Together, they walked towards thdabout, past the blockade of soldiers, into the crowded market area, arriving at the same time as a helicopter circling low above them. The wind from its blades caught the tarpaulin tops of the market stalls and they filled out like sails. Some turned over, spilling their produce. Leo checked on the eggs. They were smashed, shell and yolk on the ground.

Leo and Nara passed through crowds of Afghans, many on their knees, hands behind their heads, gun barrels pressed against their backs. The man who’d sold him pomegranates looked up at him, full of hatred. With the invasion, Leo could no longer hold a position in the margins, ignored and irrelevant, unseen, living an invisible existence. No longer a ghost, he was the face of the occupation as much as the zealous captain.

The suspect was not dead. The Afghan and Soviet soldiers had cornered him in a space not far from a spice stall. He’d been shot in the arm: his hand was dripping blood. Nara touched Leo, remaining behind him, hidden from the suspect. Leo asked, already knowing the answer:

—Was this the man that attacked you?

She nodded.

The suspect lifted up his shirt. Several plastic bags were attached to his torso – the kind used by juice stalls. They were leaking, liquid pouring down his body, soaking his clothes. Then a spark and a flame appeared in his hand, a burning match produced from nowhere. He slapped his trousers and the material caught alight, flames spreading to his shirt, the bags ablaze. In a second he was engulfed. His beard turned to fire. His skin shrank from his bones. The pain became too much and he ran from side to side, arms flailing, flames leaping into the sky. One of the soldiers raised his gun to kill him. The captain pushed the barrel down.

—Let him burn.

The suspect burned, eventually collapsing to his knees. The flames died down, the gasoline exhausted. He continued to move, less like a human, more a smouldering corpse animated by dark magic, coming to rest under one of the tables laden with spices. The table began to cook, spice pods popping in the heat. The air reeked, burnt flesh and sumac spice. Leo’s eyes followed the unusual coloured smoke into the sky, wisps of blues and greens. At every window, as far he could see, there were faces, young boys, young men, the spectators that the captain had so eagerly wanted for the arrest.

In the tea rooms old men clutched their glasses, cigarettes between their fingers, as calm as if they’d seen this all before and were sure they would one day see it all again.

The Border of Laghman and

Nangarhar Provinces - The Village of Sokh Rot

116 Kilometres East of Kabul

9 Kilometres West of Jalalabad - Next Day