Thunderbolt by Wilbur Smith (reading strategies book .txt) 📕

then he softened and shrugged again, the beginnings of a smile playing on his lips. He burst out laughing. From the way the pirates joined in, it was clear they had to. Everyone laughs at the boss’s jokes.

‘Looks like I’m staying here with you,’ Mo murmured.

‘But why?’

‘The videos. General Sir has seen them. He asked why you were not sincere. It was my fault, apparently.’

Mo rubbed the side of his head. Again, I felt bad about our stunt. Something didn’t add up though. ‘But why were they laughing?’ I asked.

‘Because General Sir is happy that the films, as proof-of-life, will work anyway. He is unconcerned and for that everyone is grateful.’

When Flip-flops, Barrel-man and General Sir had finished their conversation they all shook hands and the pirates set off back in the direction from which we’d come without giving Mo, or indeed any of us, a second look.

I know it’s ridiculous but I was almost sorry to see them go.

Who the hell was this guy, and why were they leaving us with him?

Mo knew, I supposed.

General Sir now waved in the direction of the flung furniture – plastic chairs, mostly, on their sides or backs in their dirt. ‘Please, sit down,’ he said.

This was more of an order than an invitation. We did as we were told. There was a dog asleep on its side in the middle of the furniture, a big ragged-looking hound of some sort. It opened one eye as I picked up a chair, saw General Sir beside me, and levered itself up warily. Flies rose from its dusty fur. General Sir helped it on its way with a kick. The dog’s tail curled up under its belly as it quickened away.

I set the chair straight and realised it was almost identical to the one I have at my desk in my bedroom back in England. This one was dustier, and a whole lot further from whichever Ikea it had started out in. Something about the familiarity of that chair made me realise how far from home I was, and I thought of Mum. A terrible lurching sensation swept through me as I sat down.

General Sir tucked his little baton back up under his armpit, sheathing it there for now. He looked us over blankly. What did he want with us, and why was he somehow more menacing than the pirates he had taken us from?

30.

‘Now that you are our guests, we must offer you something to eat,’ General Sir said. ‘It’s the first rule of hospitality here.’ He turned and spoke to the group of kids by the fire pit and one of the boys, aged around eleven, jumped instantly to his feet and ran off in a hurry.

General Sir watched him go, then looked back at us with the same fixed smile. ‘Jamal won’t be a minute,’ he said.

In fact, the boy was gone for what felt like an age, possibly because General Sir just stared at us without saying anything else until he returned. Eventually Jamal came back accompanied by another, even smaller boy, who couldn’t have been more than nine. They had a bowl in each hand. Without meeting our eyes, these two boys approached the four of us and offered us each a helping of the food they’d fetched from wherever.

Xander said, ‘Thank you,’ taking his.

Amelia and I followed suit.

Mo said nothing.

The boys backed away.

I looked down at my bowl. It contained grey gloop, the consistency of mashed potato crossed with porridge. Amelia, frowning, said – quite loudly – ‘Do you think they’ll bring us some spoons?’

‘I somehow doubt it,’ said Xander, nodding at Mo, who had already pinched a blob of whatever it was between fingers and thumb and begun to knead it into a ball of sorts. Once satisfied the stuff would hold together, he popped the ball into his mouth. Evidently, he’d eaten this dish before, but whether or not he liked it I couldn’t say: his face gave nothing away.

The gloop was stickier than it looked, a viscous paste. It clung to my fingertips. I was nowhere near as adept as Mo at making a bite-sized lump, and I can’t say I was expecting much when I eventually tasted it. In that I wasn’t disappointed. I thought: wet cardboard, with added grit. Perhaps that’s actually what it was?

I glanced at Xander. He was chewing mechanically. When he caught my eye he pulled a micro-gag expression, puffing out his cheeks for a nanosecond. Unfortunately – but true to form – Amelia spelled out what we were all thinking.

‘This is revolting,’ she muttered, and went on more loudly: ‘I’m afraid I can’t eat it. I’m not hungry enough.’

General Sir said, ‘You will be, you will be.’ There was no anger in his voice. He waved Jamal forward. The boy was wearing tatty jeans cut off at the knee and the natural dark brown of his lower legs, like his bare feet, was tinted red with dust. It was only as he retreated with Amelia’s more-or-less untouched bowl that I noticed he had a handgun sticking out of his waistband in the small of his back. I flinched. Jamal definitely wasn’t more than eleven or twelve years old. The shock of seeing his gun made me spoon up the gunk in my bowl with my fingers more rapidly. I ate without tasting, or indeed chewing much; I just thumbed the paste into my mouth and swallowed it down.

Seeing that Mo and I had finished, Jamal’s little helper approached us again carrying a metal bucket half filled with water. Sunk within it was a pink plastic beaker. He scooped the beaker full and handed it to Mo, who drank. I did the same, not allowing myself to question where the water had come from or how clean it might be. I was thirsty. We all were: everyone took their fill from that same cup.

Satisfied that he’d fulfilled the first rule of hospitality, as he put it, General Sir