by Carl Hancock
Boss Takes All
Book Three of the African Trilogy
Carl Hancock
Carl Hancock was born in Aberdare, then a mining valley town in South Wales. After seven years in the local grammar school, he moved on to university where he studied for degrees in classics and in English and became a teacher.
His career took him to secondary schools in Britain, Cyprus and Malta. Latterly, he enjoyed six years in Pembroke House, a preparatory school up-country in the Kenya part of the Great Rift Valley, sometimes known as the White Highlands.
He has two grown-up children and currently lives on a small farm in the Adelaide Hills.
Published in Australia by Sid Harta Publishers Pty Ltd,
ABN: 46 119 415 842
23 Stirling Crescent, Glen Waverley, Victoria
3150 Australia
Telephone: +61 3 9560 9920, Facsimile: +61 3 9545 1742
E-mail: [email protected]
First published in Australia July 2011
This edition published July 2011
Copyright © Carl Hancock 2011
Cover design, typesetting: Chameleon Print Design
The right of Carl Hancock to be identified as the Author of the Work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.
This book is a work of fiction. Any similarities to that of people living or dead are purely coincidental.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means without the prior written permission of the publisher, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.
Hancock, Carl
Boss Takes All — African Trilogy Book Three
ISBN: 978-1-921829-28-4
Digital edition published by
Port Campbell Press
www.portcampbellpress.com.au
ISBN: 9781742980928 (ePub)
Conversion by Winking Billy
Glossary
Swahili English
asante thank you
askari
guard
chai tea
dawa medicine
dudu trouble
fundi expert
Hakuna matata
no worries
kidogo
bribe (literally, ‘a little’)
kwaheri
goodbye
mzee
old man
mzungo
stranger, foreigner
Saba Saba Day
July: Day of unrest in Kenya
sasa
now
shaurie
trouble
tackies (local usage)
trainers
uhuru
freedom, independence
wananchi ordinary people
Land of a million pathways, land of the silken cords that bind the stranger and hold her in thrall, may you enjoy a future blessed with universal prosperity, harmony and justice.
Chapter One
saac Mumbo was up late, as usual. He sat close to the open fire that burned night and day in the heart of the rondavel village. His only company was the night askari. He thanked Luka for bringing fresh wood as he moved his fingers along the lines of his braille Bible.
‘Luka, would you like me to read something out of the good book?’
‘Maybe, when I get back from checking up at Big House.
Isaac, why is it I never see you without that Bible in your hands. Two hours in the church on Sunday is plenty religion for me.’
‘My friend, to worship in the temple of the Lord is a great honour.’
‘This place don’t look like much of a temple to me!’
‘So peaceful out here at this time. I can’t see the stars, Luka, but I know they are there. God never fails. And the moon is full tonight. I can feel her silvery glow on my face.’
‘Yes, you are right, brother. She’s up there. Yes indeed. But tell me, Isaac, if she is a she, how come we hear folks talk about the man in the moon?’
The two friends sat chuckling together by the fireside. The new wood crackled as the flames took hold, sending a rush of sparks up into the darkness above them.
‘Yes indeed, Isaac. I bet you and me are the only people awake for miles around. Man, I do love this peace and quiet!’
A second later, a huge explosion cracked the night sky. The sound of it rolled out along the lakeside villages. By the time two further explosions rang out, the little group of houses encircling the gathering place where a bewildered Isaac sat clutching his Bible to his chest was pouring out a great noise of its own, screams mingled with terrified wailing and angry shouts. Big House was ablaze. Less than ten days before the flower fields and the plastic and cotton tents had been destroyed and the acrid smell had not been completely blown away by the breezes wafting in off the lake. Now Londiani itself was lighting up the night sky, a beacon that was visible for miles around.
In minutes South Lake Road was alive with the hundreds of Naivasha people rushing along in confusion to witness close up this second catastrophe to strike the McCall estate. There had been many deaths when the flames and the thick smoke had engulfed the work places of the young people who had just begun a new day cultivating their rows of flowers and vegetables. Surely, more lives had been lost in this new merciless inferno. It was not until long after dawn that the mass of people discovered that not a single person had died in the blaze that had destroyed the beautiful farmhouse. Fifty metres away one man had been wounded, not by fire but by a bullet.
Careful planning and not a chance miracle had been the saving of the people who lived on the farm. Nor had the fire itself been a random happening. Alfredo Rossi, a young American known to the McCalls of Londiani as Alfred Ross, had been employed, for a huge fee, to wipe out the very family who, in their only meeting with him, had shown him true up-country kindness. He had been the paid tool of another man’s longing for vengeance, but he and his employer had been outwitted. As soon as he realised that the job had gone badly wrong, Rossi had fled in panic for the anonymity of Jomo Kenyatta Airport and from there had flown out to the safety of his New York home.
Abel Rubai, the very rich Mister Big of Kenya politics, had insisted on watching his enemies go down and nearly paid the price with his life. He had witnessed the explosion and the fire in a state of high excitement and just when he began to rejoice that at last he was free from a burden that he had been carrying for far too long was stunned by a horrendous shock. The McCalls who had caused him and his family so much pain, who had been behind the death of his beloved son, Julius, were part of history, or so he believed.
Rossi, against his better judgement, had given in to pressure from Rubai and set up a vantage point from where his paymaster would have a clear view of Londiani down to his left. But it was from the farmhouse to his right, Rusinga, the home of Bertie Briggs, that they came running. In the bright moonlight the rolling gait of Tom McCall was unmistakable as he ran towards his dying home, leading a dozen or more friends and family across the open plain.
With a massive effort Abel Rubai suppressed a scream of agony and blessed himself for bringing along his loaded Andrews repeating rifle. He shouted the McCall name as he pushed the smooth oak butt into his shoulder. There would be one chance on a certain kill. He had the blond-haired leader of the pack in his sights. A fraction of a second before he squeezed the trigger, he felt the searing pain in the small of his back and lost consciousness.
Chapter Two
here was confusion in the small group of family and friends who had had rushed out of Rusinga Farm. They wanted to be close to
Londiani however painful it would be to stand powerlessly by and watch the home of three generations of McCalls cracking and crumbling in the fierce heat. Before they had gone fifty metres the angry scream from a familiar voice and the muffled sound of a rifle shot drew their attention inland, to a grassy rise close to a farm fence. Tom had seen the barrel of the gun pointing at him from point-blank range, felt the pain as his shoulder struck the hard earth, watched Bertie Briggs calmly lower his rifle and bow his head.
Against the background roar, the small group changed direction. Rebecca Kamau was relieved to see Tom scrambling to his feet and, with their arms linked, the pair rushed towards two silent figures on the rise up ahead, one prostrate, one kneeling in a solemn pose bowed forward as if in prayer.
Reuben Rubai was not aware of their coming. He was in a state of deep shock. He passed his hands along the chest and face of his dead father, as if he were searching out some magical key place where he could press and restore life. He turned and looked up to see all ‘round him the faces of those who had no business to be alive. They were watching him and barely containing their anger. In his eyes he was the more offended.
He rose, trembling, and looked into the eyes of each of the hostile faces of those surrounding him before exploding into a fit of ice-cold rage.
‘You murdering bastards, you will pay for this! You have robbed me, my family, our country of a great man. McCall, your life is finished. You and your whore will soon be rotting in your own private hell. I swear to God, Papa, that they will not escape.’
Hosea Kabari, in his sergeant’s uniform and his wife, Maria, were hurrying towards the rise from the direction of the fire. Reuben saw a first sign of help.
‘Just in time! Sergeant, arrest every one of these animals. Look! My father, Abel Rubai. You know him. You know him! Now do your duty by him. There’s his gun. Use it.’
Maria Kabari paid no attention to the distraught young man’s anger. Instead she knelt by Abel’s side. She, too, ran her hands along the body. She was not looking for some magic place. She bent low and listened at the chest. With her husband’s help she lifted Abel’s limp body to a sitting position and examined the back.
All the while, Reuben watched her. His dazed stare was the outward sign of the turmoil that was churning inside him. He was overwhelmed by the succession of shocks that had bombarded him in the previous half hour. And then he remembered. He had seen this woman before. It was at the Daniels’ house on the evening of the funeral of Simon Mboya. He had come face to face with her while on an errand for his father looking out for the woman, Lydia Smith. Father Rubai had made a serious error with this street girl and it was Reuben’s task to get her to his father double quick. She had heard things, very private things. If she blabbed, there could be danger. Abel could take no chances. She would have to be moved on, permanently.
His encounter with this woman weeks before had been over in seconds. No words had been spoken, but the look of cold contempt in those dark eyes had stayed with him. In spite of this and against all the hostile instincts he knew he should be feeling towards this person meddling with his father’s body, something about her was giving him hope.
From her kneeling position Maria looked up into his face. Was that the suggestion of a smile? Was she mocking him? He tried to assert himself.
‘I don’t know who you are, but I want you to leave my father in peace. Come away now. Now, curse you! And you, policeman, do your duty. You’re supposed to be the law in this godforsaken hellhole. You’ll be damned sorry if you don’t. I know people who could make you an ex-policeman by morning!’
Maria, ignoring his big talk, took his breath away with a single short sentence. ‘Do you think that your father is dead?’
A mixture of fear, amazement and wild, blind hope made him speechless. She continued.
‘This man is still with us, just.’
This time Maria’s words had an opposite effect on Reuben Rubai. The blind hope swelled into excitement. The speech returned, but it was without a coherent focus.
‘You mean that … look, you’d better not … who are you, anyway? You’re no doctor. I’m warning you …’
‘He is with us. Just. He is very close to the edge.’
Reuben, chastened into silence, meekly waited. This woman, this witch, had humbled him.
‘What must I do?’
‘There is nothing for you to do and everything you can allow someone else to do.’
Reuben screamed out in frustration. ‘Please, none of this clever crap! I want my father back.’
‘Then, listen! Listen! A bullet is lodged in your father’s spine. He cannot be treated here. Help lies sixty miles from this place, in a house that we both know.’
‘You must get him to a hospital …’
‘What is it about your family and “proper” hospitals? Let me be unkind but honest for a moment. The only people who can help your father owe you and especially your father nothing. Nothing! He has brought them nothing but the bitterest grief. But they can and they will help him. Listen! You will travel with your father.’
‘We have a car, close by, on the road up there.’
‘I’m not sure. Any journey will be dangerous. Time is against us, so, okay, we will have to use it.’
In the near distance, in the direction of Londiani, they could hear the rising hubbub of people in gathering numbers. There were the noisy outbursts of a crowd caught up in a state of wild excitement. They were thrilled to be witnesses to a great event. They would have stories to tell. Tom McCall expressed the fear that all in that dark corner of the farm felt. ‘There’s danger. Those people must not find us here. They’ll soon piece together some kind of story and, Rubai, it could be the end of you. You’re coming with me to that car. I’ll drive us down. You can ride in the boot.’
‘McCall, you’ll be sorry for this!’
‘Fine! Stay here, then. Rebecca, will you sit with me? Maria, what do you think?’
‘I wish we had six or seven pillows.’
‘Sorry. We’re right out of them just now in Londiani. Bertie, could we borrow a few pillows? We’ll charge this pair for them.’
‘Sure, Tom, but not none of their blood money for me, thanks very much!’
‘And, Reuben, when we arrive at our destination, you will travel on to your home and wait for the morning. Tell your mother that your father has been called away unexpectedly on government business. You will be a fool if you let any news of this come out. It will be your choice, but if you want to help you father … Got that, cretin?’
Chapter Three
ally Rubai enjoyed her early mornings. The new baby was only a few weeks away, so there were always some words to share with the new Julius. She could not wait to hold him in her arms. Her maid, Monica, spoiled her mistress, making sure that there were plenty of sugary treats on the breakfast tray. Sally looked forward to reading the early edition of The Nation fetched by one of the boys from the Karen dukas. She leaned back and scanned the front page. Nothing special there, but today she could look forward to the features supplement and especially for her favourite, ‘Mary’s recipes from the country’. When Monica turned on the radio to catch the latest local news, the word Londiani made Sally sit up.
‘Reports are still sketchy, but we understand from an eyewitness that there was a series of explosions at about two am followed by a large conflagration which completely destroyed the rambling farm complex. Regular listeners will recall that less than ten days ago we reported on the fire that struck the working part of this lakeside farm. On that occasion there were forty-five deaths, mostly from among the young workforce who had just arrived to start the new day in the fields.
‘So far there have been no reports of casualties from this morning’s tragedy. Our eyewitness who was at the scene only minutes after the first of the explosions stated graphically, “No one in there could have survived even a few seconds of that fire from hell.”
‘We will keep you up to date on this break
ing story. Now, to other news.’
Sally, in slippers and dressing-gown, was soon on her way to her husband’s screen room. Abel was usually there first thing, that is if he had not spent the whole night sitting in front of those blue and green squares of light that fascinated him so much. He was not there, so she went on to the breakfast room.
‘Reuben! You are very early, boy.’ She paused to take a closer look at him. ‘Is there something the matter? Your eyes are very red. Have you slept?’
‘Fine, Mama. Yes, I was a little late in. Out in the “Carnivore”. Ziggy Kormai is up from Zim for a few days. We were in school together. A few of us invited him out. And, you know how it is …’
‘No, I most definitely do not know how it is. More about that later. Terrible news about Londiani. I’m looking for your father.’
Reuben stifled a gasp. How could she …?
‘What is the matter with you, boy? So, you haven’t seen Papa?’
‘Well, look, I got this message. Someone down at the Carnivore. He got it from someone else.’
‘What is going on here? Are you sick?’
He suddenly felt very weak. There had always been something in his mother’s manner that made it almost impossible for him to lie to her. She had a way of narrowing her gaze that made him feel that her eyes were burning a path into his brain and his closest thoughts. He made a massive effort.
‘The message was that Papa was called away at short notice. Government business.’
Sally slowly poured herself a glass of milk, all the while scrutinising the minutest shifts in her son’s expression. She drew in an extra long breath before speaking again.
‘Now, this time, the truth. What’s your Daddy’s expression? “Strictly no bullshit!”.’
Reuben was emotionally drained. He sat down at the table and looked across at his mother. His personality and his strength of mind were being tested to their limits. Above all things, he wanted to be honest with this woman who for all his life had been his loyal, loving supporter. Wave after wave of warm currents passed through his tired mind blocking his thoughts like an electronic jamming machine. Deep inside were the words he needed, but they were out of reach. She was asking for truth. Yes, he could have managed to bring out some version of what, just then, he perceived as reality, but at what cost? In one or two sentences he could come close to breaking her heart.