gash in the orange tiles and smoke stains spread up the walls like fungus. Few of the windows still had glass and most of those were cracked.
The splintered door crashed open. Two men, as young and dark-eyed as the ones who’d picked her up that morning, dragged out something heavy. Ginty wiped the back of her hand against her eyes and saw it was a man. They were holding him by the slack of his checked shirt. She couldn’t see his face, which was hanging down a foot above the ground. His bare, bloody feet dragged against the rocks in the path.
Ginty’s escorts yelled something to the two men. One of them put his free hand in the victim’s hair and jerked up his head. Ginty wished she were shortsighted, blind even.
There were bruises and blood all over his face. His eyes were swollen and his lower lip lolled, showing a broken tooth. She couldn’t tell whether he was alive or dead. His guards let his head drop again and dragged him off.
She was propelled forwards by a hand on her back. The doorway into the house looked very dark against the white walls. Everything she’d heard in the camps about Rano and his men pulled at her heels, slowing her down. But she’d come this far, and she had work to do, work that might be the passport to a world where she mattered. If she wimped out now – even if they’d let her go – she’d never get it.
When they reached the doorway she bent down, as though there were whirling helicopter blades that might decapitate her. Straightening up, she found herself in a long, whitewashed room. There were bullet holes in the inner walls, too, and more smoke stains, but someone had given the place an air of makeshift comfort. To the right was a table with food on it, glasses, and a wine bottle; to the left, another table laden with guns and grenades.
In front of her was a tall man, thicker set than the ones who’d brought her up from the roadblock; much older too. As he came towards her he was wiping his hands on a towel.
‘Ms Schell?’ he said in a deep, very British voice.
‘Yes.’ She was proud of the way that came out, neither croaking nor in a squeak.
‘Ronald Lackton,’ he said, throwing the towel to one of his men and holding out his right hand for Ginty to shake. She saw that the small greyish cloth was thick and covered with brown splodges. She looked at the hand she was supposed to shake. There was blood under his nails and clinging to his cuticles. He hadn’t even washed.
She heard her father’s voice in her head: ‘You must look confident even when you are sick with terror. It does not matter what your work is, or how great your talent, if you cannot persuade other people to believe in you, you will fail.’ As I nearly always have, she thought, then tried to brace herself so that it wouldn’t happen again.
Her mother had put the instruction rather differently: ‘Never show fear, Ginty, or the rest of the tribe will destroy you. They have to if they’re to protect themselves against your weakness. Fear of weakness is at the root of all bullying.’
Obedient to the voices in her head, she put her hand into Rano’s. His skin felt warm and dry. He held onto her for much longer than necessary, smiling down into her face as though they were old friends. His smile seemed more sinister than anything his men had threatened. All her life she’d hated being small, but never as much as now.
‘I’m so glad you could come,’ he said. They might have been at a London party. She couldn’t help looking at his hands, at the blood caught under his nails. ‘Would you like something to eat? Drink?’
‘No, thank you.’ She knew she’d choke on anything he gave her, but she had to hide that, too. Always look confident, Ginty, she reminded herself in her father’s voice. And try to make everyone like you, she added in her own.
‘Your men wouldn’t let me bring a notebook or tape recorder, so I’m not sure how effective this interview will be.’ Her voice wobbled on the last few words and she saw Rano smile.
‘I’ve got a tape recorder,’ he said. ‘Double cassette. I’ll give you your tape before you leave.’
‘Great. Then do you think we should start?’ Ginty was pleased with her voice; it had sounded polite but firm, with the kind of English firmness that could seem tentative to anyone who didn’t know the code. She hoped Rano was still English enough to appreciate it.
‘In a minute. First, tell me how the Harbingers are. Has the divorce come through yet?’
Ginty stared at him. What kind of psychopath would you have to be to make gossipy London conversation here?
‘I’ve no idea,’ she said, wishing he’d let her do her job and get out. ‘I hardly know John Harbinger, and I’ve never met his wife.’
‘But he’s your editor.’ Rano forgot to smile, and for a moment looked as dangerous as she knew he was.
Ginty’s skin prickled. She remembered Harbinger’s call yesterday, and her own shaky protests that she didn’t know enough to interview the most notorious of the local warlords.
‘Didn’t he tell you I’m freelance, that I’ve only just started writing for him?’
‘Yes.’ Rano relaxed and the smile oozed back around his lips. ‘But he says your work’s impressive for someone so inexperienced.’
Anywhere else and Ginty would have been flattered enough to ask questions.
‘Are you sure you don’t want anything to eat? You must be starving.’
This is surreal, she thought. There were villages in these mountains where the inhabitants had truly starved before Rano’s men had burned them out of their houses. But she realized she’d have to go along with him or challenge him into doing something even more unpleasant.
‘How do you know the Harbingers so well?’ she asked in much the same, party-going voice he’d used.
‘I was at university with him, which is why I offered him this interview in the first place. We were never close friends, but I occasionally used to run into him and Kate in London. I must say I was surprised when she married him. A man’s man, I’d have thought. Ah, good, they’ve got the tape going.’ He added something in his own language to the young men who were messing about with a large black-plastic tape recorder.
One answered, laughing. Rano laughed back and waved them away. One stayed, leaning against the wall behind the commander, and set about picking his teeth with a grubby fingernail.
Ginty heard the others moving to the far side of the long room. She didn’t let herself look away from Rano, but she could hear metal clattering and cloth tearing. She wondered what they could be doing until the sharp smell of chemicals and oil told her they must be stripping down the guns. Someone began to sing almost under his breath, a peculiar plaintive, wailing song full of nasal sounds. Someone else lit a cigarette. Ginty coughed.
‘Have a seat, Ms Schell, and we’ll get going.’ Rano sat at the food table and poured himself a glass of wine.
His shoulders looked very broad in the bulky camouflage jacket that hung open over a clean khaki T-shirt. The cleanliness bothered her, especially when he idly scratched his chest and she saw the blood under his nails again. He swallowed some wine and swung his legs up to lie on the corner of the table. The camouflage trousers were tucked into the top of gleaming black boots. He pressed the red button on the cassette recorder and nodded to her.
‘So,’ she said, and heard her voice high with nerves. She tried again: ‘So, tell me first how you, an Englishman, became involved in this war.’
‘My mother was born here. Most of her family still live here. She brought me up to speak the language, sing the songs.’ He jerked his smoothly shaven chin towards the singer in the corner. ‘I’ve never felt completely English, whatever my passport says.’
‘Did she come back with you?’
He looked at her as though she was mad. ‘Of course not. She’s in her seventies.’
‘Is she glad you’re here?’