Richard House - The Kills

The boy attempted to draw Nut back to his side.

‘He’s very gentle. You don’t have to pull so hard. You’re hurting his neck.’ Again she spoke firmly but with care, did not want a confrontation, but wanted to lay out the facts. ‘That’s my dog.’

‘He’s mine.’

‘What’s his name? Call him to you.’

When the boy failed to answer, Cathy settled again on her knees. ‘We both know that this is my dog.’

The boy’s pants were dirty, grey not white, hand-me-downs.

‘Look.’ She stood up, closer than she intended, and was surprised that the boy flinched. He gripped his fists round the rope, looked to the ground, neither at Cathy nor the dog.

‘I can give you a reward. I don’t have money with me, but if you let me have your address.’

The boy shook his head, a small movement of defeat.

‘We’ve had him from when he was a puppy.’

His mouth tightened. Cathy couldn’t hear what he was saying and had to lean in closer than she felt comfortable. Still she couldn’t hear him.

‘He really belongs to my husband.’ Cathy wasn’t sure what to do. Why did this have to happen? ‘We put up signs. Here. In this park.’ She pointed to the few spare trees as if this would make the lie more truthful. ‘It would be nice to have him back.’

‘So?’ The boy’s voice came as a whisper.

‘So, his neck is sore. Is he trying to run away?’

The boy nodded.

She thought to snatch the leash. Take back what was hers. Get angry.

‘I think he’s been trying to come home.’

He didn’t resist when she took hold of the rope. Nut came immediately to her side and leaned against her leg. The boy wiped his nose with his cuff.

‘I want to thank you for finding my dog.’ Now Cathy could not look at him. Oh god, was he crying? ‘How can I thank you?’

* * *

The boy followed them six blocks south to Lunt. Cathy thought to walk around the corner as she didn’t want him to know where she lived, then realized that he seemed to know this anyway. He’s not right, she told herself. He has some kind of disability. The way he dresses, the way he walks on tiptoe. As she unlocked the lobby door the boy leaned forward, a gesture not unlike the dog’s, one of intent, of someone rousing determination but failing to push himself to action. When she turned to him he walked away, then after a few paces he began to run, his hands to his face.

Cathy crouched down to hug the dog and asked why did every goddamned thing have to be so hard?

* * *

Santo travelled with Rem back to Amrah City. Rem didn’t like seeing the camp from the air: the pits laid out in a rough star, the Quonset’s rounded hood, the row of cabins, the shower block, the toilets all looked provisional. Once the craft had risen high enough to see the Beach, the camp dissolved.

‘I told myself I wasn’t going back.’

Santo nodded, sullen. ‘They have women at Southern-CIPA?’

Rem looked to Santo as if he was mad. Santo pinched his nose and in a sudden flush, a stream of blood ran between his fingers. Rem moved his knees to avoid the mess and asked over the comm-link for a towel or something. The navigator said he didn’t have anything.

‘Nosebleed?’

Santo, with his fingers blocking his nostrils, blood running through them, looked sourly at the man and answered sarcastically, ‘No. It’s that time of the month.’

The man handed Santo what he had, a piece of cloth, and Rem said thanks. ‘He gets moody,’ he said, ‘it’s always like this.’

Every morning, Santo complained, same thing. A headache. A nosebleed.

* * *

On arrival at Southern-CIPA they found that the meeting was to be held with both Tom Markland and Paul Howell. Howell, being Deputy Administrator, would be able to give immediate approval to what they wanted.

The offices for Southern-CIPA were concealed behind security walls: first the heavy concrete blast walls cordoned off the entire block, and then inside, a running wall of sandbags and an untold number of security detail. In contrast to Camp Liberty the compound, formerly a school, was otherworldly: busy and sealed, and occupied by white Americans and Europeans. Most of the personnel in Operations spent their entire tour inside the compound.

Rem and Santo were escorted through a series of offices — small interlocked Portakabins.

Markland, dressed in tan trousers, a long-sleeved shirt, cuffs rolled ready for business, led them into Howell’s office and told them to sit at the desk. Paul Howell was running late — a little trouble this morning — but he would be with them shortly. Markland leaned over the desk to shake Rem’s hand. ‘I’m sorry you had to come in but it makes things easier.’ None of this sounded much like an apology, and there was no explanation about the nature of Howell’s delay. The room appeared provisional, flimsy, much like a film set, with a heavy desk, a wall of cabinets, a few trophies: silver boats on dark wood mounts. Behind the desk hung photographs of the Deputy Administrator, his white hair singling him out. Paul Howell with tribal chiefs. Howell with a team dressed in Olympic colours; Howell quayside in an anorak, his arm about a sportsman Rem thought he recognized but couldn’t place. Behind Rem and Santo, taking up a good amount of space, an old-fashioned safe. Squat, heavy, and incongruous.

Rem asked Markland if the Deputy Administrator really was coming. Surprised, Markland gave a tight nod and drew his chair back from the desk. Howell would join them just as soon as he could.

Santo sank a little lower into his seat, fists bunched into his armpits, his nose red and sore.

Markland set the papers in front of them and read as he spoke. ‘So, what can we do? The issue is about gun permits for non-combatants and the handling of controlled items. Fuel. Explosives. Which goes beyond current licensing and permission.’ Markland pressed back into his chair. ‘You have any Iraqi nationals working for you?’

Rem shook his head.

‘Shame. We could allow them to handle the materials, but we can’t allow you, and we can’t allow you the permits. Iraqis don’t require permits and they can handle what they like. This is internal so we have to run to the same safety standards as we would Stateside.’

Rem couldn’t place Markland’s accent. Mid-Atlantic, crafted and insincere, deliberately unspecific. His hair cut English-style, parted, short back and sides.

‘We’re out on our own. There’s no perimeter fence. If there’s any kind of trouble we’ll be defenceless.’

‘And why are you there?’

‘To man the burn pits.’

‘They manage themselves. This is purely a HOSCO initiative, we have no funding assigned to this.’

Rem shrugged, unsure if Markland was making a statement or asking a question. ‘Ask HOSCO,’ he replied, ‘they want someone there.’

Markland compressed his fingers tip-to-tip. ‘Can I ask who set this up? Whose project is this?’

Rem wasn’t sure how he should answer.

‘Is this Brendan? Or David? Is this David Mann?’

Rem gave a small nod, his reticence seemed to provide an answer. Now Markland appeared to come to a decision.

‘There is, perhaps, one way forward. But it’s not straightforward. If you want, the Deputy Administrator can grant authority if the men are working directly for Southern-CIPA in some capacity. ’

‘But they’re working for HOSCO?’

‘No matter. They can work for Southern-CIPA, on occasion, on contract. I need men to work on a security detail, once or twice a month. If they work on security then they can receive training, and they can carry arms.’

‘You don’t have enough security?’

‘Believe me,’ Markland glanced up with a sly quick smile, ‘everything we have here is committed. We’re under-resourced. We have three security details for the entire Southern-CIPA, and on occasion, when the Deputy Administrator makes his trips, we’re caught short. I need more security. You need explosives and men who can carry guns. I can have them flown in for you. Today even. Look.’ Markland sat forward. ‘I can’t pretend we aren’t cutting corners. But I can advise Howell to let you have everything you need.’