Flyaway

Paul fired again and the bullet ricocheted from rock to rock. Byrne yelled above Lash's screams, 'Paul, stop shooting, for Christ's sake! You'll kill us all.'

I tried to lever myself up, but I used the wrong arm and got a jolt of pain. When I finally sat up and looked around I saw the bodies of Zayid and Kissack and Lash, who was screaming just as Bailly had screamed in the Tenere. The other two had vanished. It had all happened within, perhaps, twenty seconds.

Byrne yelled again. 'Come out, Paul. Show yourself.'

Paul came from behind a rock. His face was white as paper and his hands shook uncontrollably. Byrne stepped forward and caught the rifle as it fell. 'Did you fill the magazine?'

Paul nodded wordlessly..

'Any more ammunition?'

Paul dug his hand into his pockets and passed the cart-ridges over. He stared at Lash and then clapped his hands over his ears to shut out the endless screaming. I wanted to do the same but I couldn't lift my left arm. When a man is killed in the films he folds up decorously and has the decency to die quietly; in real life it's different.

Byrne pulled back the bolt of the rifle and an empty brass case flew out. He slammed the bolt forward and locked it and then, without warning, stepped over to Lash, put the muzzle of the rifle to his temple, and pulled the trigger.

The shot crashed out and after the echoes had died away the silence was shocking. Byrne looked at me and his face was drawn and haggard. 'My responsibility,' he said harshly. 'Three bullets – one in the belly. He wouldn't have lived. Best this way.'

'Okay, Luke,' I said quietly. So died a man who said he detested gratuitous violence but who would kill coldly to a plan. In my book Lash had been worse than Kissack.

Byrne was reloading the rifle. 'You hurt?'

'I caught one in the arm – I'm flying on one wing.'

He grunted. 'You two wait here,' he said, and went off without another word.

Paul walked over and looked down at Lash. 'So quick,' he whispered. Whether he was referring to what Byrne had done or to the entire action I didn't know. He turned his head. 'You all right?'

'Help me up.' My left arm was beginning to really hurt; it felt as though an electric shock: was being applied at irregular intervals. As he hoisted me to my feet I said, 'You did well, Paul; very well.'

'Did I?' he said colourlessly.

'These bastards were seriously considering burning me in the plane,' I said. 'And if I know Kissack he'd have liked to burn me alive – and so would Lash if he thought it would contribute to realism.' I paused; I was waiting for the sound of shots but all was silent.

Paul turned a puzzled face towards me. 'What was it all about, Max?'

'I don't know,' I said. 'But I'm going to find out. And now, for God's sake, will you cut me loose? But be careful with my arm.'

Byrne came back half an hour later. The rifle was slung over his shoulder and he was leading two pack camels. He leaned the rifle against a rock and said, 'No problem,' then held out his wrists. 'I don't remember breaking free,' he said. 'I just did it. You did well with that stone chopper.'

'The other two men?'

He indicated Lash. The paymaster is dead, so no pay – no fight. Trash from the Maghreb. I gave them three camels and water and told them to get to hell out of it. They won't bother us none.' He tossed the leading rein to Paul and un-slung a box from the pack saddle. 'Let's see your arm.'

He pronounced it to be broken, which I already knew, set it in a rough and ready way and put it in an improvised sling. 'We'd better get you back to civilization,' he said.

But there was much to do before that. Paul helped him load the three bodies on to the camels and they went away. Where they went I don't know but they came back two hours later without the bodies. In that time I had finished rebuilding the cairn over Billson's body. Byrne laid the aluminium plaque on top. 'No propeller,' he said wryly. 'Can't shift it again.'

We cleaned up around the cave, picking up spent cartridge cases and other evidence, then went back to Flyaway, and Paul looked at the blackened wreckage and shook his head. 'Why?' he asked again.

No one answered him.

'We leave tomorrow at dawn,' said Byrne. 'But this time we ride.'

And so we did, with Byrne grumbling incessantly about the damnfool way the Chaambas rigged their camels for riding.

CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

As Edward FitzGerald might have put it, 'Djanet was Paradise enow'. Four days later Byrne saw me settled comfortably in a hotel room, then went away, probably to see Atitel and to tell him that his broken leg was worth ten camels, after all – delivered to Bilma at the beginning of next season. I wondered how much a broken arm was worth.