Whoever Fears the Sea, Justin Fox [i love reading .TXT] 📗

to clean and dress Latif’s wound and give him more painkillers. The first-aid tin was now almost empty.

‘Want money, you hide money!’ screamed the youngest pirate, coming down the ladder to where they were sitting bunched together on the main deck. Despite his youth and diminutive size, he had the swagger of power. Striding between them, he yelled: ‘Give more money!’

‘You took all our money yesterday,’ said Husni. ‘We are fishermen.’

‘You lie, I know you! Don’t look me, look down!’

‘We are just Lamu fishermen.’

‘And him?’ The pirate pointed his rifle at Paul.

‘He is my friend, from South Africa,’ said Husni.

‘You lie, he American!’ The pirate jabbed the barrel into Paul’s chest.

‘Please, leave him, he is my friend.’

The young captor swung the rifle butt and Husni ducked as it struck him a glancing blow. Then the pirate walked to Latif and prodded his arm with the rifle. The man screamed.

‘No, no!’ the crew shouted in unison. ‘No money! We have no more money!’

When the pirate saw the reaction from all the captives, he wavered and, swearing at them in Somali, retired to the foredeck to sit with his mates. Paul looked at the two groups, five Somalis on the foredeck and five Swahili in the waist. He wanted to believe the pirates were simple sailors just like his shipmates. If he could understand them better, he’d be able to handle the situation better.

Both Husni and Paul needed to go to the toilet. Husni called to the red pirate. They were given permission but were not allowed to use the latrine box. They had to do it together over the port rail and were not given toilet paper. Both men pulled down their trousers and sat with their bottoms over the gunnel. As the boat rolled, the water came high enough for Paul to scoop handfuls and clean himself, the red pirate looking on with a bemused expression.

As Paul was finishing, the man came over and held his jaw in a firm grip. His eyes were glazed and bloodshot. Rough fingers scraped Paul’s cheeks as he tried to drag on his shorts. The man’s other hand reached between his legs and started to squeeze his testicles. He gasped as the pain shot through his body. The pirate laughed. His hand was like a vice. Paul felt his legs begin to give way. ‘South African American,’ he whispered. The pirate let go and Paul dropped to the deck. He half-walked, half-crawled back to the others, tears smarting from his eyes.

The day wore on. Paul sat in the midst of the sailors and kept his head down, trying to look unobtrusive. Nuru was at the helm, still following in the wake of the skiff. In the late afternoon, they turned towards the shore. By sunset it became obvious they were indeed making for Galoh.

Paul noticed Husni’s growing apprehension as they neared the village. Had Galoh been taken over by pirates? Was Husni’s brother a prisoner too?

The skiff circled back and drew alongside. The red pirate ordered them to anchor in a channel about a hundred metres wide between a small island and the mainland. There was a scruffy village on the shore, a line of palm trees and a few fishing skiffs pulled up on the sand, and a handful of mashuas anchored just off the beach in translucent water.

Husni called for the yardarm to be lowered, the sail furled and secured. The pirates took up positions around the deck, their rifles pointing at the crew, and grew more agitated as the dhow neared the shore. Jamal proceeded slowly under motor until they were told to drop anchor. Nuru switched off the engine and a deathly silence eddied around them. The crew were instructed to gather their bags. Heads bowed, they looked like zombies as they climbed into the skiff, rifle muzzles tracking them as they gathered in a group at the stern.

Paul was surprised by the sudden rush of speed as the boat accelerated towards the shore. The driver didn’t slow down as they closed with the land and the crew had to hold on tight as the pirate ramped the skiff up the beach. There was much heckling and shouting as the prisoners bailed over the rail with their bags and were led across the sand towards the palm trees, watched by a group of chattering children and a crowd of adults standing on a low dune. Behind the rise, they came to the village: a few dozen whitewashed houses surrounded by makuti-roofed, wattle-and-daub huts, many of them patched with pieces of corrugated iron, cardboard and plastic sheeting.

One of their new guards prodded a rifle into Paul’s back and peeled him away from the group. He tried to resist, not wanting to be separated. The guard hit him between the shoulder blades with the butt and Paul sprawled on the sand. Looking back, he caught Husni’s eyes. They told him to go quietly.

Paul was directed down a sandy path. His escort wore camouflage fatigue trousers, a black shirt and a black-and-white keffiyeh around his head, showing only the eyes. A bandolier was draped over his shoulder, the rounds glinting like chunky jewellery across his chest. Paul thought it excessive — one bullet would be enough. Perhaps it was a modern version of the traditional eye patch and peg leg.

They came to a hut and the guard shoved him inside, pointing to a wooden bedframe strung with rope and covered with a grass mat. There was a tin bucket and a small, barred window set high in the wall. No chance of escape there. The guard sat on a stool in the doorway, watching him for a while. Paul’s stomach was grumbling. When he asked about food, the guard pretended not to understand English, but pointed to his wrist, which Paul took to mean ‘later’. Then the guard banged the door shut