Manus Xingue (16 page)

‘Did the strange, white soldiers see you?’ Tapia asks.

‘No, they did not see me – one looked at me when he passed – but did not see me,’ smiles Maria, ‘thanks to your mask – the mask of our people.’

‘The mask has gone!’ Tapia exclaims. ‘You have dropped it – that will bring bad luck – the soldiers will find us now!’

‘I have left many false trails,’ Maria replies calmly. ‘They will lead the white soldiers into the swamp. Now, little sister, we must see to Chevez’s wounds.’

‘This wound needs cleaning,’ announces Tapia. ‘Blow flies have laid eggs while Chevez was unconscious Blow-flies – maggots will soon start eating his flesh – it has to be cleaned quickly. I will go into the jungle and find Sapanus roots to clean the wound and kill the eggs.’

‘Also find soldier ants,’ asks Maria. ‘The wound must be closed – be careful,’ she warns. I saw the pugmarks of the evil cat-spirit – it is now in our land, looking for man-meat!’

Tapia enters the jungle to look for the medical herbs and the soldier ants. Maria cools Chevez’s forehead with a damp cloth. She then oils and cleans her husband’s old bolt-action Mauser, handling it perfectly. She checks the magazine, placing the gun within easy reach. She then hides her shotgun back under the eaves of the hut.

Chevez wakes from his malarial stupor momentarily; he is still delirious and groans, ‘Maria, where is my gun? – I have lost my gun, cara mia!’

Maria comforts her husband, cooling his forehead with water.

‘You are weak and delirious, Chevez. Sleep – your gun is safe.’

Maria then places Chevez’s rifle next to him and covers it with the blanket. She boils water. Tapia returns with all the medical herbs and the soldier ants from the jungle. The two women then prepare the herbal medicine and clean Chevez’s wounds.

‘Now we must close the wound and let it mend,’ says Maria.

Tapia holds a small, intricately folded leaf; by squashing one end of it, the other end opens like a dispenser, allowing a large-headed soldier ant, with massive mandibles, to crawl out. Maria grabs the ant from behind while pinching Chevez’s wound together with the fingers of her other hand. Positioning the wide-open jaws of the soldier ant across the wound, she allows it to bite. The sharp mandibles grip and pierce the flesh, closing it. Maria then nips off the ant’s body leaving just the head, which retains its bite holding the skin together; this is repeated all along the wound and acts as sutures.

Finishing their task, the two women now excitedly start to see what Chevez has brought back in his cotton bag. Maria shares some brightly coloured bangles with her sister.

‘Look, Tapia – coffee, sugar, salt, and some sweets!’ The two women eat the sweets enthusiastically, stuffing their mouths like children – giggling.

Back in the jungle, the two SAS troopers move slowly; night is falling. ‘We’d better stop soon, Frank,’ suggests Lacy, ‘it’s getting dark!’

‘Shut your trap,’ answers Dublin, who is now well drunk and filled with morphine and antibiotics. ‘I will tell you when we stop.’

Reaching a small clearing, both troopers stop and regard a large pile of ashes, from which smoke is still rising!

The SAS troopers approach cautiously. ‘I wonder if Chevez lit this Jeremiah.’ Lacy asks.

‘Don’t be an idiot,’ replies Dublin, having a look around. ‘The fire’s too big for one man – look at all the bare footprints – must be over a dozen men. We’ll bivouac here. Clear the ash – collect some wood.’

Lacy is not happy with this decision but keeps his big mouth shut, not wishing to set off the volatile Irishman. He begins to remove the top layer of ash and exposes a human skull split in half!

‘Gordon Bennett – fuck my old boots!’ exclaims Lacy, jumping back. ‘Someone’s burnt a stiff here, Frank!’

‘No,’ replies Dublin, ‘somebody had a bloody good dinner party here last night!’

‘What are you on about?’ Lacy asks.

‘Look at the bones, idiot,’ hisses Dublin. ‘That’s a human femur – split to get at the marrow. The skull is split open for the brains – look at all the greasy human fat on the deck.’

‘Hang a trout,’
responds Lacy, looking around. ‘You saying the Cat-men had a fry-up here last night?’

‘Well, it was not bloody Nigella Lawson,’ Dublin replies.

‘Leave me right out,’ answers Lacy. ‘I’m not kipping here tonight.’

‘I am,’ replies Dublin. ‘It’s the living you should be worried about – not the dead.’

‘Where do you think they are now?’ Lacy asks, looking around nervously.

‘What is this, twenty questions?’ replies Dublin, now sitting down, using the split skull as an ashtray. ‘Get some wood for the fire – we can cook the anaconda steaks – I could eat a whole pig’s head with cabbage.’

Frank Dublin was a paradox; a feared man in the Regiment. His father had served with David Stirling; as a result they were forced to leave Wexford in the Republic. The Dublins and the Mulhollands were among those who fought King Billy. These men were among the legendary boys of Wexford. ‘My father changed sides to see more action’ Dublin consoled himself. ‘In Wexford there is only one name more unpopular than mine, and that’s Oliver Cromwell.’ Dublin’s only loyalties now were to 21 SAS – and his old mate Taffy Edwards (now dead and buried, a victim of one of Chevez’s tricks) and to Celtic Football Club and last but not least – John Barleycorn.

Dublin hated the Anglo-Saxons and their monarchy. Although he felt for the Irish cause, he still killed his own countrymen, including his cousin – an active IRA member – and hated himself for it . He was a troubled man who could never return to Wexford. He was an excellent and ruthless SAS trooper – drink was his anaesthetic!

That night, both SAS troopers sit around the fire watching the snake steaks cook. Dublin drinks from the bottle.

‘Give us a pull, Frank,’ pleads Lacy.

‘Good whiskey is wasted on anyone under thirty,’ replies Dublin.

‘Tell you what,’ says Lacy, a pull of that bottle of gold watch for one of Major Bodeen’s la-di-das.’

‘Done!’ replies Dublin, ‘but I want you sitting right next to me – only take one swallow now!’

Lacy breaks out the Havana cigars, handing Dublin one, then sits next to him. Dublin passes the bottle over, Lacy licks his lips and grins at the Irishman who closely watches the Cockney’s Adam’s apple. Lacy takes a great swig and is about to repeat the process when Dublin grabs him by the throat, wrenching the bottle away!

‘Fuck it, Frank,’ protests Lacy, ‘you nearly ruptured my windpipe!’

‘That first swallow was an awful great pull – and you were getting ready to take another,’ points out Dublin.

‘Some grip you have there, Frank,’ answers Lacy, grinning and rubbing his throat.

‘And you have some quaff like Ollie Reed!’ Dublin responds.

‘That drink has given me an appetite; snake looks like cod,’ remarks Lacy, placing the anaconda steak into his Dixie and about to take a mouthful.

‘Make sure it’s well cooked,’ replies the Irishman. ‘All big snakes are crawling with worms.’

‘Thanks, Frank, that’s put me right off my nosebag,’ replies Lacy.

‘Give it here then,’ demands Dublin, who proceeds to wolf it down. ‘That was good shooting – at the river, the heli-gimble camera and the big cat,’ remarks Dublin. ‘I always admire a good shot. If you knew the anatomy of animals you could have killed that man-eater with a bullet just behind the shoulder or where the throat meets the chest – remember that.’

Taking advantage of the volatile Irishman’s mood swings, Lacy pushes his luck. ‘Must be worth a packet of Yank fags then?’ suggests Lacy. To his surprise, Dublin tosses a packet over.

‘Fancy a game of cards?’ asks Lacy, bringing out a pack of porno playing cards and dealing a hand. Dublin looks at his cards then throws his them into the fire.

‘What did you do that for?’ Lacy asks, looking hurt.

‘I had a hand like a pig’s foot.’ the Irishman answers.

Lacy attempts to retrieve his cards. ‘Leave them,’ orders Dublin, angrily. ‘I don’t want you wasting your energy – courting the five-fingered widow. When you were on Selection you starched your sheets every night – and in the morning so I heard – it’s a wonder you had the strength to get out of bed! Just don’t be pulling your wire when you are sleeping next to me! All marines are wankers. As Oscar Wild once said….’

‘Who the fuck’s he?’ Lacy asks, ‘a singer?’

‘No, you stupid Cockney faggot,’ replies Dublin. ‘People like you make me grateful I had a good Catholic, Jesuit education.’

‘Jesuits!’ repeats Lacy, ‘they were the ones that tortured people – stuck a metal rod up their bugles and pulled their brains out!’

‘That’s an embalmer – idiot. What books have you read?’

Jack Lacy has to think.

‘You do read books?’ asks Dublin.

‘Yeah,’ replies Lacy. ‘Well – half a book.’

‘Why only half? asks Dublin.

‘My Sally found it – tore it up!’ Lacy answers.

Dublin shakes his head. ‘There is no chance of having an intelligent conversation with you then. Give me another shot of morphine – you backward imbecile – your ignorance is beginning to annoy me.’

He complies and gives Dublin another premature shot of morphine. However, the irrepressible Lacy has a question.

‘Frank, can I wear my uniform when I meet my Sally – just the once like?’

‘Yes, if you want to be dead in a week – courtesy of the IRA – they have long memories. Now get your head down – I’ll do the night watch.’

Lacy lies down but watches Dublin as the Irishman snorts a line of cocaine, and swigs from the bottle.

The following morning the two SAS troopers are on the move again. Frank Dublin is on the last bottle of bourbon and is in a bad way; he stumbles and staggers after Lacy – who now leads.

Jack Lacy constantly looks around nervously. Dublin stops and openly snorts a line of coke. Lacy is worried about his volatile companion’s condition.

‘Time to change your dressing, Frank,’ announces Lacy.

‘I will be the judge of that,’ replies Dublin. ‘Just give me another shot of morphine.’

‘Drink and drugs will fuck you up, Frank.,’ Lacy advises.

‘The morphine is wonderful, so is the drink and cocaine – I have never felt better,’ announces Dublin. ‘Now get to it.’

Lacy reluctantly complies and gives Dublin another shot of morphine.

A troop of monkeys in a tree nearby suddenly begin screeching, shattering the quiet humidity. Lacy is scared. ‘Frank, I have a strange feeling we are being followed – a sixth sense!’

‘What do you know about it? answers Dublin. ‘You have only been in the regiment five minutes. It takes at least a dozen operations before you develop a sixth sense – like me,’ boasts the Irishman.

Dublin, normally a man of few words, is now in a talkative mood due to the drink and drugs. Lacy is nervous and wants to move on but is afraid of the unpredictable and rambling Dublin.

‘I will tell you this,’ continues the Irishman, ‘before you marry your Sally, make sure she’s sound in wind and limb. Now, I bet a penny to a pinch of snuff your Sally has legs as thin as ole sticks and she needs the repair shop every week.’ Lacy turns his back on the rambling Dublin and rolls a fag.

‘Now my old mate Taffy Edwards,’ carries on Dublin, ‘we always….’

‘Oh, not that old comrades crap – remember there’s no “touchy feely” in this regiment,’ mumbles Lacy under his breath (playing the hard luck fiddle).

Dublin tries to rise – but falls back. ‘If it where not for the Irish, Welsh and Scots, you Anglo-Saxons would not have an empire.’ Dublin passes out!

Lacy picks up the water bottles which are empty; they need to be filled before nightfall.

They are in an open stretch of ground. Jack Lacy has to enter the jungle fringe to find water. He moves off cautiously, rifle at the ready, constantly stopping to look from left to right. Every noise makes him jump! Something behind makes him spin around – he becomes entangled in a giant web blanket spun by a community of small but aggressive spiders that overcome large prey with the cumulative effect of their venom.

Lacy panics like any arachnophobe, drops his rifle and lets out a yell. ‘Fuck me!’ His look of terror soon turns to relief when he sees the small size of the first few spiders that arrive at the site of the disturbance. That is until he receives the first and the second painful bites.

‘Ouch! – Ouch! you little fuckers – that hurt!’ The newly badged SAS trooper looks up and is horrified to see hundreds of other small spiders dropping and moving towards him. he rushes out of the giant web – panicking – brushing off the biting spiders – swearing every time he is bitten!

Out of danger, Lacy composes himself and carries on his search for water. He soon finds a small clear pool. He fills the two canteens while constantly on his guard. Then, looking down, he sees the impression of a large naked footprint – water is slowly seeping into it! He’s is up in a flash, and bolts back to Dublin.

Unknown to Lacy, the mutilated face of Manus Xingue is watching him and grinning, amused at Lacy’s comical antics. Manus Xingue has a vested interest in the ex-marine – but that will wait for another day. The evil Shaman of the Cat-people presents a grotesque sight – due to injuries caused by Frank Dublin’s booby traps. Severe shrapnel wounds disfigure one side of his face, resulting in the loss of an eye. He gathers the spider’s web casually, brushing off its owners, and uses the silk to dress his partly-healed, horrendous facial wounds – he then takes a line of cocaine and grins!

Lacy rejoins the still unconscious Dublin. He is keen to move on and get into cover but has a problem with the immobile Irishman. He conceals both Bergens – slinging the rifles on his shoulder and picking up the heavy Dublin in a fireman’s lift, he staggers on.

Lacy vents his anger on Dublin. ‘You hairy, chimp-faced, shit-shovelling, bog-hopping Paddy,’ moans Lacy, enjoying his chance to insult the helpless, volatile Irishman. Then, adopting an Irish brogue, he continues… ‘Top of the morning - how she cutting, Paddy – give it some ole stick – Jesus, Mary and Joseph – a pint of Guinness in a tin glass.’

Suddenly Lacy finds himself knee-deep in swampy ground. ‘Bollocks!’ curses the young Cockney SAS trooper, looking down at the swamp and then at Dublin. The thought of dropping the Irishman into the swamp appeals but he thinks better of it and struggles on.