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

I’m not sure what the others were thinking about that, but I was torn. On the one hand, I have to admit it hurt a bit to imagine that Mum – and Amelia’s and Xander’s parents – weren’t prepared to pay for our release, but on the other I was proud of them: led by Mum – and me – they were doing the right thing by holding firm. It was exactly what I’d asked her to do.

‘If General Sir starts thinking we’re not so valuable as hostages …’ Xander began, but trailed off.

‘He might put us to some other use,’ said Amelia.

‘Like what?’ Xander asked.

Unable to stop herself, but clearly frightened by her own thinking, Amelia whispered, ‘Since this is a training camp for child soldiers, the obvious answer would be to train us up. He may decide we’ll sell for more as … cannon fodder.’

Nobody said anything as the implications of this sank in. Imagine actually fighting a war. Against other child soldiers and men. Being sniped at, machine-gunned, bombed. My tongue was running around the inside of my mouth, probing a painful cut inside my cheek. It felt raw, like an abscess. Bad food, without enough vitamins, can give you those; I’d read about that in a book on pirates, ironically enough. Not the modern type who’d kidnapped us; the old-school ones with eye-patches and parrots. At sea for months on end without sight of a vegetable or any fruit. Scurvy is a thing. Never mind being torn apart on a battlefield, we were already falling apart here. Anger welled up within me.

‘It changes nothing,’ I said. ‘We got ourselves into this mess and we’re going to get ourselves out of it. If anything, it just means we should put an escape plan into action sooner rather than later.’

Mo hung his head.

Xander said, ‘Sure.’

And Amelia said, ‘Of course.’

Through gritted teeth I muttered, ‘I mean it.’

39.

Maybe it had to do with his disappointment at not having offloaded us on the Leopard, or possibly he’d been planning this visit all along: either way, General Sir pulled a chair into our midst after nightfall that evening and said, ‘You know I have an English passport, like you guys?’

‘Sure,’ I said under my breath.

‘I do. I lived there for a while. In London. A place called Camden.’

‘That explains the accent,’ said Amelia. ‘But if you lived there, what are you doing here?’

‘This is where I’m from originally.’

Despite myself I was interested. ‘So, what happened?’ I asked.

‘My family were from Mogadishu. The capital. We endured the war at its worst here, during the 1990s. My father fought in it. He was killed when I was six.’

‘That’s a shame,’ said Amelia. She’s so unintentionally deadpan that even I, in that moment, couldn’t work out whether she was being sarcastic or genuine.

‘Sad, yes,’ said General Sir, taking no apparent offence.

‘What took you to England?’

‘I went as a refugee. When my father was killed my mother fled with me and my brothers and sisters. To Ethiopia first. And from there a long and dangerous journey to England. My youngest sister died on the way. She was only a baby.’

‘Also sad,’ said Amelia.

In the pause that followed, something shrieked in the dark. It sounded panic-stricken and human. I thought of the boys held in the pits. They were still out there. General Sir took this opportunity to say, ‘Noises always seem more sinister at night.’ Whatever he intended by this comment, it wasn’t reassuring.

‘What was that?’ said Xander.

‘A wild dog, I think. They make a lot of noise but they’re no real threat to us here.’ He went on. ‘I made it to England with my mother and two elder brothers, in the end.’

‘My cousin lives near Camden,’ said Amelia. ‘I’ve been there loads. Why did you come back here? Didn’t you like it?’

‘My family liked Camden very much. We went to school and lived in a good house. My elder brothers still live in London. So does my mother. My brothers worked hard and they have done well. One has his own computer business now, and the other is a hospital physio. He helps … rehabituate people who’ve had accidents.’

‘Rehabilitate,’ said Amelia, unable to let the slip pass.

General Sir ignored her. ‘I liked being in London, but other people,’ he said vaguely, ‘didn’t like me being there so much. There was a misunderstanding.’ He smiled at us in turn. ‘About a burglary, I think. Yes, a burglary. Teenage foolishness on my part.’ He held up his hands and smiled harder.

I used to have nightmares about strangers coming into my room while I was asleep. Even locking the window didn’t stop the bad dreams. I knew my fear was irrational: Mum told me all about the statistical improbability of a burglar targeting our house. But when I was about eight the nightmares got so bad, I refused to go to bed. Mum couldn’t persuade me to and I even refused to go when ordered by Dad. I only went when my brother, Mark, offered to sleep on the floor in my bedroom, as a first line of defence. He kept it up for a week. Now, listening to General Sir casually admit to burglary, the thought crossed my mind that he’d been among the people I’d been so terrified of back home as a little kid.

‘You left London because of a burglary?’ I said.

He nodded and smiled. ‘It was most regrettable.’

I looked at Mo. He stared back at me; it felt like he was willing me not to ask for more details. Since General Sir seemed to want the chance to elaborate, I held my tongue. I didn’t want to give the maniac the satisfaction.

He sat back in his chair. ‘So, yes, with my mother’s blessing, I returned to our wonderful capital, Mogadishu. And from there –’ he waved in the general direction of the darkness – ‘my adventures brought me to this lovely part of the world!’

As if on cue, the wild