by Carl Hancock
Rebecca pressed her friend’s face into her chest. ‘There’s no answer, darling.’
In the late afternoon, Sally Rubai, alone again, sat with her head bowed over her family Bible. She had sent Reuben out. ‘Go and be with your friends, boy. Get away from this witch of a mother!’
She had taken some big steps and the effort had left her tired out. But she had spoken to Alfred Koyane, Abel’s most trusted friend and a lawyer. He was going to come for dinner with his wife, Eunice. ‘Hakuna Matata, Sally. Let me have some time to work on a few things. Meanwhile spoil yourself. Talk to the baby. Abel tells me that he will be called Julius. Good choice, good choice!’
Ten minutes before, she had stood by the lodge gate and waved off an ambulance on its way to Nairobi Hospital with Abel on board. Austin Mwegi, the family doctor, and three nurses were looking after him. Doctor Austin had been impressed with the work done by David Daniels in removing the bullet from a very tricky part of the spine.
‘Couldn’t have had a better man. Brilliant hands, cool as ice. I’ll pick you up at around nine tomorrow morning. I think he will have come ‘round by then.’
So the news for Sally was as good as it could have been. The afternoon sun fell across her table. A great weariness hung about her. In itself that might have been pleasant, even satisfying after the high-octane effort she had put in since early morning. But there was more. The spirit had drained out of her. Sally had always lived with a close awareness of the Holy Spirit. It had sustained her in her dark days, especially in those weeks after Julius had been taken from them. The presence had always felt warm, reminding her of the tongues of fire that had fallen on those gathered in the room in Jerusalem on the Day of Pentecost.
Today there was something different. With her belief system, it was quite easy and natural to acknowledge that she had been inspired, energised by some outside force that, in its mysterious way, had filled her, guided her thoughts, brought her hope. It was time to give thanks, but she could not do so. There was no afterglow of warmth, left behind as a kind of calling card. She sat over her book willing herself to search the pages. ‘He that hath clean hands and a pure heart’. She had forgotten where to look for these so familiar words.
Thoughts of her mother came to her. Her happiest childhood hours had been spent sitting in the kitchen before bedtime. The fire still held its warmth and cast a glow across the room. Mama was the godliest woman she knew but, sometimes, dark memories had been stirred in her.
‘Sally, my grandmother was the first in the family to be baptised, as I told you before. She warned us girls that not all the spirits who move about us are from the Good Lord. Some have a special cunning and mean to harm us, even to destroy us. You will recognise them by their coldness …’
Sally sat bolt upright. When she came into her special room, there had been a coolness in that place where normally the afternoon warmth had lingered longest. Her mind was in a delicate state and very quickly shocked itself into a state of panic.
‘God forgive me! God forgive me!’ She was fingering the pages of the book in front of her. She read aloud all the verses of King David’s psalm. ‘Yea, though I walk through the valley of death … I will fear no evil… for Thou art with me …’
Then it was on to the Sermon on the Mount.
An hour later Monica came in to remind her mistress that her guests would soon be with them. Sally was leaning back into her chair. There was a contented smile on her face.
Two days later and a hundred kilometres north of Karen, afternoon was moving quickly on. The site where Londiani had stood was busy with activity. Peter Bellengeri had brought his heavy equipment up from the other side of town where it was working on the first of the preparations for the new Naivasha Hospital. A good deal of the wreckage of the farmhouse had been scooped up and carted off.
The focus of the moment was on the area of the veranda and front of the garden. The women had been rescuing plants, potting them and setting them down in the shade. Rafaella had been pleasantly surprised to find so many of her old friends alive. And, close up, the rich brown soil gave off the wholesome perfume of earth alive.
The men were cleaning up on everyone’s favourite part of the old house. The veranda looked bigger when it was cleared of the piles of damaged bricks and broken furniture.
‘My father always said that they put good stuff into this place when they built it. Run a stone cleaner over this floor for an hour or two and she’d be as good as new.’
‘Dad, do you think there’s a machine for clearing the stench of burning?’
Bertie had the solution. ‘Tom, two heavy rains should do it. That and dig up the scorched trees. They remember the insult longer than anything else.’
‘Trees remember?’
‘Certainly do, Rollo. Don’t worry. When you and Eddie get back here on a permanent basis, you’ll soon pick up the old ways again.’
Eddie, the younger of the McCall twins by half an hour, countered quickly. ‘But we are home on a permanent basis. Brought all our stuff with us.’
‘Eddie, your Ma and I are not wearing that one. Two more terms and you’ll be done.’
‘No, Dad. We’re eighteen now. Remember?’
‘Just about as old as one of those poor blackened acacia out there.’
‘Yeah, but acacia are not good at arithmetic. Two terms’ fees for Rollo and me.’
‘And no money coming in from the farm. We can still take the dreaded A-levels next June.’
‘Straight As times two. All sorted. Let’s move on. Look, Mum and Angela with the chai! Come on everybody. Tea break. Tools on the bar!’
When he had taken his mug of hot, sweet tea, Stephen Kamau, Alex’s senior foreman, right-hand man and good friend made sure that he was sitting next to his much respected bwana. There were thoughts and feelings he needed to share.
‘Bwana …’
Alex raised his arms in protest. ‘Stephen, my name is Alex. I’m your friend now, not your boss.’
‘Asante for that. But you wouldn’t grudge a friend using words that are… comfortable?’ There was a broad grin on the big man’s handsome face.
Alex joined in the smiling. ‘Fine. But! Soon Rebecca and Tom will be married. We’ll be family …’
Stephen’s melodious chuckle brought a warm feeling of pleasant reality to everyone sitting around and trying to keep spirits high. ‘Got me there … Bwana, but soon to be … we’ll have to wait and see.’
The two men, hunched and weary, leaned forward in their seats, their shoulders almost touching. Alex was contemplating the truth of a lifetime of work destroyed. Stephen was inwardly thanking the Lord that everyone who, a year before, had been bustling about this thriving farm … The thought was stopped in a burst of shame. Forty-five of his workers were in the earth, in graves scattered around the district. There had been no miracle for them and, for a moment, he had forgotten them. All around his people with him there hung the stench of destruction. The power of Satan had revealed itself with devastating force.
‘Stephen, what happens now?’
The strong man wiped away the tears with the back of his hand. ‘The light on the path is mighty dim. I walked around the fields this morning. The canopies were gone and the last of the flowers ploughed in. But the earth felt good, resting, waiting. It came to me. We must have been saved for a reason.
Only …’
‘We haven’t discovered it yet …’
‘Too impatient. The Lord’s time is not our time. And down there just me and a fish-eagle or two, with the sun shining on the lake, I felt good. And I had you to thank for it. You’re still here and you are working. Bwana, yes, Bwana, you have let us stay in our homes. You are paying us when we can do no work for you … Not all would do these things. And you ask me what happens now.’
Alex and Stephen, furthest away from the veranda steps, were the last to notice the two cars arriving. They pulled up on the blackened gravel. Eight heavily built men stepped down and looked around
. These Nairobi policemen had seen the pictures on the television, but the reality, the terrible smell, the deathly blackness against the different blues of the sky and the lake, this piece of battleground made them hesitate briefly.
Chief Inspector Karumi soon gathered himself and led his men towards the steps. He wanted this job done quickly. That was why he had brought this squad of top city boys.
Chapter Six
hen he had formed his men into a semicircle behind him, the inspector stated his business.
‘I understand that a Mister Bertrand Briggs is here among you people.’
Bertie, who was sitting on the veranda wall, closest to the line of policemen, stood up.
‘Bertrand Briggs, I have a warrant here for your arrest.’
‘Oh, yes? May I see it?’
When the top Nairobi cop held back from handing the official piece of paper over, Bertie reassured him and surprised him with his relaxed manner.
‘Don’t look so worried. I’m not going to set fire to it. As you can see, we’ve had quite enough of those around here recently. And I certainly wouldn’t want to eat it.’
‘Mister Briggs, are you well?’
‘Of course not. Whatever the charge is, I’m going to plead insanity. That’s allowed, I suppose?’
‘It is not allowed to hand over warrants for criminals to look at.’
‘There, you see - criminal. Guilty before I even get to the court. I’m sorry, I don’t think I’ll bother.’
On the surface Bertie was putting on a show of the suave English public schoolboy. His tall, slim figure, the neat head with the swept-back dark hair, the laconic, carefree manner and the affected plummy voice, all combined to give performance authenticity.
Rafaella was afraid that this rough group of lawmen would soon lose their patience and take off her much loved friend by force.
Underneath, Bertie was assessing the chances of escape. He was eyeing the police car furthest away from the house. It was pointed in the right direction for a quick getaway. Would the dumb driver have left the keys in the ignition? He could skip over the veranda wall, throw down the two brushes leaning next to him in front of the lumbering cops. He would drive down South Lake Road as far as Kingoni, get out and escape into the forest. Some time later he could return to pick up Ewan.
He never did discover if that key had been left in the ignition. They grabbed him before he reached the first car and bent him over the bonnet, slipped on the handcuffs and manhandled him back towards the steps. The chief inspector began again.
‘Bertrand Briggs, we are arresting you for the attempted murder of Abel Nathaniel Rubai three nights ago on this property, Londiani Farm in the district of Nakuru South.’
Again there was resistance, this time in the noisy confusion of angry shouts. Everyone who had been working to clean up the veranda moved forward towards the platoon of policemen. Out came the guns. This move silenced the menacing group, except for Thomas McCall.
‘You are taking the wrong man. Bertie was saving my life. Your Abel Nathaniel Rubai was trying to kill me. We can show you his gun. The thug is in Nairobi somewhere. I drove him down. People on this veranda saved his life! Goddammit, look around you! Do you think we blew ourselves up? And what was he doing here at two o’clock in the morning?’
‘You, too, are known to us. Please, you are not helping here, Thomas McCall.’
The inspector was struggling to sound calm. He could understand now why the minister had insisted on sending up two squad cars on a routine job. European born criminals rarely gave problems when it came to taking them into custody. He wanted to get back to town quickly.
‘So why don’t you take me instead? I had a better motive for taking out that excuse for a human being. Is he on your books? No! You won’t find his fingerprints —’
‘McCall, shut your mouth! Now! There is room for another one in the car.’
‘Where’s your warrant?’
A nod from Karui’s sergeant and Tom was carted off by three powerfully-built constables. They were out of sight for less than a minute. There was no visible mark on the farmer boy’s body when they dumped him, barely conscious, back on the veranda steps. His angry resistance had been crushed. Two other members of the visiting constabulary frogmarched their prisoner to their car.
Leaving her son temporarily in the care of his grandmother and his wife-to-be, Maura pursued the chief inspector and pulled him ‘round to face her. Karumi listened to her with a snarl of contempt on his face.
‘Where are you taking this innocent man? He has a son. Let them see each other before you take him away. You will break his heart!’
The reply was an amused snort and a curt, ‘Send the kid to a home! He’ll soon forget!’
Chapter Seven
ut, Caroline, we don’t know where they took him. Were they real policemen even?’
‘Well, Maura, there is a big wig called Karumi down in Nairobi. I know that for sure. Normally the city cops leave the locals to do the arresting. I’ve got friends in the CID on Nairobi Hill. One of them is bound to know.’
‘Yes, and I hope they’ll be willing to talk. Allowed even.’
‘That’s true, Paul.’
‘No one down there is going to risk confronting the master thug if he values his job, his life even.’
It was now more than two hours since the brief but violent visit of the boys in blue. A group of twelve sat around in the darkness outside the cottage adjacent to the main house on Rusinga Farm. The warmth of the day was still with them and to the east the lights of the farms on the plain further along the lakeside helped to create a scene of calm. The waters of the lake itself were like rippled slate and in the distance merged into the black mass of the hills of the rift. Above, the picture book sky of dark violet was crowded with low-hanging stars. Everyone there had enjoyed the wonder of nights like this a thousand times. They made their homeland special.
Alex took a long draught on his White-cap before he spoke.
‘He was afraid something like this would happen. Told me yesterday when we went over to the new hospital to do some measuring up.’ He raised his hand to forestall his wife’s comment. ‘He thought about … disappearing. Waste of time. Where can you hide from that lot? With young Ewan in tow.’
Paul was able to introduce a new line of thought.
‘There have been rumours. The press has lost interest in the fires up here. The usual thing. A bigger fish has swum into the pool. Assassination! Now, think about that. And the Big Man in the firing line. Kenya’s version of the John Kennedy saga.’
His sister, Maria, pointed out something else.
‘This Big Man has survived. He’ll be some kind of hero and the person who tried to kill him … He’ll need police protection.’
Rafaella, matriarch of the McCall family, was deeply hurt by the destruction of the house that had been built for her by her husband, Don, as a wedding present on her arrival from Verona and had been her home for over half a century. But new stones would be bought and fresh timbers would be laid.
Minutes before she had sat at the bedside of a beautiful child as he cried himself to sleep. Tom had read from Ewan’s favourite storybook and Rebecca had sung to him.
‘The boy knows that we all love him, but children are not stupid. Our lies do not fool him. Only Bertie can soothe this heartache. I fear for Bertie. Do those people feel nothing?’
‘Please, forgive the ramblings of an old woman. I think that I have lived long enough. I do not recognise this world as God’s creation any more. I would be happy to go now.’
She felt a hand take hers. She looked up from her chair and was surprised to find Angela Kamau standing over her. Apart from surprise, she also experienced a deep sense of shame. Angela had been a maid in Londiani since the day that Stephen had brought her there when he had begun to work on the farm for Don. Rafaella and she had never had a cross word. But why was it at that moment of personal anguish that she had noticed the beauty of this Som
ali woman’s face? The smile of compassion, the feminine purity reminded her of the face of the angel painted on the wall behind the altar of Saint Veronica’s Church in the village of her own grandmother.
Rafaella did not secretly chide herself for not being a good mistress. That would have been unfair. But had she been guilty of pride, a sense of superiority? She was not allowed time to dwell on this unexpected new piece of gloom that had entered her life.
‘Memsahib, tomorrow you and I will go on a small journey together. We have work to do.’
When would these strange happenings cease? Angela loved her life on the lakeside. Her three girls had been born there. On the night, many years before, when she had fled her home village in the north to escape the fate of becoming the second wife of Ahmed, the rich man who was old enough to be her father, she had cut herself adrift from family, friends and settled patterns of life. It had been a desperate move for an innocent country girl to go down to the city where hundreds of young Somali beauties like herself survived by hiring out their bodies. But Angela had met first the Shah family and then the big coastie boy on his way up-country to take up a job in the flower business. She thanked God every day for protecting her.
She was a woman who enjoyed being in the background. She had a husband who was known and respected in Naivasha town and the villages ‘round about. Her firstborn had been acclaimed for her beauty and her voice in the great United States. So to be in the laundry garden, thrusting her arms into the warm, soapy water of the deep metal troughs or being in the kitchen at Londiani with two mistresses who treated her like a friend, what more could she ask for?
And now, this self-effacing woman was giving instructions to her older mistress. This was not the way things were done in the farms in the White Highlands. And this was why everyone sitting out in the garden of Rusinga Farm was riveted into silence, especially Stephen and Rebecca. Had the housemaid crossed an invisible but real line in the antiquated system of hierarchy?