The Walking Dead

Lee Donkin was out fast from the shadow, was on them before he was seen. He hit the woman with his shoulder, heard her gasp, saw the shock. She reeled away, nearly fell into the road as a lorry went by. He had his hand on the strap of the bag and tried to drag it clear of her, but she clung on. A kick slashed at the muscle on the back of his shin. His hand went into his pocket, clasped the knife handle — should have had it out at the start. The man grappled him. The woman held on to her bag and used her free hand to pound him. He was vicious but not strong. Was bloody losing…Wouldn't have realized it, but the addiction had sapped him. He had a grip on the leather jacket and tried to pull it closer to him to make the stab thrust shorter. Tugged and ripped at the jacket and was poised to strike with the knife. Lee Donkin felt his arm twisted back — like it would break, and loosed the knife, lost it. Heard the knife fall…He broke free and fled.

Lee Donkin ran, slipping, sliding, across the mud of the sports field. Past the kids and their bloody ball. Didn't look back, didn't know what he had done. Ran until he dropped, couldn't breathe, then slumped.

* * *

She bent, picked up the knife. Crouching, she dropped it into her bag — couldn't have said why.

'You all right, Miss?'

She looked up, saw the driver high in the lorry's cab. She nodded, and stood. Ibrahim was beside her, and seemed detached from it, far away, still smiling, one hand in a pocket.

The lorry pulled away.

They went on together, walking down the hill towards the town.

It was a busy road, no different on a Saturday morning from any other day and it led to a chosen battlefield of the new war…There were no defiles and crag peaks, as in the mountains outside Jalalabad, no high-walled compounds that could be defended, as in the remote villages of Waziristan, no culvert drains into which improvised explosive devices were packed, as under the route from the Green Zone to Baghdad International Airport.

The new war had found a fresh fighting ground where people gathered in a square, and did not concern themselves that they paid the wages of soldiers and airmen, paid for the bullets, shells and bombs that were used in their name, did not think of the consequences, and considered themselves far removed. The news on the radio that morning, if anybody had listened, reported a new operation by American troops in difficult mountain country, a raid by Pakistani military against an Al Qaeda leadership target, a bomb in Baghdad that had killed three South African security guards but it was all a long, long way away.

He heard the breakfast cooking, heard the whistled anthem through the bedroom door, waited to go with his Principal to buy a newspaper and a packet of cigarettes.

David Banks opened the notebook, turned to the last page.