Allah knows my name…

It’s been three years since I came to the Sudan. When I left home, I was no more than a boy. I was not raised by a father, but by a map awash with pink that hung in our dining room. A map which the man (who claimed to be my father) spent more time and love on than any of us. A map that would not only come to possess him, but my brothers, one by one, as they got older. Until it was finally my turn.

It was no surprise when I came home that day to find our house packed with men in uniforms. Three times before I had watched my brothers go through the same spectacle. As I walked up the drive, I wanted to run there and then, but only my mind could conjure escape. My legs led me blindly to my fate.

‘In the name of the Empire!’ they cheered as they clinked and raised their glasses to toast her. But if the empire is a woman, then she is a cold one. All my time here, I have never heard her sigh, let alone her heart beat.

Whilst the desert sings to me…

All I have seen here in her name is a bloody set of footprints left behind by the men of the 21st Lancers and those who march with us.  From Ferkeh in the south to Khartoum in the north, our trail is marked across the sands like a rotten vein that takes the life from the flesh around it.

Now in Khartoum we sit and wait as Kitchener builds his city. Like most rotten things, we fester in the sun and the stench hangs low and wide above our heads. It is not the smell of boots that have walked a thousand miles, nor of cordite or sweat. It is a stench of the darkness that is yet to come.

You have shown me there is light…

The stench in this place gets stronger every day as more evil pours in by the shipload. They arrive like clockwork, from all corners of this earth. Slave traders, tricksters, opportunists are all here. Some hide behind their European verandas, their cocktails parties and their ideas of respectability. Most hide behind the cold of steel where life is valued at no more than an inch of brass and a ball of lead – those are the ones I prefer, for the aforementioned are blind to their curse.

A month ago, two old European gentlemen came down from Egypt and started to go door-to-door in search of the young and vulnerable. ‘In the name of art!’ they said. I did not see art, but just two twisted old men of ruin.

They would be my third and fourth victims…

This is the stench the place has been plunged into, but there is fresh air to be found away from this pit. The Desert.

The first time I went, I was in an intoxicated rage. My heart yearned for escape and for a quick end to my hell. I cannot remember if I ran or I walked. All I can remember are the faces of those who I passed, who I cursed and bedeviled.  Then I remember just lying there, waiting for the sun and the heat to lift me from this land.

As the sun set, having burned my skin, I cried in disappointment that my chest should still rise and sink, and the blood should still pump through my corpse.  There I stayed through the night, and sung a wordless song of melancholy, till I found myself lifted as the desert made its comfort known to me. I watched as tiny grains of sands were carried by the wind into a dance beautiful and complex. I could not surrender myself there and then, but it would entice me into coming back.

And back I did come. Soon it became a daily pilgrimage, and those who I had first scorned began to open to me, and I to them.

They call me Sarsarun …

It was as if I had been let in on a great secret which only they and I could understand, and they took great joy in my swift metamorphosis. It was they who taught me, not through words but through love, to understand the dance in the sand. They taught me to see and hear with my heart again.

I knew the first part of my transformation was complete when, while walking back from the desert, I went to accost two men from my own platoon who were violating one of the young girls of the village.  They did not recognise me when I called to them to stop, nor did they recognise my face when I was inches away and had brought my sabre to their throats.

They were my first and second victims…

One of these days, I will come to the desert and not return to the barracks. I am no longer that fair-skinned boy from Sussex who was afraid of his father’s scorn. But the desert has yet to make me a man, for I have yet to learn its lesson of peace.

Teach me…

Should I feel bad?

It will be irrelevant in a few hours, the sand will engulf both our wretched bodies. Christ!

Thompson bought it last night, though the sun had claimed his mind a lot earlier. He had spent most of his final hours on his stomach, just laying there resting his cheek against the sand, a miserable specimen of a man. He didn’t move or make a sound, and the only sign that marked his passing was when his eyes no longer blinked.

This morning I mustered what little energy I had and dug a shallow grave for him. There will be no one around to give me such an honour in the undoubtedly short time I have left.

Our flight was originally meant to take four hours tops, and as such we did not have much in the way of supplies. What water we did have ran out some three days ago. We… well, I… managed to distill the engine’s antifreeze. But I drank the final sip of that this morning, shortly after burying Thompson, I might add. I’m past caring how dry my throat feels in this cursed heat. I would give anything for some shade right now.

Shortly after the crash, when we were both full of strength, we had propped what remained of the starboard wing against the wreckage of the fuselage. This provided a small but perfectly adequate amount of shade. The bitter Saharan winds got up early this morning, and thanks to them, the wing now lays some three foot away. If Thompson was still here, I might have some sort of chance of putting it back, even though he was in a state of madness. Alas, I barely have the energy to stand.

Damn you, Thompson! Damn you.

It had been your idea to take this blasted trip in the first place.

“There’s a marvelous oasis one simply must visit.”

You said.

“I know a very reasonable place we can get a plane.”

You said!

“Not that old Charlie fellow from the embassy.”

I said.

“Come on old boy, where is your spirit of adventure ?”

You said!

Oh, I tell you exactly where my spirit is at the moment. Not only was it your wretched idea and your wretched flying that got us here, but you had the god-damn indecency to die this morning!

So, no. I shall not feel bad, nor shall I feel guilty. I will drag myself over, so I can lean comfortably against the fuselage. I will remove my shirt and tie it around my head. The sun can burn my chest. I want some shade god damn it. I will then enjoy my final hours before the sun blinds me with the picture of Thompson’s wife in one hand and my whore-pipe in the other.

My dear friends, ladies and gentlemen of this fine establishment, next to the Royal Zoological Society in London – I ask for your patience as I tell you my story. I warn those of a weak disposition, especially those of the fairer sex… you may find the need to cover your ears.

But before I begin, I wonder if one of you could get an old man a dram of whiskey to warm the throat? Thank you.

It was in this very bar some three months ago that I first heard of the “Despicable Beast of Marrakech”.

I had been chatting to a rather interesting businessman by the name of Horatio Pippin who had told me of his recent expedition across French Africa. Whilst he amazed not just myself, but others at the bar with his many tales, it was not until he and I were alone in the smoking room that he told us about the beast.

As sunset comes across the city and night begins to fall, this creature comes out. They say it’s seven foot high with teeth like razors and a thick black coat of fur. Its territory is that of the rooftops of the city, only coming down to feed on cattle and small children!

After listening to Pippin’s tale, I decided at once I must go there and capture this travesty of nature, and bring it to the Royal Zoological Society so they can do what ever it is they do best.

The very next morning I booked my passage on the RMS Silvana from Southampton to Casablanca. I knew from the start this would be a most dangerous trip. As most of you are aware, my money is heavily invested in the Zeppelin industry, so I had to make this journey without my manservant. I was alone…

Arriving in Casablanca eight days later, the heat was unbearable. Ladies, you may wish to cover your ears here. I found myself having to remove my collar and tie and, dare I say, unbuttoning my top two buttons in order to have any hope of surviving the heat. The colonists, however, are a delightful bunch, and I was able to arrange transport with little fuss. The natives though… well, the sooner they learn the King’s tongue, the better.

Moving onto Marrakech, I booked myself into the Hotel Bristol and waited for nightfall.

The concierge was a most helpful fellow. For not only did he find me a guide to take me around the city itself, he also sourced a gramophone and a pressing of Scot Joplin. For it is said in the street that the beast is attracted to music.

The guide informed me that some two days previous, some droppings had been found in a street in the Kasbah area. I decided that this was where I would set up base, on the roof of a small shop nearby.

I sat on the rooftop and waited as night came and the moon illuminated the sky. Lighting my pipe, I realised I had made one fateful error in my planning. The wine I had brought with me was an 1878, not a ’76. How could I have been so careless? I tossed the bottle aside and pulled out my hip flask instead.

A little after 3am I heard the unmistakable sound of an animal breathing. I took from my case the finest Sheffield steel padlocks one can buy, and three metres of chain.

My plan was to calm the beast with Dr. Dean’s Amazing Sleep Remedy. A quart to knock out a man is the usual dose, but here I was not taking any chances. I filled a syringe with a full pint!

The sound of breathing grew louder and nearer. Gordon Bennett! The music seemed to have done its trick! I positioned myself in the corner and readied myself with the syringe.

BANG! It was on the roof with me. In the darkness I could make out its large eyes. It was aware I was there too! I stepped forward and attempted to plunge the syringe in.

Before my arm was out straight, the beast had leapt forward, sending me flying, and unfortunately, the syringe too. I felt around and grabbed the chain – my last chance! I swung at the beast with all my strength. Sadly it resulted in nothing more than the padlock flying off the end.

For a moment we stood perched on this roof, neither of us moving. Silence.

My gaze drifted to the gramophone, which I could just make out in the darkness. From the corner of my eye I could see the beast heading towards the player as the record came to an end. Without the delightful ragtime sounds, I wondered what the beast’s next move would be.

Do please entertain my nonsense here, for I was certain there was a look of sadness on the creature’s face, if indeed such emotions can exist in the animal kingdom. Gathering my courage, I began to move closer, and then whoosh! The creature was gone.

Not before doing me the injustice of breaking the gramophone, I might add.

In the darkness I did my best to retrieve the pieces of the broken player, but alas, could not find the speaker cone. Tired, I headed back to my room at the Bristol. I dreaded having to tell the concierge I would require another player in the morning.

Turned out this most reasonable and helpful fella was now most displeased, and he refused me help in sourcing another.

Without music, I feared I had little chance of catching the creature. Having come so close, I headed back to Casablanca, and then onto the first available ship back to England. Which is why you now find me here.

I have come to ask your assistance in raising funds to take a brass band over with me on my next attempt. Now who is with me?