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Back Time for the Dead Save as PDF
Chapters (94)
  1. Cover
  2. Time for the Dead
  3. Dedication page
  4. Map
  5. Epigraph page
  6. Prologue
  7. 1
  8. 2
  9. 3
  10. 4
  11. 5
  12. 6
  13. 7
  14. 8
  15. 9
  16. 10
  17. 11
  18. 12
  19. 13
  20. 14
  21. 15
  22. 16
  23. 17
  24. 18
  25. 19
  26. 20
  27. 21
  28. 22
  29. 23
  30. 24
  31. 25
  32. 26
  33. 27
  34. 28
  35. 29
  36. 30
  37. 31
  38. 32
  39. 33
  40. 34
  41. 35
  42. 36
  43. 37
  44. 38
  45. 39
  46. 40
  47. 41
  48. 42
  49. 43
  50. 44
  51. 45
  52. 46
  53. 47
  54. 48
  55. 49
  56. 50
  57. 51
  58. 52
  59. 53
  60. 54
  61. 55
  62. 56
  63. 57
  64. 58
  65. 59
  66. 60
  67. 61
  68. 62
  69. 63
  70. 64
  71. 65
  72. 66
  73. 67
  74. 68
  75. 69
  76. 70
  77. 71
  78. 72
  79. 73
  80. 74
  81. 75
  82. 76
  83. 77
  84. 78
  85. 79
  86. 80
  87. 81
  88. 82
  89. 83
  90. 84
  91. Epilogue
  92. Acknowledgements
  93. About the Author
  94. By Lin Anderson

A male voice shouts from the outer room and the women fall silent.

The older woman lifts the child and, holding back the curtain, steps through. In that brief moment I see the father’s face, the young man who had led me here from my cell. His delight explodes in a torrent of words as he takes his baby son in his arms and walks from the shadowed outer room into the glaring sunlight, his boy held high.

The curtain falls back, leaving us with only the jubilant sounds from outside as the new father shows off his son. A volley of shots peppers the air, and I find myself covering my head with my hands. The women, unafraid, merely add their voices to the explosion of gunfire.

When the noise eventually dies and the baby is returned to its young mother, the women busily prepare the traditional tea (chai). My language may be limited but this is not the first time I have been involved in a tea ceremony with the women of a village.

The first cup of hospitality will be served sweet (chai shireen). The one they hand me in the small handleless porcelain cup is heavily sugared, which I know is a great compliment, their way of saying thank you for delivering the child.

I drink it quickly, my body craving the sweetness. The cup is swiftly refilled and the second unsweetened cup (chai talkh) is flavoured with crushed cardamom seeds.

After four refills, I turn my cup over to show that I have had enough.

The mother’s eyes are open, the drug wearing off. She sees me and reaches out, encouraging me to come to her. I touch her brow, looking for signs of fever, but although her colour is high, her skin is cool. It is happiness, I realize, that flushes her face.

The baby stirs and pulls at the nipple, and the girl-child is swiftly turned into a mother. She touches the mop of glossy black hair and smiles up at me.

I wonder how much longer I have with these women and whether, by my actions, I have brought death closer or sent it further away.

63

McNab shut his eyes as the helicopter took off, opening them again when they were magically in the air. Morning sunlight caught the neighbouring large island that Rhona had called Raasay and the flat-topped mountain named Dun Caan.

McNab wondered idly why both names required a double ‘a’ and decided it must be something to do with the Gaelic.

He also considered how apt it seemed to be sharing the helicopter with a body. He had always thought he might meet death in a plane crash. That’s why he didn’t get into a plane or chopper unless he was forced to.

But, he mused, maybe simply sharing one with someone already dead might be enough to satisfy that premonition.