I came home and lay exhausted on my bed, made of a wooden plank, naked except for the amulet around my neck. Genearl Hamilton's words came as if in mockery: 'Conspicuous gallantry', blah-blah-blah, so funny and so meaningless. I picked up the half-broken mirror on my wooden bedside frame and looked at it. Strangely, i didn't appear in it. Instead, it was a long procession of people carried on stretchers across a barren and bleak battlefied. Face after face after face passed right before my eye, some in dead peace, some twitching in excruciating pain, some staring right into the skies above them, and others looking like masks gone to sleep. And one, in particular, I recognised: that of Abdul, the one I killed before he could kill me. The Best Shooter. Was it the person or the word 'best' that ensured one a lasting place in history? Or deathistory? Or both? And what was the price?
I turned the mirror around, meaning to look at its other side, to gain some rest for my eye. What I saw astonished me even more. It was Fenella there, the same lovely one as before, as when we first met and as we went out that night, with her blond hair, and her blood-red skirt, and her blue eyes. She was beckoning me with her right index finger crooked. I stared at her and wondered aloud if she was coming to Australia. 'Yes, darling,' said she. 'I'm coming. i'm coming. I'm coming.'
The second I stepped into the mirror, we became united. Her clothes somehow slipped off her; she stood completely naked in my arms. We coupled and coupled again till a face appeared behind her, that of Abdul. The instant I saw it I, as I would have done out of military habit, reached for my gun. It was too late. As the mirror crashed onto the dirt floor, Abdul's gun fired, with two bullets, each burying itself in one of my eyes.
I lay in a pool of blood mixed with semen, my amulet redding.