Free One More Time by Damien Leith

the edge. But then, just as Mani began to descend, Akio called out his name.
    With neither Mani nor I noticing, Akio had somehow begun to climb up a vine that hung naturally over the edge to the ground below. Now, with strong tugs and a great deal of energy, he succeeded in coming to his own rescue. Eventually he was standing beside us.
    ‘Ah, you two, not fast enough!’ He began to dust himself down triumphantly. ‘You two like big girls.’
    Mani smiled briefly in relief and took up a squatting position. I wasn’t sure if his look was in pain or dismay.
    Akio had hurt himself in the fall and rubbed his head tentatively. I assumed he had been knocked unconscious for some seconds, probably while we called his name. Once he was awake again, it was like nothing had ever happened; he simply climbed back up to the path—in the same strange way a rain shower in Ireland arrives, creates panic, and almost as quickly disappears like nothing ever happened. Nevertheless, we took it easy for the remainder of the walk to Ghorepani. It took much longer than we had hoped, but we made it there in one piece.
    The sight of Ghorepani village ahead in the distance revived us all. It was a much larger version of all the other villages we had encountered along the way—the same stony buildings, the same corrugated blue roofs.
    The same, except for the atmosphere. Everywhere else we’d passed through, whether big or small, still managed to give an impression of openness, a welcome-to-the-public feel. Ghorepani was the opposite. A sign read, ‘Welcome to Ghorepani,’ but the faces said, ‘Go away while you still can.’
    I half expected a tumbleweed to roll by.
    ‘Somebody must be dead,’ Akio suddenly exclaimed.
    ‘I don’t think so,’ I replied. It wasn’t that kind of atmosphere; it was more one of fear.
    Eerily, for such a large village, not many villagers seemed to be outside their front doors. Occasionally a pair of eyes could be seen peeking from a slit in a curtain, or there’d be that feeling of someone present, of being watched from behind. Even Mani, a fellow Nepalese, couldn’t resist turning sideways, with a glance or two.
    The hotel that Mani preferred here was the Basecamp and, true to his previous form, it was at the highest point in the village, which was yet a further ten minutes away. Steadily, we made our way through the cobbled, barren streets until we were within metres of our final destination.
    ‘Hello, I represent the Maoist. Where you come from?’
    Akio let out a slight scream. The fellow had appeared from nowhere. He was a short Nepalese man, young, sallow-skinned, dressed in casual clothes and, most noticeably, brandishing a machine gun over his shoulder. It was surprising how attention-getting the weapon was: I just couldn’t take my eyes off it. Each time I told myself to stop looking at the gun, I’d redirect my attention to his face, but almost as quicklyI’d be drawn back to its menacing, steely shape. It was mesmerising.
    Mani took control of the conversation, in English.
    ‘We travel to base camp, come from Ulleri.’
    Dear Holy God, please protect —Start again.
    ‘You stay in Basecamp Hotel tonight?’ the man asked, eyeing Akio and me inquisitively.
    Dear Holy God, please protect…please protect…ple…please protect …Can’t get it right! Please protect …Start again… Dear Holy God, please protect …
    ‘Yes, we stay in Basecamp tonight.’ Mani spoke confidently. I was trying to listen but I had to get the words right or who knows what would happen to us.
    … Please protect, Mam, Dad …Damn, not right!… Mam, Dad…please protect Mam, Dad, John, Sarah and Sam …the feeling isn’t right… Sam …still not right… Sam …Shit, say the damn word right.
    Akio said something that I didn’t hear. I might have looked as though I was present in their conversation but my mind was at war for their protection.
    … Please protect Mam, Dad, John, Sarah and Sam, Benji and Rusty,