by Carl Hancock
‘So, they upset you in some way and I take the punishment.’
‘Okay, let’s start again. Ten, twenty minutes ago I took a big risk with those two punks.’
‘Why punks? Abel, they must have really upset you big time.’
‘Not at all. I’ll show you. Bertie Briggs. Remember that name?’
‘His toto was here with Angela, the McCall maid. He’s in the lock-up somewhere up-country.’
‘He tried to kill your husband. Damn near did. Well, by sunset tonight he will be a free man. A free man courtesy of this same husband. This was the news I was giving to Miller and Komar. Over lunch here, it came to me. I could give these dreamers a lesson, show them how a real statesman behaves. Do something … spectacular, unexpected. And you know what, Sal, they were not happy. Not happy. I tell you. Like they were upset, yes upset. They would have one less thing to beat me over the head with. That’s the truth.’
For a time Sally sat wide-eyed, pleased, amazed, proud. At last, she smiled, patted her belly and spoke a few words to the new Julius.
‘Now, that’s your daddy over there …’
‘And your daddy hasn’t quite finished yet, boy.’
‘There’s more? Now you listen carefully, Julius. When Daddy speaks, you take notice!’
Sally chuckled, wobbled and seemed about to summon Monica.
He raised his hand to stop her. ‘Sally, what was that religious stuff you used to say to me? You know, when I was having a hard time after we lost the boy. “Confessing is …?”’
‘Confession is good for the soul.’
‘Whatever the hell a soul is! However. We’ve known each other a long time, Sal. We’ve done pretty well together. You know that you’re my jewel.’
‘This sounds like bedroom talk to me. And you know that I’m … unavailable just now.’ She smiled, patted her hair and fluttered her eyelashes.
He was too preoccupied with his next ‘case’ to pick up on her reaction.
‘Sometimes I have had to hide things from you. You know it’s more than twenty years since I started helping the old president with his money problems. Back then I was full of, well, ideals. I was going to be Mister Open Door. Hard knocks can change you.’
‘Can change us all.’
‘And hard knocks can make us hard.’ Abel was faltering. As he spoke he began to realise that in ‘confessing’ he was not able to go beyond generalities. Confession was also a very dangerous road to travel. Examples of where he could show that he had done some dirty stuff, (dirty in Sally’s eyes) passed through his mind and moved on out of sight. Simon Mboya. Would she understand that, for the greater good, Abel had made the decision that this popular but subversive doctor must be eliminated?
Sally saw clearly that he was struggling and moved in to help.
‘Abel, I trust you. I know what this country means to you. And I know that men of good will bless themselves that they have such an honest man guide them. But this is your home. I am going to get Monica bring us some of that coffee you mentioned and for “stuff”, how about a couple of slices of that chocolate cake that Marcel made this morning?’
Sally was no innocent. She understood what Abel was trying to get out much better than he could know. She had learned to live with these things many years before. There were private places in her heart and mind that only she and her God knew about.
Chapter Fourteen
nspector John Wambui liked working the Sunday shift. There was never a quieter time in Nakuru, so he rarely had a big case on his hands. Even the many petty thieves around the town seemed to have found places to take time out from their hectic times on the streets.
When the call came through, Inspector John became so animated that Humphrey, his desk sergeant, thought the boss had been at the bottle.
‘Humphrey, great news! We’ve got some tidying up to do. And get one of the boys to give the car a polish. I just could be going on another official journey… to Naivasha.’
‘Like with that McCall kid?’
‘Correct, young man! Who was the fool who told me you had no brains?’
‘That was you, boss. Last week when I got you those vegetable samosas which I swear …’
‘Delicious. We’ll buy a trayful tomorrow.’
‘I suppose that someone by the name of Briggs was mentioned in that call you just had?’
‘Genius. I may allow you to come this time.’
* * *
‘Yes, release the prisoner. Without charge.’ Wambui had not recognised the voice of the man who had given him the amazing news. ‘And, Wambui, make sure that there is plenty of gas in the car, in case you have to do the delivery job. And don’t let him go before six. No talking to the press boys. One more thing. Wait until the last minute before you tell Briggs.’
Half an hour later some of the shine was taken off the news. There were two more calls. The first, from Miller, the lawyer who had visited Briggs three days before who asked the inspector to have the prisoner ready for dead on six.
‘There will be a car waiting outside the station.’
Ten minutes later he was talking to the smart, oldish woman with the Italian accent. She was asking if she could speak to ‘my friend, Bertie’.
‘Regrettably, Madam, prisoners are not allowed calls in or out. I must remind you that this is not the Waterbuck Hotel.’
‘No. Of course. I recognise your voice. Inspector, I am glad that it was you who has been looking after him. You have been a blessing to this family.’
After putting down the receiver, Wambui sat quietly at his desk, beaming. So he did not make it out to Naivasha this time. But a compliment from a very attractive European lady was a satisfying consolation prize.
There were two cars waiting outside the station five minutes before the appointed time. The news of Bertie’s release had caused such excitement in the Naivasha district that there could have been a dozen more to join them. Inspector Caroline Miggot had four passengers in her Volvo; her own sergeant, Hosea Kabari; his wife, Maria; her brother, Paul Miller and his fellow lawyer Daniel Komar. They were the kind of official group who would make sure that there would be no hitches to hold up the release. The idea was that these professionals would not be distracted by the emotion of the occasion. But Paul and Daniel were in a state of controlled euphoria.
Rubai was keeping his word. The plan had worked and for the second time in a matter of days they had put one over on the Big Man. Their hard work was paying off and a little crack was appearing in the steel-coated monolith that Rubai had built to help him keep control over the running of the country.
Tom was driving Bertie’s Pajero. There had been some brief talk back at Rusinga about bringing along Ewan to greet his father as he stepped out of his captivity. The idea had been quickly rejected as risking emotional overload. Maura would see the boy off to bed and Lydia would read him a story, as she had been doing since the day Bertie had been carted off to jail by the rough group of Nairobi police heavies. Rafaella and Rebecca would travel to Nakuru.
Hearts in both vehicles were running wild. The time lapse between hearing the news and witnessing the reality had been brief, not long enough for them to put the amazing turn of events into a comfortable perspective.
* * *
There was something different about the tap on the steel door of his cell. This one was not the usual simple warning telling him that someone was coming in to present him with a new unpleasantness. Instead this tap was asking his permission to allow an invasion of his privacy. It suggested that he might still, after all, have some control over some minor part of his existence.
The illusion continued after the key had been turned in the lock and the door swung open. The Inspector and the sergeant made no move to come in. Even after the Inspector’s opening words, Bertie did not grasp the full meaning of his changing situation.
‘Mister Briggs, you are a free man. I am so happy to tell you that your people are waiting …’
The sounds becam
e blurred, heard through some opaque material and addressed to some stranger. ‘The sergeant will see to it that all your possessions will be collected together and returned to you …’
Bertie was being hustled along a corridor, past a duty desk and towards the front door. Where were they taking him? Sunday night, a good time to take poor bastards like himself …
The door opened and he was in the arms of dear friends. They were all around him. They were laughing and crying. It took another few seconds before the truth struck him and it came like a bowl of ice-cold water being thrown into his face. For the first time in his life he almost fainted. The suddenness of the shock took away his power of speech. Rafaella had never seen such a look of terror in a man’s face. She was afraid that he might suffer a heart attack.
The change, when it came, was lightning quick. A long, trembling sigh and he sank into the arms of Tom and Hosea. The energy melted away briefly only to announce its return with a loud, uninhibited whoop of delight.
‘Bertie! You are safe! We have you back!’ Rafaella could hardly contain her joy.
‘Ewan, is he all right? Can I see him?’
‘Tonight, there will be fairy stories all ‘round at Rusinga, old friend.’ Tom hugged Bertie very tight. Then he noticed. Across the street, standing outside the open doors of the cathedral, Sister May and Sister Phillipa were waving a large white flag emblazoned with a yellow rose. Inside the majestic sound of an organ struck up on full power, like a hymn of celebration rolling up and down Odinga Odinga Avenue.
Without warning, Bertie broke away and crossed the street, murmuring as he went, ‘It’s been so long, too long.’
As he reached the sisters, they each grasped a hand and led him inside. Father Robert had hurried from his lodge to see what the commotion was. He knew all about Bertie’s trials. He had been the priest when Anna had been buried and Ewan baptised. He had known, too, about the arrest but had delayed visiting. So, this was the first time in almost three years that he had set eyes on Bertie, a man he still considered to be one of his own.
The impromptu thanksgiving put a proper seal on Bertie’s release, a perfect climax to an ordinary Sunday.
Dusk was moving into night as the two cars cleared the roundabout at the edge of town and crossed under the railway bridge on their way home. Normally travel by night was not considered to be a good idea on the great highway that was the A104. Unlit cars and trucks were a hazard and there was always the fear that you might run into desperados out and about for a spot of hijacking.
But on this Sunday night for these people a journey under the stars was sheer delight. The skies were big and free and the mysteries out to their left and their right were kindly. Tom, in Bertie’s Pajero, kept the speed steady and when he took a moment out to glance at his fellow passengers, Rebecca by his side and Rafaella and Bertie behind him, he saw faces that glowed. Very little was said until the lights of Gilgil came into sight over on their left. Bertie frequently placed his hand over his face as his mind gradually came to terms with his sudden and startling change of fortune.
After Gilgil, there was a change as Bertie, especially, began to anticipate his homecoming. The picture of Ewan scarcely left his mind. His heartfelt sighs of ‘Oh, God!’ came to his lips, accompanied by the cold shiver of realisation of what so easily might have been. In those lonely hours in that small cell he had rationalised himself into the certainty that he would never see his boy again. Never.
In Caroline’s Volvo, the mood was happy, too, but more subdued. And there was one concern, minor for the moment but with the potential for future danger. ‘All charges dropped’ had been a clear part of the deal with Rubai. Daniel and Paul had quietly asked the Nakuru inspector if he had any documentation on this.
‘Did the people on Nairobi Hill send a fax through with the terms of the release?’
‘Nothing, Mister Komar.’
‘Nothing?’
‘The machine has not worked for the last two weeks.’
‘Was anything said on the phone? Or was that not working either?’
‘Oh, the phone works fine.’ Wambui looked over his shoulder to check before going on. ‘Confidentially, I don’t believe it was a police voice that gave the message. I’ve been on the force for a long time now. You get a feel for these things. Understand me?’
‘Oh, yes, we understand.’
* * *
‘You people, everything must be recorded somewhere, then stored away in some file and then … forgotten.’
‘Maria, how else are you going to get justice in this country?’
‘And what justice is that, husband?’
‘Paul, was she like this when you were kids?’
‘I just remember she was the bossiest kid in the school. The boys, even some of the teachers, were scared of her. But, Maria, if something is not written down on paper, then, in law, it doesn’t really exist. In Bertie’s case it means that a fox like Rubai …’
‘Tarantula!’
‘Whatever, but he can say, “Charges dropped? Where’s the evidence?”’
‘So, the Nairobi thugs could come tomorrow and pick him up.’
Daniel took over the job of setting Maria’s mind at rest. ‘In theory, but tomorrow morning, your brother and I will pay a visit to CID on Nairobi Hill. We’ll check it out. We have some contacts who can tell us what we need to know. And Caroline is the police boss in Naivasha District, so …’
‘I need a piece of paper to —’
‘And if one doesn’t exist, we, er, manufacture one, signatures and all.’
‘Paul and I know a first-class forger who owes us …’
By the time the passengers in the Volvo had sorted out the logistics of the police work, they were halfway to Naivasha. Hosea, idly staring out of the window to his right recognised two landmarks clearly visible in the moonlight. First there was the soda waters of Lake Elementeita, with its faint rim of pink on the shoreline, flamingos busy at a late supper and then the outline of the Sleeping Maasai, flat out on the low hillside just a couple of hundred metres further on.
‘Sorry, Bertie, but we’re going to ask you to make a decision.’
‘Decision? I haven’t made one of those for days. Try me. See if I remember what to do.’
Tom explained the dilemma. ‘Do we go straight to Rusinga? Or, I know there are people on our veranda, cleaned and polished, by the way, wanting just to catch a glimpse, a sort of impromptu welcome home.’
‘Hakuna matata. Haven’t said that for a while either. Can’t be rude, but I would love to see some friendly faces. Help me to know that I really am coming home.’
For Bertie, there was a single White-cap, a lot of hugging and kissing and, after about fifteen minutes, a walk home across the open plain with his blood brother of a friend.
‘Let’s take our time, Alex.’
Their feather-like footfalls carried them out of range of the rigged up lighting on the refurbished veranda. They weaved between the scattered waterbuck cropping noisily at the thick, damp grass. Their first stop was at a low flat rock that as boys they had named ‘Home View’, their usual meeting point on their safaris through the bush when they were on holiday from school.
‘Alex, so many people have been making a fuss.’
‘Well, it’s not every day we can get to welcome home a —’
‘Jailbird! Thank God I can have a bit of a laugh. Not much of one just yet, but give me time.’ Bertie paused before turning to his friend to recall a memory of their Pembroke days.
‘“Chateau D’If”. Remember the name?’
‘Common entrance English, Miss Cullen, her of the beautiful legs. Edmund Dantes. What a man! If there were more blokes like that in books, I’d read a bit more than I do.’
‘Paul asked me about him. You know he came to visit …? Anyway, just now back there, he was talking books again. Raised a can for a toast. “Restored to life.” Surprised him again.’Tale of Two Cities’, Doctor Manette. You know, Alex, one half decen
t thing about prison? Gives you time to think. Half the time it was Ewan, the other half, you people over there.’
‘Your ears should have been red hot on times.’
‘But you’ve lost everything - house, farm, cars, even your clothes.’
‘Funny you should say that. Friday night, Maura and I were sitting on the veranda wall, just before bedtime. Mother’s still over in your guest cottage and we could hear the boys over in the new house, noisy as usual. Maura decided to draw up an imaginary inventory. Try saying that after a few beers. Anyway she started her list. One aeroplane, not even scorched. Three horses, thank God for the Buckles. A laundry garden, with heated water, could be connected up to a bath, perhaps. An excuse to buy a new wardrobe. A building site with a great view and plenty of hard core for foundations. Then she broke down. Cried for ages. Words kept coming. Still got each other. Wonderful friends. No house but still got a home. No mementos but a million memories.’
‘It was the poison, pus. It has to come out somehow. You’ll never drain it all. Well, I don’t think that’s possible.’
They lay back on their rock and looked up into the stars. As boys, it had been the place where they would say their final goodbye to the day and to each other, to spend time on that cool place and draw the adventures of the day together. That night the grand sweep of the Milky Way held them in thrall as strongly as ever and it was just as impossible for them to believe that those millions of tiny dots that, seen close up, were huge lumps of molten gas sending down their light to two little boys in love with the wonder of it all.
‘Shirley’s dropping in on Tuesday. You know she lives on that little island on Lake Baringo.’
‘Next to the club?’
‘Right. She’s going to give us tips on what Rollo calls “open plan living”. Her house is fantastic. Mabati side walls and roof with the front open to the sky and the garden. Just like us for the next few weeks, at least.’
‘Alex, it never ever gets cold up there.’