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I’d better tell you a couple of things about Marcel. Most of the mercs in the commando were rough people, a lot of them truly vicious. They were the sort of men real armies wouldn’t want, classifying them as unsuited to discipline, loose cannons who couldn’t be trusted. But Marcel, even among these, stood out. I believe he was a genuine psychopath.

He wasn’t that much to look at. Of middle height, he had a round head and a thin moustache, which would be more suited to a bank manager rather than a mercenary. The only thing special about him was his arms.

They were immensely long, hanging most of the way to his knees, ending in hands like claws. And though they looked thin, they were wiry with muscle and covered with tattoos. Back then, tattoos weren’t nearly as common as they are now, and I truly believe that his ink provided a window on to his mind. I have never seen the likes of the things he had imprinted on his skin, before or since – from horned skulls with blazing eyes to fanged monsters eating women alive, outlined in flames, he had it all. And he had a reputation, as someone who truly enjoyed killing for its own sake. Even Piet was wary around him.

Why did we take him along? I think that if we had been able to afford to take a larger group, we’d never have included him. But Piet and I were going anyway, and for a third member we needed someone able to take care of himself. And whatever else Marcel was like, he could take care of himself.

We made our preparations before leaving; we carried only knives and submachine guns, leaving our packs behind. Except for Jean Philippe, we slathered black shoe polish over our faces and hands to hide our pale skin. As for clothing, our dark green uniforms, soaked with rain, were almost invisible in the night.

We crawled down that slope and to the water, which was rushing faster and higher than we’d anticipated, so that instead of crawling through it, we had to wade up to our chests, holding our submachine guns above our heads. But fortunately it was so dark that nobody saw us; not just the enemy, but our own side, who could be expected to shoot if they saw movement in the darkness where there should not be any.

Jean Philippe was the first out of the water, and I followed close behind him, keeping close watch. I didn’t expect that he’d give us away to the enemy, but I didn’t altogether trust him not to run away if he got the chance. Both Piet and Marcel had sworn to shoot him at the first sign of his betraying us, and he was far from certain that they wouldn’t shoot him out of hand anyway, if the rebels opened fire on us. So I also stuck close to him to shield him from them as far as possible with my body. He wasn’t a bad man, and I’d got him into this, so I felt I owed him that much.

By the time we’d made our way to the line of rebel outposts, I was running with sweat as much as rain. Only now did I realise what a totally idiotic and foolhardy enterprise this was. In all probability the shaman wouldn’t be without bodyguards, and there would be a fight in which we’d be outnumbered. Even if we somehow managed to massacre Ojogor, in all likelihood we’d be cut off while trying to get back and annihilated. And if by some miracle we did manage to get back with his head, so what? There were other shamans.

It was, of course, far too late to worry about these things now, and besides I had to keep my wits about me. We were making our way through the forest, of course, since the rebels would certainly be guarding the roads. It was slow going, with the darkness and the constant dripping water, and after a while I began to wonder if we were lost and begun going in circles.

I was just about to tap Jean Philippe on the shoulder and ask him about this when I heard someone clear his throat right beside me...

At times like this the mind shuts down and instincts take over. I froze in place, my hand still raised to touch Jean Philippe. I didn’t even dare to look out of the corner of my eye in case the movement gave me away. Jean Philippe, I could see, had frozen just as I had, and I could not hear any sound from Piet or Marcel behind me.

"Ourot kwazi-gbo?" a voice asked in the local Saiga tongue. I’d learned a couple of words of it, not nearly enough to understand what he was saying, but his voice sounded relaxed, not as though he was demanding information.

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