Free The Kills: Sutler, the Massive, the Kill, and the Hit by Richard House Page A

should open it. To Ford these soldiers were boys. Smug, fresh, untested.
    The student crouched and unzipped a side panel to show folded shorts, T-shirts, rolled socks. Tangled inside the main body of the bag lay an assortment of climbing gear: bright-coloured cord, strong steel buckles. The student mimed what they were for, and repeated,
climbing
. It’s for
climbing
, until his gestures became cocky, suggesting that the soldier was a little dumb.
Cli-ming. Climbing
. He pointed to the white rockface behind them, then the ropes and steel clips. How obvious did he need to make this?
    ‘You speak any Turkish?’ he asked Ford.
    The soldier spoke to the boy rapid-fire, aggressive, he snapped the dog to heel and toe-tapped the backpack. The boy became angry, and Ford expected a confrontation.
    A shout came from further up the queue. Suddenly nervous, the passengers broke out of line and scattered, and there in the widening gap a slim green snake zippered across the white gravel. The soldiers grouped about it, one flicked a cigarette, another kicked stones and the snake changed direction, twisting in a strange undulation, fast, but not fast enough. A third soldier picked up a rock, a flat white slab, dropped it then laughed. Ford watched the snake wind about itself, its skin a sharp fresh green, the body as thin as his little finger. Head mashed to a crimson stump, its silver underside caught the sun as it rolled into tight coils.
    The student asked if it was poisonous.
    Ford said he didn’t know but thought that colour gave some indication.
    The student turned the snake over with his foot. The body twisted about his sandal and he gently shook it off. He looked up at the soldier. ‘Why?’ he asked. ‘Seriously. What was the point?’
    The soldier picked up the snake and slung it across the road – and the student swore loud enough to be heard.
    ‘I think he might know that word.’
    ‘They probably hear it enough.’
    Ford returned to his backpack, uninterested in the student’s disagreement.
    The soldiers walked on, attention taken by another vehicle drawing up the highway. The officer in charge slapped the side of the coach to dismiss them; others began to move the barriers and open the road. As a group the passengers picked up their luggage and returned to the coach. Leaving the first group gathered by the tractor-trailer alone. The student returned for his case. Catching up with Ford, the boy offered his hand.
    ‘My name’s Eric.’
    A wave of cold air blew through the cabin as the coach drew back onto the road.
    The student turned about and held up the plastic bag he’d stowed away earlier. A bag of digital memory sticks. ‘Two days ago the army raided a village on the border,’ he explained. ‘They came in trucks. About fourteen of them, and they shipped everyone out. Then helicopters wiped out the village. They used rockets.’ He shook the bag and spoke in a low conspiratorial tone. ‘They’re making all of this happen. None of this is any accident. For days they’ve been bombing their own border and blaming the Kurds. Every time trouble kicks off in the Middle East they move against the Kurds. Fact.’
    When the boy turned back Ford smiled to himself. He should have guessed the boy was doing noble favours, picking other people’s fights, working an adventure to take back to his campus, to become someone who has been somewhere and done something.
    The stops became less frequent; the villages became smaller and the refugee camps so few that Ford forgot them and imagined himself to be in a country unaffected by war.
    In the early afternoon they stopped at a small trading post, a restaurant girdled by a market – a supple chaos of stalls set up in the dust with passengers haggling for produce: fresh dates, dyed pistachios, halva, cigarettes, toys, CDs and DVDs. Young boys sold flags, iced water, sodas, and pastries wet with honey. Smoke blossomed from a row of barbecues and Ford bought two lamb skewers and