Shelter Rock

by MP Miles

  The man shook his head.

  “I expect all fathers are like that. It doesn’t matter. Talking about rubbish is enough to make a bond.”

  “But we’d just argue.”

  “A father you argue with is better than no father at all.”

  Ralph thought about it quietly.

  “So, what are you going to do when you get home?” the man asked.

  It was a question Ralph had been asking himself for some time and he had come no closer to an answer than he had been when he’d left school. Some grammar school boys had always known that they would study engineering, be a bank manager, or run the family haulage firm. Ralph was sure only that whatever he did it should be outside. Anything other than working deskbound in an office.

  “I’m not sure. I thought about joining the Army. Or agriculture.”

  The man’s reaction didn’t do anything to change Ralph’s suspicion that he may be mad or dangerous, or both.

  He braked hard, unexpectedly, and the Toyota shook like a dog as it came to a stop in a red cloud as at sunset. He put his face very close and gripped Ralph’s knee hard. His eyes were black and a stubble like a burnt field covered his chin and cheeks. Strong muscles quivered in his neck as if in spasm.

  “Be a farmer,” he said.

  *

  The track had been leading south-east through Buinja, but at Lumino it headed north into the outskirts of the Ugandan side of Busia. They had made the border.

  Angel stopped clear of the town at twelve thirty, lunchtime. They had covered ninety-eight kilometres of dirt road in three hours without being challenged.

  “We need to split up now,” he said.

  Ralph tried not to show his relief.

  “I’m going to drop you at a crossroads in town. It’s about 1,200 metres from the border. You’re going to need a Kenyan entry stamp or you’ll have problems at the airport when you leave Kenya. I’m going to tell you what to do.”

  “Okay,” Ralph laughed.

  “This is serious. Walk to the border but do not go through customs. Do you understand?”

  Ralph nodded.

  “Find a café off the road where you can sit out of view of the street but within sight of the border post. Choose somewhere that has a back door, a way out if someone comes for you through the front.”

  Ralph stared at him, uncertain about what the man would do but convinced now that he was mad.

  “Watch the border for new guards coming to work. The shift change may be at four or five o’clock this afternoon. When you see fresh people arriving for work go through the border, but pick an officer who hasn’t been relieved, one who is still waiting to go home. Tell him you’ve been travelling with the church. Make one up; there are hundreds of them. St Simon and St Jude’s Holy Evangelical Truth Mission or something. Three hundred metres through the border on the other side is a bus station. Wait for me. It will be after dark. Maybe eight this evening. I’ll collect you and we’ll drive to Nairobi. We’ll be there for breakfast. I’ll pay.”

  “Okay, what will you do?”

  “Sleep until dark and then drive around the border post.”

  He flicked hair from his eyes.

  “Your rucksack is in the back.”

  Angel looked at Ralph’s feet.

  “Do you have some shoes?”

  Ralph looked in the back of the pickup. His blue rucksack lay covered in red dust as though back from a trip to Mars.

  “Yes, I have some spare boots.”

  “Do you have some long trousers and a collared shirt?”

  “Possibly.”

  “Okay. Put them on before you cross. Be godly.”

  “Godly?”

  “Yeah. You’ve been here in beautiful Uganda visiting associates from your church back home.”

  Ralph wasn’t convinced.

  “St Simon and St Jude’s?”

  “Yeah. That’s right. See you in the bus station after eight.”

  Angel drove slowly through the town and stopped at the crossroads.

  “It’s that way. Go quickly.”

  He felt he was pushing Ralph away when he should have kept him close, to keep him safe, but he had no option. Angel couldn’t leave Uganda through a border post, as he’d entered illegally, and Ralph couldn’t leave Kenya without an entry stamp. They would have to split up. He hoped Ralph would take his advice on where to stay in Nairobi.

  “What’s your name?” Ralph asked.

  “My name is Rots.”

  “Rots,” Ralph repeated.

  Ralph got out of the truck and closed the door, then stopped and put his head through the window.

  “Rots.”

  Angel looked at him.

  “At the service station. How did you know my name? You shouted for Ralph.”

  Angel didn’t answer.

  Ralph still held the window.

  “I’ll speak to my father,” Ralph said.

  The Toyota pulled quickly forward.

  “And you should find yours!” he shouted.

  It was too late, the truck soon out of sight.

  *

  Angel drove two kilometres north on the road to Tororo and stopped. He had some time to kill but everything was going to be okay. He felt certain Elanza would be pleased. He looked forward to telling her all about it.

  After dark he drove two kilometres east on a dirt road and crossed the unmarked border. In the light of a dull street lamp he changed back to Kenyan number plates and threw the Ugandan ones in to a ditch. He drove the third side of a two-kilometre square on the Kenyan side to the bus stop. It was a quarter past eight.

  At the bus station a woman sold him bananas. He’d suspected all along that Ralph wouldn’t be there. A seven o’clock bus had left for Nairobi, arriving at three in the morning. A mzungu boy had been on it. She’d sold him bananas too. It was a lousy time to arrive but Angel was certain Ralph would be all right, and he knew where to start looking for him.

  *

  Number Three, Parklands Avenue, Nairobi, slouched opposite the Aga Khan Hospital. Comfortably north of the centre of Nairobi it was a sprawling run-down bungalow eaten away in places by termites, with a large leafy garden in which Madame Roche, a buxom Polish lady usually full of vodka, kept notorious clothes-eating dogs. The rooms inside had been turned into dormitories of tiered bunkbeds made from shipping pallets that wobbled precariously. Many thought it safer to camp in her garden. Madame Roche’s had long been a favourite of budget travellers, providing them with a bed and then breakfast served in a garden full of trees and flowers for only a dollar a night.

  Angel had been watching the house and the people of Nairobi from the shade of a flame tree for five days and had concluded that Kenya was still very tribal. Maasai, Nandi, Kipsigis, Luo and Baluyia, some mad on bangi, paraded in front of him as he waited and watched out for Ralph. The British had actively maintained tribal conflicts at one stage. Divide and rule. Jomo Kenyatta’s dictatorial rule had seemingly continued it. Opposition parties had been outlawed and their leaders imprisoned. Kenyatta’s own Kikuyu people became the dominant tribe, running business and government. Angel assumed that that was why Kenyatta and his successor President Daniel Arap Moi were so staunchly against President Nyerere of Tanzania. Tribalism and socialism didn’t go together.

  Angel ran his hand over his head. With regret he’d shaved his braids, and his hair had been cut short. He’d allowed an itchy beard to colonise his face. He scratched at it relentlessly. His white kanzu had gone as well, replaced by jeans and a black tee shirt, soft brown boots and a baseball cap.

  He restlessly checked his watch. Sunrise was still forty minutes away but the sky had already changed from black to the colour of dull gunmetal. Angel shivered. Elanza needed to keep warm. The weather would be cooling in Johannesburg as well in May, maybe eigh
t degrees at night. At least it was a dry month, with plenty of sunshine even if the daytime temperatures dropped lower. If she kept warm at night she could sit comfortably outside by day and hopefully not pick up a chill. He wished he could be there now. Soon it would be over and he could go to her. He checked his watch again: 4th May; the day of Ralph’s flight home.

  In the end, his mind wandering, Angel nearly missed him. Ralph surprised him by crawling from a side window of the guesthouse thirty minutes before sunrise. Angel watched him, amused.

  You cheeky little monkey, he thought.

  He followed him at a distance. Three locals, one with a panga, were also following Ralph but hadn’t checked behind them, amateurs high on khat. Angel assessed the risks but Ralph made it on to the bus to the airport. It was early; he’d have all day to wait in the terminal. That didn’t matter, thought Angel; Ralph was safe.

  Eighteen

  When Veronica Aspel walked into Jomo Kenyatta International Airport at five o’clock in the morning the terminal still had a sleepy quiet feel. The first flights of the day out of Nairobi to Entebbe and Addis were at six, both repositioning flights and generally unpopular with travellers. The rush came later.

  There wasn’t any need for her to be at work at that hour. Her airline didn’t need her until three hours before the first departure, but she liked to be in ahead of her manager Mr Green. She could get so much more done without him, and she preferred the early shift anyway. It was cooler and she’d be finished for the day by ten and by the pool at the club before lunch.

  The evening shift didn’t agree with her nearly so much as she didn’t start work until nine thirty at night, just as everyone else started getting into the swing of things in the pub. For Veronica and her colleague Sarah, the evening flight was always busier. Mr Green often helped at that time, but only with the First and Club class passengers. If all went well and the northbound flight departed on time she’d be home at two in the morning, feeling hot and tired, her feet aching in the stupid shoes the company made them wear, her head ringing from Nigel Green’s nasal whine about the sixty-minute turnaround.

  It turned out to be an exotic posting, though, and easy – only two flights a day. The southbound overnight flight from London to Johannesburg arrived in Nairobi at eight in the morning. A lot of people got off the plane but few checked in. The northbound flight from Johannesburg to London didn’t arrive until midnight. One of the pilots had explained to her why the flights were only early in the morning and late at night. It had something to do with the height above sea level of the runway at Nairobi and the hot daytime temperature. The 747s could only take off with enough fuel when it was cooler.

  Veronica saw the boy sitting on the floor at the desk as she walked in. His legs and arms looked thin and brown, like a girl’s. His hair looked thick and wavy and blond. His clothes needed a wash but they were so pale and thin that a good cleaning would probably finish them off. His dusty rucksack wasn’t worth checking in. It needed putting in a skip.

  “I’ll be with you in a moment, sir,” she said.

  Ralph smiled.

  “Thanks. I’ve got plenty of time.”

  “Johannesburg?”

  “London.”

  “Oh, I can’t check you in for tonight’s flight yet, sir.”

  “That’s okay.”

  Ralph wasn’t leaving until after midnight. He’d arrived at the airport over eighteen hours before his flight.

  He looked at the girl he was talking to. She looked very English. A nametag said ‘Veronica Aspel’ and a sign on the counter at the desk, ‘Nairobi Station Crew Team Member’.

  Veronica took another look at his dusty clothes. She should probably get rid of him before Mr Green turned up. Nigel Green’s manner with those customers who weren’t fur and pinstripe was brusque to say the least, especially early morning when he knew his appearance wasn’t the best, his fleshy face still pink from shaving and his hair flat on his head from the shower. A scruffy economy passenger messing up his check-in area wouldn’t make for a good start to his day.

  “Shall I just have a quick look at your ticket?”

  Veronica tilted her head to one side as she looked at the flight coupon. Ralph could tell something was wrong so he smiled at her again. The ticket had faded a little and become mottled with dust and stains. Perhaps she couldn’t read it.

  “I’m sorry, Mr Phillips, but there’s a problem with this ticket.”

  Ralph was suddenly worried.

  “I’ve got the right date, haven’t I?”

  “Yes, sir. It’s the right date. The thing is you should be joining the flight in Johannesburg. It’s a condition of this type of ticket.”

  It was clear to her that he hadn’t grasped the implication. She felt sorry for him. He looked a nice boy.

  “You’re changing the place of boarding, you see,” she explained. “The ticket states ‘No changes allowed’. I’m afraid we can’t let you fly.”

  “What? You must let me on. I’ve paid for that ticket.”

  Some other passengers for Johannesburg were arriving. She didn’t want a scene.

  “I’ll see what I can do.”

  She pointed to some chairs by the wall.

  “Why don’t you wait over there. I’ll talk to the station manager. He’ll be in shortly. He’s my boss,” she confided. “I’ll come and find you when I’ve had a chat with him.”

  “Station manager? What does he do?”

  “He’s responsible for all flight and ground operations, for example aircraft handling, passenger services and air cargo.”

  She lowered her voice.

  “To be honest, at one of the smaller stations like this, he also sells tickets, makes public announcements, checks in baggage, moves boarding stairs, prepares manifests and operates the teletype machine.”

  She could have added, ‘All while desperately trying to sleep with Veronica.’

  Ralph was unimpressed.

  “Important man.”

  “I can’t get him to make a decent cup of tea though.”

  Veronica, with years of experience managing anxious and confused passengers, smiled at him conspiringly so that Ralph would do as he was told. He moved his rucksack and sat down calmly under a picture of an elephant.

  Veronica watched Ralph sitting quietly away from her desk while she dealt with her job. She wondered where he came from. She was a West Sussex girl from Warnham, a little village near Horsham and close to Gatwick, the reason she’d got into the airline. He sounded like a southerner but further west, more like her own father, who had moved to West Sussex from Devon to milk a huge herd of dairy cows down by Steyning.

  When she’d closed the check-in, Veronica went to see Nigel Green in his little office. He looked up at her from his desk with a possessive glare. She was a good-looking girl and often looked at. She’d become used to it. It didn’t usually mean anything.

  “I’m closed up.”

  “Okay. Any problems?”

  “Only a gentleman complaining about sitting too far back.”

  “Economy?”

  She nodded.

  “He was just fishing for an upgrade.”

  Green grunted.

  “And could you look at this for me. It’s for tonight’s London flight. The guy’s trying to board here instead of Joburg.”

  Green looked at the ticket and sighed.

  “Well, he’s buggered then, isn’t he.”

  He made it a statement, not a question.

  “I just wondered if we should help him out. It’s a very quiet flight. I checked. I mean, the plane he should be on will arrive later, and his seat on it will be empty as he didn’t join the flight in Joburg.”

  Green had joined the airline in the hope of being sent to CSE Kidlington for flying training and was sometimes still disappointed that it hadn’t turne
d out that way. He’d always wanted to be a pilot. Now he had to keep a smile on his face and watch pilots swaggering about his station, chatting up his girls, taking them dinghy sailing on Lake Naivasha on their layovers. Few of them had any idea that being a station manager was a far more demanding role than being a glorified bus driver. He had to know the operations manual backwards. And he did; it was one of the things that made him good at his job, everyone told him so. More importantly, ‘Terms and Conditions’ were his speciality; he was known throughout the business for it. The girls respected him for it. Veronica, for instance, just couldn’t take her eyes off him. He’d noticed that she was clearly very impressed with his customer relations skills, his no-nonsense commanding way of dealing with the dirty travelling public. Veronica was a sweet girl, but this sort of thing was obviously way beyond her. He looked again at the ticket she’d given him – Phillips R Mr.

  Green stood up, walked out of the office and proudly adjusted his company tie. Oh my God, he thought. The very dirty travelling public by the looks of it.

  “Good morning, sir. I see you’ve changed your place of boarding?”

  “Yes. I wanted to see Victoria Falls, you know, in Zimbabwe.”

  “Yes, sir, I know where Vic Falls are.”

  “Well, I just kept coming north. I suppose events overtook me.”

  “Hmm. Were the events beyond your control? Were they unusual or unforeseeable circumstances the consequences of which you could not avoid?”

  “Not really. I just thought I’d get on the plane at Nairobi not Johannesburg.”

  Green looked at Veronica. It was a look of triumph and wasn’t pretty. It was the same ugly look she knew would be on his fat face the moment his hot hairy body pressed her into the mattress.

  “It’s quite simple, Veronica. It’s 3c1.”

  He looked at the boy over the top of his shiny half-framed glasses.

  “I’m sorry, Mr Phillips, but this ticket is valid only for the transportation shown on it from the place of departure.”