1 Flies To Wanton Boys. . . (1/2)

'What are you?'

The boy must be only about nine. His voice is a hundred times older, ancestral, as if his throat is a tomb, a rotting tomb; dark, deep. I cannot see his face; the darkness has devoured it, I imagine it must match the ancient voice – a caveman's face.

But one can tell he is just a boy.

There had been a small boy's fear in his voice and footfalls when he ran in my direction earlier. 'They have reached our village!'

He was the first person I had heard speak unbroken English in

this village.

'What are you?' he had asked, after gathering his shredded breath back into his lungs.

'Photographer. Freelance.'

I was not afraid of him; I could tell he was not a soldier, a

killer. . . He was afraid, of me, of dying.

'I mean, what are you – American?'

'Oh. Australian.'

He sighed, and fell silent.

* * *

'Sir, do you have a drink, sir?' he asks, after a long, deep silence has swallowed the awkward introductions and small talk sprinkled between us.

'Yes,' I say, and bring out my hip flask, take a swig and

olubunmi familoni

replace it in my breast pocket.

He cannot see my hand-to-mouth movements but he hears the whisky move in my throat. He swallows, and waits. I hear the small movements in his stomach, a grumble.

'Hungry?'

'No,' he says, 'Thirsty.'

'There's no water around here, I don't think.'

'I heard your drink in your throat, sir.'

'It is alcohol. Whisky.'

'We drink it, sir.'

'We? Who is ”we”?'

'My friends and I.'

'Aren't you guys too young to be drinking?'

'We drink, we f.u.c.k, we smoke . . . n.o.body is too young to be doing anything here. There is a war . . . n.o.body is too young to die, or kill, so n.o.body is too young to f.u.c.kin' drink . . .'

'Or use foul language.'

'Sorry.'

You can tell he is not; he just wants the b.l.o.o.d.y drink.

I give it to him – 'Here, wash the French out of your mouth...'

He doesn't seem to understand. He doesn't bother to; he just grabs the flask from me, and pours the whisky into his mouth. Holds it in there for a sweet while, swishes it around with mouthwash vigour, holds it for a few more seconds before swallowing, and lets out his breath in a long, exaggerated Ahhhhhhhh . . .

He takes two more greedy swigs before he returns the flask.

'Thank you, sir.'

'So, these friends of yours, where are they now?'

'Dead.'

He says it offhandedly; so coolly I almost feel offended by it. As if death is, or has become, a casual thing, a handshake; something that happens without emotion.

'And you?' I ask him.

'Alive,' he says, just as calmly as he had referred to Death.

'I mean, how did you escape, survive?'