‘Are they going to kill us?’

Amy’s voice was strained with tension. David felt a yearning to hug her, protect her, save her. The same old hunger. But he was hand-cuffed and kneeling. All he could do was lie. He lied to Amy.

‘No. They need us to find Eloise…What’s the point in killing us?’

‘What the fuck are you talking about? Of course they will fucking kill us.’ Angus was laughing. ‘We’re dead. We’re geology. We’re French fucking toast. You were witness to his father’s suicide! He probably thinks you caused it. He knows you know his terrible secret. The darkness of the Garovillos!’ His laughter was replete with anger. ‘They will torture us first, try and find out where Eloise is. Then they will murder us. Out here in the desert. But, hey, there are worse places to die. Cumbernauld. You ever been to Cumbernauld?’

Amy was crying.

Angus laughed: ‘In fact I’d rather fucking die here than live in Cumbernauld.’

Garovillo had returned.

‘Good. Jenika. Noski. And now…’ He looked at Angus Nairn, and then at Amy and Alphonse, and David. Then back at Angus. ‘Doctor Nairn. We really need to know where Eloise is, so I am going to rip it out of you. Rip it out of your fucking heart.’

‘Fuck you.’

The terrorist’s smile flickered with barely repressed anger, then he pointed at Alphonse.

‘Take him. The boyfriend. The sexuberekoi. Him.’

Miguel’s assistants dragged Alphonse to his feet. The young Namibian’s knees were trembling. Miguel glanced at each of the captives in turn. And spoke.

‘I always wonder…the witch burning stories, just a legend, no?’

A shrivel of fear tightened inside David.

‘But now I wonder -’ Miguel’s smile was deep and sad ‘- what was it like? Watching someone burn to death? Haven’t you ever wondered? You must have done your research? Ez? The witch burnings?’

Miguel put his face two inches from Angus’s face.

‘If you don’t tell us where Eloise is, we shall tie your little beige bumboy to a stake. And burn him alive. You like the pretty Baster boys, don’t you? The little ecru bastards? The marikoi coon?’ He swivelled. ‘So we cook him! A real faggot, fresh on the fire.’

David flashed a glance of horror at Angus. The Scotsman’s face was impassive, and yet riven with fury.

Then Angus spoke: ‘Cagot cunt.’

Garovillo’s eyes burned.

‘Que?’

‘We know you are a Cagot. A shit person. Like your dad. Cagot.’

Miguel’s face was twitching.

‘Absurd. But what do I care?’ He gestured, wildly. ‘Burn the boy. Agur.’

Behind him his men were hammering a stake into the dust, in the middle of the dry tinderwood. A big wooden stake.

Alphonse was writhing in the clutches of the silent men. His protestations were incoherent mumbles: he seemed over-whelmed by the horror, he was bleating, mewling. The stake was driven further. The moon was bright. Nightbirds scattered from dark trees somewhere out there in the wilderness. The Damara riverlands of dry canyons and camelthorns stretched all around, in the intensity of the dark.

Angus was shouting:

‘What’s the point, Miguel? You can’t hide it, we know it. Everyone fucking knows you are a cack person. Look at your twitching eye. What Cagot syndrome is that? What disorder do you have? Alperts? Hallervorden? What? Fasciculation. Twitching eye. That’s Cagot. The madness of the mountain -’

Garovillo struck Angus hard across the face, so hard a flash of blood spat from the Scotsman’s mouth, a gobbet of blood and spittle that glistened in the dust, illuminated by the car headlights. Then the terrorist barked.

‘Torch the black. Now.’

Alphonse was dragged to the stake. David watched, horrified, mesmerized. They were really going to do it.

Amy cried out: ‘Miguel. Stop. Please. What’s the point?’

‘The Zulo speaks? Yes? Bai? Ez? Tell me where Eloise Bentayou is and I will stop. Until then, I shall burn the fucking half caste – like they burned my people – tortured them – burned the Basques like witches -’

‘You’re not a Basque, you fucking moron.’ Angus spat the words. ‘You’re a Cagot. A shit person. Look at you -’

‘Angus, help me! Help me please!’

It was Alphonse, calling and wailing. He was now lashed to the stake; the sky was dark behind him. Amy’s face was wrenched with anger:

‘Stop this – Miguel -’

‘Only if you tell me. Where Eloise is? Eh?’

Angus spat: ‘Why? Cagot asshole. Why should we give her to you? You’ll just kill her, too. Won’t you?’

Miguel motioned a hand.

‘El fuego. Mesedez…’

David stared, appalled. One of the accomplices was stooping to the dry timber gathered around Alphonse’s feet. David noticed that Angus’s boyfriend was wearing Nike trainers. He found himself wondering if they would melt. David clenched himself for what he was about to witness. Enoka was flicking a Zippo. The tiny flame began to catch.

‘Angusss!’

Alphonse was screaming, his voice carrying like a church-bell, echoing up the canyon.

The first flames licked, hesitantly, as though they were investigating Alphonse – testing the flesh. Young predator cubs.

‘This will keep us warm,’ said Garovillo. ‘The roasting of the bastard. The toasting of the sinotsu.’

The flames rose, gaining confidence; they rose higher. The desert wood was very dry. The flames crackled in the cold clear air. A smell of woodsmoke filled the night. The desert moon shone down. Alphonse was crying out, shrieking, stretching against his bonds.

Garovillo sighed, expressively.

‘So there we are. Angus Nairn, the scientist Angus Nairn. Now you must tell me where she is. Alphonse is about to be die, to be cooked, pot roasted. You won’t want him then, will you? When he’s just a side of beef? So much…crackling?’

Angus looked directly at Miguel.

‘You’re going to kill us anyway. You can do what you like. What does it matter?’

Alphonse cried out. He was writhing, and yelling: ‘Angus – no, Angus – please tell him’!

Miguel smiled again.

‘He wants to live, Doctor Nairn. He doesn’t want to have his…boyish limbs toasted and grilled. And I feel sympathy. I am vegetarian. Barazkijalea naiz!’ He sighed. ‘So tell us.’

Angus said nothing. David saw a profound tremor in Angus’s cheek: the grinding of his teeth. Alphonse was wailing.

‘It hurts! Angus! I’m burning! Please!’

The flames were higher, a stray spark had caught in Alphonse’s hair; his hair was smoking, singeing, the smell of burnt hair mixed with the woodsmoke. Alphonse was catching: catching on fire. He was beginning to burn.

The seconds of waiting dilated in the darkness.

‘OK! Stop it!’ Angus was shouting. ‘I will tell you where she is! Eloise. Stop the burning.’

Miguel spun – and snapped:

‘Tell me now!

‘She’s in the Sperrgebiet.’

‘Where?’

‘Twenty-six kilometres due south of Diaz Point! Stop him burning, stop it -’

‘Where exactly?’

‘The Tamara Minehead. The Rosh road. Disguised as mine offices. Garovillo -’

Miguel smiled. And pivoted.

And gestured at his men.

‘Pour a little gasoline, onto the flames. It’s going to be a very cold night and we need a nice big fire.’

The following hour was the most grotesquely prolonged and awful hour of David’s life. It was worse than anything he had yet witnessed these last violent weeks.

Alphonse burned, slowly, and profoundly, and agonizingly. First his trainers smoked, and charred, and melted into stringy plastic, and then his cotton trousers dropped, blackened, from his brown limbs: charring rags of smoking cloth. Finally the flesh began to roast. Obscenely. The brown skin flashed away, showing the fat and muscles. And then the fat of the boy’s thighs began to melt, spitting in the fire. And all the time Alphonse screamed. The shrillest, cruellest scream David had ever heard. A shriek that carried across the silent desert, a man being slowly burned alive.