Angus nodded. 'I know. But...what? What can we do?' What can we do?'

No one spoke.

It was a cold and grotesque night, twisted with agony. David couldn't sleep. His thoughts stared down a black tunnel at one singular horror: he was going to be burned in the morning. At dawn. He was going to suffer like Alphonse. He hoped that death would come quickly.

He was the only one who didn't sleep. Angus and Amy whispered words of comfort to him, but in the end the sheer exhaustion weighed too heavily: they nodded out. Heads sagging.

David stayed awake. Staring into the desert black. Bitten by mosquitoes. Moths flickered against his face like tiny frightened ghosts. Even they departed as the night grew ever colder.

But then, in the grey weary hour before dawn, something moved. Something human. David stared.

Miguel was surrept.i.tiously approaching the almost-dead bonfire. The accomplices were all asleep. Miguel had replaced the guard, and taken over the duty. Now he was creeping towards the sad smoking heap of the bonfire.

The ETA terrorist looked left and right, to make sure he was not being observed. David was in the shadows, beneath the tree, away from the lanterns. Miguel evidently didn't realize that David was watching.

But watching what? What was Garovillo doing? There was something simultaneously awkward, and terrible, in the lonely drama.

Jose Garovillo's son crawled up to the bonfire and reached out a hand, across the charred and smoking embers. And he pulled at the roasted body of Alphonse. Tugging at the sagging dead meat of the man.

He was pulling on a leg. The broiled thigh of the poor Namibian youth it came away easily from the hip bone. Like a chicken leg from an overcooked bird. Miguel laid the roast leg on the sand. Then he reached in his pocket, and he unclasped a sharp big knife. He was drooling now, a line of silvery spittle caught in the moonlight; David watched as the terrorist sliced and dug with the knife, carving a chunk of the charred and broiled flesh, from Alphonse's leg.

Miguel glanced left and right one more time: the Wolf Nocturnal, guarding its prey. Then he stabbed the meat with the blade and lifted it greedily to his dribbling mouth, the salivating maw of the wolf.

Otsoko.

David retched.

Miguel looked up at the noise. The terrorist saw David. Saw that his attempt at cannibalism was observed.

A flash of guilt seemed to cross his face, inexpressible shame and guilt. The terrorist dropped the knife to the dust as if he had never meant to be holding it. Abruptly he stood, and disdainfully kicked the meat and bones into the dirty embers of the fire. Then he wiped his face with a sleeve, and sneered at David. Silently. But the sneer was unconvincing; the shame was still there. Terrible shame.

Miguel retreated into the shadows, dragging his blanket. And slept again.

David stared. Transfixed by the horror of what he had just witnessed.

Alone in the wilderness, he gazed at the desert sky. Dawn was summoning the worshipful earth to life. It tinged the horizon with green and cool blue, and the palest apricot. Faint dark shadows began to stretch across the canyon floor. The slender trees bowed like courtiers in the freshening breeze. David was still the only person awake.

He squinted, watching a big cat a few hundred metres along the dry river valley; the cat was tawny and gracile, with tufted ears and a long pert tail, prowling between the camelthorns. A caracal.

Further down the shallow canyon, he could make out large moving black shapes. Desert elephants. Making their unique pilgrimage, across all the thirstlands of Namibia, searching for water.

He wanted to cry. Because he was about to die. And the world was so beautiful. Cruelly beautiful. Savage and deathly and beautiful. He had never felt so vividly aware of everything. Every beetle, ebony black on the golden sand, every chirp of every desert bird that trilled in the soft green acacias. And he was about to die.

Miguel's voice echoed across the camp.

'OK. Come on. It is f.u.c.king f.u.c.king cold. We need to burn him. Come on! cold. We need to burn him. Come on! Egun on denoi! Egun on denoi! Wake up.' Wake up.'

Suddenly the clearing was alive with people. Shivering men waiting for their orders.

'We need wood, Miguel?'

'Get them to do it.' Miguel barked at his men. 'Use Amy and Nairn. Let them gather the firewood to roast their friend. We can brew coffee on his brains.'

'Alright.' Alan was nonchalantly pointing a pistol at them. 'As he says. Don't see why we should sweat. You You go and gather some wood. We'll be right behind you.' go and gather some wood. We'll be right behind you.'

Amy and Angus were unchained. A jabbing motion of the pistol gave them the direction. David watched from his bonds. The two prisoners shuffled down the canyon; Amy bent and picked up a small dead acacia branch. The men were smoking and laughing, swapping obscene jokes about the upcoming execution.

He noticed that Angus was talking to Amy. Whispering. Alan barked across the dust at the toiling captives: 'Shut the f.u.c.k. Just collect the wood.'

Angus turned, and apologized, then stooped to the sand and wrenched at a small dead tree, with a few remaining green leaves. Amy copied him: wrenching at a similar tree, a few yards away.

The day and the task had begun. Angus and Amy did their slow and sombre duty, piling the wood high in the clearing; a chilly breeze was kicking across the wastes, the sun was already shining, but it was still cold.

Miguel's voice was loud in the dawnlight.

'Alan, get the fire lit. It's freezing. Put our friend in the middle.'

'Yes, Mig...'

David felt himself torn apart by the acc.u.mulating horror. Even though he had been preparing himself all night, the reality was too appalling to bear. This mustn't be. This mustn't be. This mustn't be. But now they came for him. He fought and writhed, but he was one and they were many; he tried to bite one of his captors, but they slapped him into silence. Inevitably and inexorably, he was dragged across the dust to the waiting heap of wood. But now they came for him. He fought and writhed, but he was one and they were many; he tried to bite one of his captors, but they slapped him into silence. Inevitably and inexorably, he was dragged across the dust to the waiting heap of wood.

'Got the ropes?'

With brutal force he was half lifted, half shoved hoisted into the middle of the firewood. For a moment his hands were unlashed and he tried to use his fists to hit out, hit someone, anyone but the men grabbed his flailing fists: he felt them knotting his wrists behind the stake, and then the same happened to his ankles: they were roping his ankles too. Roping him to the big wooden stake.

Wood was stacked all around him, he was knee deep in distinctive grey desert wood. Dry and waiting.

He stared at Amy; she stared at him. Tears were running down her face, yet she was silent. David sought out her blue eyes: he was searching, in his final moments, for a confirmation, some proof that she loved him. And there was was something in her expression, something distantly gentle, and wistfully pure. But what was it? something in her expression, something distantly gentle, and wistfully pure. But what was it?

'Basta!' said Miguel. 'Let's go. Breakfast. Torrijas Torrijas. Kafea Kafea.'

'Wait.' Amy spoke: 'Let me kiss him goodbye.'

Miguel looked at her, sceptical and wry almost laughing. The sun was up and David could feel the first real warmth on his face. Soon he would be boiling, the blood would boil in his veins.

'Aii. Why not? Kiss him goodbye. Say Why not? Kiss him goodbye. Say agur agur. Taste him one more time. And I shall watch.'

Amy nodded, subserviently. She walked to the bonfire. And she stepped over the wood and she leaned to kiss David, softly, on the lips, and as she did she whispered, very quietly, and very clearly.

'Try not to breathe the smoke. Euphorbia wood. Just try.'

David was biting back his own terrified sadness. He nodded. Mute. He accepted a second kiss, then Amy retreated and Alan stepped forward.

'Gas mark five?'

Someone laughed.

'Who's got the lighter?'

The Frenchman, Jean Paul, was chucking petrol from a can on the dry firewood. David felt the cold splash of the gasoline on his ankles, the heady smell of raw petrol rose to his face and then Enoka took the lighter. The squat Basque man clicked and cupped the lighter flame with a hand, protecting it from the desert breeze, like a little bird, like a baby chick, and then he knelt and tended the lighter and he stepped back slowly, inquiringly, carefully and then with a polite woooof woooof of an explosion, the gasolined firewood burst into flame. of an explosion, the gasolined firewood burst into flame.

It was really happening. Here. Now. In the yellow Damara riverlands. With the Lanner falcons wheeling over the wistful Huab. He was going to burn alive.

The desert timber was so dry it burst into vivid flame at once: big roaring yellow flames. Angus and Amy were crouched around the fire, warming their hands. Miguel laughed.

'That's good. Warm your hands on your cooking friend! Me too.' Miguel flashed a glance at his colleagues, and snapped an order. 'Keep a gun on them.'

Miguel stepped near to watch his victim's ordeal. David's eyes were watering in the smoke; his feet were hot; he could feel the heat on his own legs, flames crawling up his body, like the arms of loathsome beggars. He tried not to breathe the smoke. Euphorbia. Was there some plan? He was almost pa.s.sing out with fear. He was going to die. His mind swam with terror and tiny hope. What were they doing? Amy and Angus were upwind of the thick oily smoke issued by the dead, crackling branches. Glancing at Miguel, who was downwind.

Miguel was inhaling the smoke. Breathing in and smiling serenely.

'The smell. Smell of the meat, like lamb. A little like lamb, no? You can smell the wood and soon the meat? Yes? Ez? Bai? Amy? Ez? Bai? Amy? You can smell? That is...that is your friend...burning and ' Miguel began to mumble, through the fire-heat and the smoke 'Yess... You can smell? That is...that is your friend...burning and ' Miguel began to mumble, through the fire-heat and the smoke 'Yess...Marmatiko...he will be...'

David gazed from his own lashed and burning execution: astonished.

Miguel was stumbling, sideways. He was slurring and toppling and then Miguel fell to his knees, half conscious.

The ETA terrorist was down.

And now Angus was on him like a predator; before anyone saw a chance to respond, Angus had leapt round the fire, grabbed Miguel by the neck; at the same time he s.n.a.t.c.hed Miguel's own pistol and put it to Miguel's lolling head.

The killer slurred a mumbled curse, barely conscious.

His guards were frozen with shock. Angus snapped: 'Stop! Or I kill him!'

The moment jarred. Hands on guns. Men half out of cars.

Now Amy grabbed the knife lying in the dust, the knife Miguel had used to slice the human flesh. Diving into the rising flames, she slashed the ropes that tied David to the stake; as the cords fell into the fire, he leapt away, Amy pulling him free. Angus was shouting: 'I will kill Miguel. Don't move! Don't move!'

No one moved. Apart from Amy: who slapped at David's clothes, his smoking jeans and boots. The fire roared, as if in anger, denied its food. Amy put a hand to his face.

'You're OK?'

'I'm OK I'm OK ' He could barely hear her, over the blaze of the flames and the sound of his own choking coughs: he was spitting the vile taste of his own burning clothes.

A few yards away, Angus was dragging the semi-conscious Miguel through the dirt as Miguel's men threw glances at each other. But their faces, in the clear morning light, flashed with extreme confusion. What to do, without Miguel? Without their commander?

Angus yelled: 'Come any closer he won't have a head, you f.u.c.ks. Amy grab all the car keys. And get the case with the bloods. David get a gun and get to the car get in the Land Rover get in the Land Rover ' '

Again the men glanced at each other, confused, angry, and helpless. A few seconds, and Amy was done, brandishing a fistful of car keys in her hand.

'Angus. I got them! And the bloods.'

'Go to the car! David!'

Obedient, suppressing his fears, he raced to the car and jumped up and sat at the wheel. His burned, painful hand was poised on the key. Ready to flee the first moment Angus was safe.

The Scotsman was pulling the deadweight of Miguel closer to the Land Rover. Muzzle of the gun still close to his temple. Amy was in the seat next to David, watching. Ready to go. To escape. Ready. Ready.

But Miguel was stirring from his torpor, whatever the effect of the euphorbia smoke, it was wearing off he was fitfully struggling in Angus's grip; David could see in the headlights Miguel was trying to wriggle free.

'Angus!'

The scientist had the muzzle on Miguel's head, at the temple. David knew what was going to happen. Angus Nairn's face was set with grim satisfaction.

David watched, appalled, as Angus pulled the trigger: a point-blank execution.

But his grip was unsure: at the last possible moment, Miguel writhed, violently. Again he was the jentilak jentilak, the giant of the forest, unkillable, legendary: Angus got off a shot, and blood spat from Miguel's head, but it was a wound, just a wound in the scalp. The Wolf was alive, and down, and free. And signalling his men. And signalling his men.

The first shot of a rifle zinged the morning air. David slammed the gears then another shot spat against metal, with a chiming crack. The car door swung open and Amy grabbed at Angus who leapt into the back seat: David floored the pedal, churning the sand, and then at last the wheels got a grip and they lurched forward, picking up speed. Faster. And faster. faster.

The rear window smashed into a hundred shards as a bullet zapped the gla.s.s; Angus fired back, through the jagged void, random shots; one and two and three. One man seemed to fall, a squat figure: Enoka. Dead.

Angus screamed: 'Go!'

Swinging the car, wildly, David shouted: 'But where '

'There!'

They jerked over a hillock at speed, a tongue-chomping vault into the air then crashed into the sand and raced onwards, rattling everyone and everything: sliding in the gravelly dust, fishtailing. David gripped the wheel as they veered left and right through the dry river plains slaloming between the camelthorns 'David!'

Amy was screaming.

A huge elephant loomed ahead they were going to crash into the elephant the slow grey beast was crunching a branch in its mouth; it turned and looked at them, maudlin and pitying David tugged the wheel just in time and the car tilted, at speed, and he knew they were going to flip, right over, and pancake. They were going to be crushed, but then the car slammed back onto all four wheels and they raced ahead.

'The river. Take the river!'

It was an order from Angus. David obeyed.

The car slashed down the mudslide and cracked along the river bed, the wheels churned and the ducks and geese and weaver birds squawked and flailed. David crunched at the gears and accelerated. The big white car was fast and new.

For ten, twenty, thirty, minutes they scythed down the river road. Oryx, drinking placidly from the water, looked up at the noise, and fled. Springboks p.r.o.nked in fear as the car came splashing over boulders and careering around riverine bends, dangerously fast.

'This way!'

Angus pointed; David took a fork along a dryer river bed. He grabbed the chance to check behind, once more and his hopes climaxed: they really were doing it.

They'd escaped.

David felt an urge to sob in horror and scream in triumph at the same time. He did neither. He drove. Silent. The car was silent. They pulled over for a few minutes and Amy found ointment in the car's first aid box, and she anointed his half-burned hand. As she did he looked at her. She was not crying, but her eyes were clouded, she was subduing her terror. The car started, they continued their escape.

The sun was up, already hot. David tried to get a grasp of his own fear, his own terror.

Why? Why was Miguel even there there? Always he kept finding them. It was like they were being hunted by Death itself: sleek, brutal and merciless. Otsoko Otsoko. The Wolf. Relentless. Relentless.

He thought of the smell of his own clothes burning. He was silent. Amy clutched his arm. Also silent.

An hour of river driving ended Angus ordered a change of direction; David nodded, and spun the wheel hard to the right and they growled up onto proper dry land. Rocks and sand. They drove on, and on. No one spoke.