Shelter Rock

by MP Miles

  He thought some more.

  “In addition, Veronica, 3c5 says, and I quote, ‘If you change your transportation without our agreement, your unused flight coupon’,” he waved it at Ralph, “‘will not be valid for travel and will have no value and we will not carry you until you have paid the difference’.”

  He knew he shouldn’t lecture Veronica in front of a customer but this was too useful a training exercise. He’d share what knowledge he could now and discuss it in more detail later. Maybe he should invite her to lunch at his villa.

  Veronica stared at him.

  Ralph was confused.

  “Paid what difference?”

  “I thought I had made it clear. It is the difference in the price between a ticket from Nairobi to London and this ticket.”

  “But you just said this ticket has no value.”

  Nigel looked impressed.

  “Yes, that’s right.”

  “I have to buy a new ticket and you won’t give me any money for the one that you won’t let me use?”

  “I’m afraid so.”

  “But I already have a ticket for the flight that stops here.”

  “Is it an agreed stopping place?”

  Ralph tried to speak Green’s language. He wondered where he could find the rule book. Stuck up Green’s arse probably.

  “It’s shown in your timetables as a scheduled stopping place along the route from Johannesburg to London.”

  Nigel momentarily felt threatened but recovered without showing any weakness in front of Veronica. Women didn’t like that.

  “Ah, but is it set out on your ticket?”

  Green looked.

  “No,” he said simply.

  “Veronica?”

  Veronica had been checking.

  “The best-price one-way ticket is 679 dollars. Sorry.”

  Ralph stared at her.

  “Plus taxes, fees and carrier charges, Veronica.”

  “Plus 177 dollars.”

  “856 dollars. Sir.”

  Nigel smiled. This was what he was paid to do after all. The airline wasn’t a charity.

  “But that’s more than I paid for the ticket from London to Johannesburg and back.”

  Ralph looked in his wallet at a fifty-dollar bill. He had about 230 dollars hidden inside the frame of his rucksack. He was 576 short.

  “I don’t have it.”

  Veronica looked away.

  “How am I going to get home? Am I going to have to go back to Johannesburg?”

  Green looked at his watch, large and gold and fake.

  “Not unless you can run back there in about eight hours, sir,” Nigel quipped. “Changes to the date of travel are not allowed either.”

  Ralph thought quickly.

  “How much is a ticket on the flight you’re just checking in to Johannesburg?”

  “That’s a good idea,” Veronica said brightly and tapped at a keyboard.

  Green had already skipped halfway back to his office. He wasn’t going to be beaten on home turf.

  “Check-in for this morning’s flight to Johannesburg is now closed, sir. We have a very short turnaround time here in Nairobi. I’m sure you understand.”

  Veronica Aspel felt ashamed. She’d already decided, but now she knew that she wouldn’t ever sleep with Nigel bloody Green, even if her career depended on it.

  *

  Ralph was still in the airport when she left, looking slightly lost, staring at the departures board. The destinations reeled: Maputo, Frankfurt, Doha, Jeddah, Cairo. Ralph seemed lost in thought. Cairo, Johannesburg, Amsterdam, Lusaka, Khartoum, Abu Dhabi, Paris.

  “Mr Phillips.”

  “Hmmm?”

  He watched the board. Khartoum. Cairo.

  “I’m sorry I couldn’t help you with your ticket. What are you going to do now? Can someone send you the money?”

  Ralph had been wondering the same thing. He felt sure that wouldn’t be a problem. He’d go back into town and call home. Nothing would be damaged but his pride.

  “Yeah, I’ll sort something out.”

  He looked at her and lifted his rucksack.

  “I thought I’d keep going overland. It might be an interesting challenge.”

  It would be a fantastic challenge, he thought. Cape Town to Cairo. That would be something. Through swamps, across deserts probably, and all through hostile country. It would be like the books I’d read as a boy about prisoners of war escaping enemy territory. Wow.

  She looked at him, a Sussex girl far from Horsham.

  “Isn’t that a long way?”

  “I’m not sure.”

  He thought of the plan of Africa in his School Atlas of the World. Kenya was about halfway up.

  “I guess it’s about the same as it is from Cape Town to here.”

  “Do you know the way?”

  “Not really. North.”

  He suddenly felt very excited.

  “I’ll have to buy a new map.”

  Veronica smiled. This will be a good story for the bar. Sarah was on the late shift so she’d be able to go into town tonight with the layover crew. She frequently volunteered for the job of showing them around. The boys always wanted to go to the bar in the Hilton Hotel to look at the exquisitely tempting local prostitutes. Nigel Green often went there. It was quite all right going with the flight crew though. With them it was all show, just for a giggle. In her experience, pilots were very homely and conservative and just a little dull, a bit like accountants. Flying, after all, was a very ‘procedural’ job and she often thought women would make much better pilots than men. It was all about following rules. There were rules to follow about what you did with the aeroplane and when you did things; she’d seen checklists sticking out of pilots’ cases. There were rules from the ground about where to go, and how high, and at what speed; she’d been shown the pale blue charts printed on what felt like tissue paper, with thick straight radial lines between circles, like the spokes of a bicycle wheel. In the end, flying was just about doing what you were told. Well, she’d had years of that. And the physical part of flying wasn’t physical at all, nothing a woman couldn’t do if she had normal hand-to-eye coordination. That wouldn’t be a problem for Veronica. With her usual tennis partner she would regularly thrash allcomers in mixed doubles. She’d love to try and fly for the airline, but what were the chances of a cowman’s daughter getting to sit at the pointy end? Bollocks to them. It would be fun to have a go anyway. And if she ever came to Nairobi at the front of a 747 she’d give Green hell if they lost the cargo or delayed the refuelling. She would talk to Jim about it.

  “Well, good luck.”

  She went to leave but turned back.

  “I don’t know if it’ll help but I’ve a friend at the Nairobi Club that I play tennis with. He’s a pilot at Wilson,” she told him quietly. “He might give you a ride out of Kenya at least. Ask anyone for Jim. Say Veronica sent you.”

  *

  Angel waited in the airport, drinking coffee, watching. He wasn’t concerned so long as Ralph stayed inside the terminal. He only had to monitor the exit.

  He checked his watch. 10.30am. His own flight back to Johannesburg wasn’t until 4.05pm. He had plenty of time.

  He looked into his coffee cup and scratched his beard. When he looked up Ralph was outside.

  Angel ran through the glass doors in time to see the three men who’d followed Ralph from Madame Roche’s walking away. They’d obviously been well paid and were being thorough, unnecessarily waiting in case Ralph left the airport. All four of them were heading to the bus stop to go back into Nairobi. Angel, panting, climbed aboard as it pulled into the traffic on the South Airport Road, relieved that he’d cut his hair and changed to Western clothes from his kanzu. He could walk right by Ralph without being recognised as the man w
ho’d given him a ride in Uganda. Angel wondered if it wouldn’t be easier to be upfront with Ralph and tell him of Elanza’s will and the money, but he couldn’t see a way to do that without disclosing his identity and NIS’s involvement, mindful that Roux had told him not to reveal either to Elanza or the boy.

  They got off after fifteen kilometres by a golf course at Bunyala bus stop, Ralph walking south and west down Aerodrome Road, the men some distance behind him, waiting for an opportunity.

  Now, Gents, and Lady, contrary to popular belief fighting three on one is not possible. Full stop. The only thing you can do is to reduce the number of threats before anybody realises, so that you are back to fighting two or preferably one. If you fail at your first strike to disable at least one of the opposition your best option is to run. Do not ever stand facing three men who are ready for you. It will never have a successful outcome.

  They were walking through a building site. It looked like one day it would be a stadium, a football field with a running track around the perimeter, but it had been only partly completed. The stands were uncovered, apart from the one on the west side where the emperor would sit.

  Remember, there is no easy way to do this. Do not imagine that you can plan it all in advance. This is not a carefully choreographed sequence of moves like some sort of ballet. No amount of training, no clever holds or quick moves to shift your opponent’s centre of gravity will help. It is always just brutal and uncoordinated. If you are quick and lucky you might get two and the third might run away. Aggression, speed, surprise. Shake yourself up like a bottle of pop and explode.

  There was a moment just before Angel reached level with them when he knew it wouldn’t work, that he should walk on, but the warning came too late. The last thing he remembered was thinking it lucky that he’d cut his hair.

  Surprise them. Run at one of them from behind. Knock him over. Hard. If any of them have a weapon, target him first. He’s the leader you need to neutralise. You must get him down. When he’s on the ground jump or stamp repeatedly on his lower back, his groin, his neck, his head, his face. Forget everything you have been taught. Go berserk. Reduce the number of threats.

  The panga looked dull and well used but nonetheless frightening.

  Now it gets difficult, because the two that are left have been alerted. ‘Flight or Fight’? It’s not that simple. More like ‘Freeze, Flight or Fight’, in that order. The ‘Freeze’ part is a natural first reaction from primeval times, when we were hunted. When you are immobile you are difficult to see, and if you are seen any movement is often the cue for a predator to attack. It gives time for the surge of hormones to take effect, mobilising your energy and focusing attention. Move quickly to use those few moments while they ‘Freeze’. It may make all the difference. And there’s always the chance they may take ‘Flight’, if you are lucky. If they ‘Fight’ you will not have a choice about which one to take on first. They will come together. Get close. Don’t box. Rip and twist and scratch and roar and spit and bite. It will be down to who is more determined and it will hurt.

  It was suddenly dark. They were in the shadow of the west side of the stadium and rolling in a tangled ball of arms and legs.

  Angel looked around through a gloom. His shirt had been pulled partly off over his head and mud covered one side of his face and obscured his eye. A warm stickiness covered the other side and stuck in his beard. He pushed himself up onto one knee. One of the three looked conscious but was howling, holding the side of his head where most of an ear used to be. One he wasn’t sure of but he lay motionless, face down, with one hand to the back of his head and the other twisted forwards so that the fingers and palm of the hand stretched out flat against the inside of his forearm. One had run. And Angel hurt all over, just as his instructor had told him he would.

  *

  A maid answered the door, suspicious of white men, and demanded that Roux give his name. She left him, the front door ajar, and Roux could hear her talking in the wide-open space of the living area.

  “Miss Elanza, there’s a man here to see you.”

  He could hear Elanza cough.

  “The same man as last week? Nels? Piggy looking man?”

  Roux didn’t hear the maid’s reply but Elanza had moved closer to the front door.

  “I don’t know anyone called Nick. Go and get Horatio from the garden.”

  Roux wondered why all domestic staff in South Africa had the names of historic figures. In the past he’d met Homer and Caesar, Cromwell, Napoleon and Luther, and now a British admiral.

  This wasn’t the only thing that troubled Roux about South Africa. He’d talked candidly to his wife, who was shocked and frightened for the kids but trusting and supportive. He’d told her that within ten years their lives would be very different, that the pressures that sanctions imposed on the country would, over time, cripple South Africa and force it to change. She hadn’t believed it, and sitting where they were, in the ordered leafy suburbs out of sight of urban violence just the other side of town and rural suffering in the new native homelands, he could understand her difficulty. But Roux knew. He read the reports that others would never see, the evidence of atrocity and barbarity that his white countrymen committed in the name of national security.

  He’d told his wife of Angel, of his aspirations for the man’s future and Roux’s confidence in the healing role people like Angel would have when apartheid ended. She’d recognised his pain, almost like the loss of a loved one, when Angel had disappointed him and left Roux questioning his own judgement.

  ‘Talk to his wife,’ she’d helpfully suggested.

  ‘He’s single.’

  ‘A girlfriend, then. Someone he sees regularly. Ask a woman.’

  Roux could think only of Elanza and had driven from Pretoria after work, exhausted.

  Elanza was sitting by open glass doors leading to the pool when the maid showed him in. A big man in a blue boiler suit knelt by the pool pretending to work on the filtration, an unnecessary and very heavy sledgehammer beside him.

  “Who are you?”

  “Good afternoon. My name is Nick. I know Angel. I’m a work colleague.”

  Elanza was curious but wary. Angel hadn’t talked about his work. She knew so little about him.

  “He’s not here.”

  “I know,” Roux said cheerfully. “Off on a business trip. Always running around. To be honest I don’t think it’s doing him any good. I’m a little worried.”

  Elanza put her hand on a green glass table and the maid put a bottle of water in front of her, guiding her fingers. Elanza nodded and drank.

  “What’s wrong with him?”

  “Nothing. Probably just work stress.”

  Elanza held the bottle tightly.

  “You said you work with him?”

  “Yes. Over two years now.”

  “Is he good at his job? The translating. Is he popular?”

  “Oh yes. Very good. Everybody loves him.”

  Elanza nodded.

  “Any girls love him? Secretaries?”

  Roux smiled.

  “No, nothing of that sort. Angel’s like a warrior monk.”

  They both laughed.

  “Does he talk about work?” Roux asked.

  “No.”

  “Does he talk about sport?”

  “No. Unusual, isn’t it?”

  Roux didn’t think so. Two weeks earlier a law had endorsed racial separation of residential areas, schools and amenities but for the first time had excluded sport. Roux thought it unlikely that a black athlete would be playing for the Springboks anytime soon. It was a ruse. He was sure that Angel would think the same.

  “How about his family?” he asked.

  “Not really. His mother is in London and I don’t think he sees his dad much.”

  Elanza drank from the bottle, her eyes at the ceilin
g.

  “I think he should see his father. I feel he wants to talk to him,” she said.

  “Politics? Does he talk about that?”

  “About the situation? The white black apartheid thing?”

  Roux watched the maid take the empty bottle from her and the gardener unscrew the same screw he’d been working on for thirty minutes, both listening.

  “He knows lots of African words. He’s very funny.”

  Elanza chuckled.

  “People in the office talk about changes, everything changing. Does Angel?”

  Roux had seen many signs of change. Lombard had been away in Botswana with the Prime Minister, meeting the President of Zambia to discuss the situation in South West Africa. It was the first such meeting in six years. Then, in the middle of April, just three weeks ago, the law had been changed to allow Coloureds and Indians to hold senior government posts. There were seeds of change, looking to be nurtured.

  Elanza started coughing. She threw her head between her knees, retching. The maid put her hand on her back tenderly and the gardener brought a bucket.

  “I’m sorry,” said Roux. “I shouldn’t disturb you.”

  He got up to leave.

  “Angel’s coming back tonight. He called me,” Elanza said. “I told him to come here from the airport but he won’t stay the night. I don’t know why.”

  The maid and the gardener looked at Roux, then at the floor.

  “I’ll see him tomorrow,” she said.

  “Oh, that’s good.”

  Roux held out his hand automatically. It hung in the air, unseen, untouched.

  The maid showed him to the door, her eyes cast down.

  “She doesn’t know, does she?”

  The maid didn’t move until Roux was sitting in his car.

  Nineteen

  Jim Gray straddled the fat main tyre as though riding a horse and watched the rain run off the trailing edge of the wing. It made streams as it followed ridges in the aileron but closer to the undercarriage it fell off the inboard section as a sheet, impossible to see through. More water than is in the Lagan, thought Jim. May in Nairobi was always wet. The temperature cooled during the day and warmed up at night but always the rain, like a good summer in Belfast.