sleeve, but it wouldn’t stop flowing. Now, more than ever, he needed khat .
‘My friend,’ Magellan’s voice whispered into his ear. ‘Follow the red line. Use your gun. Shoot everything you see.’
Yusuf did as he was told. He had barely taken five steps into the maze when something cracked on his left. Like an overstretched rubber band being let loose. Turning, he saw a cardboard cut-out of a woman springing up from the floor. She was leering at him, and she had a shotgun. His heart skipped. His stomach went hot.
‘What are you waiting for?’ Magellan hissed. ‘Take her down.’
Trembling, Yusuf raised his gun and double-tapped. Two shots. Centre of mass. The woman’s chest splintered, and the target collapsed.
Two cracks came from Yusuf’s right. He spun to face them. A boy on a bicycle. A man on a bicycle. They were smiling. Yusuf hesitated, his breath caught in his throat. They didn’t seem to be armed.
‘Don’t take the risk. Eliminate everything.’
Yusuf shot the man first, vaporising his face, then he shot the boy, taking off the top of his head. Fragments flecked the air like confetti.
There was another crack. Yusuf jerked as a target popped up right in front of him. This time, it was a woman pushing a baby in a carriage. Yusuf hesitated once again before blinking. No, it wasn’t a baby in the carriage. It was a bundle of grenades.
‘She’s reaching for a grenade. Stop her.’
Gasping, Yusuf shot the woman in the arm, then double-tapped her in the chest.
‘Now move. Move .’
Stepping over the fallen target, Yusuf kept moving, panting, sweating, whipping around corners, twisting this way, twisting that way, shooting, reloading, shooting, reloading, spent shells clinking on the floor, the stench of gunpowder thickening, everything a blur as he destroyed men, women, children, infants, and more than once, he nearly tripped over himself, nearly fell, and his lungs burned, and he gagged, snot streaming down his nose, the adrenalin almost too much for him to take, and Magellan urged him on, and he picked up the pace, eager to please, eager to show how good he was, shooting, reloading, shooting, reloading, what a rush, what a rush.
Eventually, Yusuf emerged from the maze, eyes watering, ears ringing, teeth chattering. A table stood at the end of the red line. And on it, a box of khat . Snivelling, he fell upon the table like a drowning man, breaking the box open. He stuffed his mouth with the leaves, chewing them long and hard. Euphoria washed over him, and he sighed, his mind soaring.
Oh, khat had never tasted so good.
‘Well done . Very well done,’ Magellan said. ‘Now go into the next room. This time, you will have others joining you.’
CHAPTER 27
When Maya was a child, Papa introduced her to a game. Kim’s Game. It started out being real simple. She’d be given a minute to study and memorise several items spread out on a desk. A coin. A bottle cap. A matchbox. A pen. A map. Et cetera. Then she had to turn around and tell Papa what she had seen. Was an item round or square? New or old? Black or white? Metal or plastic? One inch or two? Were there any words? Numbers? Symbols?
Each session got progressively harder. There would be more items. Less time. And the gap between memorising and reciting stretched. It wouldn’t be strange, for example, for Papa to show her twenty items early in the morning and then ask her to describe them late at night.
Soon Papa did away with the desk and brought disorder into the equation. He would scatter items all across a room before ushering her inside. Maya wouldn’t be allowed to touch or rearrange anything. No, she had to stand in a fixed spot and strain her eyes to observe and dissect the chaos.
Later on, Papa would add or subtract items, and Maya had to be able to pinpoint the changes on a second viewing. There would be substitutions as well—Papa would swap out one item for another that was subtly different just to tease her
‘My friend,’ Magellan’s voice whispered into his ear. ‘Follow the red line. Use your gun. Shoot everything you see.’
Yusuf did as he was told. He had barely taken five steps into the maze when something cracked on his left. Like an overstretched rubber band being let loose. Turning, he saw a cardboard cut-out of a woman springing up from the floor. She was leering at him, and she had a shotgun. His heart skipped. His stomach went hot.
‘What are you waiting for?’ Magellan hissed. ‘Take her down.’
Trembling, Yusuf raised his gun and double-tapped. Two shots. Centre of mass. The woman’s chest splintered, and the target collapsed.
Two cracks came from Yusuf’s right. He spun to face them. A boy on a bicycle. A man on a bicycle. They were smiling. Yusuf hesitated, his breath caught in his throat. They didn’t seem to be armed.
‘Don’t take the risk. Eliminate everything.’
Yusuf shot the man first, vaporising his face, then he shot the boy, taking off the top of his head. Fragments flecked the air like confetti.
There was another crack. Yusuf jerked as a target popped up right in front of him. This time, it was a woman pushing a baby in a carriage. Yusuf hesitated once again before blinking. No, it wasn’t a baby in the carriage. It was a bundle of grenades.
‘She’s reaching for a grenade. Stop her.’
Gasping, Yusuf shot the woman in the arm, then double-tapped her in the chest.
‘Now move. Move .’
Stepping over the fallen target, Yusuf kept moving, panting, sweating, whipping around corners, twisting this way, twisting that way, shooting, reloading, shooting, reloading, spent shells clinking on the floor, the stench of gunpowder thickening, everything a blur as he destroyed men, women, children, infants, and more than once, he nearly tripped over himself, nearly fell, and his lungs burned, and he gagged, snot streaming down his nose, the adrenalin almost too much for him to take, and Magellan urged him on, and he picked up the pace, eager to please, eager to show how good he was, shooting, reloading, shooting, reloading, what a rush, what a rush.
Eventually, Yusuf emerged from the maze, eyes watering, ears ringing, teeth chattering. A table stood at the end of the red line. And on it, a box of khat . Snivelling, he fell upon the table like a drowning man, breaking the box open. He stuffed his mouth with the leaves, chewing them long and hard. Euphoria washed over him, and he sighed, his mind soaring.
Oh, khat had never tasted so good.
‘Well done . Very well done,’ Magellan said. ‘Now go into the next room. This time, you will have others joining you.’
CHAPTER 27
When Maya was a child, Papa introduced her to a game. Kim’s Game. It started out being real simple. She’d be given a minute to study and memorise several items spread out on a desk. A coin. A bottle cap. A matchbox. A pen. A map. Et cetera. Then she had to turn around and tell Papa what she had seen. Was an item round or square? New or old? Black or white? Metal or plastic? One inch or two? Were there any words? Numbers? Symbols?
Each session got progressively harder. There would be more items. Less time. And the gap between memorising and reciting stretched. It wouldn’t be strange, for example, for Papa to show her twenty items early in the morning and then ask her to describe them late at night.
Soon Papa did away with the desk and brought disorder into the equation. He would scatter items all across a room before ushering her inside. Maya wouldn’t be allowed to touch or rearrange anything. No, she had to stand in a fixed spot and strain her eyes to observe and dissect the chaos.
Later on, Papa would add or subtract items, and Maya had to be able to pinpoint the changes on a second viewing. There would be substitutions as well—Papa would swap out one item for another that was subtly different just to tease her
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