‘Hurry up!’ Skeletor shouted. ‘Or you’ll join him.’

As if barefoot in the hot sand, Thomas sprinted the rest of the way. When he stopped, before the next dune began, he drew a deep breath and wiped the sweat from his eyes.

The terrorist lay on his back on the flat ground, his legs splayed open. His sandals were cut from car tyres, the straps carefully-threaded strips of leather. He wore suit trousers, rolled high at the ankles. Bob Marley, all wrapped up in dreadlocks, gazed serenely from his chest.

Thomas swallowed, took another long breath and made himself look at the terrorist’s face, to see if he was still alive.

It was a young face, unmarked by wrinkles, but on the smooth black skin of the terrorist’s forehead lay a neat bull’s-eye. His neck was twisted to one side and at the back of his head a bolognaise sauce of blood, brain and skull was seeping into the sand.

‘Hey, nice T-shirt,’ Skeletor said. He walked up and gave the terrorist a nudge with his boot. ‘Clean shot too.’

Flies were already starting to swarm.

‘I think he was unarmed.’ Thomas looked around at the sand and rocks for a weapon.

‘He must have dropped his AK when he saw us.’ Skeletor gave the terrorist another nudge for good luck.

‘He was unarmed. I’m sure of it.’

‘So what?’ Skeletor’s sneer pressed his cauliflower ears up against his bush hat.

‘He was unarmed,’ Thomas repeated. This was a big deal, wasn’t it? Was he the only one who saw that? He looked to Bob Marley for support.

Bob Marley held his silence.

‘Go wait in your foxhole.’ Skeletor got down on his knees and started yanking the T-shirt off the terrorist. ‘I don’t need you any more.’

‘What are you doing?’

‘What do you think? His sandals look too small for me.’ Skeletor kept pulling at his souvenir.