Gerald Seymour - Heart of Danger

…" Staring into the face, and hearing the drip of the translation. He had spoken the name and there was a little gasp and a small murmur in the circle around him. He was trying to hold the pain and the tremble, trying to ape the mischief moments of Dorrie Mowat. '… Her name was Dorrie Mowat, and there was no cause for her killing. It was cowards' work killing Dorrie Mowat." "Who sent you?" "I was sent by the mother of Dorrie Mowat. I came to find how Dorrie Mowat died. I came so that I could tell her mother how she died, in a pit. And I came so that I could tell her mother who killed her, the name of the man, the man who was responsible…" Penn felt the moment of power. He heard the engines of big vehicles away behind the door. No one moved in the circle around him. He didn't know where it would lead, couldn't know… "Who knew her? Who knew Dorrie Mowat?" He heard the echoing ring of his voice. The woman interpreted. "Who met her when she lived in Rosenovici before the fight, before she was butchered?" He turned from the shifting eyes, from the licked lips. It was all a fraud. "Did you know her…?" It was a fraud because it was pretence that he held the high ground, when he held fucking nothing

… He searched the faces. An old man, a young man, a teenage girl… It was a sham act. "You, did you know her…?" He searched the faces, challenged them, and they would not meet him. He ranged over the faces of the circle.

"Who met her…?"

He reached the woman who held the photographs, who interpreted the questions and answers. She dropped her head.

"I met her."

Penn whispered, "Why did you meet her?"

"I met her so that I could talk English with her. I met her before the fight for the village so that I could better my language of English."

Penn said, "I came so that I could tell Dorrie's mother the name of the man who killed her daughter, so that she would know the name of that man. I came to prepare a report for Dorrie's mother, I came to find the evidence against that man…"

He saw the fingers of the woman twisting on the photographs, tearing them and she did not notice.

"What was the name?"

The wall around him was of shame. He had won his dignity, as Dorrie had claimed hers. He had stamped his death warrant, and fuck them. The circle about him was of guilt. She would be laughing at him, laughing loud, from her mischief face. Dignity was won… Somewhere he heard the roar of lorry engines pulling away… Fuck them, because they couldn't hurt him, if he had his dignity, they could only kill him. It was Penn's moment. It was, to him, as if he were alone with the big man facing him. It was as if all else was suppressed, as if each other person in the circle held no importance. It was a handsome face, a leader's strong, good face.

"I have the evidence for my report that Dorrie Mowat was killed by …"

Penn heard the voice of the woman who interpreted.

'… Was murdered by Milan Stankovic."

And in front of him the face flushed in anger, and the fists caught at him.

Penn shouted, "His name is Milan Stankovic."

Men around him, the circle broken, hands grabbing him. He saw the face the last time, the anger flush in the matt of the beard, and the woman who had interpreted was sobbing. He kicked and he struggled, and he was forced towards the door of the hall. He had his fucking dignity. He bit at the hands that held him. His fucking dignity, what Dorrie had had. He writhed with them as they pushed him through the door, into the night. The lorry in the line was starting to roll. The line of the lorry lights speared the darkness of the village and the lorry was in front of him, beginning to move. The opening of the door of the hall flushed the inside light onto the Union flag on the lorry's door. Only two men were able to hold him as they came through the tight space of the doorway. Penn saw the small round startled face. He bit the hand on his arm. He elbowed into a stomach. It was his chance. He broke free. There was black darkness beyond the lorry. Penn yelled, "Kill your lights." The one chance only. The lights died. Night darkness around him. He ran. The darkness was his friend. He threw himself under the moving wheels of the lorry, and rolled. He didn't know what the hell happened, but he had killed the lights. Just the glow of the dashboard in the cab and the fluorescent buttons of his radio. He was nudging the lorry forward. The far door of the cab came open and there was a quick blast of night air. There were hands groping by his shins and ankles, and something, Benny didn't know what, was thrown from the cab floor. It hit the wooden fence across the road, clattered in the dark. There was weight across his legs and panting, wriggling movement. Something else, Benny didn't know what, was thrown from the door of the cab, and that seemed to go further and it hit glass across the width of the road, perhaps a greenhouse, perhaps a cold frame. The door closed quietly on the cab, and the weight came over him and prised into the gap behind his seat and the passenger seat. There were men running round the Seddy, going across the road towards where something had hit the wooden fence, and something else had smashed a glass surface. There was shooting, he could see the gun flashes in the big side mirror of the Seddy, could see the fireflies of the bullets going towards the fence and where the glass pane had been broken… and all the lorries were hammering it now, because of the shooting. The lorries swerved, each in their turn, for the road they should have taken. Benny was cool. He didn't favour panic. The radio in his cab was a jabber of voices, all calling for the convoy to get the hell out, get the distance in. There was the sharp panted breathing behind him, and Benny realized the man stank. He was in cruise gear and they were doing good speed, and the village was behind him, and the sound of shooting was fading. He was cool, no panic, and he could think well. Benny reckoned it to be about, give or take a bit, twenty-five minutes to the crossing point at Turanj… and he was in deep shit, deepest without a bloody bottom. Because the first rule, aid convoy driving, is don't get involved, but the yell had been English. The second rule is not to take sides, but the shout had been English and desperate. All the rules, up to one hundred and one bloody rules, said the aid convoy system went through the window if the drivers weren't, all the way, impartial, but the cry of "Kill the lights' had been English. What he had done was get involved, take sides. And what he'd done, when they hit the crossing point at Turanj … if back in that black village they'd gotten their act together, raised the radio, lifted the telephone, sent a fast bloody pigeon… what he'd done was to hazard the whole of the aid convoy programme. People survived because the aid convoys went through without getting involved. People would starve if the aid convoys were banned because the drivers had taken sides. People depended on the aid convoys crossing the lines, impartial… Perhaps, Benny thought, before they were at the crossing point at Turanj, he'd just chuck him out, push him clear. In the convoy queue, spearing the night with its lights, the Seddy hammered forward, going sweet. Benny unhooked the pencil torch from the dashboard clip. He shone the light around his feet.

"Now then, my old cocker, you have just lost me my sandwich box, that my Becky gave me and you have just lost me my fire extinguisher, and I am not allowed to drive without a fire extinguisher in the cab and I'm thinking you should do the decent thing and, please, close the door after you…"

Benny shone the torch behind him, into the gap behind his seat and the passenger seat. He turned to look fast behind him. In the narrow beam, Benny saw the blood on the face and the cuts and the bruises. Back to the road. He thought he had seen the face of a man who was softened for death. He twisted again. Benny saw the stubble growth that dammed the blood, and the eyes that squinted between the puffed bruising, and the swollen split lips. He dragged down the switch of his torch, and again the cab was in darkness.