Free One More Time by Damien Leith Page A

all my friends and relatives, Mani and Akio, especially Mani and Akio and me right now with the Maoist … with the …can’t seem to get it right, with the Maoist … Mao …
    Suddenly everybody was staring at me. There was something I’d missed. What was it? Something they wanted from me. A deathly silence hung over us, and even my mind seemed to be quelled at just that moment.
    ‘What?’ I said nervously. I had to say something; the look on Mani’s face was beckoning me to speak.
    ‘You do not understand me?’ The Maoist seemed genuinely concerned, which, for a terrorist with a machine gun, I thought, was a little surprising.
    ‘Yes, yes, I can understand you. Sorry, I was just…’
    I let the sentence hang in such a manner as to imply that I was trying to find simple words to explain myself. He took the bait and, obliged to repeat the question, asked more impatiently, ‘Where you come from, what country?’
    … Please protect Mam, Dad.
    ‘I come from Ireland!’
    … John, Sarah, Sam, Benji …
    ‘Ah, football in Ireland, right?’ He made a kicking motion with his leg; the machine gun swayed randomly.
    Fingers aiming upwards, not so much that anyone might suspect, as fast as possible I continued the recitation: and Rusty, all my friends and relatives, Maniand Akio, especially Mani, Akio and me right now with the Maoist.
    Success! Cheerfully I could answer, ‘Yes, right, football land, we play lots of football in Ireland.’
    ‘I like football, I like it a lot!’ His statement hung for a moment and then an awkward silence descended again, we three awaiting his next move.
    ‘Okay,’ he said in a jovial tone and with a clap of his hands, ‘maybe I come see you all later in Basecamp Hotel. Maybe you like to help with a donation, yes?’
    We simply stared back at him.
    The preliminaries were over. With a slight step backwards the gunman let us pass and we made our way towards the Basecamp.
    There was always a chance that we would meet the Maoists, everybody had told us that we would. But like most things in life, nobody ever wants to greet bad news until it’s sitting in their laps.
    We entered the hotel deflated.
    ‘Ah, not good-o,’ Akio mumbled as he threw his backpack on the wooden floor of the guesthouse.
    ‘No, not good at all,’ I agreed.
    ‘There is nothing to worry about,’ said Mani, still confident. ‘Later he will come for money. Give him money and then he leave, no problem.’
    No problem, as long as Akio stuck to that plan.
    Akio caught my questioning look and turned suddenly to Mani to ask where the bedrooms were.
    Mani caught the attention of a fine-looking Nepalese woman I took to be the wife of the owner. She was pretty, with that rare, natural beauty often sought by women back home in lotions, moisturisers and facial creams, which pharmaceutical giants present as miracle products. Her jet-black hair was long, straight and tied back from her face, while her figure was slim and attractively delicate. Despite her beauty it was difficult to overlook a certain hardness in her, as she roughly shooed away a couple of small children who peered out from behind a curtained-off room.
    ‘This is Jagan, our host,’ Mani introduced her. Then, instead of seeking out her husband, Mani entered straight into negotiations about prices and rooms. Business concluded, Jagan withdrew to her kitchen and Mani showed us around the house.
    ‘Where is Jagan’s husband?’ I asked Mani, curious at finding a woman undertaking the business side of things.
    ‘No husband,’ Mani replied. ‘Husband die in big fire. This new home. Her old home burn down two years ago with baby inside. Husband go in to save baby, but he die. She widow now and not much money. Plenty bad luck for Jagan. No one to look after her.’
    Back in the living area we could hear her small children now playing in the kitchen behind the curtain. To think that such misfortune could befall this young family! A wife without her husband,