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until some other idiot comes along. If the idiot is singing “Three little maids from school” show yourself and do exactly as you’re told. Otherwise the idiot will kill you. Good luck.’ A short silence, then the sound of something being dragged. A pause, then rubbish, stinking garbage, fell on him, covering him from sight. A car door closed and the car drove slowly away. He groped for the bottle and found it. He took his first drink in freedom and settled down to wait. Rescue was a long time coming. He heard the sound of running feet but they passed him by. Several vehicles drove along the track, but none stopped. A helicopter flew overhead. A dog jumped down on top of him and started to paw and snuffle in the rubbish but it was called off by its master, and reprimanded for getting into such a filthy state. The dog had pissed on him, but he hadn’t moved. He waited. He attempted not to think about Jane, about his child, about their love. That way lay madness; he could only suppose that they were suffering as he suffered.  He tried to think of his first home, tried to compose messages to his mother, his brothers and sisters, to Binta, his father’s second wife. He named all his teachers, including his father. He thought of all the visitors who had come to the village, mostly to meet his mother, the chief, the Alkalo. If ever he escaped he would stay for the rest of his life in the village, teach at the village school and perhaps, perhaps, if Jane could not join him, perhaps … but that was a thought too far removed from reality. He lay still, trying not to move, under the noxious filth. Whoever she was, the old woman who had concealed him from sight, she had selected the garbage efficiently No daylight penetrated it. No eyes peered down on him, no shots came his way. Under its cloak he lay, in his own filth now, waiting. He sensed it was dark above him. An owl sang its ghostly song. Small things moved among his dunghill. Something, piss or rain – he prayed it was rain – fell on him. And then a woman started to sing.
     

9
    ‘Get in the van, quickly, in the back fool; do you want to be on public view?’ As quickly as his damaged foot would allow, Ed climbed into the darkness of the van’s interior. He lay on the floor, gasping for breath and trying to understand what was happening to him.
    ‘Pull the bloody door shut; we haven’t got all night.’ A woman’s voice, urgent, frightened. Makes two of us, he thought. Immediately he began to have doubts. Was he about to be returned to his captors? Was there a price on his head? How had his escape been notified? Dangerous lunatic, do not approach this man, reward for information leading to his re-capture?
    ‘Get dressed – there’s stuff in the bag. Use the baby wipes to clean yourself. There’s a bottle of water and some bread, if Rachel remembered to put it in. All a bit of a rush. Sorry,’ - as the van started to bump along a very potholed track – ‘sorry; there used to be a proper road along here but the council found it more profitable to trouser the funds than repair the road. Sorry.’ The vehicle bounced violently for a while. He tried to wedge himself in a corner. They moved onto smoother tarmac and the van increased speed. He thought of using some of the water to try to clean himself, but soon gave up. Water was to drink. He located the bag and found the wipes. There were a couple of pairs of trainers and he winced as he tried the first pair; too small. The second pair was loose, but suited his damaged foot. He took another drink of water and ate some of the bread. The van stopped, and he heard the driver’s door open.
    ‘Stay there, don’t try to get out.’ A gate, or maybe a barn door, dragged open. The woman drove a few metres and stopped again. A light came on. ‘Let’s have a look at you.’
    His rescuer, or his captor, twisted round in the front seat and stared at him. ‘Which one are you?’
    ‘I’m Ed, Ed-Lamin Edwards. Who are