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

and joined his guard outside. Farid had kept aloof. Maybe he was one of the old school — a purer, more principled pirate.

Paul lay on his bed mulling over Mohamed’s version of Somalia’s history. What exactly did he think of it? How much of it was true?

And what of these twenty-first-century pirates, these latter-day buccaneers in their open boats? Where did they fit into the picture? Young men getting rich, getting drunk, getting high. Fancy cars and all the girls they could sleep with. Danger, adventure, life on the ocean wave and seemingly not a care in the world. What would he choose if he were a young Somali?

Paul rolled over and blew out the candle, but he was still awake. He began thinking about a treatment for People of the Monsoon II. The movie would focus on a band of defiant figures prepared to take on the might of the world’s navies in jumped-up jolly boats. Like African wild dogs, they hunted down their prey, nipping at the flanks and stern until the great beasts were brought to a halt. It was an African solution to an African problem. Outboard engines and Kalashnikovs were technical innovations that had slightly shifted the goalposts, but the principles of good seamanship and resourcefulness on the open ocean had remained the same. It was a fascinating evolution, enforced by circumstance. Now that would make an interesting documentary.

His thoughts were interrupted by the sound of a woman laughing outside his window. He got up to look, standing on tiptoes to peer through the bars. The voice came from the bedroom across the lane. There was a lantern flickering within. A tall woman stood talking to a man, who was out of frame on the bed below her. Paul knew that heart-shaped face. The prone figure must be Mohamed. She was speaking softly. The man made a comment and she smiled, then began to disrobe. She was in no hurry. Paul thought it looked like a feline act as the flowing guntiino dropped to the floor. Her body was lean yet curvaceous. A silver bellybutton ring glinted in the lamplight. Her bra was lacy and red. She reached a hand behind her back to undo the clip, hunched her shoulders and let it fall. Paul instinctively took a step back to make sure no reflected light gave away his presence. Even his breathing was too loud. She was, after all, only metres away.

Mohamed said something and the woman laughed again. She hooked her thumbs under the waistband of her panties, slipping them off in one motion. She stood looking down at her lover with hands on hips. Her nails were long and manicured; the henna tattoos went all the way up to her elbows making her forearms look like weapons. Paul was rooted to the spot, mesmerised.

She stepped on to the bed and stood over Mohamed, staring down at him as though he were prey. Paul could just make out the head of a penis above the windowsill, like a mole peeping from its hole. He stifled a giggle. Paul was sure no sound had left his mouth, but the woman suddenly looked up. Could she sense his presence? Her eyes bored straight into him. He was in pitch darkness and there was surely no way she could see him. His body stiffened. He held his breath and narrowed his eyes, lest their whites betray him.

She turned back to Mohamed and slowly began to squat. Mohamed gave the moan of a wounded animal. There were feral sounds and the scrape of a bed against linoleum. It was going to be a long night.

Paul woke in mid-air. The red pirate had entered silently, grabbed him by the shirt and hurled him across the room in one movement. All was darkness, flailing limbs and terror.

‘Fuck Muafrika, you die!’ shouted the pirate, dragging him to his knees. ‘Hands on head! Open mouth for gun.’ His voice was high-pitched and excited.

Before Paul could react, the pistol struck the side of his head, almost knocking him unconscious.

‘Which gun you want?’ The man undid the front of his trousers.

‘Not like?’ said the man. ‘Maybe time to die?’

‘Please! Mohamed said —’

‘Fuck Mohamed! Sometimes it simple.’

The pirate forced Paul’s lips open with his thumb and jammed the pistol against his teeth. He resisted. The pirate drove the muzzle hard until his teeth parted and the barrel dug into his mouth. He felt icy steel against the back of his throat and started to gag.

‘Warships, helicopters, dollars,’ hissed the pirate, his breath reeking of alcohol. He was stroking himself with his free hand. ‘You think you so powerful. Enough of games: now you die.’

He pushed down on Paul’s jaw and rammed the muzzle and trigger guard as deep as they would go.

‘Say prayers, kafiri. Ten ... nine ... eight ...’

Paul’s mind raced from his mother to Hannah and back to his mother. Oh, God, there’s no time. He closed his eyes. If only he could —

‘Three ... two ... one!’ The pirate pulled the trigger. Paul heard the deafening click inside his mouth.

He opened his eyes. There were tears streaming down the man’s cheeks. He was laughing delightedly. ‘Oh, Mmarekani, that was good joke! You play really nice. Thank you. Just like the movies. We must do it again. Thank you, thank you.’

He tucked away his cock and buttoned up his trousers. Giving Paul a kiss on the cheek, he patted his head and staggered out of the door, still giggling.

Paul crumpled to the floor in a foetal ball.

 

CHAPTER 29

 

Paul woke before dawn with a start, terrified. He lay with his arms wrapped around his knees. He had to be strong; he could not let this derail him. It had not been a nightmare, but he was going to treat it as one and banish it from