Читать книгу No Room For Watermelons - Ron Fellowes - Страница 7

Some days go from bad to worse. They just do — sometimes without warning. Except this day was different. The gun should have been a clue.

I was squatting beside the old motorcycle, deep in thought, when a flash caught my eye. Instinctively I turned, just as the ringleader stepped towards me and put the shotgun to my head.

The other two boys fell silent.

Despite a gnawing sense of unease since their arrival, I hadn’t anticipated this. After all, I had been on the road for months and had always felt comfortable among strangers.

I had been warned of the risks of travelling through Diyarbakir Province, where ethnic tensions make some areas unpredictable. I’d shrugged it off. People were often fearful of others, some even describing their neighbours as dangerous. Maybe, though, I should have listened to the gypsy, who had cautioned me earlier in the day.

This wasn’t the first incident in recent months to rattle me. I’d been robbed, ridden through war zones and narrowly avoided terrorist attacks.

I had to admit I often questioned why I was even attempting this crazy ride across the world. At times, the physical and mental challenge was almost too much to take. And, despite my apparent indifference to it, I knew the dangers.

So far, I’d been fortunate, but in that lonely field in the late afternoon, my luck looked like running out.

Was this how my journey was destined to end, and would I be making headlines for all the wrong reasons?