Kevin Sullivan - The Longest Winter

The two guards sat at the stern on a low bench. Brad and Wikram perched on coiled rope that made a sort of platform at the front of the wheelhouse.

To the north they saw the pinpoint lights of government patrol boats. As they moved into the middle of the lagoon, the stars became more prominent. It was cool now. Brad felt the sea breeze and looked up from the darkness of the sea to the sky where the stars were coming out one by one, and for a moment he believed himself to be where destiny had placed him, between the sea and the stars.

At the other side there was no jetty. The guards whispered to the captain and then they climbed into the shallow water. Brad and Wikram followed, and the four of them moved quickly up the beach.

He felt cool water flood into his canvas shoes, and then the rough touch of wet sand beneath his heels and toes. His trouser cuffs were wet.

His mouth was dry. Wikram moved more efficiently than Brad, keeping up with the two guards.

The beach smelled of rotten leaves. The last little stretch before the trees was steep and they had to scramble up the incline, on their hands and knees in the sand. Then they were in the jungle.

The guards moved ahead quickly. It was almost pitch black. Brad lost sight of Wikram and tried to catch up. When he emerged onto an asphalt road, Wikram was already talking to a group of men who were standing by a pick-up truck.

‘Brad,’ Wikram said in a small, emotionless voice, ‘we have to go back.’

‘What?’

He looked from Wikram to the other men. He couldn’t make out which were the guards who had brought them there, and which belonged to this side of the lagoon.

‘They are taking us back now. Don’t argue.’

Brad felt obliged to argue. This was absurd. There must be an explanation. They could speak to another commander. They could press on. They couldn’t go back with nothing.

‘What do you mean?’ He smelled metal and oil from the truck and the metal of the guns that the men carried. His shoes and trousers were wet and he was frightened and felt foolish.

‘Let’s go,’ Wikram said, walking past Brad towards the path that led to the beach.

‘We’re not going back just like that!’

As he spoke, Brad felt the barrel of a rifle at the side of his right knee. He recoiled and started to stumble after Wikram.

They got wet again climbing back onto the boat. The two guards came aboard with them. The other men stayed in the jungle. The vessel turned and headed out to the lagoon.

Brad and Wikram contemplated their predicament.

They had passed through all the checkpoints on the road from Colombo and had been stopped at none. It had been so easy to cross the lagoon: the government patrol boats had stayed away. Now they were dependent on men whom they had no reason to trust. This could go badly now.

They sailed through the darkness to the western shore. Brad listened to the lapping of choppy waves on the wooden hull. Wikram was silent.

Brad knew then that they would not reach Colombo together.

Or perhaps he didn’t know.

This had been a life-affirming friendship, fuelled by youth and ambition and wit and easy understanding. Only on that night did it shatter.

They jumped onto the jetty at the other end. The Zephyr was parked by the side of the road.

The guards stayed on board. When Wikram and Brad were ashore, the boat turned and sailed out to the lagoon again.

‘We should check the car,’ Brad said. There might be explosives underneath, or contraband in the back.

‘What’s the point? Neither of us knows what a bomb looks like,’ Wikram snapped.

‘What the fuck happened, Wikram?’

Wikram’s face formed a humourless smile. ‘Someone decided the interview wasn’t a good idea,’ he said. ‘We wasted our time.’

They stopped in front of the car and then Wikram said, more calmly, friendliness trickling back into his voice, ‘Let’s get back to Talawila. There’s a place there where we can sleep on the floor. It won’t be comfortable, but it will do until dawn.’

Brad climbed into the driving seat. Wikram didn’t object. He walked round to the passenger door.

The key was in the ignition.

‘I don’t get it,’ Brad said.

But Wikram remained silent.

Brad swung the car onto the road and began to drive south through a scrubby area of palm trees and thick shrubs. It was like any other secondary road leading from a beach. The headlights were dipped. Brad could see clearly enough. He peered ahead looking for the access to the highway, driving slowly.

He saw the junction when they were still twenty yards away.

An army jeep was parked in front of them, but the road wasn’t completely blocked. There was space to drive round and Brad’s first thought was that the jeep had simply been abandoned in the middle of the road. Then he saw soldiers in the bushes to his left, and another jeep parked behind the first.

Wikram sat up in his seat and said quietly, but very firmly, ‘Brad, drive round. Don’t stop!’

They were moving at fifteen miles an hour. Brad looked closely to see if oil cans or tyres had been laid across the road. The way was clear.

Then a soldier stepped out from behind the first jeep and raised his rifle.

‘Drive on!’ Wikram shouted.

Brad could have accelerated. They might have reached the main road. There was a turn there. They would have been out of the line of fire. They could have got away.

The soldiers had not had time to prepare the barricade. They were not ready. If Brad had done what Wikram told him to do, they could have escaped.

But when Brad saw the soldier begin to raise his rifle, he saw a scared expression on the boy’s face. He saw hesitation.

He stepped into that hesitation and took command.

Brad stopped the car.

‘What the fuck are you doing?’ Wikram snapped.

Two soldiers walked from behind the jeep. The soldier on the road had his rifle trained on the car.

The soldier in front was an officer.

‘Don’t get out of the car,’ Wikram said.

Brad was exasperated. He wanted this finished quickly. He was very calm. He knew what to do.

The expedition had been a fiasco, but he could write it off. Now, he wanted to get back to Talawila and have a cold beer.

He opened the door and climbed out.

‘Good evening,’ Brad said to the officer.

There was a blow to the back of his head that crushed his thoughts. His legs buckled. He smelled petrol fumes and asphalt.

Brad heard screams. He felt blood on the back of his neck. He heard shots and then the jeeps started up and he heard them driving away. He didn’t hear voices.

He did not remember how long it took him to stand up.

Wikram lay on the other side of the car. The back of his head had been blown away. Blood poured a river.

Brad sank down against the car and gazed at the red dust.

‘It’s terrible,’ said Mrs Nurudinović. She shook her head. She had the habit of shaking her head and frowning, sometimes for a long time. ‘It’s terrible, terrible.’

‘It is,’ Milena agreed. She wished she could say something more. Mrs Nurudinović looked as though she had been personally bereaved by the minister’s death. Milena wanted to make the old woman feel better, but no words came.

They remained silent for several moments. Milena liked sitting in Mrs Nurudinović’s kitchen. It was old-fashioned, well kept, comfortable and bright. There were two very worn armchairs with white doilies over the backs. The table took up most of the space in the room. It was covered with thick brocaded cloth. At the end of the table was a window that looked onto a small closed-in balcony where Mrs Nurudinović kept her supplies: some firewood, some onions and garlic and beans, and some tins of food. The outer window had been smashed. It was covered by a tarpaulin that flapped in the freezing wind.