Gregory Roberts - The Mountain Shadow

‘Okay, let me get this straight. Chunky, thirty, five-five, blue hijab. Right?’

‘Right. That’s her name, in fact. Her comrade name.’

‘What?’

‘Blue Hijab. That’s her name.’

‘Her name is Blue Hijab?’

‘Yeah.’

‘O… kay. Thanks for the heads-up.’

‘No sweat,’ he smiled. ‘I warn everyone about her. She’s so dangerous, I love her to death.’

‘I hear you.’

‘And remember, there’s only one rule on the way to shore. Anyone tries to take your place on the boat, push him overboard.’

‘It happens?’

‘A lot, actually.’

‘You!’ the first officer grunted, jabbing a finger at me.

I walked to the rail, swung over, and started descending the rope-and-wood ladder.

It was much more difficult than I’d thought. The ladder swirled and swung out over the sea, forcing me to hug ropes and bits of wood like family. Then the ladder slammed back into the unyielding steel of the hull, scraping skin from unprepared fingers.

I came to the last few steps of the ladder. The three boats seemed tiny: pilot fish, hovering against the shark-hide of the freighter.

They were fishing boats, flat and open, like oversized versions of the lifeboats on the deck of the ship, but with a motor. We were still in open sea. The boat I was dropping into was already crowded. It didn’t look safe. I took the last steps, and the smell of fish, oiled into the ribs of the ship, reassured me.

Fishermen , I thought. Fishermen know the sea.

Friendly hands guided me aft, stepping over feet and small bundles. Friendly hands guided others forward. The crew was distributing the weight.

I counted twenty-three people. The crew of the freighter waved all clear, and drew up the ladders. Our tillerman shoved us away from the ship, and moved into open sea under power.

The motor was quiet, muffled by a soundproofed cabinet.

Click-clack.

A boat nearby in the darkness signalled to us. Click-clack. We all turned to see it. Click-clack , somebody signalled back. Click-clack.

‘You know what the difference is, between war and peace?’ the man sitting next to me whispered, a smile in his voice.

‘I’m guessing you’ll tell me,’ I whispered back.

‘In peace time, you sacrifice twenty to save one. In war time, you sacrifice one to save twenty.’

‘Nice try,’ I smiled.

‘You don’t agree?’

‘We don’t sacrifice for numbers. We sacrifice for love, and land.’

‘The numbers in this war, are high enough to make a difference.’

‘You were talking about war and peace.’

‘And?’

‘War has the blood on the outside. Peace has the blood on the inside, where it belongs. That’s pretty much the difference, so far as I’ve seen. War knocks the buildings down, and peace builds them up again.’

He laughed quietly, his lips closed.

‘I’m your contact,’ he said.

‘Uh-huh?’

‘I came with the boat. I’m here to make sure you get where you’re going.’

He was a little younger than I was, short and lean, with a cheeky grin that must’ve won him lips, and cost him slaps.

‘Glad to know you. How long before we make shore?’

‘Not long.’

He handed me a plastic jug and started bailing out the water that lapped into the boat with occasional waves. I joined in. People all along the shallow boat were bailing out. The tillerman laughed softly.

Click-clack .

The sea, that restless sleeper, rolled shoulders of current beneath us. Water splashed into the boat, soaking us in salt. Click-clack .

When the boats reached the shore we jumped out into waist-deep water and struggled for the beach. The boats began to pull away.

We ran for the trees. At the tree line, I looked back at the sea. Some of the slower men and women were still running, scuffing sand as they kicked and ruffled across the beach: a thing of fun, a foot race, maybe, on a sunny day, but a thing of fear that night.

There was no sign of the ship: no light but the stars.

My contact waved to me from another stand of trees. I joined him, and we moved deeper into the jungle. After a while he paused, listening.

‘What’s your name?’ I whispered, when we were sure no-one was following us.

‘No names here, man,’ he said. ‘The less you know, the better. Truth’s a sweet thing, unless someone’s cutting it out of you, and then it’s a very bitter thing. Ready to move?’

‘I’m good.’

‘There’s a truck heading south on the main road. It’ll wait for us, but it won’t wait long. The boats were a little off course. We’ve got a lot of country to pass, and not much time.’

We headed into the surrounding bushes, and in a few minutes we were moving through a swathe of jungle that ran parallel to the coast. Every now and then we glimpsed dark waves through a tree break, but after a while the sea was too far away to hear, and even the scent faded in the stronger fragrances of jungle damp.

My contact led us again and again into a smothering mass of leaves as big as elephants’ ears, to emerge on a narrow path that was invisible until he plunged us into it.

He wasn’t navigating by the stars: we couldn’t see them. His mental map of the jungle was so precise that he never hesitated in his rapid walk.

I lost him, twice. Each time I froze, listening for his step. Each time I heard nothing until he tapped me on the shoulder, and we headed off through the jungle again.

With my backpack and the smuggling vest, I was carrying thirty-five kilos. But the weight wasn’t the problem. To stop the vest from shifting, and accidentally dislodging the tablets, I’d strapped it tightly to my chest and waist. Every breath was a struggle.

We pushed through a verge of leaves and bushes onto a main road.

‘Gotta save time,’ my companion said, glancing at his watch. ‘We’ll risk a side road, for a while. Much faster. If you see any light at all, hit the trees and hide. I’ll draw it off. You stay put. You got that?’

‘Yeah,’ I puffed.

‘You want me to carry the vest, for a while?’

‘I’m good.’

‘Let me at least take the backpack,’ he whispered.

I slipped the backpack off my shoulder gratefully, and he strapped it on.

‘Okay, let’s jog.’

We ran along the rough side road in a silence so complete that the occasional animal or bird cry was shocking. Every breath strained against the constricting vest.

In truth , a Nigerian gunrunner once said to me, the smuggler only really smuggles himself. All the other stuff that he carries, it’s just an excuse, you know? By the time we reached the pickup point, my excuse was threatening to stop my heart.

‘We’re here,’ my contact said.

‘Hallelujah,’ I puffed. ‘You guys ever heard of motorcycles?’

‘Sorry, man,’ my contact smiled, handing me my backpack. ‘But I think we’re in time.’

‘You think ?’ I gasped, resting my arms on my knees.

‘Have you got a gun?’ he asked.

‘Of course.’

‘Get it handy. Now.’

I unwrapped my pistol, as he checked and reloaded his ten-shot automatic. He glanced around and saw the small.22-calibre purse pistol.

‘If you run into a chunky woman, wearing a sky-blue hijab -’

‘I know. Don’t show her the gun.’

‘Fuck, man,’ he grinned. ‘You like living dangerously.’

‘Something tells me that this Blue Hijab leaves a lasting impression.’

‘She’s fine. A great comrade,’ he laughed. ‘Just don’t show her the gun.’

He glanced at his watch again, and stared into the darkness that ate the road where starlight failed.