrieking rebel. The soldier’s back broke with an audible crunch upon impact, and his head lolled sideways, eyes fixing upon Jamie’s for an instant, then emptying with death.

A guerrilla barked something incomprehensible at him, and he followed the rebel, along with the man who had saved him, towards another arch, this one well lit and revealing a stone stairway climbing beyond. Jamie was well aware that after finding the dead rebel prisoner, any former warmth his

‘comrades’ had shown towards him had dissipated, almost as if he were to blame in some manner, and he was not stupid enough to tempt fate by arguing with them now.

Bodies lay in the stairway. Soldiers and guerrillas. Jamie stepped over them and made the landing. Guerrillas were coming towards them, pushing a single surviving soldier. He looked terrified, and a ragged cut was already in evidence on his cheek. As Jamie watched, a blow from the hilt of a machete sent him reeling.

As the two groups met, an emotive conversation ensued, during which the captured soldier waited silently and fearfully for the outcome.

Jamie nudged Tigus’s second-in-command, who had led the assault on Wameen. ‘What’s happening?’ He didn’t expect much of a response.

‘Skeleton guard only,’ the man replied with some satisfaction and not a bad grasp of English. ‘Large squad leave two hour ago. Jungle expedition. Search for OPG.’ Now he allowed himself a little grin. ‘They never think we brave to come here.’

Jamie gestured at the subdued-looking prisoner. ‘Can he tell us if my companion was brought here?’ He had already explained about Victoria’s disappearance, not that they had shown a great deal of concern over her possible plight. And why should they, Jamie supposed. That was not their fight.

Just like this wasn’t his.

The guerrilla duly questioned the soldier, however, and then turned back to Jamie. The other rebels – and there were only a handful left – fell silent now. Their goal had been achieved. They had found the man they’d set out to find. He was dead. What else mattered? They could all return to the jungle before the absent Indoni squad returned.

‘She here,’ the rebel said, his face betraying nothing.

Jamie felt a huge surge of warm relief. ‘Well, thank God for that...’

The guerrilla shook his head. ‘No. She here before. Not now. Taken by soldiers into jungle.’

Jamie slumped again. He almost felt like laughing. The guerrilla’s pidgin English was to blame, and not the guerrilla himself. But he didn’t laugh. He felt far too sick for that.

‘Why did they take her into the jungle?’ he asked, glaring at the captured soldier. He was ready to bash the Indoni himself now.

The guerrilla translated the question curtly. The soldier lifted his head for a moment with something like defiance.

While the guerrilla relayed his reply there was a silence from the others. ‘He say officer take her to show what OPG do. To show how... savage... we are.’

A guerrilla with a drooping black beard and one blind eye laughed. Two of the others joined in. The second-in-command turned away. ‘We go, he said simply, beckoning to Jamie.

There was a squeal from behind Jamie. He turned in time to see the bearded guerrilla taking his machete away from the soldier’s throat. The Scot blinked at the blood leaping from the severed artery. Some of it splashed his shirt. For a moment he was back on Culloden. A claymore sweeping across a Redcoat’s neck, opening just such an orgasm of blood – the first time he’d seen a man die in combat. He’d been rooted, blinking, just like he was now.

The bearded man grinned at him and pushed the jerking body away.

‘We go,’ the assault leader repeated.

They were making their way across the courtyard when the blast of pulse fire flashed in the night.

For a second Jamie was sure the soldier had been lying and there was indeed a surprise party waiting for them. But it was only one shot, and that from a seriously wounded and very foolhardy soldier lying crumpled in the courtyard, a pulse rifle wobbling in his blood-soaked hands. The second-in-command drove his machete into the man’s forehead. It seemed an unnecessary and foolish act to Jamie, especially considering the amount of time it took him to pull the blade free from the bone afterwards. Then he discovered the reason for the leader’s ire. The lone shot had taken out their pilot.

That meant they were as good as stranded in Wameen.

There was some heated discussion amongst the guerrillas, and then a decision of sorts was obviously reached, because they were moving again, and heading for the cruiser, the bodies of their comrades reluctantly left behind.

Jamie’s questions were ignored. They boarded the craft, and Jamie saw that it was the second-in-command who was taking the pilot’s seat.

‘Can he fly?’ Jamie asked the man sitting next to him as the power relay kicked in and thrummed optimistically. The man didn’t answer.

As if he’d heard him, the ‘pilot’ turned to flash Jamie a grin. ‘We go,’ he said for the third time and the craft suddenly lurched violently upwards.

The foul mood the guerrillas had fallen into upon finding the dead Papul prisoner had vanished. They knew they had achieved a fairly major coup against their enemy despite the bleak fate of the object of their search. The men were roaring a melodic Papul song as the cruiser lifted drunkenly, clipped the top of a wall and jerked southwards. But even if he’d known the words, Jamie doubted he’d have felt like joining in.

‘Jayapul’s a hole all right,’ Saw said, swigging from an imported bottle of whisky as the Dogs prowled the streets of Papul’s capital. There was Pan and there was Pretty Boy, there was Saw and there was Grave. Clown was absent without leave, and Bass was asleep at the makeshift ‘hotel’ where they were staying the night. Twist was tripping somewhere on something.

The streets were empty apart from Indoni patrols who ignored them religiously, as if obeying some directive to do so. Rubbish clogged the oily river beneath the bridge to the night market, long since deserted. A gust of wind brought the fragrance of rot and sewage to their nostrils.

‘Nobody here, Pan,’ Pretty Boy said. He stopped to light a cigarette, and Pan took one off him too. Ahead of them the market was a muddle of locked stalls and clap-board shacks perpendicular to a terrace of more substantial but equally grimy concrete buildings.

The night market had once been the focal point of Jayapul.

A centre of culture and entertainment, a thriving, happy spot, where you could get anything at any time.

The night market was empty now, and it was dark. A tin can bowled along one of the alleys, clattering like bones.

Grave stomped it into silence.

‘You don’t look hard enough,’ Pan answered Pretty Boy, heading for the concrete terrace. He nudged a corrugated metal door until it squealed open. Beyond it was a dark passage and a few steps leading down. They could just discern a glimmer of candlelight at the bottom, coming from beneath another door.

‘Trust me. Old Pan’s got a nose for whores.’

‘Yeah, and Clown ain’t around to spoil your fun,’ Pretty Boy said.

Pan snorted. ‘Sure you don’t feel the same way? Don’t wanna offend your delicate sensibilities, gay boy.’

Pretty Boy said nothing and followed Pan and the others down the steps. Pan didn’t knock at the second door, this one made of wood. He simply shoved it open and walked on in without hesitating.

Inside the basement room was a bar, a few tables and chairs and a few terrified Papul men playing cards. The bar owner looked more terrified than any of them. He advanced on Pan with his hands outstretched, eyes huge.

‘Please mister. We do nothing wrong.’

Pan laughed, unholstered his Luger. ‘Don’t look that way to me. Looks like you got a bar set up here. Looks like you’re drinking alcohol’ He prodded the bar owner’s large flat nose with the barrel of his weapon. ‘Now you know that’s against Indoni law in Papul. Looks like I’m gonna have to close you down. Close all of you down. And the prisons are all full I’m afraid.’ He slipped the safety off, and the click filled the room with its significance.

One of the Papul men spoke urgently to the bar owner who responded by letting a sickly grin transform his face. He began lowering his hands.

‘We know what you like,’ he said with an awful attempt at bonding. ‘My friend say you like girl. I have girl.’

Pan grinned. He was really enjoying this. ‘What makes you think I want any disease-riddled whore
you
can provide?’

‘No. No. Not whore,’ the man said eagerly.

‘What then? Your wife? I can imagine what she looks like.’

The man touched Pan’s sleeveless combat jacket as if admiring the quality of the material. There was a sycophantic appeasing smile on his face.

‘My daughter.’

Pan snorted, and flashed a grin at Saw and Grave. Grave said nothing as usual, staring vacantly with devil eyes. Saw licked his greasy lips demonstratively. Pretty Boy cleared his throat.

‘I’m going back to the hotel,’ he said. ‘I got my standards.’

‘You got nothing,’ Pan said, dismissing him. He tapped the bar owner’s cheek with the barrel of his Luger. ‘Now why don’t you show me what
you’ve
got,’ he said.

‘He faints like woman,’ Tigus said, nudging Kepennis with his foot disdainfully.

The guide was recovering from his long bout of unconsciousness, and was now blearily trying to reorientate himself. The Doctor sat on a log watching the dawn rising thoughtfully. Drew and Ussman were snoring under the makeshift shelter the guerrillas had erected. Santi was waking up, the early morning chill affecting her more due to the brevity of her attire. She promptly elbowed Wina, who was spread out on her back like a starfish on the grass next to her.

When the Javee girl didn’t respond, Santi nudged her again, more sharply. Wina rolled over, rubbing her eyes, her hair tangled alluringly.

Wemus tore his gaze away guiltily when he noticed she had seen him. He was about to approach Kepennis when she called him over.

He knelt beside her and instinctively reached for both her hands. She accepted them with a smile. It was the first physical bond between them and it had been a natural one.

This was easy and right, Wemus thought, and couldn’t believe it even though she was smiling a lovely white smile, her perfect Indoni features shining in the first light of morning. He was obviously more handsome than he’d ever previously believed. Kepennis would have to stop his scoffing now.

‘Be careful of her.’ Santi said with a sour face. ‘She go with many men. I see her in bars. She do like this:’ and she interlaced her fingers and waggled them to demonstrate. It was an Indoni sign which alluded to promiscuousness.

Wemus frowned, but didn’t believe. Wina pulled a dismissive face at Santi’s vulgarity, as if Santi was beneath contempt, but the stockier girl hadn’t finished yet.

‘She go with man with skirt, friend of Doctor. Hey, Doctor!’ she called, and the strange little man with the expressive, child-old face looked up dreamily ‘Tell Wemus Wina no good. She go with your friend, now she want go with Wemus. She from Banuwang in Javee. Many women black magic there. Only way she can get man!’

‘Only way you get man is when they pay. No good man want girl with face like servant!’ Wina had been unable to restrain herself any longer.

The Doctor coughed with embarrassment. ‘Now then, shouldn’t we all be trying to get along, considering our predicament?’

Some of the guerrillas were laughing now, as they set about cooking breakfast. Tigus merely flashed the girls an irritated grimace. He was nervously smoking. The assault force should have returned by now. They were at the assigned meeting point, and had been for most of the night. What was keeping them? If the Indoni had them, would any of the men talk under torture? It was a frightening thought that soldiers could be approaching them even now, creeping through the jungle.

‘Hey! Santi not go with Papul man. You low girl!’

Poor old Wemus raised his hands appeasingly and decided he’d be better off talking to Kepennis after all, far away from the feminine war zone.

‘Not listen to working girl, Wemus.’ Wina retorted. ‘Her mouth place for rubbish!’

He left them bickering. Kepennis gave him a woozy smile as Wemus joined his friend. He and Ussman had been forced to carry the guide through the jungle to the meeting place, so heavy had been his faint. He accepted tobacco off Wemus gratefully, and looked a little sheepish as he rolled it.

‘You all right?’ Wemus asked his friend.

Kepennis scratched his head. ‘I don’t know. Feel better now, but, you know... I hate the sight of blood.’

Wemus nodded. He wasn’t exactly fond of it himself.

They were two of a kind. Both cheeky and bold with the tourists, full of fast talk, wit and humour, always ready with the jovial quip and the naughty trick – and always happy to oblige tourists by drinking their whisky for them – even ordering it for them well before they left Batu on the tour, purely for the offworlders’ peace of mind, of course.

Everything well prepared, that was one of their tour mottos.

Yes, they were naughty, they were gamblers, they liked drinking even if they could never handle it, and they were always good-humoured to the point of seeming infantile.