climbing brings him to a level section of granite and shrub. The air here is fresher, less polluted. He turns and looks down at the crash site. The first body to be attacked is now enveloped in a churning, squabbling sea of vultures. It is a sickening sight and the urge to press on, to put more distance between himself and the vampire banquet below is irresistible. He thinks again of the Breugel painting.
A further ten minutes and he’s back on a steep stretch, clambering between boulders. He’s weary, his muscles crying out for respite, when he finds himself on a flat bed of rock concealed behind thick bushes. He takes off his pack, about to sink to the ground when he notices that behind him the rock stretches into what looks like the mouth of a cave. Clutching his rifle, he takes a step or two towards it cautiously, automatically equating caves with wild animals, but it is shallow, no more than a couple of metres deep, and empty.
Perfect. This’ll do for the moment. I’m away from the bloodbath, but if anyone does come to the rescue, I’ll be able to spot them easily.
Yeah, and if any animal wants to mess with you, they’ll have to get past my friend here. He grips his rifle with grim determination. He takes the blanket out of his bag and spreads it out in the floor of the cave. He’s about to reward himself with a rest when he’s struck by an idea.
Not thinking of putting your feet up, are you?
Well, actually...
You’ve got work to do. It’ll be dark in an hour or so. How are you going to signal your position if they send a plane over? And what about wild animals? What’s the one thing they’re scared of in the bush?
Fire?
Right. Now get off your backside and fetch some firewood.
OK, OK. Give me a second. I’m feeling pretty ropey, you know .
He’s collected three or four good dry sticks, a handful of kindling, when he sees it. He’s bent down too quickly, feels a wave of dizzy nausea and lifts his head to let it pass. He glances down the hill to the crash site, then raises his line of vision beyond, to the plain stretching off into the sunset. And there it is, still a mile or two away but approaching fast, the clouds of dust left in its wake. A vehicle, a landcruiser or pickup – it’s still too far away to distinguish clearly – is heading towards the wreckage.
Towards him.
Aman 1
Beginning a journal seems a timely idea now that I have arrived here in the United Kingdom. It is not that I fancy myself as a literary animal or foresee its publication leading to fame and fortune. It is more to do with the family I abandoned, my dear sweet wife and my precious children. Of course I pray that we will be together again one day, and together we can read my words, follow my adventures, laugh and joke and cry together. But if I do not see you again, if God forbid we are never reunited, I know you will have questions. The journal, then, will be the answer to your wheres and hows and whens and whys.
Mind you, if this journal were to be valued by some literary agent as a work of genius, translated into English and French and Russian, published by some esteemed New York firm, I would not complain. I can picture a fabulous screenplay turned into Hollywood blockbuster. Or perhaps Bollywood. Yes, that is more like it, a Bollywood saga complete with dance routines and rousing song. I see myself played by Salman Khan, your role given to Rani Mukerji. It will be an instant success, a tale of good over evil, a passionate testament to the power of love.
There is a second justification for writing this diary: it looks likely that I will have plenty of time to kill while I enjoy Her Majesty’s hospitality and my case is processed. It will be a form of therapy, a way of fleeing the locked doors and barred windows, an escape from a confined present to a freer past. Because, of course, I cannot write about my daily existence without explaining how I came to be here.
Where to begin? Not that fateful Eid
A further ten minutes and he’s back on a steep stretch, clambering between boulders. He’s weary, his muscles crying out for respite, when he finds himself on a flat bed of rock concealed behind thick bushes. He takes off his pack, about to sink to the ground when he notices that behind him the rock stretches into what looks like the mouth of a cave. Clutching his rifle, he takes a step or two towards it cautiously, automatically equating caves with wild animals, but it is shallow, no more than a couple of metres deep, and empty.
Perfect. This’ll do for the moment. I’m away from the bloodbath, but if anyone does come to the rescue, I’ll be able to spot them easily.
Yeah, and if any animal wants to mess with you, they’ll have to get past my friend here. He grips his rifle with grim determination. He takes the blanket out of his bag and spreads it out in the floor of the cave. He’s about to reward himself with a rest when he’s struck by an idea.
Not thinking of putting your feet up, are you?
Well, actually...
You’ve got work to do. It’ll be dark in an hour or so. How are you going to signal your position if they send a plane over? And what about wild animals? What’s the one thing they’re scared of in the bush?
Fire?
Right. Now get off your backside and fetch some firewood.
OK, OK. Give me a second. I’m feeling pretty ropey, you know .
He’s collected three or four good dry sticks, a handful of kindling, when he sees it. He’s bent down too quickly, feels a wave of dizzy nausea and lifts his head to let it pass. He glances down the hill to the crash site, then raises his line of vision beyond, to the plain stretching off into the sunset. And there it is, still a mile or two away but approaching fast, the clouds of dust left in its wake. A vehicle, a landcruiser or pickup – it’s still too far away to distinguish clearly – is heading towards the wreckage.
Towards him.
Aman 1
Beginning a journal seems a timely idea now that I have arrived here in the United Kingdom. It is not that I fancy myself as a literary animal or foresee its publication leading to fame and fortune. It is more to do with the family I abandoned, my dear sweet wife and my precious children. Of course I pray that we will be together again one day, and together we can read my words, follow my adventures, laugh and joke and cry together. But if I do not see you again, if God forbid we are never reunited, I know you will have questions. The journal, then, will be the answer to your wheres and hows and whens and whys.
Mind you, if this journal were to be valued by some literary agent as a work of genius, translated into English and French and Russian, published by some esteemed New York firm, I would not complain. I can picture a fabulous screenplay turned into Hollywood blockbuster. Or perhaps Bollywood. Yes, that is more like it, a Bollywood saga complete with dance routines and rousing song. I see myself played by Salman Khan, your role given to Rani Mukerji. It will be an instant success, a tale of good over evil, a passionate testament to the power of love.
There is a second justification for writing this diary: it looks likely that I will have plenty of time to kill while I enjoy Her Majesty’s hospitality and my case is processed. It will be a form of therapy, a way of fleeing the locked doors and barred windows, an escape from a confined present to a freer past. Because, of course, I cannot write about my daily existence without explaining how I came to be here.
Where to begin? Not that fateful Eid
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