Doctor Who_ Combat Rock - Mick Lewis [63]
That meant they were as good as stranded in Wameen.
There was some heated discussion amongst the guerrillas, and then a decision of sorts was obviously reached, because they were moving again, and heading for the cruiser, the bodies of their comrades reluctantly left behind.
Jamie’s questions were ignored. They boarded the craft, and Jamie saw that it was the second-in-command who was taking the pilot’s seat.
‘Can he fly?’ Jamie asked the man sitting next to him as the power relay kicked in and thrummed optimistically. The man didn’t answer.
As if he’d heard him, the ‘pilot’ turned to flash Jamie a grin. ‘We go,’ he said for the third time and the craft suddenly lurched violently upwards.
The foul mood the guerrillas had fallen into upon finding the dead Papul prisoner had vanished. They knew they had achieved a fairly major coup against their enemy despite the bleak fate of the object of their search. The men were roaring a melodic Papul song as the cruiser lifted drunkenly, clipped the top of a wall and jerked southwards. But even if he’d known the words, Jamie doubted he’d have felt like joining in.
‘Jayapul’s a hole all right,’ Saw said, swigging from an imported bottle of whisky as the Dogs prowled the streets of Papul’s capital. There was Pan and there was Pretty Boy, there was Saw and there was Grave. Clown was absent without leave, and Bass was asleep at the makeshift ‘hotel’ where they were staying the night. Twist was tripping somewhere on something.
The streets were empty apart from Indoni patrols who ignored them religiously, as if obeying some directive to do so. Rubbish clogged the oily river beneath the bridge to the night market, long since deserted. A gust of wind brought the fragrance of rot and sewage to their nostrils.
‘Nobody here, Pan,’ Pretty Boy said. He stopped to light a cigarette, and Pan took one off him too. Ahead of them the market was a muddle of locked stalls and clap-board shacks perpendicular to a terrace of more substantial but equally grimy concrete buildings.
The night market had once been the focal point of Jayapul.
A centre of culture and entertainment, a thriving, happy spot, where you could get anything at any time.
The night market was empty now, and it was dark. A tin can bowled along one of the alleys, clattering like bones.
Grave stomped it into silence.
‘You don’t look hard enough,’ Pan answered Pretty Boy, heading for the concrete terrace. He nudged a corrugated metal door until it squealed open. Beyond it was a dark passage and a few steps leading down. They could just discern a glimmer of candlelight at the bottom, coming from beneath another door.
‘Trust me. Old Pan’s got a nose for whores.’
‘Yeah, and Clown ain’t around to spoil your fun,’ Pretty Boy said.
Pan snorted. ‘Sure you don’t feel the same way? Don’t wanna offend your delicate sensibilities, gay boy.’
Pretty Boy said nothing and followed Pan and the others down the steps. Pan didn’t knock at the second door, this one made of wood. He simply shoved it open and walked on in without hesitating.
Inside the basement room was a bar, a few tables and chairs and a few terrified Papul men playing cards. The bar owner looked more terrified than any of them. He advanced on Pan with his hands outstretched, eyes huge.
‘Please mister. We do nothing wrong.’
Pan laughed, unholstered his Luger. ‘Don’t look that way to me. Looks like you got a bar set up here. Looks like you’re drinking alcohol’ He prodded the bar owner’s large flat nose with the barrel of his weapon. ‘Now you know that’s against Indoni law in Papul. Looks like I’m gonna have to close you down. Close all of you down. And the prisons are all full I’m afraid.’ He slipped the safety off, and the click filled the room with its significance.
One of the Papul men