Doctor Who_ Combat Rock - Mick Lewis [56]
There was nobody here to help him.
White man in jeopardy. The hell of the south, preacher.
He had to get out of Agat.
He moved to the top of the stairs, still straining his ears, moving as quietly as he could, but the stairs conspired to betray him, creaking with what seemed like hideous volume with each foot he placed on theni. Down, into the living room of the small colonial-style house.
‘Where is your God now, Christian?’
A headhunter was sitting in his armchair, where so often before Father Pieter had pored over religious texts and doctrines, spending many, many evening hours in pleasurable toil.
Jamie had been watching the sunset too.
He was sitting inside the battered Indoni cruiser, flanked by Papul warriors with grim faces and determined stares, not exactly the brightest of companions. They had spent the entire day at a secret location, or at least that was how it had been described to Jamie by the guerrillas. To the Scot, it looked just like any of the other Papul villages they had passed over.
But he’d been treated well and fed well, which was some consolation for losing Victoria and being separated from the Doctor. They’d even entrusted him with a machete, obviously taking him at his word that he knew how to use one, and that he was in sympathy with their rebel cause. He hadn’t actually said that, though, had he? Just that he’d once fought a load of English bastards who were trying to murder his people, but he guessed there was some kind of analogy here, even though he wasn’t quite sure where to look for it, or even precisely what an analogy was. The Doctor had used the word when they were hiking through the jungle and Jamie had been holding forth on rebellion in general.
The Doctor... Aye, well, that was one reason why he wasn’t going to use his machete on the Papul guerrillas accompanying him on the flight to Wameen. They said they’d kill the Doctor if Jamie tried anything, and he knew enough of their fervour to suppose that they would do just that. The other reason was, well, there were just too damn many of them.
The sun filled the cruiser cabin with pink light, suffusing it with a cherubic, unsullied atmosphere it hardly warranted. A hint of angels, the Scot thought ruefully, his heart yearning for kinder times. He glanced around at the unshaven, smelly, dishevelled warriors filling the cramped cabin and sighed. He hoped Victoria was in more amiable company.
Victoria...
How did they always end up getting into messes like this?
He couldn’t blame the Doctor. Not really... Och, alright, he could, because he was the one that had brought them both to Jenggel in the first place and then to this godforsaken jungle. But blaming people didn’t solve anything, did it? It just made him feel a little less grumpy, that was all.
He declined the offer of a cigarette from the guerrilla next to him and sipped instead from a bottle of water.
All right, so the guerrillas weren’t half-bad when you got to know them, he supposed. They’d actually treated him with some respect and a little kindness all day long. In the village, he’d been taken to a large central hut, apparently the chieftain’s, and treated to some delicious soup cooked in front of him in an enormous pot. He guessed the reason behind their kindness was something to do with the fact that he would be fighting alongside them soon.
They’d been cruising above the treetops for a little more than an hour. The plan was obviously to attack the town at nightfall, and Jamie wondered, certainly not for the first time, what the hell he’d gotten himself into – just because he’d been stupid enough to open his big trap. He had nothing against the Indoni army, even if they did seem to be a bunch of murdering sassenachs every bit as wicked as the English redcoats. But they hadn’t done anything to him yet. Or the Doctor, and hopefully not to Victoria either...
Now he was expected to fight, and kill, for a cause he didn’t understand, and could feel no involvement with.
Still, here he was, heading into battle with a machete