Bite by Nick Louth

bottle and examined the label before turning to Max. ‘But that is one thing you didn’t make yourself, I believe.’ He turned to Lisbeth. ‘Come on, let’s go.’
    At the door an ever-attentive Henk handed Lisbeth her jacket and scarf. Max took Lisbeth’s arm and whispered. ‘Can I see you again?’
    â€˜Why?’
    â€˜Isn’t it obvious?’
    She smiled and flicked her scarf gently into his face. ‘So I was right.’
    Janus stepped up and put a big protective arm around Lisbeth. As he guided her to the door he looked over his shoulder. The dark eyes locked on to Max’s and for a moment neither man moved. Hostility crackled between them before Janus turned away.
    Max showed them to the door and listened to the rapid percussion of footsteps, one set heavy and one light, fading out down the stone stairs.

    You know something is happening when the forest goes quiet. I had awoken early, and wrapping my sarong around me, had come down to the lily pond to bathe in privacy, to see the flowers and to think. There were monkeys moving above, hooting and grunting, crashing through the branches and a pulsing buzz of crickets.
    A shrill call from a bird silenced the monkeys. Not a branch stirred. The insects’ whine seemed to be throbbing inside my head. The monkeys’ fear chilled me too, and I picked up my sarong from a bush and wrapped it tightly around me. I felt I was being watched but could see nothing among the slanting shadows of the canopy and the damp, heavy foliage.
    Distant voices and the crack of machetes carried from the forest beyond. It was four hundred yards back to the village, the first half steeply uphill, the last half flat but exposed. I thought it safer to hide, and ran to the edge of the pool, squatting down in the cover of bushes, with cool mud oozing between my toes.
    I had been looking at him for some time before I saw him, just five feet away. I gave a little gasp of surprise to see a western face, striped with mud, staring at me. He held a finger to his lips and widened his eyes to emphasis that I must stay silent. I took in his filthy Zairian Army fatigues, his shaven head, huge rucksack and the thin unwavering barrel of a stubby gun pointing at my forehead.
    The voices and machetes came still closer, and my heart began to hammer. I turned to the face for guidance, and a mud-caked hand beckoning me to lower myself flat into the mud. I did as he showed me, and he winked his approval, before turning to face the direction of sound.
    There were about twenty of them, walking in single file into the clearing. Mostly they were bony adolescents, wearing flip flops, ragged shirts and stained shorts. A few wore boots and carried heavy worn-looking rifles instead of machetes, and two older ones carried squat weapons which looked like mechanics’ grease guns. Many were struggling with heavy packs or metal boxes.
    They moved to within ten yards, then stopped, volubly discussing their route. After plenty of pointing they veered to my right as if to follow the valley upstream and skirt the village. One gangly and tired straggler of about twenty years remained behind, dumped a battered ammunition box on the grass and walked towards my bush. He pulled up the leg of his shorts and urinated noisily into the leaves. It was only when he looked down to stow himself that he saw me.
    He got only halfway through the inhalation of surprise before my companion pounced like a leopard. One moment the youth was standing, the next he was folded into a close embrace, his head resting tenderly on the man’s huge shoulder. It was only when I saw the long jagged knife pulled from under the youth’s ribcage and the hand clamped over his mouth that I knew what had happened. The whole silent process of ending a life had taken perhaps four seconds.
    The man picked up the dead youth in one arm like he was a bundle of sticks, and with the other clenched the wound, keeping it