He sleeps, restless and reluctant, and dreams that he wakes in a place of absolute blackness. Such darkness is new to him; it wraps him, presses on him as he lies on hard, chill ground. He knows this dark could press itself into his ears, his mouth and nose, and that he has no way to prevent it. He needs to breathe in but, afraid of what might happen if he does, he holds his breath. Heart banging he reaches out and finds earth, earth and stone. He crouches then rises, slowly, rough solidity under his hands and the taste of damp in his mouth as he feels his way up through the thick blackness. Standing he touches himself, his own invisible body, checking. He seems solid, as the ground seems solid. Hands outstretched before him he tries to walk, to let his feet feel the way, but he can’t move. Some part of him knows it’s a dream, that it’s absurd, the darkness, the sense of having been swallowed up, his own, childish, fear. There’s something in his hands. He turns it over, exploring its surfaces. He cradles it for a moment, then lowers the camera and takes a photograph of his right foot at the exact moment he steps into the blackness that surrounds him like fur, or water. The unseen earth dissolves, his feet sliding away as he falls backwards towards solid ground that was never there.
It was the shifting of the floor that jolted him, finally, into consciousness, to flashes of red-white-red-white on the walls and cement dust swirling through balcony doors open to fading sunlight. A closer crash brought him fully awake. He yawned and wiped automatically at wet eyes. In the other hand a dead cigarette hung in the space between two fingers and a fragile worm of cold ash lay across his belly. Reaching for the pack on the floor beside the narrow bed he lit up, stretched out on the damp crumpled sheet again and slowly inhaled.
Out on the balcony the hot evening air tasted of sand, sand and the many poisons suspended in the air here. Michael Jones flicked the cigarette stub into the gutter six storeys below and felt the crumbling balcony sway. Too tired to go back into the room and too tired to watch a city burn he stayed, motionless, leaning into rusting rails that were the only thing between him and the alleyway thirty metres below. He watched thousands of shells crack open from up here, heard entire symphonies of destruction. Eight whole months of missile music.
Nightmare sweat evaporated from the base of his throat. He knew he shouldn’t have slept; even a few unconsciousness moments conjured nightmares now. Dropping his head he squeezed his temples with bunched knuckles. Behind his eyes all was darkness and pressure, like one of those lock-down pans that build up to a scream. A breath of wind carried the familiar scent of mortar propellant and he breathed deeply until the worst of sleep drained away.
The balcony shifted hard suddenly, shards of wall plaster falling round his bare feet as a heavy aircraft thundered overhead and on into the smoking horizon. He lit another cigarette and inhaled, imagining nicotine and the chemicals of war condensing in the volatile soup of his lungs.
In the quiet street below a single car waited outside an open door. Four local men in dark jackets disputed with violent hand gestures, motioning to a nearby building. After eight months here he knew who the locals were, which meant it was time to leave. He stubbed the cigarette out on the pock-marked wall beside him, hearing the echo of a sonnet and someone, he doesn’t remember who, reading lines about fire and ash consuming each other. He thought he should leave this place now; and go where?
Somewhere out in the desert refineries were burning, exhaling blackened breath. He hitched his towel closer round his waist and squinted at the oily moon sliding slowly above the horizon. It was like looking at the world through a greased lens. Nothing was clean anymore.
A crimson and gold corona blossomed abruptly ten blocks north. He felt it, like a light punch in the chest and for a moment he stood absolutely still, mouth open, holding his breath. An entire row of palm trees was on fire, fronds blazing like giant sparklers. He exhaled sharply, smiling at the vivid colours, the apocalyptically beautiful colours that spread like spilled paint across the filthy sky, outlining minarets and tower blocks with light.
The aircraft had gone, but what he thought was the droning of its engines continued until he recognised the echoing roar of heavy vehicles moving through narrow spaces. The four men talking on the corner turned and ran in different directions, seconds before the house they stood outside collapsed in a cascade of fire and rubble. Stepping back quickly he dropped to the floor and watched his balcony convulse, its already cracked doors shattering.
Pushing himself to his feet he grabbed the nearest video camera from off his worktable and ran, unmindful of broken glass and his own bare feet, until he was on the balcony again, camera in hand. On the digital display he saw walls slide away from floors. A table tumbled three storeys into the street below, followed by a burning bed. In a room exposed to the sky and his camera, a man’s naked leg was visible among stone dust and flaming fabric.
Half a dozen militiamen emerged from the ruined building and ran, shouting to each other. All but one disappeared into dark alleyways between buildings. One did not run, but stood screaming, mouth open, wide and black. He fixed his eyes on the display panel as the man clawed at the place where seconds earlier his right arm hung. Less than an inch tall on the liquid crystal screen, the injured man turned around and around as if looking for something while dark fluid sprayed in fast, regular bursts. His breath dimmed the screen and he wiped at it with his thumb in time to see the man collapse face down, his one arm stretched out to break his fall, camouflage jacket unfolding around him like soiled wings.
For a moment he stood still, waiting, conscious of silence as an absence: of voices, of explosions shattering molecules, of shells splitting like burst fruit. Then men in helmets, heavy fatigues and bullet-proof vests appeared and chaos began again.
‘Let’s move, move! Over there … only one way out.’
‘No chance …’
‘Those alleyways man … could be anywhere …’
Up on the balcony the voices were magnified, harsh and alien sounding as he shivered in the dry air and walked back into the room. He hunted through carefully laid out cameras, cables and discs for a new packet of cigarettes. Lighting up he sat in front of the laptop, snapped the camera screen shut, plugged it into the computer and dialled through the videophone. Numbers and letters flashed across the screen as his images arrived on picture editors’ desks in the world’s big cities. He knew the images were unlikely to be used, such stories were past tense now, but he sent them anyway.
Out in the street, high-pitched screams mingled with the throb of engines and the yells of the soldiers. Holding his heavy old film camera he stepped back onto the balcony and looked down. Seven women danced slowly and rhythmically around the dead militiaman. He grinned at the incongruous scene as foreign soldiers, barely human in their protective gear, confronted the heavyset, ululating women.
‘Move on ladies! Right now … riiiight now !’
The women seemed unaware of the commands being shouted at them. His grin widened as he raised the heavy camera and looked through the viewfinder. He remembered witnessing this before, in a hundred different places: the women always seemed to know exactly what was going on. This group had a defiant sinuousness to their stamping and kicking. Their arms were raised in what looked like celebration, their chanted declaration of faith bounced off the narrow walls of the street, mingling with the yelled accents of a distant and dissimilar land.
‘Get the FUCK on there now … riiiight NOW … riiiight NOW!’
The women’s chant was quiet, almost unheard in the uproar, but under their feet the dead militiaman had become just a hump in the road. They looked up as his flash filled the narrow street, white light reflecting skin and dark, shining eyes.
‘Yes’, he whispered, ‘OK!’ These were good shots, maybe better than good. The women gazed towards his silhouette, their upturned faces expressionless. He lowered the camera feeling suddenly exposed. The women continued to stare, silent, still. Finally they gave in to the yelled commands and, like the militiamen, faded abruptly into the dark side streets.
‘Hey, asshole! Get rid of the camera, get the fuck back inside and get some clothes on.’
Eyes obscured behind night vision goggles the soldier screaming up at him was a nightmare creature and Jones stared, understanding the words and nothing else. For a few seconds he continued to lean out over the balcony as if frozen, then the slap slap of rotor blades sounded directly overhead, a helicopter circling low enough for him to see the crew yelling into their headsets. The monster-man in the street screamed up again. Jones watched his mouth move, as if in slow motion, watched him raise his weapon. Equally slowly a shell crunched a few streets away followed by a spurt of fire.
Cross-legged on the bed he pulled small shards of glass from his feet with one hand and held a tiny digital recorder with the other. He continued a report started before he fell asleep - hours ago it now seemed. His voice echoed through the near empty room:
He cut his voice off with a flick of a switch and pulled at a particularly large piece of glass sticking out of the flesh beneath his big toe. His hands were sticky with blood which he wiped on the crumpled bedcover before picking up the recorder and dictating again:
He threw a pillow against the wall behind his head and lay back. Still speaking he opened a pack of cigarettes and shaking one free, lit it single-handed.
He paused the recorder momentarily, blowing smoke through his nostrils, considering his conclusion. Glancing down he noticed with surprise the pieces of pinkish glass scattered across stained sheets and his own red, shaking fingers. He switched off the recorder, scooped the shards into his hand and walked into the bathroom.
There’d been no water here for days, but he turned a tap anyway. A dry rattle echoed around the cracked sink with its faded, fake logo. Glancing in the cheap mirror, most of its silvering long gone, he was momentarily disorientated by the mottled, flyblown image looking back. The face was pale despite an old tan; exhaustion rimmed eyes and cast violet shadows under salt-spiked eyelashes. He sat abruptly on the edge of the bath and picked up a precious bottle of mineral water with still trembling hands. Alternately drinking and trickling it over hands and feet he washed off the drying blood. He wondered whether it was worth looking for antiseptic in his luggage. Then something ran over his foot.
A tiny mouse struggled to climb the sheer, grey enamel. For a moment He watched its panting efforts at escape – it must have been trying and failing for hours. With a vague curiosity he wondered how long it would keep going. Would it give up and starve to death, or have a heart attack first? He wondered which he himself would prefer, then shrugged off the thought, grabbing before the mouse could see the descending hand. A frenzied pulse echoed through his palm, tiny feet scrabbled against his skin. Opening his fingers a fraction he looked into a pair of bulbous, black eyes.
On the dusty hotel landing he stood for a moment, feeling the animal’s warmth seep into his fingers, the softness of its fur. Then he bent and opened his hand on the tiled floor. The mouse darted along the wall and disappeared. Back in the room his mobile phone started to ring. He picked it up. A voice said ,
‘Michael Jones?’
‘Hey, Ivan … when did you get in?’
‘Yesterday. What’s the noise?’
Outside, the helicopter had moved on and the armoured vehicles filled with masked men rumbled away, but the phone remained alive with static and Jones crouched behind the bathroom door, one hand over an ear.
‘It’s busy here right now …’
‘I have the authorisation you wanted,’ Ivan Kossov shouted into his phone.
‘What authorisation?’
‘For the job.’
‘What job?’
‘The job, you ungrateful bastard …’
‘Great.’ Jones said and tried to remember.
Picturing Ivan Kossov, youngest son of Marshall Dmitri Kossov former commander of vast Cold War forces and now a senior military advisor to a president, Jones usually felt a warming towards nepotism and the levelling effects of education. Remembering what Kossov was talking about brought a sudden, familiar rush of excitement.
‘Great! That’s really great.’
‘I can get you out of here tonight,’ Kossov yelled.
‘The static reached critical and Jones holds the phone away from his ear. Replacing it he heard the single word, ‘Interested?
He looked at the broken glass and bloody sheets and said, ‘It’s finished here, I’m sending in reports on hospitals for fuck’s sake.’
Kossov’s laugh scratched through the tortured phone connections, ‘I think you’ll like where you’re going better.’
Outside in the street silence was broken only by occasional shouts, the violence had moved on to other streets and other homes.
‘It’s better than you hoped …’
‘Just fucking tell me.’
‘The northern border region. You’ll be with a unit going in fresh. Just you and the Russian army Mischa. You can play sniper with your camera and smell the napalm in the morning.’
Jones felt the icy tingle of adrenalin at the base of his spine. ‘That’s great Ivan. What’s the catch?’
‘I arrange your dream assignment and you talk about a catch? I’m hurt!’ A pause. ‘Was that a yes, you’ll go? Tonight?’
Jones said, ‘Why not. I’m done here.’
Kossov laughed.
Smug bastard, Jones thought five minutes later as he closed his phone, then wondered if he really was that eager, that transparent. Probably. But right now he could be completely see-through and he wouldn’t care. The word ‘Yes, yes, yes’, hammered over and over in his head. Ignoring the sudden adrenaline shake in his fingers he stumbled over shirt buttons and realised he was half singing half humming the chorus to ‘Georgia On My Mind’.
In less than five minutes his steel camera case, and laptop stood by the door beside a much smaller bag half filled with personal stuff. He glanced around the room then walked into the bathroom for a final check. The mirror reflected a lean, attractive man in his mid-30s observing through large, deeply shadowed grey eyes. Smiling, Jones ran damp fingers through thick, dark brown hair. He felt himself metamorphosing with the plastic flexibility of an ant colony, preparing for new environments with new landscapes and possibilities. He knew that some things never altered, could never be exchanged or left behind; but just for now, he was free.
Jones took the film of the dancing women from his bag and handed the small black canister labelled ‘#274’ to the man sitting in the passenger seat of the battered SUV.
‘That’s the last from me. Get it down to the office today, OK.’ He dug out a thick wad of dollar bills from his shirt pocket. ‘The money’s for next week too, it’s what we agreed. There’s enough so you can fix this car up a bit and get some medicine for your kid. OK?
His fixer nodded. A dry, brown hand hesitated over the money before taking it and pushing it deep inside his rusty jacket.
Christ, he’s as chilly as the first day we met, Jones thought as he shifted the gear into drive. ‘I’ll leave the car at the airport.’ he paused, ‘the usual place.’ They shook hands. ‘See you.’
‘Inshallah’, the man said and stepped out of the car.
Driving away Jones looked in the rear view mirror and put his arm out of the window ready to wave, but the man had already turned away, swallowed by shadow.
The city was in darkness; it spread around him, its shattered buildings forming fissures and the kind of dark, silent spaces that monsters loved. Driving fast he beat a rhythm on the wheel, singing under his breath, “
The crash of shelling reached him over the roar of the vehicle’s engine and the sound of his own voice, but he judged it mostly north and west of where he was going. If he avoided the main highway and stuck to the side roads he should be okay. He turned right sharply.
The
He saw the wrecked front of a carpet workshop, its sign slumped over the entrance. He had discovered the exotic in a small room behind this shop’s clacking looms. A young freelancer on his first frontline job he’d been seduced by the feel of silk carpet, the scent of mint tea and the taste of opium. It had all been irresistible. Particularly the opium.
Swallowing that last thought he glanced up at the broken house which glowed phosphorescent under the high moon. A child stood among the roof spars clutching at hanging wires. Jones braked hard, veering towards a pile of crumbling concrete slabs. He glanced again at his watch and seeing the time, hissed, ‘Fuck.’
He clambered over fallen masonry until he was standing directly below the moonlit child. On the viewfinder the boy stared down at him, eyes dark in a silver, alien face.
‘Don’t smile,’ Jones said in a language he thought he’d forgotten and focusing the digital image inches from his own face, clicked repeatedly. Through the viewfinder he saw the staircase to the upper storey had gone - Christ knew how long the kid had been stuck up there.
‘Come on, I’ll help you. Quickly …’
The child was still, silent.
‘Jump!’ he commanded. Looking directly at the boy for the first time he saw the slender metal spar supporting the small body from its entry point under the left collarbone to its exit through the spine. It looked casual, as if the child was simply tired of standing up straight.
Jones climbed back down and got back in the car. Taking a cigarette from his pocket he lit it then hit the ignition. The engine coughed once, roaring back to life as he stamped on the accelerator.
The section of airfield set aside for civilian use was almost completely dark. The only light came from the moon and an elderly carrier aircraft that rested, open-bellied, on the dusty tarmac dwarfing everything around it.
Jones got out of the vehicle. Showing his press pass to the two plainclothes men approaching him he said, ‘I’m expected,’ and walked towards the tall, slender man standing beneath one of the aircraft’s giant wings, knowing what he would hear.
‘Cutting it fine Misha, but I knew you’d make it, you always do.’
Three years at Harvard as a ‘glasnost baby’ had given Kossov’s English a polished, mid-Atlantic drawl interspersed with street-speak. It sounded false to Jones. He preferred to speak Russian with Kossov and his family; their Muscovite accent sounded like a walk on fresh snow.
Kossov checked his watch ‘We don’t have much time – this pilot’s really jumpy, says we’ve only been given a few minutes’ window.’ Holding out his hand he said, ‘Give me your car keys, I’ll get one of the men to leave it in the secure area.’ Then he moved away from the airplane and its loading cargo of trunks and packing cases and Jones followed.
Under the shadowed eaves of an empty security hut Jones said, ‘I didn’t know they were letting other nationals fly in and out of here.’
Kossov shrugged, the fabric of his suit jacket moving smoothly with his shoulders. ‘They don’t own the sky yet, dude. If diplomatic personnel want to risk leaving there’s not much the guardians of democracy can do.’ He lit two black cigarettes simultaneously then handed one to Jones.
‘Let’s see these magic documents,’ Jones said drawing on the Sobranie. Then, ‘God, I’d forgotten how good these things taste.’
Kossov grinned, perfect teeth and water-pale eyes catching the moonlight. ‘We aim to please.’ He pulled a thick envelope from his briefcase with a flourish. ‘I couldn’t get you this, but who needs power when you have parental influence man!’
Jones scanned the documents checking the signatures, the official stamps, the dates. Everything seemed as it should. He nodded and resealed the envelope. Opening his shirt he placed it against his skin then buttoned the shirt again. ‘So, what’s the deal?’
‘There’s always a deal with you isn’t there.’ Kossov said sounding almost wounded.
‘There’s always a deal with your old man - remember, I know him too.’
‘My father has all kinds of expectations. I don’t want you to think I share them.’ Then, gripping Jones’ upper arm Kossov added, ‘You drink from the Cup Perilous Michael and that’s your affair. But you’re not indestructible.’
Surprised by Kossov’s sudden seriousness Jones said, ‘You think I’d blame you? For what?’
‘You’d be dead, or worse. I’d blame myself.’
‘Nice to think someone would miss me,’ Jones said cheerfully and shaking free of Kossov’s grip took a step back.’
‘You don’t fool me Mischa. Your adventures give you nightmares, I’ve heard them.’
Jones looked away. ‘You’re wrong. My adventures put the nightmares to sleep, I thought you understood that.’ He glanced towards the aircraft, where only a few boxes remain to be loaded. ‘Why not just tell me what your father wants.’
Kossov let out his breath and straightened his shoulders ‘There’s going to be a presidential election where you’re going,
Jones shook his head.
‘My father’s arranged for you to enter the country with a unit leaving
Jones nodded.
Kossov continued., ‘Our intelligence agencies are in there digging around and generally winding everything up by feeding the words ‘terrorist’ or ‘regional instability’ to the
‘Christ what a mess,’ Jones grinned. ‘Can’t wait to get there. Tell me the rest.’
Kossov glanced at his watch. ‘Truth is, my father is in one of his situations, some kind of face-off with our intelligence guys. He’s pretty certain they’re reconstructing the facts they send back to
Surprised, Jones said, ‘But he can’t use my reports, not officially.’
‘Obviously not, but he believes you’ll give him the plain facts. With that he can at least make decisions about how to proceed.’
Jones laughed. He lit two Marlboro, handing one to Kossov who grimaced as he inhaled. ‘I hope dear old dad realises I’ll be shoved in a truck as far away from the action as your people can dump me.’
Kossov shook his head. ‘I told you, everything you need access-wise is in that envelope. There’s also a list of things you should request when you get to
‘Wouldn’t it just.’ Jones said, then looked at the other man in mock admiration, tinged with something real, ‘What a persuader you’ve become Ivan, I see a great future ahead of you.’
They walked slowly towards the waiting aircraft. Kossov linked one arm through Jones’ and said, ‘Do you believe in ghosts?’
Jones stopped in mid-stride.
‘Weird question,’ Kossov said, ‘sorry.’
Jones let his arm relax. ‘There are no ghosts Ivan, only monsters.’
Kossov shook his head. ‘I saw Heriot the other day Mischa, clear as you or me. At first I thought it was just someone who looked like him, but he was quite, ah, unique. Wasn’t he?’
‘I haven’t thought about him for years.’
‘Neither had I. I mean, I knew it couldn’t be him but still, my dear, it shook me.’ They passed into the light falling from the open passenger doorway. ‘I think about him nearly all the time now.’ Jones watched the small muscles in Kossov’s jaw pulse. ‘We were so close, the three of us, weren’t we? Then he was gone. Maybe that’s why I feel strange about you doing this job – seeing Heriot kind of changed things.’
Surprised again by Kossov’s feeling, Jones said. ‘You didn’t see Heriot Ivan, you saw a cute boy, or girl, who looked like him. In a place like this, anything seems possible. Someone has probably spotted Zoroaster walking on water and Shiva writing the Koran.’
‘You’re right of course.’ Kossov shrugged, smiled and turned towards the plane. ‘I knew you’d rationalise it for me Michael.’
At the bottom of the passenger steps they hugged, Kossov beating his clenched fists lightly on Jones’ shoulders. ‘I want you back in one piece my friend. I mean it.’
‘Don’t worry about me tovarich.’ Jones pulled free and started up the steps. ‘I’ll see you in
Kossov watched Jones disappear then moved back into the shadows. Moments later he covered his ears as the Antonov rumbled forward and heaved itself into the air, briefly blotting out to the stars. Walking towards his car and his bodyguards Kossov realised Jones hadn’t asked him where the flight would end.
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