Bang Bang Bang Page 5

MATHILDE. What does that mean?

  SADHBH. I’m going without you.

  MATHILDE. No. No. No. I am very unhappy about this.

  SADHBH. I’m looking forward to the chat.

  She turns and MATHILDE physically stops her.

  MATHILDE. Stop. Just stop.

  You are trembling.

  SADHBH. Let me go. If we’re not back in two hours call MONUC.

  SADHBH exits.

  MATHILDE calls after her.

  MATHILDE. Hey! We’re in this together like a lifeboat?

  Seven

  Makeshift military headquarters.

  SADHBH is waiting. She is sitting by a small table and has a book and pen.

  COLONEL MBURAME enters. He is dressed in army fatigues. He wears a black beret and has a yellow band on his shoulder. He is wearing army boots polished to a high shine.

  SADHBH stands.

  SADHBH. Bonjour.

  Merci pour votre invitation.

  COLONEL MBURAME beckons for her to sit down.

  COLONEL MBURAME. Je vous en prie.

  SADHBH. Colonel Mburame, vous êtes la première personne que je voulais venir saluer. / Est-ce que on peut parler?

  COLONEL MBURAME. Why do you not wear a wedding ring? Madame?

  SADHBH. Kavanagh. Are you aware who I work for?

  COLONEL MBURAME. Of course.

  SADHBH. DDH is a neutral organisation. We are not linked / to any government.

  COLONEL MBURAME. You are not married, Madame Kavanagh?

  SADHBH. I was hoping we could –

  The FEMALE SOLDIER returns with a tray carrying two teacups and a pot of tea.

  COLONEL MBURAME. English breakfast?

  SADHBH. Thank you.

  The FEMALE SOLDIER pours the tea.

  COLONEL MBURAME. Rumour has it you sleep with all the men. But we understand about radio of the pavement in this country.

  He looks to the FEMALE SOLDIER. She smiles and nods.

  SADHBH. I was hoping we could talk about the situation in Masisi.

  COLONEL MBURAME. Are you a politician?

  SADHBH. Now that we have this opportunity I was –

  The FEMALE SOLDIER gives SADHBH a cup of tea.

  COLONEL MBURAME. You have answered none of my questions – but I must answer yours?

  SADHBH. Go ahead.

  The FEMALE SOLDIER gives COLONEL MBURAME a cup of tea.

  COLONEL MBURAME. Where are you from?

  SADHBH. Ireland.

  COLONEL MBURAME. Top of the morning to you.

  SADHBH. Very good.

  COLONEL MBURAME. I was taught by a Sister Bernadette from Tipperary. Do you know this place?

  SADHBH. Yes. I do.

  COLONEL MBURAME. She made us sing hymns all the days.

  ‘Venez donc, les petits enfants, chantons tous ensemble – parce que Jesus vous aime chaque jour.’

  COLONEL MBURAME smiles. He laughs. He encourages the FEMALE SOLDIER to laugh.

  Sister Bernadette was a farmer’s daughter.

  Are you one such?

  SADHBH. No. But I grew up surrounded by farmland.

  I can milk a cow.

  COLONEL MBURAME. Myself? – I was brought up on a farm. I too can milk a cow.

  Tell me why are you going around asking questions?

  SADHBH. Colonel Mburame. I’ve heard a very concerning issue that I’d like to raise with you.

  COLONEL MBURAME dismisses the FEMALE SOLDIER with a wave. The FEMALE SOLDIER steps back and stands to attention – her AK-47 slung in front of her body.

  I’ve spoken at length with individuals and this is what I understand happened.

  Your troops attacked the town of Masisi.

  COLONEL MBURAME. C’est faux.

  SADHBH. Over thirty people were murdered. Many were tortured and mutilated.

  COLONEL MBURAME. Hyper faux.

  SADHBH. On March 4th your troops raped fifty-three women. Colonel. I’d be very interested to hear your reaction to that.

  COLONEL MBURAME. Madame Kavanagh. I am not a warlord.

  I am a protector of my people.

  SADHBH. Colonel Mburame – again these are allegations – but I also heard that your soldiers went to the St Thérese School – picked out girls and raped them, held them prisoner over a period of three weeks and then left them in the road. / Seven young women have told me that and I understand there are more.

  COLONEL MBURAME. I can’t believe this.

  SADHBH. I’ve heard allegations that girls as young as eight years old were brought to you and made sex slaves for you and your soldiers.

  COLONEL MBURAME. Comment osez-vous dire ca? Are you not ashamed to accuse me of this?

  SADHBH. There are people who specifically identify your troops in the attack. There are people who identify you.

  COLONEL MBURAME. Has the genocide taught you nothing about Hutu liars and killers?

  SADHBH. The type of uniform your group wears was identified.

  COLONEL MBURAME. This is what you base your claims upon?

  You realise these uniforms can be bought.

  Our enemies are known to have done this before. C’est faux, faux, arche faux.

  SADHBH. Why are so many people talking about it? You –

  Colonel Mburame will be held accountable for the actions of your men.

  Are you aware that these kind of crimes are war crimes?

  COLONEL MBURAME. Maybe a few of my soldiers on this occasion got a bit crazy. You know what it’s like –

  They just had a bit too much to drink but in my armed group we’re very serious about that. I will make sure I find the perpetrators of these acts and they will be shot.

  Dites moi qui a dit ça?

  Tell me the names of the victims so I can go and talk to them directly.

  SADHBH. Why would I give you their names?

  Would you mind not pointing your gun at me?

  COLONEL MBURAME. Vous ne pouvez pas comprendre, comment pouvez-vous comprendre?

  SADHBH. Colonel Mburame.

  COLONEL MBURAME. J’essaie de protéger mon peuple.

  Whatever I have to do to protect my people is whatever I have to do.

  Comment s’appellent ils? Montrez les moi!

  COLONEL MBURAME grabs her notebook. He flicks quickly through it.

  SADHBH. There are no names. It’s a list of the allegations.

  He reads through them.

  COLONEL MBURAME. Why is this the business of the Irish?

  SADHBH. My business here concerns serious violations of international humanitarian and human rights law.

  COLONEL MBURAME. The white angel from the west –

  Come to drag me to The Hague!

  Is this not so?

  SADHBH. I believe that things can be better, Colonel Mburame.

  COLONEL MBURAME. Drink your tea, Madame Kavanagh.

  She does as she is told.

  He hands back the book.

  Write – ‘It was never meant to happen this way.’

  SADHBH. What wasn’t?

  COLONEL MBURAME. Some people were killed but that wasn’t my fault.

  Je ne suis pas coupable.

  Write that in your book.

  SADHBH. I will.

  COLONEL MBURAME. Write – ‘It wasn’t these two hands.’

  Ce n’était pas ces mains,

  ce n’était pas ces mains.

  Tell that to your relevant authorities. Go home, Madame Kavanagh.

  This is not your business. This is not your war.

  COLONEL MBURAME stands.

  When I was a child there were massacres in my village. The blue helmets stood by as my father’s cattle were stolen, his farm burned to the ground.

  My mother murdered with a hammer.

  The Hutu killers did not want to waste a bullet and cutting is such hard work. You are looking at my cut.

  Touch me. Touch me. (Grabs her hand and presses it on his forehead.) A survivor’s scar.

  The wound festered with
squirming insects for three weeks. I was left for dead, Madame Kavanagh.

  He releases her hand.

  This is your international concern?

  Your ‘humanitarian assistance’?

  We want none of it.

  My conscience is clear.

  COLONEL MBURAME drinks his tea. He puts down his cup.

  Pause.

  And now, Madame Kavanagh, I fear I must leave you.

  SADHBH stands up.

  Non! Attendez ici. I’ll tell your driver to come here. It’s getting dark. C’est plus prudent de rester ici jusqu’à l’arrivée de votre escorte.

  SADHBH. Thank you, Colonel Mburame. I will think carefully about what you have said. I hope you do likewise.

  COLONEL MBURAME exits. SADHBH sits. She looks at the FEMALE SOLDIER. The FEMALE SOLDIER looks straight ahead.

  End of Act One.

  ACT TWO

  One

  Goma. A house party.

  A noisy party scene – with Congolese Soukous music – dim lighting – perhaps candles – oil lamps. There are bottles, bodies, snogging, red plastic chairs, a string of lights, perhaps a poster advertising Primus.

  People are dancing. There is an atmosphere of abandon.

  After some moments the other bodies move on and RONAN and VIN are revealed. They are drinking bottles of Primus. The party still ongoing but at a much lower level.

  RONAN (an Irish Foreign correspondent) is talking with VIN (a young photographer).

  RONAN. You came to Goma on a punt?

  VIN. Yeah. I think if I can get good pictures and a story.

  Maybe someone like the Sunday Times will buy my work.

  RONAN. Who do you know at the Sunday Times?

  VIN. My mum’s cousin is married to the editor of the Travel section.

  RONAN. Brilliant.

  VIN. I’ve heard people talking about Masisi.

  You’re going there, right?

  RONAN. Right.

  VIN. They say – it’s violent. Murderous.

  It’s a restaurant for flies. They feast.

  RONAN. What twat said that?

  I wrote it, didn’t I.

  VIN. Yeah – but that’s why I wanted to talk to you.

  A girl from Médecins sans Frontières said you might be able to help me.

  RONAN. How?

  VIN. You’ll need a photographer, right?

  RONAN. I have a photographer.

  VIN. I could just watch you?

  RONAN. No. How do you intend to get to Masisi?

  VIN. I’ll hire a motorbike.

  RONAN laughs.

  RONAN. I’ve never seen a roadworthy bike in Congo –

  And the roads from Goma to Masisi / are terrible.

  VIN. You can get stuck in mud. You can get held up. Robbed. I know.

  RONAN. I have security when I travel.

  You know that too. Right?

  VIN. If I’m prepared to come here then I’m prepared to take the risks.

  RONAN. Rule number one – the only rule –

  No job is worth your life.

  Why do you want to risk your life for an article –

  VIN. Photo essay. I’m a / photographer.

  RONAN. For a photo essay no one is going to want?

  This is an ongoing story so unless you’ve got a commission?

  Or find a story about cannibalism – maybe child-raping peacekeepers…

  VIN. Yeah. Okay.

  RONAN. Man!

  You need papers to go anywhere.

  VIN. I have a letter from the Walthamstow Guardian.

  RONAN. That’ll be a great help.

  VIN. Yeah, yeah. Okay.

  RONAN. You can’t just rock up to a village and take your camera out.

  VIN. Will you help me or not?

  RONAN. Forget it.

  It’s a responsibility.

  VIN takes a book out of his backpack.

  VIN. Have a look at my pictures.

  RONAN. Why not.

  RONAN flicks through the shots.

  VIN. Those are of the flood near Cockermouth – the collapse of Lorton Bridge. It was incredible – my dad is an RAF squadron leader and we –

  RONAN. The good news is – you’ve got talent.

  VIN. And the bad news?

  RONAN. You haven’t a fucking clue why you’re good.

  There’s nothing about this shot that tells me it’s Cockermouth or anywhere for that matter. It’s a wanky arty picture of water.

  He flicks through the other pictures.

  You’ve got to have purpose behind the image. Got it?

  And I don’t give a shit who your dad is.

  VIN. I learn quickly.

  RONAN. That helps.

  VIN. I’ve got passion and honesty.

  RONAN. So did a lot of dead photographers.

  Hands him back his portfolio.

  The face is very powerful. Don’t be afraid of the obvious. Not bad, though.

  VIN. Brilliant. Thanks. Thanks so much.

  RONAN. For nothing. It’s just an opinion. Take it or leave it.

  He hands VIN back the portfolio.

  Man, your best bet is to bed one of the aid workers.

  VIN. What?

  RONAN. They’ve got security, the houses, the cars and the contacts.

  VIN. Do you know someone I can talk to? Anybody here?

  RONAN. Look around. What do you see?

  VIN. Wall-to-wall women.

  RONAN. If I were you I would go back to the nice girl from Médecins sans Frontières and ask to see her stamp collection.

  They’re not called ‘Nurses Without Knickers’ for nothing.

  VIN. Really?

  RONAN rolls his eyes.

  VIN scans the room for the sex-starved. RONAN writes something on a bit of paper.

  RONAN. Buddy?

  VIN. Yes?

  RONAN. This is not your playground. It’s a dangerous place.

  He hands him the piece of paper.

  That’s where I’m staying.

  We’re leaving at 6 a.m. and won’t be waiting.

  VIN. Are you serious?

  RONAN. Jaysus, don’t hug me. Get me a beer / for fuck’s sake.

  VIN. Excellent. Thank you. Bloody brilliant.

  Will do.

  VIN wanders off and bumps smack into SADHBH and MATHILDE.

  RONAN (to himself). Ahh, Jesus wept.

  VIN. Ladies! Can I get you a drink?

  SADHBH. We’re okay.

  MATHILDE. It’s okay.

  RONAN. The Kincasslagh Kavanagh.

  How the hell are you?

  SADHBH. Not too shabby.

  RONAN. And who is this vision?

  SADHBH. Pick on someone your own age.

  MATHILDE. Mathilde Rolla.

  She holds out her hand and he shakes it.

  Sadhbh’s assistant.

  RONAN. Ronan Fitzgerald.

  Sadhbh’s admirer.

  SADHBH. He’s like this with everyone.

  RONAN pulls out a bottle of Jägermeister and shot glasses.

  It’s going to be one of those nights, is it?

  He pours three shots.

  RONAN. Pull up a couple of pews there, Mathilde.

  MATHILDE drags over a chair.

  SADHBH. There’s something very wrong about drinking Jägermeister in Africa.

  RONAN. Gowanouttathat. Get up the yard.

  He knocks back a shot.

  They knock back a shot.

  MATHILDE. It’s gone ‘up the yard’ and tastes like medicine.

  RONAN. Numbs the brain and warms the heart.

  Just what the doctor ordered.

  SADHBH. What’s the craic?

  RONAN. I’ve just been in Kigali covering Jean Butler’s visit to some genocide sites – Jean Butler’s visit to some ‘Maison des Veuves’. Jean Butler visits gorillas in the fucking mist.

  MATHILDE. Who is Jean Butler?

  RONAN. Did the nineties completely pass you by?


  Jean Butler – Riverdance – the Eurovision?

  SADHBH. What’s she doing in Kigali?

  RONAN. Teaching Rwandans to Riverdance. I don’t fucking know, Sadhbh.

  SADHBH. It’s a PR visit.

  RONAN. Lovely girl an’ all – don’t get me wrong – but there must be a more edifying way to make a livin’.

  And Kigali is a fuckin joke.

  There are so many NGOs they’re trippin’ over one another and they’ll tell you the best place to get steak and where the jazz clubs are but they haven’t a fucking clue about the disaster that’s happening in North Kivu – I’ve been thinking about running an article on it.

  Lazy fat-arse NGOs driving around in their four-by-fours while Masisi burns a couple of hours drive away.

  Let’s tell people exactly where their direct debit is going.

  SADHBH. No aid agency will touch you with a shitty stick if you run that story.

  RONAN. It’s time we had a grown-up debate about the C-word in the aid world.

  SADHBH. Corruption is a red herring, Ronan.

  For God’s sake – don’t print stuff that will stop people giving.

  I mean – our organisation daren’t mention that donations are spent on office chairs. But you know – we have an office.

  He pours them another shot.

  RONAN. Are you suggesting your organisation be impervious to scrutiny?

  SADHBH. I’m saying – recognise the impact of negative sentiment.

  RONAN. True enough.

  Another poncey party full of bleeding-heart aid workers.

  Shouldn’t you be in some hole lassoing warlords?

  SADHBH. We’ve got R and R for a couple of days – Stephen is in Tanzania on business so we’re going to try to – connect – if he can hitch a ride here.

  RONAN looks at SADHBH flirtatiously.

  RONAN. He was a locationship, wasn’t he?

  SADHBH. Yep. I met Stephen exactly same time I met you.

  RONAN looks away.

  RONAN. He got there just before I did.

  SADHBH. ‘We’ were never on the cards.

  RONAN. Oh yes we were. Don’t think you can deny it.

  Mathilde, this woman could have changed me.

  SADHBH. I doubt that somehow.

  RONAN. Is he missing you? The poor fucker.

  Must be awful when the girlfriend is married to the job.

  How do you keep it going? You here – him there.

  SADHBH. We manage.

  RONAN takes a large draught of his beer.

  RONAN. Don’t tell him I was asking for him.

  SADHBH. I won’t.

  They clink glasses and drink a shot each.

  RONAN. So what are you, Mathilde?

  MATHILDE. Excuse me?

  RONAN. Mercenary? Missionary? Misfit? All of the above?