The Worm King (41 page)

‘Gizab was worse.’ He hadn’t spoken the name
of that town out loud for nearly six months. Not since the last doctor. In a
way it was fitting, being at the wake
of
a doctor. When they’d lowered Azziz
into his hole, some of the others placed little keepsakes in with him: a photo
of his parents he’d carried; a dribble of beer from a can not quite drained
prior to the battle; a tug of wool from his favorite jersey. Forsyth didn’t
have anything. Would a hunk of rotten soul now suffice?

 ‘Yeah? What was at Gizazz?’

‘It’s Gizab, with a “b”. You would’ve never
heard of it. It’s a speck of a town in southern Afghanistan.’ He paused, hoping
Winston would lose interest. No. The others were staring too, waiting for more.
Much as he hated admitting it there was also strange relief in divulging the story,
although this always felt like a weakness, which he seldom gave in to.

‘It was in April 2010. I’d been in the country
a couple of months and just getting the feel for the place. The Taliban were
using this area around Gizab for resupplying insurgents on their way to
Kandahar. They were coming from the south, and Pakistan. What happened was a
lot of the villagers roundabouts eventually got the shits with this because the
Taliban’s roadside bombs kept blowing them up by mistake. Then the Yanks came
in, and started giving the villagers compensation for the bombs, which the ’Bannies
tried to take, saying accepting money was against this religious law and blah,
blah that one too, and of course the villagers got really antsy about that, as
you’d expect, because the Taliban were using the cash to buy new guns, and
roadside bombs. In Gizab a few locals met with the Americans and were promised
supporting troops if they set up the odd roadblock, and started arresting the
Taliban to put them off using the area.

‘Well. These locals went for it. Arrested a
few ’Bannies, then sat back waiting for the Yanks to roll in. Unfortunately the
Yankee cavalry got badly delayed by a flooded river, which they hadn’t
expected. Despite it being a floody time of the year. The villagers found
themselves in a pickle. An absolute army of Taliban had swept in from the
surrounding hills and encircled Gizab. This shopkeeper named Lalay had taken
control in Gizab and shot a few of the Taliban prisoners, so he wasn’t in a negotiating
mood, and the whole thing developed into a fairly substantial firefight—let me
tell you—centered on downtown Gizab. The Yanks still couldn’t get through, so they
decided the next logical step was to fly in the Aussie commandos, to give Lalay
support until the cavalry could arrive. I went in attached to that unit.

‘The fight went on for more than twelve
hours, before resup properly rolled in and the ’Bannies pulled back. I ended up
only firing a couple of clips and spent most of the time on my belly, so the
other blokes worked an awful lot harder than me before we got out. I spent
virtually the whole time pinned down in this broken-up, mudbrick goat-house. Couldn’t
budge until it got dark. Was outflanked on both sides, and the rear. My share
of the battle was an obscure nothing in the whole scheme of things.’

‘So why was it worse?’ asked Winston.

‘Right at the start, as soon as they realized
they had me pinned down, four of them charged across this yard in front of the
goat-house. They didn’t know I had a clear sweep, and I got one, so the rest
turned tail. He dropped less than a meter from me, right by the entrance I was
in. Then I saw it wasn’t a bloke at all, but a woman. A girl, really. She
wouldn’t have even been twenty. Got her through the eye. There was . . . brains . . . splashed
on the ground, back behind her. She’d been carrying an AK and that was on the
ground too, right back in the middle of the mess. I spent ages laying there, trying
to work out how the gun could’ve landed that far back and the only thing I come
up with was she must’ve been carrying it behind herself somehow, not even
pointed at me while she was running but they all charged so quick I didn’t have
time to see.

‘Anyway, I had to keep watching this yard
for nearly three hours, in case they tried it on again. All I could do was wait
till it got dark enough then slither out and get back to the others. They
weren’t far away and they’d got themselves pinned down too. Same as me, waiting
it out. There was a lot of other shooting going on; a heap of shouting and
noise, but the worst thing was, every so often there’d be this short, calm
patch, and I’d hear this baby crying, and couldn’t help thinking: is that hers?’

‘Oh no!’ cried Astrid.

Forsyth decided that was probably enough of
Gizab today, even though only a fraction of the story had been told. Winston
had gone quiet, and Astrid didn’t look half as horny so he let it be. More
could’ve been spoken of the scars, and what the doctors said and wrote
afterwards. The Cost. Maybe that would’ve scared them more.

What do doctors know anyhow? That last one had
looked like a pointy-faced rat in a sewer, about to leap on some luckless grub,
except this particular rat’s feeding ground was a spotless white office
overlooking the Duntroon drill square with its immaculately trimmed grass
border. He’d been a Major and wore gold wire glasses. Occasionally the sun
glinted off the rims, flashing across the wall, and once even zapped right over
the prominent row of his framed, embossed medical qualifications. ‘So, Captain
Forsyth, you haven’t been able to relate to women in a . . . physical
way, since?’

‘What relevance is that?’

‘Well, in your family background . . . ’

That was a long pause, doctor?

The MO grasped for the correct word. ‘Has
there been any history of . . . sexual assault, that you
know of, or suspect may have occurred?’

‘Again, what business is that of yours? But
for the record, no, of course not. Are we finished here, because this is going
nowhere fast and I have plenty of other duties to attend to, as I’m sure you’re
aware.’

‘Yes, yes. No problem. Whenever you wish,
Captain. Just one more thing before you dash off. Your younger brother, he
suffers from schizophrenia doesn’t he? Why didn’t you mention what he’d done?’

‘Because it’s none of your fucking business.
Sir.’

Doctors are brilliant at plugging up holes
with logic. Push it down, push it down they say. Suck it in. Toughen up there, soldier.
If it’s a really gaping hole they’ll whack planks around the sides to stop the
juices running out and infecting everyone else. Planks like integrity, and
mateship, and duty, honor and king and country and all that bullshit. But you
only need one weak plank—just one—and eventually the whole structure tumbles. The
big problem you’ll come to is that if you keep pushing the Evil down, so no one
ever
knows, you’ll eventually arrive at a crossroads. At this junction
you’re forced to make a statement in order to continue: “Nobody, and I mean
absolutely NOBODY, must know about this: what I’ve done here on this day.” Therefore
there can be no God because a God
would
know, and Gods know all by
definition, don’t they?

That was the problem with gin, it tended to get
Forsyth all metaphysical.

However, this did seem incredibly important.
An instant cure and absolution all rolled into one, simply by admitting there
is no God. Had others made this critical link?

‘There is no God,’ he stated loudly.

‘That’s incorrect,’ replied Lord Brown emphatically.
‘There most certainly is a God.’

‘Wait a minute!’ protested the Hat. ‘Weren’t
you saying back in Tamworth that God was invented by . . . that’s
right, relatives of Saddam Hussein wasn’t it? Back in the Dark Ages or
sometime?’

‘No, that’s Satan you’re thinking of.’ The
old man shook his head at the Hat. ‘God
is
a physical being, walking
this earth. I can prove it.’

This tore at the foundations of Forsyth’s
entire existence, so he couldn’t help taking umbrage. ‘Well, where is he then? What’s
his name? He on the electoral role?’

‘It can be anyone,’ answered Lord Brown,
undaunted. ‘Anyone at all. You could be, if you wanted.’ He pointed at Winston.
‘Or you, or anyone,’ indicating Wiremu and Astrid in turn. ‘It only takes one
thing: one . . . warp if you like, or leap of the mind, and
anyone can become a God. Do you want to know what it is?’

The dog padded over and nuzzled Forsyth’s
hand. No one uttered a word.

‘Yes,’ said Āmiria eventually.

‘All you have to do is this: truly appreciate
the Joy of a single moment, in the face of the worst possible adversity, then
you’ve made it. You, yourself are a God, and nothing can touch you. That’s all
it takes. It’s a verified proof.’ He waved his tatty notebook in the air. ‘I’ve
done the numbers. It’s all here.’

An eon seemed to drift past. Outside the
wind eased and air became still.

This was a new angle. Up until now he’d
spent his entire life worrying about offending whoever might be “Up-There”, but
Brownies theory was that it could be him all along. He liked it! There
was
a hint of logic behind it: the worse things got, the more chance you have of
becoming a God yourself. It felt like a faint light appearing way, way back in
the darkness. Hang on, he certainly wasn’t a God yet? That’d be a big stretch
in anyone’s books. So did that mean more adversity was required before attaining
god-status? That sounded a hard argument too, because things were pretty bloody
ad-verse right now. He voiced this concern.

Lord Brown said, ‘How do you know? Your
journey isn’t finished yet, so how do you know how adverse it may become?’ He
opened his notebook and leafed through, then tore out two pages and passed them
over.

Both were maps, one of New South Wales and
the other of the Middle East together with the western half of Asia, each signed
in the bottom right-hand corner with an elaborate “LB.”

Gizab was there, drawn more or less where it
should be. The more he studied the layout, noticing the accurate border grid
references, it was
exactly
where Gizab ort to be in southern
Afghanistan; uncannily so. There were also spots marked in he hadn’t heard of,
like the Battle of Kadesh, and towns he thought didn’t exist anymore, like
Persepolis and Babylon.

Then he remembered lying in the dust that
day at Gizab, thinking not one single, person in the whole of fucking Australia
would’ve heard of this pisspot little town. This place where he was murdering girls.
Not one solitary person would even know where it is.

It appeared he’d been wrong.

Come on, it’s the wake for Azziz! Just four left
going and they’d turned off all the lanterns, bar one. Forsyth mixed the drinks.
No more gin, no more rum, so they were down to tequila.

At the corner of the L-shaped sofa Murray was
telling Wiremu what he saw leaving New Zealand, about the volcanoes. Wiremu’s
head slumped and his shoulders shook. Forsyth left the drinks on the floor by
their feet then stumbled back to Astrid.

How can you expect a man to see beauty or
joy after finding out his country went up in a puff of smoke and everyone he
knew back there’s toast? It didn’t make sense, and he slid even deeper into the
hole this awful life had become. You think you’ve reached rock-bottom, then whack!
One more notch down you thought you’d never get vaguely near. Whack! That’s
another plank gone.

Whack!

Much, much later as the squealer approached
the final pour only Forsyth and Astrid were left upright, still drinking, and he
was getting tired of conversation but she wanted to know more.

‘Anyway, the army’ve always had their eye on
me.’ He tried to laugh but it felt forced and empty.

‘So you really used to speak to the
submarine captains too?’

‘That’s right. They’d give me the
hydrophonic readings and bingo, a few calculations later you could forecast
anything. Simple ’shrigonometry.’

‘I’ve always wondered what it’d be like down
on a submarine, travelling the world.’

‘You don’t see much. And security’s usually
pretty tight.’

‘Yes, I am.’
Hiccup.
Giggle. ‘Sorry.’
She lifted a hand to cover her mouth then placed the other hand lightly on his
arm. ‘I’m not used to drinking tequila: it’s got a funny taste, hasn’t it?’ Her
voice slurred.

‘That’ll be the salt.’

Chapter Forty-Three

Ho Ho Ho

K
rystal stood on the chair with her ear pressed to the hole. The
lights were on and she could hear Mr Snow through the wall, talking to . . . Bob?
Natasha held her legs so she didn’t fall off. They’d both been loath to touch
the bag Bob left but as soon as the lights came on, Krystal put it in the
bathroom, out of sight.

Mr Snow said: ‘I’m going to take the twins
to Yass. Unfortunately I think I’ll have to actually swap one for the tanker
this time. You can keep the other one though.’

‘Is it an anyfing?’ Bob croaked. His voice sounded
raspy, like he’d just smoked lots of cigarettes all at the same time.

‘Anything you like,’ Mr Snow replied. There
were slobbering noises, much like a cartoon pig feeding.

For another minute she listened as Dick talked
about some dinner, then Krystal pulled away from the hole and looked down at
her sister in shock.

‘What are they saying? What is it!?’ Natasha
whispered urgently.

‘Just stuff about clouds.’ Krystal got down,
shaking. Without warning the lights went off. They felt their way back to the
bed. ‘Can you hold my hand?’

Zzzzzzzzzssssssshhht!

‘Guess what?’ said Krystal quietly.

‘What?’

‘It’s Christmas Day.’

Zzzzzzzzzssssssshhht!

Zzzzzzzzzssssssshhht!

Zzzzzzzzzssssssshhht!