They lie naked on coarse stained blankets, bodies dripping in the desert heat, air thick with the stench of stale sweat and tobacco smoke.
‘It ain’t safe,’ a voice whispers in the black. ‘Going over the fence for a shit. They’ll get you.’ Someone hawks up and spits. ‘Well, that’s what Ron says.’
Fag butts glow like fireflies, lighting stubble faces against the heavy canvas walls. A crimson tip rises and a shadow appears at the tent door, fumbling with the toggles.
‘Fuck that, I’m off for a crap,’ it hisses.
‘Use the bog Simpson,’ barks a deep voice. ‘Like Ron said.’
‘Sod that, they bleedin’ stink.’
And the shape is gone.
They find the body in the morning on the other side of the compound, bollocks in his mouth, lips stitched shut with rat gut.
Just like Ron said.