Manus Xingue (5 page)

‘Don’t worry, Homer – Dublin and Edwards will be chasing that one million reward on Chevez’s head – they are too stupid to see the bigger picture.’

Off the jungle-dirt, logging road, the SAS troopers check their weapons. Lacy is admiring his powerful sniper rifle, supplied by Major Bodeen. ‘I could put a round up a gnat’s
Khyber
at 2,500 metres – you can’t beat a 7.62-calibre.’

‘5.56-calibre are useless,’ agrees Edwards. ‘It’s all down to those poncy, powdered–arse, English poofs in Whitehall.’

Kane notices the grenade-launcher. ‘Bury it, Frank! If the grenade hits a tree, it will bounce straight back in our fucking laps!’ Dublin complies, swearing under his breath.

‘We have no night-fighting equipment, no communications,’ moans Edwards.

‘Complain to my union,’ answers Kane. ‘Chevez has only an old bolt-action Jerry Mauser. He reloads his own shells, for fuck’s sake – oh, and by the way, Lacy, you are the medic on this op.’

‘Why me, Sarge?’ Lacy complains, ‘I hate giving injections.’

‘The medical kit weights an extra ten pounds – you are the youngest.’

‘When can we have
nosebag,
Sarge?’ Lacy asks. ‘I’m bloody starving – I could eat an elephant’s foreskin – medium rare, with butter.’

‘We wait for our Marpari tracker, then move away from the tree-fellers.’

‘Sarge!’ says Lacy, ‘I have a log on the tailboard, touching cloth.’

‘What the fuck you on about?’ Dublin growls.

‘I need a
pony
– a
tom-tit
,’ replies Lacy, getting up and walking away.

‘For Christ’s sake lad!’ says Kane. ‘Take your bloody rifle – a soldier without a rifle is like a prostitute without a fanny.’

Lacy picks up his rifle and disappears into the jungle. ‘Idiot,’ comments Dublin. ‘How did that useless Cockney prick slip through Selection?’

‘Well he has,’ answers the Sergeant. ‘Lacy is now badged – accept it!’

What’s the chance of a drink, Jim?’ Dublin asks, looking at a bottle of bourbon.

‘No chance, Frank – once you and Taffy start, you can’t stop!’

Out of sight, Lacy squats. He is nervous, wide-eyed, and constantly scans the jungle from left to right while keeping an eye on the jungle floor for creepy-crawlies. Suddenly, Jack Lacy has to do a double-take. He sees a grinning, ceremonial-scarred face and a pair of bloodshot eyes staring at him through the foliage. Lacy, usually quick to flight, is initially transfixed by fear!

However, his paralysis is only temporary, for when the grotesque, naked indian shows himself, Lacy springs to life! Pulling up his fatigues and grabbing his rifle, he legs it! The three other SAS troopers quickly grab their weapons, taking up a defensive position!

‘What’s up lad?’ Kane whispers.

‘Gordon Bennett, Sarge!’ There’s an ugly, stark-bollock-naked indian out there watching me – with a bloody great hard on!’ The grinning naked indian appears behind Lacy – it’s Manus Xingue!

‘That’s our Marpari tracker,’ says Kane calmly, ‘and he’s not got a hard on, you idiot. His knob’s in a penis-sheaf – his foreskin is tied to his belt, keeping his prick standing proud.’

The four SAS troopers study the indian, who returns their stares grinning, exposing his blackened, filed teeth.

‘Look at the size of his bastard head,’ Lacy observes.

‘Shut it!’ snaps Kane. ‘Marparis are
tame
indians – they understand our lingo.’

The troopers notice the indian’s fibre backpack is dripping blood! Kane gestures to the indian to sit down – he squats next to Lacy.

‘You – Marpari?’ Kane enquires. The indian nods.

“‘
Rumpleforeskin”,
(Lacy’s name for the new arrival) doesn’t look very
tame
to me, Sarge. In fact he looks as
wild
as a woodbine.’

‘The Yanks do not use
wild
indians,’ Kane informs. ‘You know Chevez?’

‘Yes – Chevez bad man.’

‘Will Chevez walk solo?’ Kane enquires.

‘Chevez walk with Kier Verde – Invisible People,’ replies the indian. ‘They bad people – use poison – white soldiers must kill many Kier Verde. Chevez have beautiful Kier Verde woman.’ The indian makes a rude gesture.

‘We have come to kill Chevez, not Kier Verde indians,’ Kane replies.

‘Our new,
venereal
friend is a horny little toad,’ comments Taffy Edwards suspiciously. ‘An agent provocateur. What is on your back – dripping blood?’

‘Monkey!’ the grinning indian replies.

‘If that’s a monkey,’ adds Dublin, ‘my prick’s a bloater!’

‘Leave it, you two,’ orders Kane.

‘You know hut Chevez trade in tomorrow night? Kane asks.

‘The indian nods. ‘Mendoza trade there.’

‘What’s your name?’

‘Americanos call “Indian Joe”.’ Lacy’s
blond
hair and
blue
eyes fascinate the indian.

‘I think our
venereal
friend fancies you, Lacy,’ Edwards quips.

‘Leave me out!’ Lacy replies. ‘Rumpleforeskin’s a brown hatter – that’s gospel. I’m moving – he
pen
and
inks
something rotten, like a vegetarian’s fart.’

‘Stay where you are lad!’ Kane orders.

‘What tribe are you?’ Taffy Edwards asks, still suspicious.

‘Marpari tribe,’ Indian Joe answers.

‘Where you learn speak English?’ Edwards probes.

‘Indian Joe comes with father to Sacred Rock – Kier Verde kill father! Missionaries find Indian Joe – teach English.’ Indian Joe gets up and walks away. ‘I don’t trust our
venereal
friend,’ Dublin hisses.

‘I agree with Frank,’ says Edwards.

‘The Yanks must think highly of Indian Joe to use him,’ says Kane.

‘The Yanks thought highly of
Pol Pot
at first,’ Edwards answers.

Indian Joe returns, less incriminating backpack. He holds his hand out towards Sgt Kane. The sergeant hands the indian a packet. Indian Joe opens it with his teeth, tips some of the contents on the back of his hand and snorts it.

‘That’s bloody cocaine, Jim!’ Taffy Edwards exclaims.

‘Well, fuck me gently!’ swears Sgt Jim Kane. ‘That is what Major Bodeen gave me. I still have another two packets – now let’s move.’

Communications between the SAS men are made by hand signals. Indian Joe stops by the base of a tree; picking up a stick, he gently tickles a web by a large hole. Lacy takes a closer look – suddenly, a massive spider blossoms from the hole and adopts a threatening position! Lacy jumps back – terrified!

‘Fuck me! A poxy, E-type spider!’

Indian Joe pins the spider down from above, avoiding the one-inch long fangs. He then folds its legs upwards one by one and wraps it in a leaf.

‘The fucker’s still alive, Sarge!’ Lacy protests. ‘Tell Rumpleforeskin to rip its reed out!’

‘Shut your trap!’ Kane replies. ‘That’s his nosebag!’

‘I won’t be able to sleep tonight,’ grumbles Lacy. ‘That spider and a cokehead!’

‘You have just volunteered for sentry duty,’ says Kane.

They soon reach a small river. Indian Joe shades his eyes from reflection and looks into the water. ‘What’s he doing, Sarge?’ Lacy asks

‘Giving the water
a good coat of looking over.’
Indian Joe then carefully walks into the waist-deep river. He quickly returns, both hands covering his crutch.

‘No piranha – no anaconda – plenty candera fish. Very bad!’

Kane takes out packets of Durexes and hands them around. Indian Joe holds out his hand. ‘Bollocks!’ swears the Sergeant. ‘There goes my spare.’

‘What are these spunk bags for, Sarge?’ grins Lacy. ‘I never use them – it’s like eating chocolate with the wrapping on.’

‘One’s for the barrel of your rifle – one’s for your knob when we cross. The other is for the next knocking shop we pass.’

‘What! You know one here?’ Lacy asks, pleasantly surprised.

‘There’s a small thin fish in this river called a
candera
,’ says Edwards. ‘It loves to swim up the eye of the old spitting cobra and once he’s there, all snug and cosy, the little fucker won’t budge! When you take a leak, it will feel like pissing glass splinters, so get that bloody Durex on, sharpish.’

The troopers put on the condoms, closely watched by Indian Joe.

Lacy is having trouble. ‘I need a lazy lob first,’ announces Lacy, ‘and I can’t concentrate with Rumpleforeskin eyeballing me.’

‘I’ve put bigger bait on a hook,’ observes Taffy Edwards.

‘You wouldn’t like it on the end of your nose – for a wart,’ Lacy replies.

The group enters the river. Indian Joe grips his foreskin with his fingers.

Once across the gently flowing river, they check for leeches. ‘Fuck me gently!’ Kane swears. ‘I’m the only sod to cop one.’ – then, to Lacy, ‘Always scrape a leech off with your knife. A leech is like a bag of shit – squeeze it and the poison goes into the wound!’ The group moves on.

After the four SAS troopers have passed, seven snarling jaguars’ heads rise above the foliage and watch them! The snarling cat-heads then sink back down, their rosette-spotted hides merging perfectly into the dappled jungle’s shade!

Kane halts, reaching a clearing. ‘We can bivvie here tonight. Lacy, I do not want to hear the terms 24-7, 9-11, see high-fives, bandanas, hugging – no touchy-feely crap.’

‘I won’t if you won’t,’ Lacy answers.

‘Look, lad – take soldiering more seriously,’ says Sgt Kane. ‘Keep your big gob shut, your eyes wide open. If anything is out of place, even by a gnat’s cock, give it
a good coat of looking over –
could be a trap! Look through the jungle, not at it!’

‘Can I light a
Jeremiah
now?’ Lacy asks.

‘Ok, the tree-fellers don’t cross the river because of wild indians.’

The troopers sit around a fire, eating their rations. Indian Joe lights his own fire, out of sight of the troopers. Soon the smell of roast meat drifts towards the SAS soldiers. ‘That smells good,’ Lacy remarks.

‘You know, Jim,’ muses Dublin, ‘Taffy and me have seen many Marparis. None look like our
venereal
friend – they didn’t have filed teeth either!’

‘Those three skulls on his belt don’t look like monkey skulls to me,’ adds Taffy Edwards suspiciously. ‘Monkeys have canines – they look like shrunken,
human
skulls to me – two have red hair, one blond hair, and I’ve never seen monkeys with blue eyes before!’

‘So you’re an anthropologist already,’ replies Kane. ‘The red hair could be red ochre – the blond, bleaching. He may look like a deformed troll but he was at the exact spot, he speaks English (wild indians can’t), he knows about Chevez. What more do you want – a curriculum vitae?’

‘I still don’t trust him,’ adds Dublin. ‘He needs watching!’

Kane calls the indian over. Indian Joe approaches, wiping his greasy mouth.

‘Why you no look like Marpari?’ Kane asks.

‘Indian Joe big Shaman – Marpari tribe.’

‘There’s your answer, boys. He’s a Shaman, a kind of Welsh Druid, Taffy – in your case, Frank, a Jesuit priest doing a spot of moonlighting.’

The troopers eat their rations. Dublin burns his hand lighting a cigarette from the fire. Lacy laughs as the Irishman curses.

‘Lacy would laugh if his old woman’s fanny caught alight,’ Taffy Edwards remarks.

‘Girlfriend – her name’s Sally,’ answers Lacy. ‘She works behind the
Jack
and
Jill
in the Grenadiers’ Arms.’

‘Know it well,’ says Dublin. ‘Just off the Strand – full of randy guardsmen who would shag a frog if they could stop it leaping!’

‘After they have bummed all the English MPs in Westminster for money,’ adds Taffy Edwards, ‘they are down the Grenadiers’ Arms to mullah the barmaids for
free
! Don’t expect a mouse’s ear hole!’

‘Get some more wood, Lacy,’ orders Kane. Lacy leaves.

‘Lacy’s not biting – he’s armour-plated – he’s ex-Marine’ says Kane.

‘Lacy can’t be trusted – all Cockneys east of the river are Pikeys! Lacy is as useless as a Durex in a lesbian bar!’ Dublin adds.

‘Lacy’s a weak link,’ says Edwards. ‘He could get one of us killed, Jim!’

‘A penny to a pinch of snuff,’ says Dublin, ‘Lacy could never kill in cold blood – he’s too soft!’

‘Lacy will learn – we did,’ replies Kane.

Kane is curious to know why Edwards and Dublin were in Belize – so convenient for this operation. ‘Coincidence, Jim,’ answers Edwards. ‘We were bored after Selection.’

‘How many died?’ Kane asks.

‘Five,’ replies Dublin. Two on the Brecon Beacons – exposure and heart failure – two lifted their heads on a live fire exercise.’

‘What about number five, Nobby Clark, the London lad?’ Kane asks.

‘He died in the Interrogation Room – a brain haemorrhage,’ answers Edwards. ‘Any fit man with a weak hose in his head – bang….a haemorrhage, a bloody leak, see, Jim.’ Edwards changes the subject, ‘Frank and me may buy this farm.’

‘I have met a fine Connemara colleen,’ Dublin adds, ‘sound in wind and limb. She can pull a plough and won’t be in and out of the repair-shop every week, like some fancy woman with legs like ole sticks.’

Kane is not convinced. ‘You both piss all your money up against the wall or give it to the bookies.’

Lacy returns with the firewood. ‘Sarge, why haven’t we got escape belts?’

‘Because it will save me hours listening to stories of how the sovereigns got lost in quicksand,’ says Sgt Kane, looking at Edwards and Dublin (both frequent losers of sovereigns).

‘Now a
Chinese parliament
,’ says Kane spreading out a map. ‘Chevez will be here tomorrow night – leaving at first light, using this trail heading north.’

‘Makes sense,’ adds Edwards. ‘There’s a swamp to the south. We should set up an ambush at right angles so we don’t cop friendly fire. We don’t want to kill Mendoza – he is a Brazilian national.’

‘I agree,’ says Dublin. ‘Taffy and me will send a few rounds high into the hut from the south – Chevez will bolt. You, Jim and Lacy will be waiting on the trail north, in ambush.’

‘Agreed,’ says Kane, handing Lacy a picture of Chevez. ‘It’s up to you to identify and nail our target.’

‘A crippling shot will do – we can kill him later!’ Dublin hands Lacy a hollow-point cartridge. Jack Lacy looks at Sgt Kane for advice.