Bite by Nick Louth Page A

at the highest point of the body. He laid the corpse in the mud between us, drew his knife again and sliced off the left ear. He smiled at my horrified expression, and stuffed the bloody morsel into a bulging plastic bag in his pocket. I watched him stand, then rest his boot on the young brown forehead, forcing it down until ochre water rolled into the open mouth, and washed over the soft brown eyes with their fine long lashes. He trod the body into the goo leaving only an outline of raised mud. He waved his hands towards me, urging me to slop mud over the body, to break up the outline of the corpse.
    Revolted, I opened my mouth to refuse. He hissed at me to be silent. His narrowed predator eyes flecked yellow and brown in the sun as if they too were part of his camouflage. He pointed to the body then wrote four letters in the mud: KPLA. Perhaps he had saved my life. I had my little part in the cause of this death, so did as I was told. Then I wiped my muddy hands all over my legs and arms, smeared my hair and sarong, starting to think like a guerrilla. He nodded with approval.
    The soldier scanned the bush, then stepped over to the metal box. He opened the hinged lid and looked inside at what first appeared to be dozens of dull green, metallic fruit. He picked one of the hand grenades up, squinted at it. A thick pin went through the top of the grenade, with a ring on the end. To this ring he tied a foot long piece of wire, then buried the grenade under the others so only a few inches of wire protruded. With his knife he broke the hinge on the box. He tied the wire to the underside of the lid, then replaced it, and closed the catch, checking that the damage to the hinge could not be seen.
    He pointed to my toothbrush and facecloth, so I picked them up immediately. The soldier pointed deeper into the bush in the direction the KPLA had come from, so I followed him. Buzzing flies appeared. Under a bush was a body in Zairean uniform, its face pulped and crawling with blood-coloured ants. A little further was the sign of a campfire, the ashes still glowing.
    Five minutes later a huge explosion rocked the forest and we could hear screams, shouting and sustained gunfire. The soldier pushed me to the ground, then crawled forward, concealing himself behind the corpse. Five teenage KPLA boys came running down the path, spattered in blood, wailing. The soldier’s gun coughed for a moment, then there was no movement, only a pale blue flip flop now dangling and dancing from a bush.
    I lay sobbing for a few minutes while the soldier got up and headed back up the path. I heard his gun twice more in the distance, then nothing. I waited, trembling, for ten, fifteen then twenty minutes. Carefully I made my way back towards Zizunga, up the path to the pond and the stink of burned human flesh. My beloved glade was now an abattoir, the pretty pale-blue flowers scattered with glistening meat and shreds of clothing. A jagged piece of metal box protruded from a tree bough above my head. There were at least a dozen bodies, including some with slit throats. Every one had the left ear cut off.
    (Erica’s Diary 1992)

Chapter Thirteen
    The guests drifted away as the champagne ran out, and by midnight Max and Henk were clearing away glasses, while Henk’s slim Spanish boyfriend Ricardo cleaned up in the kitchen. When the doorbell went, Henk spoke into the intercom and pressed the downstairs buzzer.
    â€˜It’s a Mr Loebe for you,’ Henk said.
    Max opened the door, listening to the heavy breaths and slowing footsteps as the minister trudged up the staircase.
    â€˜Ah. Why no elevator, Mr Carver?’ gasped Loebe, who was wearing an enormous cream linen suit. ‘Who said the Netherlands was a flat country? They must all be mountaineers!’
    Max showed him inside and got him a drink, while the minister mopped his forehead and the back of his fleshy neck with a snow white handkerchief.
    â€˜Fabulous sculptures, Mr Carver. I saw