Read Online A Loyal Spy by Simon Conway - Free Book Online
Authors: Simon Conway
Tags: thriller
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speak any of the languages. The man slapped him across the face a couple of times.
The familiar voice said, ‘Bring him.’
He was lifted to his feet and pushed and pulled along a narrow path through the forest. He stumbled in the darkness and fell several times. Each time the men kicked him and pummelled him with their rifle stocks before lifting him to his feet and pushing and pulling him along.
At some point he decided that he must be dreaming. He wasn’t in the jungle at all. In fact, it turned out that he was being carried off the rugby pitch with a concussion. There were boys either side of him gripping him by his arms and legs and his shirt and shorts. It took a whole line-up to lift him. They were sloshing through the mud towards the touchline. The sky was a cloudless, cobalt blue. He was pleased to see that Nor was there, running alongside him, shouting words of encouragement through his gumshield. Nor was the most recent addition to the first fifteen, the new scrum half, lithe and fast. Jonah was the number eight, the anchor of the scrum.
Back in the dream, the path opened out into a large sandy clearing lit by the stars. At the centre of the clearing was a massive tree stump with a broad, flat surface. Its shadow reached across the clearing like a fist. They dragged him to the stump and kicked his feet out from behind him, so that he fell to his knees like a supplicant before an altar. They lifted his hands and placed them on its scarred surface.
Nor squatted before him, with the sweat on his face glistening in the starlight, and placed his hands over Jonah’s.
‘Fight and slay the pagans wherever ye find them,’ Nor said, quietly at first, then angrily, then shouting, ‘Lie in wait for them and seize them!’
It was difficult to understand him with the gumshield in his mouth. And he was talking in Arabic. In those days, the sword verses were Nor’s favourite bit of the Koran, possibly the only bit he knew. He’d growl them at the opposing scrum. He was nicknamed the Saracen.
‘A limb for a limb,’ a voice said, in his dream. He felt its searing breath on his face.
‘Who’s limb?’ Jonah wondered.
‘In revenge there is life.’
‘What are you talking about?’
‘The bogeyman’s here.’
Jonah’s eyes were drawn to the treeline. A man stepped out of the shadows at the forest’s edge. He was naked and smeared with ash. He had a bandana tied around his shaven skull and a machete in his hand.
‘He’s come to take your hands …’
Jonah began to struggle, but the men had him pinned down, their arms hooked through his elbows. His hands were numb, all the blood drained out. The bogeyman approached.
Nor lifted his hands off Jonah’s and the men tightened their grip on his forearms. His fingers poked out like sticks. The bogeyman raised his machete, swinging it in a great arc. The starlight glinted blue on the nicked blade.
Nor’s eyes shone.
He hit the fast-reverse button: it was moments before the concussion. The scrum was holding. Jonah was dug in and low against the ground, with a string of pain from his heels to his thighs. The ball was in the thicket of feet in front of him. Looking back through his legs, he saw Nor just behind him, impossibly low, as if he were on starter’s blocks, waiting for the ball.
Nor’s eye shone.
Go on, Chewy
…
Jonah heaved.
Yes
…
Jonah imagined the wet crunch of the blade on flesh and bone and his severed hands flopping on to the grass. He saw himself as the limbless beggar from the football match, pleading with his coat-hanger claws.
Go on
…
He bared his teeth and gave up his thoughts. He swung to the right and bit off an ear. The man screamed.
The blade came slicing down and Jonah surged upwards and to the side and the screaming man on his right tumbled forward on to the stump and into the path of the falling machete. His skull split like a melon. Jonah’s forehead connected with the jaw of the man on his left. Teeth flew. Then he
The familiar voice said, ‘Bring him.’
He was lifted to his feet and pushed and pulled along a narrow path through the forest. He stumbled in the darkness and fell several times. Each time the men kicked him and pummelled him with their rifle stocks before lifting him to his feet and pushing and pulling him along.
At some point he decided that he must be dreaming. He wasn’t in the jungle at all. In fact, it turned out that he was being carried off the rugby pitch with a concussion. There were boys either side of him gripping him by his arms and legs and his shirt and shorts. It took a whole line-up to lift him. They were sloshing through the mud towards the touchline. The sky was a cloudless, cobalt blue. He was pleased to see that Nor was there, running alongside him, shouting words of encouragement through his gumshield. Nor was the most recent addition to the first fifteen, the new scrum half, lithe and fast. Jonah was the number eight, the anchor of the scrum.
Back in the dream, the path opened out into a large sandy clearing lit by the stars. At the centre of the clearing was a massive tree stump with a broad, flat surface. Its shadow reached across the clearing like a fist. They dragged him to the stump and kicked his feet out from behind him, so that he fell to his knees like a supplicant before an altar. They lifted his hands and placed them on its scarred surface.
Nor squatted before him, with the sweat on his face glistening in the starlight, and placed his hands over Jonah’s.
‘Fight and slay the pagans wherever ye find them,’ Nor said, quietly at first, then angrily, then shouting, ‘Lie in wait for them and seize them!’
It was difficult to understand him with the gumshield in his mouth. And he was talking in Arabic. In those days, the sword verses were Nor’s favourite bit of the Koran, possibly the only bit he knew. He’d growl them at the opposing scrum. He was nicknamed the Saracen.
‘A limb for a limb,’ a voice said, in his dream. He felt its searing breath on his face.
‘Who’s limb?’ Jonah wondered.
‘In revenge there is life.’
‘What are you talking about?’
‘The bogeyman’s here.’
Jonah’s eyes were drawn to the treeline. A man stepped out of the shadows at the forest’s edge. He was naked and smeared with ash. He had a bandana tied around his shaven skull and a machete in his hand.
‘He’s come to take your hands …’
Jonah began to struggle, but the men had him pinned down, their arms hooked through his elbows. His hands were numb, all the blood drained out. The bogeyman approached.
Nor lifted his hands off Jonah’s and the men tightened their grip on his forearms. His fingers poked out like sticks. The bogeyman raised his machete, swinging it in a great arc. The starlight glinted blue on the nicked blade.
Nor’s eyes shone.
He hit the fast-reverse button: it was moments before the concussion. The scrum was holding. Jonah was dug in and low against the ground, with a string of pain from his heels to his thighs. The ball was in the thicket of feet in front of him. Looking back through his legs, he saw Nor just behind him, impossibly low, as if he were on starter’s blocks, waiting for the ball.
Nor’s eye shone.
Go on, Chewy
…
Jonah heaved.
Yes
…
Jonah imagined the wet crunch of the blade on flesh and bone and his severed hands flopping on to the grass. He saw himself as the limbless beggar from the football match, pleading with his coat-hanger claws.
Go on
…
He bared his teeth and gave up his thoughts. He swung to the right and bit off an ear. The man screamed.
The blade came slicing down and Jonah surged upwards and to the side and the screaming man on his right tumbled forward on to the stump and into the path of the falling machete. His skull split like a melon. Jonah’s forehead connected with the jaw of the man on his left. Teeth flew. Then he
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