In cold blood...

by Robin Saltonstall

Already the smell is bad. I know that smell. My brother is a butcher. Sometimes the freezers fail. I know that smell.

Last night was so cold. Now it is hot.

In here it is dark, outside it is light.

I try to move. It is no use. I cannot.

I go away, it is green, it is cool, water sparkles. She is there. I hear women's laughter. Men call me, my brothers, I see Rahman. There are good smells, piled carpets, spiced lambs. This world shines with gold, silver; and life. I make love with my darling, my wife, but softly - we must not wake the children - she smiles...

A terrible pain, and a sickness; I am back, she, life; both are gone.

I hurt, I hurt so very much. But strangely I cannot feel them - my legs I mean. That smell - it is getting worse. Flies buzz. I feel sick. I feel faint. But they cannot get to me. I am underneath; I cannot move.

Ahmed is on top of me, Masud to one side. I do not know who is to my left. It could be Osama - or Leyla. Flesh that was warm, that's now cool, touches mine. Yesterday they lived. Yesterday they died.

I struggle, struggle to breathe. Ahmed is on top of me; he is that weight, dead weight; he is that smell. There is a gap at his shoulder where his right arm should be. Through it a shaft of sunlight has found us. I see his contorted face. It is all I can do to focus my eyes. It is so close. It is just inches from mine. It is as though we are locked in some last carnal embrace. Death mocks us.

I wake again. How long has it been? The start, the jump of my body has been all but extinguished by that dead weight pressing down upon me. Far away, so far away that I wonder whether it is in this world or the next, I hear the faint tinkling of a bell. I see sun, rocks, goats - their shepherd, myself as a boy.

The shaft of sunlight has moved on. I can see now that there are jagged holes in the white-painted mud wall. Through them other sunbeams are streaming. There is just the suspicion of a draught, a movement in the air. Around us a myriad of empty bullet cases sparkle as the shadows move and are lifted in turn from the bare earthen floor. Above me, through the charred wooden and smoke blackened twisted metal sheeting of the roof, it is there, I can just see it; and blood red are the jet trails in a world weary sky.

It is no use. I can hold it no longer. I shit. I piss. It gushes from me. Now I have decided I just let it all go, go completely. What does it matter? I will be dead soon. Under my buttocks I feel the warmth of it, my shame, my humiliation; but further down I feel nothing, just nothing at all. The stench forces its way into my mouth, my nostrils.

I retch. I weep. I pray.

I pray that death will take me, take me now.

It is later. It seems darker. I know that, nothing more. Then I hear it, very faintly at first, but now it grows louder. There is no mistaking that sound. Soon it is a throbbing roar that fills my head. Everything vibrates. I hear the tracks as they grind, clank, groan and squeak. Now the track noise stops but not that throbbing engine roar and snarl. The ground, our world around us, trembles and shakes.

It is the infidels. We have no tanks.

Slowly, so slowly that I feel only that it is not happening, I come back - from where, to where - this I don't know. Am I alive? Can I be alive? Or is this hell?

I cannot see. There is a red blur across my eyes. I cannot see.

But there is a red blur. Can I be - can it be - can it be that I am still alive?

Now I smell the cordite, the smoke from the gun. It is bad egg, gritty, and half sweet; I am tasting it too. I can smell, I can taste, so I must be alive.

I try to move my head. I feel a cold jelly-like wetness pressing on my face. Something has blocked my ears. I hear only what rubs, scrapes, slithers, against my head, and, since the shot, the explosion, a loud ringing noise. I remember the bright, white, light blue of that explosion, then the red orange darting fire and the vicious crack, and a terrible jolting and thud in the mess that now lies above me.

But I - I am alive.

Finally I move my head. First I can only move it so slightly that I wonder whether it has moved at all; then the weight of the cold lumpy wetness dribbles and slides, dough-like, off, and away from, my face. The terrible smell lessens. The red blur has gone. I see that it is almost dark. Smoke hangs in thin layers in the air.

The ringing in my ears subsides. Now, but briefly, I hear, again, that engine's snarl and roar; and the cranky, clunky, squeaking, moaning protestations of its huge metal tracks. Yet now, even as I listen, it lessens, grows fainter, and - yes - now it has gone, it has faded away.

There is silence. I hear, smell, death and look for it in the shadows. Something, I know not what (and am glad) slides, hesitates, slides again, from my face. It slops, plops, but gently, like the dung from the camel as it slurps to the sand.

A pattering - I hear a pattering. First it was there; now it has gone; now it is louder - and back.. I am no longer alone with the dead. A shadowy figure has appeared, stooping, then running, through one of the holes in the wall. The figure is quick - darting - there's a loose flowing robe. More shadows appear. I hear their voices. I know these voices, this language. They are mine. They are 'ours'.

I try to move. I try to speak. I manage only a dry croak, little more than a cough. Suddenly they are there, their hands all around me. I feel the dead weight that has pinioned and imprisoned me, jolt, move upwards, and away to one side.

I feel the spout of a bottle as it is placed between my lips. I drink, slurp noisily, drink more. The sweet cool water gushes into, and out of, my mouth. Then, with help, some water goes down my throat.

I try to speak. They hush me:

'Do not try to move. Do not try to speak. The others are dead. But you - you are alive.'

How much time has gone? I don't know. I cannot remember. They tell me I fainted away when they moved me. Now my legs are in plaster, each one broken, but cleanly, by the bullets: 'You will stay alive' they tell me 'and your legs will heal - you will be able to live. You can, and will, still be you.' I turn away, hot tears burn my cheeks, I weep for my friends that are dead and that I will not see again.

Much later I watch the TV. The infidels have committed a great disgrace and are shamed. All Islam, the world, is talking of it. The infidels have shot a helpless and wounded man and it was filmed, is now on TV, everywhere, and for everyone to see. I see again jagged holes in a white-painted mud wall, bodies on a bare earthen floor, charred wood, a smoke blackened roof.

I know that man, that man who 'they' shot.

When the infidels had arrived I'd been under his, that man's body, and surrounded, hidden from view, by the bodies of the other dead. I'd held my breath for as long as I could. Finally I could hold my breath no longer. I pushed up at the head of the body that lay there - above mine. 'This one's not dead'; then the crash and flash of the shot; the awful jolt to that other head, that dead head, lying on mine.

'He is now!'

©robin saltonstall

allofus@roushous.karoo.co.uk