He belched. ‘Very skilled. Doesn’t necessarily mean I interfere with little girls.’
‘I don’t know how you eat this shit, Hunter,’ Rodriguez said, slopping out his libellously labelled lamb casserole. He reached for the satchel of charts and maps on the ground beside him. ‘Let’s get down to business, gentlemen. We attack
at 2100 hours. Full darkness will have been on us for an hour. We will brief the men at 1700 hours. We need to know what we are about.’
The three men stood and walked the short distance to the small camouflage-covered tent erected as a command centre. In there, over an improvised table, they would iron out every exact permutation.
Hunter did not know why he had allowed himself to become preoccupied by such extraneous details as cult tattoos, the odour of decay and the silent attack dog. All of them had been trained to subdue dogs. And the nature and calibre of the weapons they carried and their physical numbers were far more important considerations than the physical characteristics of the men guarding their objective. Still, he felt a growing sense of strangeness. Still, the Brooke couplet echoed and sang maddeningly in his head. He snatched at a sinew of orchid vine trailing down the side of the ravine, crushed it between his hands and sniffed his sticky palms as though the sharp, savage odour of the plant sap could clear his mind and exorcise his thoughts.
After the briefing, on full bellies, Rodriguez and Peterson did what all the men not on sentry patrol were doing and went off to enjoy a couple of hours’ sleep. Hunter unpacked his sleeping bag, unrolled his foam undersheet and found a fairly flat spot intent on doing the same. But he could not sleep. The Brooke couplet had receded, finally, in his mind. But his mind could discover no rest. Instead, it was filled with thoughts of Lillian, his new wife. He did not think about or speculate upon their future together. On the eve of combat, he was too superstitious a soldier for that. He did not believe in throwing down the gauntlet to fate. Instead, as the men from Louisiana and Arkansas snored cradling their rifles around him, as exotic birds shrieked in the forest canopy on remote tree limbs above, Mark Hunter thought
about what he regarded as the miracle of his marriage to the beautiful woman he loved.
He had met her one evening fourteen months earlier at an event staged at Hatchard’s bookshop on Piccadilly. The Irish poet Seamus Heaney had been there to give a reading. He had queued patiently to exchange a word with the great man and have his hardback first edition signed. He was leaning against a wall, grinning at the signature with the book opened in front of him, when she turned among the press of people and spoke to him clear of the surrounding chatter.
‘You’re a lover of poetry?’
‘Yes. I wouldn’t be here otherwise.’
She had green, feline eyes and straight, light-brown hair that buckled and splashed heavily around her shoulders. She was very composed, with her wine glass held high in front of her. He thought it the composure that gave her such strong physical impact, though she was very slender and not particularly tall.
‘You don’t look like a poetry fan.’
‘Oh? What do they look like? Generally.’
‘Not like a soldier of fortune. Not like someone involved in espionage. Not carrying an intriguing facial scar. In short, not at all like you.’ She raised an eyebrow and sipped from her drink. ‘Look around.’
They were lit by hot lights above them, surrounded by the spangle of book spines on heaving shelves. The shop was very crowded and most of the men there were red-faced, tweedy, bucolic. The scar under his cheekbone was a shrapnel graze. He thought that perhaps she was here from the publishing company, or the company that owned the bookshop, to look after their star guest. If so, she seemed a very svelte and polished sort of security presence. Lucky old Seamus Heaney.
‘Look, I’m not
‘I don’t know how you eat this shit, Hunter,’ Rodriguez said, slopping out his libellously labelled lamb casserole. He reached for the satchel of charts and maps on the ground beside him. ‘Let’s get down to business, gentlemen. We attack
at 2100 hours. Full darkness will have been on us for an hour. We will brief the men at 1700 hours. We need to know what we are about.’
The three men stood and walked the short distance to the small camouflage-covered tent erected as a command centre. In there, over an improvised table, they would iron out every exact permutation.
Hunter did not know why he had allowed himself to become preoccupied by such extraneous details as cult tattoos, the odour of decay and the silent attack dog. All of them had been trained to subdue dogs. And the nature and calibre of the weapons they carried and their physical numbers were far more important considerations than the physical characteristics of the men guarding their objective. Still, he felt a growing sense of strangeness. Still, the Brooke couplet echoed and sang maddeningly in his head. He snatched at a sinew of orchid vine trailing down the side of the ravine, crushed it between his hands and sniffed his sticky palms as though the sharp, savage odour of the plant sap could clear his mind and exorcise his thoughts.
After the briefing, on full bellies, Rodriguez and Peterson did what all the men not on sentry patrol were doing and went off to enjoy a couple of hours’ sleep. Hunter unpacked his sleeping bag, unrolled his foam undersheet and found a fairly flat spot intent on doing the same. But he could not sleep. The Brooke couplet had receded, finally, in his mind. But his mind could discover no rest. Instead, it was filled with thoughts of Lillian, his new wife. He did not think about or speculate upon their future together. On the eve of combat, he was too superstitious a soldier for that. He did not believe in throwing down the gauntlet to fate. Instead, as the men from Louisiana and Arkansas snored cradling their rifles around him, as exotic birds shrieked in the forest canopy on remote tree limbs above, Mark Hunter thought
about what he regarded as the miracle of his marriage to the beautiful woman he loved.
He had met her one evening fourteen months earlier at an event staged at Hatchard’s bookshop on Piccadilly. The Irish poet Seamus Heaney had been there to give a reading. He had queued patiently to exchange a word with the great man and have his hardback first edition signed. He was leaning against a wall, grinning at the signature with the book opened in front of him, when she turned among the press of people and spoke to him clear of the surrounding chatter.
‘You’re a lover of poetry?’
‘Yes. I wouldn’t be here otherwise.’
She had green, feline eyes and straight, light-brown hair that buckled and splashed heavily around her shoulders. She was very composed, with her wine glass held high in front of her. He thought it the composure that gave her such strong physical impact, though she was very slender and not particularly tall.
‘You don’t look like a poetry fan.’
‘Oh? What do they look like? Generally.’
‘Not like a soldier of fortune. Not like someone involved in espionage. Not carrying an intriguing facial scar. In short, not at all like you.’ She raised an eyebrow and sipped from her drink. ‘Look around.’
They were lit by hot lights above them, surrounded by the spangle of book spines on heaving shelves. The shop was very crowded and most of the men there were red-faced, tweedy, bucolic. The scar under his cheekbone was a shrapnel graze. He thought that perhaps she was here from the publishing company, or the company that owned the bookshop, to look after their star guest. If so, she seemed a very svelte and polished sort of security presence. Lucky old Seamus Heaney.
‘Look, I’m not
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