The Network - Jason Elliot [153]
‘Yes,’ I say.
‘Good. I thought there might be one more. Everyone else alright?’
‘They’re fine,’ I say.
His eyes roll up then back again, like the bubbles in a spirit level. He’s dying.
‘Do me a favour? Help me up the hill, can you? I want to look at the view.’
I pick him up. The others stay behind because they know what’s going to happen. I carry him across the stream and through the line of poplars beyond, where the dappled light falls across his face as he tries to keep his head up. He’s struggling to hum a tune, but the sound only comes out as my feet fall against the ground, pushing the air from his lungs in tiny bursts. Then he coughs convulsively, and a trail of blood descends from his lips, and there is nothing I can do now but watch the life flow from him.
‘Here’s a good spot,’ I say. I lower him to the ground and lean him against a slope that allows him to look across the valley, and sit next to him, wiping the tears that are streaming from my eyes. I can’t stop them.
‘It’s nice here,’ he says. His head lolls forward, then corrects itself. ‘I think I might stay a while.’
We sit for a few minutes in silence as the mystery of death draws in. Then, as gently as if he has fallen asleep, his head comes to rest on my shoulder, and I have the distinct sense that something has been released, like a river that has finally reached the sea.
We wash his body in the stream and carry it into the old man’s courtyard. Two women from the village come to wrap him in white cloth. I dig the grave myself, concealing in it the boot which contains the tracker, though I have no idea how long it will give out a signal. The four of us carry him to the grave, Manny walking with one hand on my shoulder as a guide, and we’re watched from below by the old man, a few villagers who have emerged from their houses and some brightly dressed, curious children.
Sher Del and Momen offer prayers over the grave in turn, and as the first handful of dark soil falls onto the whiteness of the fabric, the grief is just too strong and I have to turn my eyes away.
I look up through a blur of tears, and my gaze falls on an eagle soaring high overhead in the centre of the lapis-blue sky. It seems to be circling us, and I watch its silhouette turning effortlessly through the pure clear air until the sound of the men’s prayers brings me back. When I look up again, the eagle is gone.
We agree to stay together, though I give Sher Del and Momen the choice.
‘Together,’ Sher Del says, ‘we will be stronger.’
We’ve still got the silk maps, the pistols, enough gold to sponsor a minor coup, and between us a healthy stock of stories to keep us entertained along the way. If we steer clear of the main tracks and roads we’re unlikely to be seen, and should be able to make our way to Kandahar within a few days and blend into the life of the city. From there we can split up and travel invisibly on public transport back to Kabul.
The old man gives me his own shalwar kameez to wear, and we roll our things into a pattu, which Sher Del throws over his shoulder as we prepare to set off, resembling nothing more than an impoverished team of weary native travellers.
I look up once more and search the air to see if the eagle has returned, but it’s gone now, and the sky is magnificently empty.
In memory of
H
1949–2001
A Sqn 22 SAS
BEYOND THE LAST BLUE MOUNTAIN BARRED WITH SNOW
Acknowledgements
With special thanks to:
His Master’s Voice
Lola Beaumont
RayF, J & B
Mephisto
DE &
‘C’
A Note on the Author
Jason Elliot is a prize-winning British travel writer, whose works include An Unexpected Light: Travels in Afghanistan, a New York Times bestseller and winner of the Thomas Cook/Daily Telegraph Travel Book Award, and Mirrors of the Unseen: Journeys in Iran. The Network is his first novel.
First published in Great Britain 2010
Copyright © 2010 by Jason Elliot
This electronic edition published 2010 by Bloomsbury Publishing Plc
The right of Jason Elliot to be identified as the author of this work has been
asserted by