Stone Kingdoms by David Park

me, as if the images running in my head are projected on my eyes, and then I turn my head away, stare myopically at some painting.
    That night, as the sodium light of the street seeps into the shadows of my flat, I stand at the corner of the window and watch a young couple lilt along the pavement. Their voices spark the falling night, burning little holes in the stillness. I turn away, switch on the television and flick the channels to find something to divert thought, then sit in a daze, until slowly I begin to watch a programme, start to focus on the pictures.
    It is about a reef, Basif. Somewhere there is a reef, stretching out into the languorous waters of the night, the coral bushes silhouettes against a running glaze of moonlight. Their horned branches jerk upwards to the light, each bush a ghost of polyps, fixed on the calcareous, peppered bones of their own skeleton. There is a rhythm to the reef. It begins with a full moon, the stirring of warm currents and something we do not understand, as in the darkness each polyp contracts, puffs a little bead of egg into the water. They float upward like thistledown on the sea-wind to meet the pink slick of sperm. Then somewhere an egg fertilizes, and in the darkness an almost invisible ivory glint of coral larva starts silently through the waters. Drifting at first in the current, before a tiny filigree of hairs propels it into a gradual swim – a prey for protozoans and crustaceans, until it finds the safety of the reef and settles at last on its surface to grow and regenerate, replacing what has been destroyed. New generations of growth, living coral.
    As I lie in my narrow bed in a city which sleeps fitfully in the rough cradle of mountain and sea, I dream of coral. But then the burning colours fade and I drift into colder seas. I see a shadowy shape carried by the will of the current and suddenly I am separated from it by a sheet of ice which forms over the moment. Now the face is pressed against the ice looking up at me, but I can’t break through to it. I try to see who it is but the ice is too thick. I beat against it with my fists, I have to see if it’s Daniel’s face, the face of one of the soldiers, my father’s face, but I cannot break the ice and then the current swirls the body away and I waken with a shout, touch my own face.
    It is the sun slinking through the branches of the tree which touches my face now. The children have stopped chanting. I search for Nadra’s voice, try to evade the probe of Basif’s questions. How could I ever make him understand? But he persists.
    â€˜And so why did you come to Africa, Naomi?’
    I move my head, shift slightly in the chair, try to ease into a little screen of shade.

8
    We stood in front of his makeshift desk like miscreants in the headmaster’s study. He had already thrown down his shades, presumably to show the anger in his eyes, but they also revealed enjoyment as he berated us for our stupidity. I thought Veronica was about to cry and beg forgiveness, while at my other shoulder Martine stiffened and looked for an opportunity to stem his flow. But Haneen had told him everything and there was nothing we could say in our defence, nothing he would let us offer that might impede his performance.
    â€˜Rule number one – you do not play God. You’re only here five minutes and on the strength of whatever lousy training they’ve given you, you decide to play Mother Teresa.’ He stood up and paced the length of the desk. ‘You knew that what was on that truck was needed here, and we’re damn lucky they didn’t strip it to the axles. Out here we play the percentage game, and one baby doesn’t balance out the value to this camp of that cargo. I don’t give a shit for your feelings – out here feelings are excess baggage. If you’ve brought feelings out here I advise you to go bury them in the nearest latrine.’
    Over his shoulder, more and more