Paper Country

Chapter One

The Checkpoint

The young soldier shaking the rifle in my face couldn’t have been much more than a year older than me. Nineteen. Twenty, perhaps. As I looked along the sleekly polished barrel to the white-knuckles clenching almost impossibly tight, I could see he was just as scared as I was. Ah-jah-rhoul. Ah-jah-rhoul. AH-JAH-RHOUL!

I held up my hands in surrender. I don’t understand!

It was difficult to keep my rapidly rising temper from my tone. To be quite honest, I’d had enough. It’d been a thirty-six hour bus journey to get to this point; a journey which’d encompassed crumbling mountain passes, more than a few fords, and — on one of the more memorable occasions — a herd of goats blocking the road for the best part of an hour. I was tired. I was hungry. I wanted to get some rest. I wanted a shower and to change out of the sweaty, dust-covered clothes I wore.

I positively didn’t want to have a gun waved in my face.

The soldier’s face glistened. He had sweat patches all over his jungle camos. I looked him in the eyes. Nodded to his gun, that never-ending black hole at the end of the barrel never quite leaving the periphery of my vision. Point it somewhere else, I said.

He screwed up his forehead. Twitched his nose. Then relented.

Gun now hanging from his shoulder — the barrel now reassuringly pointing at the sky — his black eyes swivelled in their sockets, maybe searching for a superior nearby. I followed his gaze. Saw that — besides the wooden hut and the battered, red-and-white striped barrier which blocked the road — we were completely alone.

Jungle sprouted up on either side of the road. Seemingly impenetrable vegetation. I could hear cries of birds, or were they monkeys? There was a sweetness which clung to the air, the sense that delicious, juicy fruits were hanging from trees nearby. That it would only be a case of trekking a few meters into the jungle to get my hands upon one . . . perhaps a coconut . . . and that nourishing, refreshing milk —

The crackle of static brought me around.

I snapped my attention back onto the soldier. He was holding a walkie-talkie up to his ear, one hand still casually resting on the butt of his rifle.

I looked up the road, to the winding path beyond the barrier, leading deeper into the jungle and away from this waypoint. I had a wild fantasy of simply dropping my shoulder and sprinting, hurdling over the barrier, and then tearing off around the corner. Back at school I’d set records in the 400m and 1600m. If I could just get a good start I would be away . . . there were only four problems with that:

First, I hadn’t trained for about two years. Second, I had an ungainly backpack to lug along at top speed. Third, the soldier had a gun. Fourth — though by no means least — I had no idea how long it would take to reach my destination.

I had no idea how long it’d take to get to the Cove.

Through the waves of static bursting from the walkie-talkie, I could make out the barest traces of a voice on the other end. The soldier listened intently for a few seconds before replying. Again — as had been the case throughout so much of my trip thus far — I understood nothing of what he said in the local language. A minute or so later, he clipped his walkie-talkie back onto the breast pocket of his camos, gave me a nod then gestured for me to follow.

Hoisting my backpack up over my shoulder, I took one final look at the winding pathway beyond the barrier, wondered whether or not I could make it, and then decided I needed to be patient.

Paradise could wait a little while longer.

British? Tourist?

My frayed mind returned to the present. To the inside of the small hut. To the older, obese officer — forty, fifty? — who sat behind the desk. His pudgy fingers flipping through the pages of my passport. His eyes swimming up and down seemingly every single detail. As if he might be checking for a forgery.

Did he really think that I might be an imposter?

That someone who looked like me — light-skinned; freckled — was a local trying to pass as a British citizen?

I shrugged off the lack of sleep, the overwhelming fatigue and the quickly growing irrepressible hunger. Yes, I replied. British. Tourist.

The officer grunted to himself. He continued to peruse the passport.

I glanced to the doorway, to the soldier standing there, his rifle still pointing up to the ceiling. The soldier met my eye for a moment. I felt as if I had returned to school, as if I had got in trouble with the head teacher, and the kid who had been caught with me was trying not to find themselves judged guilty by association. Beyond the soldier I could see that the daylight had begun to fade; that in a matter of about fifteen, twenty minutes, it would be pitch-black out.

And me here . . . wasting time.

The officer pouted. He had reached the last page. He glanced up, frowning. Alay-seus. Brake-stun.

Alexis Braxton, I corrected him.

The officer cocked his head to one side, closed my passport, laying it flat on his desk. He stared at the back cover as if he might be able to garner some clue then pulled out one of the drawers. As he rummaged about inside, I stared at my passport, restraining the urge to make a grab for it. One thing’s for certain, when you’re a backpacker you make a point of never — ever — allowing your passport out of sight. And that sentiment was especially true right then since I had to be several hundred kilometres from the nearest Embassy.

Then again, there was an armed soldier to contend with . . . so I forced myself to remain still.

The officer produced a small notebook. He peeled it open. The pages were filled with squiggly, black ink. It was a list of some sort. He flipped to the latest entry, turned to the details page of my passport, and then began to copy across.

What’d he need my name and passport number for?

I had already cleared immigration.

Got my entry stamp.

When he was finished, the officer rummaged about once again in his desk, this time producing a triplicate book. He scribbled something, ripped off one of the copies and then handed it to me without meeting my eye.

I took a step forward, reached for both the note and my passport.

The officer slapped his palm on my passport, pinning it to the desktop.

I looked him in the eye.

He had the same black eyes as the soldier.

And — like the soldier — he was perspiring heavily.

Give me my passport.

The officer stared at me. Still holding my passport down. I thought he might break into a smile. Reveal that this was some kind of joke.

But he remained stone-faced.

Outside, among the twittering birds, and the shrieking monkeys, I heard the grumble of an engine. I remained focused on the officer. I wondered if he’d somehow called for backup. But we were in the middle of nowhere. And I had seen neither the soldier nor the officer reach for their walkie-talkies. Added to that, I got the suspicion that this hut wasn’t wired for electricity, let alone fixed up with hidden surveillance cameras.

I only turned to look because the officer’s gaze left mine. When I followed his eyes, I saw an open-backed truck had pulled up. Even in the fading daylight, I recognised it immediately. Almost identical to the truck I had been riding in along this road before the soldier had forced me to get down. I saw all of the local people sat snuggly together. And then I saw one face which didn’t fit.

A white face.

A girl.

Her long blond hair raked back in a ponytail.

A tourist.

A quiver passed through my gut. I watched on as the soldier acted just as he had with me. He approached the driver’s cab first, muttered something to him in their language, and then began to inspect the passengers. It didn’t take any time at all for him to pick the white girl out of the crowd.

He gestured for her to get down off the truck.

Much to my surprise, the girl responded to the soldier, saying something in the local language. However, whatever good will had been generated by her initiating conversation in the local language was soon lost as the soldier repeated his command for her to get down.

A backpack at least half her size slung over her shoulder, she leaped down. She had hardly gotten down when the truck pulled off — its headlights shining into the darkness of the road beyond.

Still standing at the officer’s desk, I watched as the truck disappeared around the bend, leaving mosquitoes trailing in its wake. The engine rumbled away into silence. And the jungle — as if it had been standing reverent to this invader — gradually croaked and chirped and cackled back into life.

The soldier on her heels, the girl approached the hut.

My heart froze.

It seemed an eternity since I had seen another tourist — another backpacker. And I had to admit that I was glad to see another tourist right now. And one who could speak the language. I gave her a nervous smile. And she smiled back.

Machteld, she said.

Alexis.

British?

Yeah. I searched my mind, trying to place Machteld’s accent, her name. And I promptly gave up. Where’re you from?

The Netherlands. Going to the Cove too?

Trying.

A pause opened out between us. So far in my travels I’d found that backpacker friendships were all at once clumsy, deep and superficial. Finding someone from your own culture in a foreign place always carried a weird sort of thrill. As if the fact that me and Machteld were Europeans was enough to compensate for the fact that we were total strangers.

You speak the language?

A little.

What’s going on?

As far as I can tell there is some trouble. They want to make sure that the tourists are all safe.

Hearing this should have made me feel better. But another wave of anxiety struck. I jerked my head in the direction of the soldier. I guess that explains why he’s waving that gun around.

Machteld smiled. Then she nodded to the officer, my passport still lying on his desk. I think I shall speak with him. He seems to be in charge.

She didn’t remove her backpack as she spoke — as if this would be a brief conversation. I hoped more than anything it would be brief . . .

Despite Machteld’s language skills, the officer treated her as briskly and efficiently as he had treated me. He requested her passport. Then wrote her details out in the book. Once he was done, he tucked our passports into the breast pocket of his camos.

Deeply uneasy, I took a step forward. I prepared to take my passport back by force. Machteld read my mind. She held her hand to my chest, blocking my path.

The officer was unmoved by these advances.

I guess having an armed soldier at his beck-and-call was something of a confidence-booster.

The officer spoke in a rapid, monotonous tone.

I shifted my focus onto Machteld, wondering how much she was actually comprehending. Never having learned a foreign language myself — beyond the five years of French I took at school — I didn’t know what clues to look out for.

The officer spoke for about five minutes, rose from his chair, and then promptly made his way around his desk, headed for the door.

On impulse, I reached out and stopped him.

I waited for the soldier to get in my face, for him to bark at me to Ah-jah-rhoul! again but he held off for the time being.

Machteld spoke up. We are to go to the Cove. When we return we are to come back here and to ask for our passports, presenting the receipt we have been given.

I thought about the slips of paper the officer had written out for each of us.

Machteld continued, The situation in the country at the moment is instable. The priority is the protection of foreign tourists.

I turned back to the officer as if he might be able to understand me. And just how’re you protecting us by taking our passports?

He stared at me.

They shall take us to the Cove now, Machteld said.

Indeed, in the near distance I could hear the sound of another engine choking its way through the night-time jungle. Another truck.

I turned back to her. I’m not going anywhere. Not with them. Not until they tell us what’s going on. I paused. Translate that.

Machteld looked reluctant. She blinked rapidly, clearly becoming overwhelmed by the situation. I . . . uh . . . I . . .

As the engine grew louder, the soldier and the officer became distracted. It was then that I noted the pistol the officer wore at his hip. He acted subtly, unbuttoning the holster, resting his fingers on the grip.

When I looked up, I saw the soldier had readied his rifle. He held it pointed at the floor. He was clearly ready to bring it up and fire.

Both remained focused on the approaching vehicle.

The next few seconds passed in a slow-motion blur:

There were shouts in the distance.

I decided to take my chance.

To make a grab for my passport.

In the same instant, the soldier brought up his rifle.

Machteld leaped at him.

He and Machteld fell in a heap.

The shot was impossibly loud.

A thousand bells echoed in my eardrums.

My whole body went stiff.

Then it was as if I flipped a switch.

Enough inaction.

The officer was stunned.

This was my chance to turn the tables.

Staring at Machteld and the soldier lying on the ground, I eyed the officer’s breast pocket. Then, realising he no longer guarded his pistol, I decided I had to take my chance. I snatched for it, pulling it free of the holster. Its weight was surprisingly bulky. It was only at that moment — with the pistol in my hand and my ears still ringing — that I knew something was wrong.

Something was badly wrong.

Everything paused.

Just for a second.

Time stood still.

I looked to Machteld. The soldier.

Then I looked to the officer.

Blood.

Slowly — achingly slowly — he turned around.

Faced me.

He was falling.

My brain refused to function.

Suddenly the pistol felt unwieldy in my hand.

Too heavy.

It slipped through my fingers.

Tumbled to my feet.

The world came back in waves.

Chirps and croaks of the jungle.

A strong scent of gasoline.

The scent of blood in my nostrils.

A taste of blood on my tongue.

Voices.

Human voices.

Gunshots.

More gunshots.

Through the numbness, a single, overriding urge took hold:

Run.

Chapter Two

In The Jungle

I’d never really bought into the whole Hollywood treatment of hypoventilation. That routine where some vexed character becomes so frightened about something that they produce a brown paper bag from somewhere and fix it over their mouth and nostrils.

But I felt that way now.

It felt as if the breaths just wouldn’t come.

As if I was gulping for air.

The second I stepped out of the hut, I expected to be met with a hail storm of gunfire. I thought it would hurt — just for a second — and then that would be that.

I would be dead and gone.

It was instinctual.

I acted like the animal we all truly are.

The blinding light.

Headlights.

I took off in the opposite direction.

Soon the voices disappeared.

Soon the thoughts of what had happened at the hut began to fade . . . or, well, if not fade exactly, they became distorted. Like trying to watch a television screen through a magnifying glass. Everything was blurred. Nothing was certain.

As I trudged through the knee-high grass, my whole body racked by heaving breaths, I reached the point where I simply couldn’t go anymore.

I slowed.

Then stopped completely.

I doubled over.

Felt something hot just beneath my ribcage.

Before I could stop it, it surged.

I vomited into the foliage.

Then I dry heaved till I had nothing left.

When I caught some semblance of a hold on myself, I straightened up.

Blood flashed through my mind again.

The officer’s blood.

Again, I tried to calm myself down.

To slow myself down.

To take in the jungle surrounding me.

It worked . . . for a few moments.

I breathed in the freshening air — no longer being baked by the fierce, tropical sun. And I lost myself to the rhythmical cycle of the various hums and chortles out there in the darkness. I breathed in the scent of the trees, and the grass, and the earth. The taste of blood was gone now, though only to be replaced by bile. I looked into the gloom which dwelled around me, checked only by the phantasmal moonlight drifting down through the canopy.

Alone.

All alone.

And lost.

Because there seemed to be nothing else pressing for me to do, I took a seat on a tree stump covered with moss. It was slightly moist, but, then again, in this country just about everything was some kind of moist.

Despite everything, I couldn’t bring myself to be afraid. Even back at the hut I couldn’t recall feeling afraid. Everything had happened so quickly. I had only been reacting to everything as it played out. I thought about how I’d reached for my passport . . . had that been what’d set everything off? Had that been the reason why Machteld herself had leaped at the soldier? Had she thought that was some sort of a signal for us to overthrow the ones keeping us captive?

Had it been my fault?

Or had it just . . . happened?

I switched my attention away from the looming darkness to the stars gleaming down through a gap in the canopy. They were impossibly bright, or at least much brighter than I’d remembered seeing them. It made me half wish I had put a little more effort into my physics lessons.

After I was done with staring at the stars, I turned my mind to what I had on me. Not much. That same grey t-shirt I’d been wearing since . . . well, two days ago . . . then there were