Richard House - The Kills

Samuels looked at his watch with a little more curiosity. ‘Sure,’ he said. ‘It’s a Breitling. Santo picked it up on his way back from Kuwait.’

‘And how did Santo manage to buy a Breitling?’

‘Maybe Howell gave it to him? I don’t know.’ Samuels began to sound uncertain.

‘Howell?’

‘It was part of the pay. He said we were working for him, not HOSCO, and this was on top of the work we were doing.’

‘Was this just for Santo?’

‘We all had a choice, cash or pick out something. Everyone picked a watch.’

‘A Breitling? How many did he buy?’

‘I don’t know.’ Now Samuels sounded defensive.

‘What did he give you?’

‘A watch and cash.’

‘He gave you cash? How much, exactly?’

Samuels muttered his reply.

‘I didn’t catch that.’

‘I picked a different watch and he made up the difference because it was cheaper.’ Samuels nodded. ‘A hundred, a hundred and fifty.’ Then in a smaller voice, ‘Four hundred and seventy, something like that.’

‘He bought you a watch and he gave you over four hundred dollars, and you accepted these gifts?’

‘He said it was pay. He said it didn’t matter.’ Samuels shrugged, a little insulted by Rem’s questions. ‘It wasn’t just me.’

‘And none of you thought this was strange? From the Deputy Administrator?’

‘There’s no harm done. It’s his money.’

This, Rem recognized, sounded more like Santo than Samuels. Samuels held out his hand, flat, palm up, a gesture meaning, look about you, come on, take a look, exactly what is normal here? And Rem considered this gesture to be borrowed, although he could not place the quote.

* * *

Rem’s relief at the return of the men to Camp Liberty lasted as long as it took them to disembark. Pakosta came first, striding as usual, unbowed by the downdraught, the force of noise from the engines — and something wrong with his face Rem didn’t catch — then Santo, then Sutler, who hurried out with papers tucked under his arm. Everyone but Sutler said they would walk to the camp or just continued walking without any word to Rem, and they set off in a broken line, no one talking.

Sutler sat beside Rem, red-faced.

‘What’s going on?’

‘You need to speak with them. They started fighting. Santo and Pakosta and Clark, a proper fight. I’ve never seen anything like it. Halfway through the flight Clark just got up and punched Pakosta in the face, took his mobile and smashed it.’

* * *

After returning to the camp the men stayed in the cabins so that the camp still seemed empty. Rem left them to it, allowed them to keep to themselves through the day. In the early evening he joined them and began chatting with Chimeno. The boy, unaccountably sullen, spoke about his father. He’d worked with him one summer, and one time, he remembered, ‘They had to close off Michigan Avenue to fly in an air-conditioning unit, a coolant system for an entire building. Bigger than a house.’

‘All well and good, Chimeno, but I want to know what happened in Bahrain.’

Chimeno ignored the question. ‘The unit was carried to the roof by helicopter, and they dropped it through a hole in the roof.’ He couldn’t describe how perfect this was, that something so massive could be matched so exactly. Rem listened to him and thought nothing of the story, except, in telling it, Chimeno sounded sad, regretful.

‘Bahrain?’

‘It’s real isn’t it? The Massive. It’s happening.’

‘What happened in Bahrain? What was the fight about?’

Chimeno shook his head. He didn’t know anything about any fight.

‘Sutler saw it. Everyone saw it. None of you are talking. What happened? Did Howell give you anything? Did he give you all gifts? Is that was this was about?’

Chimeno picked up a pair of gloves, shook off the sand, and said he should get back to work.

Rem found Sutler and said he was getting nothing from the men.

‘They’re working.’ Sutler pointed across the lit plain at the men digging shallow pits in the shale.

‘Everyone’s blowing smoke.’

‘I don’t know anything more than what I’ve told you. Clark was playing with his phone one minute, the next he was on his feet thumping Pakosta.’

‘So Clark started this.’

‘It might have started earlier. None of them looked happy yesterday morning.’ Sutler indicated that he was busy. ‘I’m going to Amrah tomorrow morning. I need permits and money. I need to get ready.’

* * *

Once the work was completed Rem found Pakosta at the Beach with a small hurricane lamp beside him. He was sullen, untalkative, and Rem stood over him with a bottle of whisky, a gift from Sutler.

‘You’re quiet.’

‘I’m often quiet.’

Pakosta shrugged, so Rem sat beside him and offered him the bottle. ‘So why are you here?’

‘I have a deep and sensitive side. I’m misunderstood. Sometimes I like to come out here and write poetry. I don’t fucking know.’ Pakosta took the bottle. ‘What did you say this was?’

‘Malt. Single malt.’

‘I prefer bourbon.’ He swallowed and winced. His tooth, he said, needed seeing to the next time he was in Amrah.

‘You’re going with Sutler tomorrow?’

‘Sutler. He’s keeping us here scratching our balls for nothing. We’re wasting time. Tell me, why did you pick me?’

Rem let the sand slide over his shoes. ‘I had a list.’

‘Oh, I heard about this list.’ Pakosta couldn’t help but smile. ‘The Kennedy Club.’

‘Is that what they called it?’

‘What was his name again? The boy who shot himself.’

‘Billy. Fatboy.’

‘Fatboy kept the book. Santo ran the club.’

‘It doesn’t make any difference.’

‘You want to know how Santo made his money? He managed the rotas.’

Rem said it didn’t matter any more what the list was or what it meant or who managed it.

‘You’re really interesting, you know that? I just told you that your friend deliberately manipulated the work rotas. He sent people out on the streets of Amrah increasing the chances that they might get killed. He worked the odds. And you just suck it all in.’ Pakosta shook the bottle and rolled the bourbon about the sides. ‘You had no right bringing us here. Whatever the reason, you had no right.’ He took another mouthful of scotch. ‘You know this is all fake? It’s all a scam.’ Pakosta held Rem’s eye until he turned away. ‘There isn’t going to be a Massive. Ask Howell. Stephen Sutler doesn’t know what he’s doing. The whole thing is a scam. And the burn pits, ask Howell about the burn pits, and ask him about the enquiry that’s coming, and how they’re coming to see exactly what was being burned here. Ask him about how HOSCO manages any complaints, how they’ve screwed everyone who worked at Camp Bravo and how we’ll be hung out to dry because what gets burned here is our responsibility. Ask Howell about that. See,’ Pakosta jabbed a finger at Rem, ‘you always have to read the fine print.’

Rem said that HOSCO was responsible for the shipments.

‘What I don’t understand is how you ever got involved.’ Pakosta’s expression turned pinched and nasty. ‘Santo says you have a friend. Someone in HOSCO. Why don’t you ask him some of these questions, because you won’t want any of us talking with him.’

‘What happened in Bahrain?’

‘Nothing.’

‘Why did Clark attack you?’

‘Because he has issues.’ Pakosta stood up and complained as he slipped down the hill that nothing could be done around here without it becoming some kind of complicated ass-fucking. At the bottom of the dune Pakosta shouted up.

‘Tomorrow, you’re going to thank me. I’ve sorted everything out. If we’d left it to you we’d be in the same shit as those sorry-assed fucks at Camp Bravo. I’m changing the landscape, Rem. Tomorrow.’