Dead Centre

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Shit …

This was not going to end well.

The two of them were at it again, and this time one of them was going to get hurt.

Mong towered over BB, his forehead pressed hard against the top of the other man’s skull to prevent him pulling back and trying a Glasgow kiss. Mong’s sweat dripped onto BB’s face, then down into the sand. He was breathing heavily, through clenched teeth. I could hear him even from where I was sitting.

I knew Mong. What he started, he finished.

I jumped up and skirted around a pile of pulverized, multicoloured hardwood that had once been a fishing boat. It was a week since the tsunami, and Aceh was still a disaster zone. There was debris everywhere. The coastal region looked like Hiroshima after Enola Gay. The tide brought in more wreckage and bodies with every wave.

‘Mong — enough, mate! We’ve got work to do!’

He wasn’t listening. He snorted like a bull.

‘Bin it, mate. Back away. We’ve got no hospitals, fuck-all medical kit …’

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