Jimfish by Christopher Hope Page A

of collaboration with the regime down south still went on. But it was always hidden. Nowadays it’s open season and any strong man worth his secret bank account, who feels a little uneasy about his rival or is in trouble with his people, is ready to cut a deal with the old enemy.’
    Jimfish was nonplussed. ‘What can have happened to bring about this great change?’
    Now it was the brigadier who looked surprised. ‘Where on earth have you been that you haven’t heard the news?’
    â€˜In Zaire,’ Jimfish and Lunamiel told him.
    â€˜Ah well, now I understand. That hellhole is as mad and as bad and as far from the real world as ever it was when the Belgians ran it – if not further,’ said the brigadier. ‘Let me give you news from home. After twenty-seven years behind bars Nelson Mandela has been freed and everyone knows he will be the next President of South Africa. Instead of being polecats and pariahs, South Africans are fast becoming hot property. Their armaments, muscle, money and business acumen – personified in the military advisors of Superior Solutions – find willing buyers up and down the continent. In fact, if you would consider, my dear Jimfish, joining in this civil war of ours, you would be invaluable. I would promote you to colonel in my own regiment and pay you in diamonds as large as sugar lumps.’
    But here he was interrupted. A small boy with a very large gun was waving to him and the brigadier told them he’d have to finish the conversation later.
    â€˜There is a fourth force fighting in this civil war. My own. Now I must run. My troops are waiting.’

C HAPTER 18
    With that, Brigadier Washington Truman Roosevelt slipped away, and when he appeared again at the head of his troops he was a changed man. He had taken off all his clothes except for his laced-up leather boots, and he was leading a squadron of children, most of them boys, who could not have been more than twelve years old. They were armed with AK-47s or rocket-propelled grenades, or manned machine guns mounted on pickup trucks, and were wailing and shrieking like demented banshees as they advanced fearlessly on the enemy.
    But it was their fancy dress that was as frightening as their firepower. These children might have been the drunken guests at an insane wedding party or a ghoulish college graduation or Halloween frolic: some wore bridal gowns, others tiaras, wedding veils, mortar boards or they sported purple and pink fright wigs. But there was nothing theatrical about their weapons or their fighting abilities. These boys played real warfare like a deadly game that leaked blood, cheering and whooping at every kill,whipped into a frenzy that gave them, in their tatty wedding finery and garish fright wigs, the look of an army of maddened, murderous midgets.
    Jimfish and Lunamiel were still shaking when, some time later, the brigadier returned to the safety of the line of burnt-out trucks. He was once again dressed in his military uniform and could not have been further from the naked commander in laced-up leather boots leading his children into battle. He seemed rather amused by the confusion he had caused in the minds of the South Africans.
    â€˜My brigade, as you see, is made up of children, and young minds need something to focus on. I lead my boys on what we call magical military manoeuvres. I use special charms in action, the secret of which I am not at liberty to share with you, but these protect me from enemy fire.’
    â€˜Surely it’s not a good thing to teach children to kill?’ Jimfish asked him.
    The brigadier thought this over. ‘Children need a role in life. They want direction and training. I provide those things. Where would these kids find a job if I didn’t take them in my Small Boys Unit? Where would they learn the skills needed to get ahead in Liberia today, except by following Brigadier Bare-Butt, as they like to call me? I teach them