Richard House - The Kills

‘But it is impossible not to know what is happening? You didn’t know? Not even before you came? Surely this is news, even in England?’ She nudged Eric to his feet and told him to take the novel back and find a book from her room. Ford watched her give instructions to the boy, and watched the boy obey. ‘And your friend? This woman?’

Eric left with the novel and a broad smile.

‘My friend? I’m afraid that’s unfixable.’

Nathalie sat back, hand clapped to her chest with genuine concern.

‘But this is a terrible story. Have you heard anything from her? Is she travelling alone?’

‘It isn’t quite how it sounds.’

‘But is she alone?’

Ford shook his head slowly as if with regret.

‘So maybe everything will be all right?’

‘It’s possible.’

‘I hope so, it isn’t a good idea to travel so much on your own right now.’

Eric returned from Nathalie’s room with two paperbacks. He held up both and she pointed to his right hand. ‘That one.’

‘You said you came by coach?’ Eric handed the book to Ford. ‘I thought I saw you in a four-by-four?’

‘Sorry?’

‘I saw you in a jeep with two people?’

‘No. Oh, that. They brought me from another town. I was even further east and they brought me back.’

‘You should read this.’ Now serious, Nathalie pointed at the book. She wiped her hands on a small towel and said that she was done. ‘You know, it isn’t safe for tourists, not in the east. Read it. It might save your life.’

Accepting the book, Ford said it was a lot to expect.

‘You should make sure your friend is all right. You can use my phone,’ she offered, ‘you should contact her.’

Ford thanked Nathalie for the book and returned to his room, then regretted not taking up her offer. He could use the phone to access the junk account.

* * *

Eric smoothed his hand through his hair, shirt buttoned, long trousers, ready for his evening with Nathalie. Ford stood beside him, recently showered, and looked down at his bed deep in thought, trying to decide. If he lay down now that would be the end of the day.

‘So it’s Tom, right? Tom? Thomas.’

‘Tom.’ Ford nodded and waited for more questions, now anxious. As he leaned forward the dog tags swung out of his T-shirt.

‘Tom.’ Eric searched under his cot for his shoes. ‘You should come with us. She likes you.’

Ford held up the book and decided there was nothing wrong with ending the day. He wanted the boy out of his room. ‘I have homework. And I don’t have any lire.’

‘What do you have?’

‘Dollars.’

‘I can change some.’ Eric took his mobile phone and a roll of Turkish banknotes from his pocket.

‘I think I’ll stay.’

‘I’ll see you later, then,’ Eric straightened up and paused deliberately, ‘Tom.’ A slight pronouncement that Ford felt as sure as a pinch. Tom. The boy paused at the door then took out his phone and money again and tossed them onto the bed.

‘You’ll be here, right?’

‘I’ll be here.’

‘If I drink too much I’ll only lose them.’

For some reason Eric appeared unwilling to leave. Ford focused on Nathalie’s book.

* * *

It was not the kind of book he would choose. Chapter after chapter catalogued a government’s abuse of its people, photographs detailed a military raid. The army descending on a village with people cowering behind mud walls. Squat shanty-like huts disintegrating in the down-draught of helicopters. Graphs detailed statistics of displaced people and empty villages. Ford browsed, then closed the book. Enough. None of this involved him.

He returned the book to Nathalie and Martin’s room. Martin sat at the end of the bed — two cots pulled together — polishing a camera. The lens, detached, lay on a cloth by his thigh. Eric’s silver case lay open at his feet, the negative forms for a camera cut into the foam. Martin cleaned the interior of the camera with a can of compressed air. Once he noticed Ford at the door, he waved him into the room.

‘You might remember these?’ Martin pushed his glasses up to his forehead. ‘Sixteen-millimetre. Bolex. Simple. It’s more than twenty-two years old. A workhorse. Is that the right word?’

Ford placed the book on the bed, on Nathalie’s side. Yes, workhorse was the right word. ‘Isn’t everything digital these days?’

Martin stopped cleaning. ‘It is, but the quality of this is … richer.’ He smiled and rubbed his thumb and forefinger together. ‘We have three cameras. I don’t use this so much now. It’s from another time.’

Beside the bed, along with papers and notebooks were other books, titles in French and German, photographs on their covers of men in uniform, of rocky terrain, of mountain villages.

Back in his room, Ford lay under the covers fully dressed, because it was cold but also because his forearms were smarting from the sun. Too awake to sleep, he counted out his remaining money. One hundred and twelve dollars in cash. Enough for the room, but little else. He took off the dog tags and read the numbers. He didn’t feel confident about going online here. Hadn’t he already almost locked the account? And what was the likelihood of surveillance? Would there be some kind of monitoring right now of online activity on HOSCO’s website? He told himself not to hurry, to wait until he was in Istanbul. Two hundred and fifty thousand dollars that no one else could touch. He ran his fingers over the raised numbers. The only figure he could recognize was the junk account, the only number preceded by HOS/JA. The figure brought a tweak of guilt. It wasn’t that he didn’t deserve it. It wasn’t stealing exactly, hadn’t Geezler promised him as much? Take the money from the junk account. Geezler’s own words. Help yourself. It’s yours. So much for his guaranteed future with HOSCO. So much for being the instrument of change.

He couldn’t imagine what was happening at Camp Liberty or Southern-CIPA, and understood when he thought about these places he saw them as they had been, as if they were immune to change.

Eric’s book lay on the bed with the phone and Turkish lire. He’d folded newspaper cuttings and a small black notebook into the pages. Ford reached over and picked out the notebook. If the boy kept a diary he wanted to see what he was writing.

He couldn’t read the entries, and had to stare at them a while before realizing that the writing was a numeric code. 34425 42 16982 1786 126 74025. Page after page. A simple substitution, numbers and symbols for letters, which he couldn’t crack. He read on trying to identify the common numbers, but couldn’t decide. These would be the vowels, unless Eric rotated the numbers, changed the key from time to time.

* * *

Now curious about him, Ford slipped out of bed. He began to search through Eric’s backpack, and found clothes, climbing gear, laundry. The T-shirt with the red star. He checked the side pockets but discovered little of interest: a US passport, tickets, and then traveller’s cheques tucked in a plastic wallet. The passport said only that he was twenty-two years old and born in Berkeley, California. The cheques were in dollar amounts, twenties and fifties. Ford counted to one thousand dollars and stopped, guessing he had the same number of cheques uncounted in his hands. He tried unlocking the phone but could not guess the code. Done, he returned everything to the backpack then slipped back into bed.

* * *

Eric returned late and drunk and stopped with Nathalie immediately outside the door to talk, hushed and secretive. When he came into the room he whispered to see if Ford was awake.

‘Hey,’ he whispered. ‘Mike. You awake?’