Together they rose to peer through the umbrella of branches.

‘What’s the little bastard up to?’

‘Setting a pattern over the forward slopes.’

‘We might as well eat.’

‘Did he see us?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘How did he know where to search?’

‘Because he’s good.’ Again, Ansell heard the note of amused comradeship in MacConnachie’s voice. ‘He knew we’d left the valley. He knows we’re good too.’

‘What do we do?’

‘Assume he didn’t see us.’

MacConnachie turned away, and started to untie the suitcase. Ansell said,

‘Can we afford to?’

‘Kid, we haven’t any choice. We’ve got to eat; the worst is just ahead of us. And there’s nothing we can do, either way.’

MacConnachie pulled a tin out of the case, and took the kitchen knife to it. Far from satisfied, Ansell sat on the scab grass opposite him. The scrub was much taller than any they had so far encountered, the branches interleaving in a roof above their heads. A withered, spiky tree grew close at hand and, farther down the slope, the worn and twisted trunks of other trees were visible between the strands of meshing brush. The buzz of the helicopter apart, it was a peaceful glade. They had half a tin of meat for breakfast, and a mouthful of water each. Then, in preparation for what was to come, they examined their physical capacity.

MacConnachie’s wrist, where the rope had burned it, was suppurating a little, or had been, for the cloth with which Ansell had bound it was stuck fast. Ansell said,

‘Hang on a sec, I’ll give it one quick heave.’

MacConnachie recoiled in alarm.

‘Are you out of your mind?!’

‘You want to see what it looks like.’

‘Sod what it looks like! I can’t feel it, it must be all right.’

Ansell laughed.

‘I’ll bet you’re scared of jabs as well.’

‘Who isn’t? Anyway, why open it? We’ve nothing to put on it.’

‘We can clean it.’

‘I’ll keep it the way it is!’

Silence. Then Ansell said,

‘Mac, you can’t really not feel it, can you?’

MacConnachie glowered at him like an evil-tempered child, then waggled his hand from the wrist. ‘It’s all right.’ Finally a look of resignation appeared on his face. ‘Oh, all right, then!’ He seized the cloth and ripped it off with one jerk.

The sides of the channel burnt in the flesh were thickly encrusted with congealed pus and blood. At the centre, a colourless fluid rose up before their eyes to glisten in the diffused light of the clearing. Flies came at once to settle and feed, but Ansell flushed them away. MacConnachie tossed the cloth aside, and instantly it was black with gorging insects.

Ansell put his nose to the wound and smelt it.

‘Well?’

‘It’s clean.’ Ansell reached for the canteen, saying, ‘Don’t argue, I just want to use a little to wash it.’

MacConnachie nodded.

‘All right.’

Ansell took another section of torn-off sleeve and, with great care, washed the waste from MacConnachie’s wound, gradually breaking off little pieces of the harder substance, until the area was seen to be fresh, uncorrupt, and far better than they had feared. Finally, he dampened the cloth again, slit one end down the centre with the kitchen knife, and bound it round MacConnachie’s wrist, tying off the ends.