The Magpie Trap: A Novel

by AJ Kirby

  Danny looked pleased. They had passed magnificent houses on the road into the town centre, relics of colonial times. Large, lovingly constructed white buildings hiding behind the rich purples of the bougainvilleas. He could well imagine himself in one of those places. He too could feel himself more at ease here than in the touristy capital city. He could almost feel the artist within himself stirring again. Once they’d met his mysterious caller he’d have a good think about settling down here, maybe even bringing Cheryl out.

  ‘It’s magnificent,’ he agreed. ‘Even Cheryl wouldn’t disagree with me on that one…’

  ‘Shut up about her, Danny. You’re supposed to have forgotten about her by now,’ Chris sounded angry, jealous even, that Cheryl’s name had been brought up. This was his man-time; no women allowed.

  ‘I’m not talking about now… just sometime in the future, when we’re settled, then she could come over,’ Danny was pleading.

  ‘Forget about that bitch,’ Chris snarled, ending the conversation.

  Chris’s comment may have ended the conversation, but it sowed the first seeds of doubt in Danny’s mind. Just for a moment there, he’d seen the same selfish, all-consuming, evil gleam in Chris’s eyes that he recognised from Chris’s father, Mal. It worried him; did he really know this man that he had run half-way around the world with? This was a man with whom he’d chosen to commit a terrible crime, a man who had driven him away from everything that he had ever loved. Danny pretended to back-down on the argument, but inside, unseen, he developed a steely resolve. He would be careful with his trust in this man in the future. Perhaps he’d go and meet his mysterious caller all on his own. It was time to retire to another bar and think up a new strategy.

  In the bustling bar, Chris began to vocalise his own thoughts.

  ‘There must be someone, somewhere on this goddamn island where we can find a decent computer-hacker that can sort out this printer for us. You know; someone a bit like Mark.’

  ‘Reckon they advertise in the phone book, cock?’ asked Danny, loudly. The crackly music was being played far too loud and everyone in the place was clamouring to be heard by the clearly drunk barman who looked asleep at the corner of the narrow bar area. Chris and Danny had managed to find a seat outside where they could watch the street-scene; people-watch, as Cheryl used to call it.

  ‘Reckon there’s a section in there for criminals and that?’

  Chris frowned and took another handful of popcorn from the ever-refilling bowl. The barman couldn’t even stand up and there appeared to be nobody else working, but still, some unseen hand was frequently replenishing their bowl with salty snacks so they’d drink more.

  ‘No,’ sighed Chris, through a mouthful of half-chewed corn, ‘but there must be some way of finding out about people like that; how about I start looking into it?’

  ‘Let me,’ said Danny, quickly. He tried to buy himself the time to shake Chris off; he needed to call the BBC-voiced man and alert him to their arrival. He needed the man’s advice.

  ‘If you really want to,’ said Chris, slouching back into his seat, looking more and more like one of the Young Guns with every passing moment. He’d already forgotten the horror of Edison’s Printers and was now wholly focused on developing this new image of himself which was somewhere between International Drug Runner and Last of the famous international playboys. Unfortunately, the image still did not fit him properly. He was trying too hard. Underneath it all, Chris seemed distracted by something.

  ‘What’s up with you, squire?’ asked Danny. ‘You look wired, mate.’

  ‘I’m knackered to tell you the truth. I might get us booked into a hotel and then come back for a nightcap. There’s no need to kill ourselves partying. We’ve got the rest of our lives to do that.’

  Danny smiled and did not argue. Chris’s absence would allow him to make the call that he so needed to make. He watched Chris lift his glass of wine and drain the contents in one fluid motion and then he watched him leave. Then Danny made the call.

  The BBC-voiced man answered, sounding more relaxed than at any point previously. In fact, he sounded in an almost celebratory mood.

  ‘We have a problem,’ said Danny. ‘I think Chris Parker wants to try to crack the code on the printer for ourselves. He doesn’t know anything about you and he’ll start to ask questions if I suddenly start talking about another party being involved.’

  ‘Easy,’ said the voice on the other end of the line. ‘Just tell him that I am a computer-hacker. Tell him that the barman told you about me. Tell him the story of the Dodo, for that is how they know me in these parts.’

  Danny felt that creeping feeling at the back of his neck that he’d felt when he was drunk outside the Adelphi in what seemed like another life. He felt like he was being watched. What was it the man had said about knowing when they’d arrive in Rose Hill?

  ‘Mr. Morris?’ prompted the man.

  ‘The Dodo? That’s your name?’ asked Danny, starting to look around the bar at the faces of the drinkers. Was one of them watching him and somehow reporting back to this ‘Dodo’? Or was the Dodo here, in person? No: he couldn’t hear the tinny music in the background on the other end of the line. Still, something felt not quite right.

  ‘You can call me that if you like,’ said the Dodo. ‘It makes me seem more mysterious, don’t you think? My real name is Mr. Ramnawaz.’

  ‘What’s the story of the Dodo? What do I tell him?’ asked Danny, deciding that he should put suspicion to one side for a moment. He’d followed the man’s instructions this far; what harm was there in listening some more?

  The Dodo/ Mr. Ramnawaz proceeded to tell Danny the details of his new cover story and Danny listened with rapt attention. It was nice to have someone like him in his corner. That way Danny didn’t have to think too much; he could continue coasting along with his life with all of the difficult decisions lifted right out of his hands. Hell, it was like living on autopilot.

  Chris found a hotel easily; Rose Hill was full of amazing houses that were preparing for the influx of tourists by letting out rooms or even their whole house. He paid his money and deposited the bags in the room before finally settling onto the bed to make his call. Frustratingly, the first time he called, the number was engaged, and he wondered whether at that moment, Danny was making his secret call. But that didn’t matter. Danny knew nothing about his plan and Chris knew everything about Danny’s. And knowledge was power.

  Cracking open a half-sized beer from the mini-bar, Chris tried again, and this time his call was answered.

  ‘Ah, Mr. Parker! I am a popular man this evening,’ said the BBC-voiced man. ‘I’ve just been speaking with your friend Daniel Morris. He told me that he’s a little worried about you and your attempts to get the printer working.’

  ‘That slimy shitbag,’ breathed Chris. ‘He’s going to try to cut me out of the deal, isn’t he?’

  ‘Well, I think the thought has crossed his mind…’

  ‘He probably thinks that he can lose me and then replace me with Cheryl.’

  ‘That is not why you are here, remember? You want to know who double-crossed you by telling the journalist all about your brother. And I will tell you that. You must come to see me.’

  ‘But how will I explain it to Danny?’

  ‘You both come. Pretend that you have identified me as the person that will be able to crack the code on the printer. Tell him a story. Make something up. I will see you shortly.’

  ‘What story?’

  ‘Tell him the story of the Dodo,’ began the man. Then he regaled Chris with a story straight out of the updated version of the Boy’s Own Adventure book, only instead of pirates and cowboys, the heroes were now computer hackers and e-criminals.

  There was excitement in the steps of both of the young men as they stepped along one of the wide avenues towards their destination.

  ‘I can’t believe that we both got the same name,’ said Chris. ‘This Dodo guy must be good if he’s recommended by
everyone.’

  ‘Maybe he does advertise in the Yellow Pages or whatever it is out here, chief,’ grinned Danny. There was a kind of last day of school feel about their whole procession through the town; they were de-mob happy.

  ‘This is the place,’ said Danny, finally. ‘This is where that barman told me that we needed to come.’

  They had arrived outside one of the large, three-storied, colonial houses. It was solidly rectangular in shape, dressed in virgin-white paint, and was crowned with a gable roof. It was a ‘statement-of-intent’ building, with showy additional features, such as the twin columns which stood like sentries at either side of the front door. These twin pillars guarded access to one of Mauritius’s top computer engineers, or at least that was the story that they told each other. And in this case, computer engineer was clearly a euphemism for hacker, and hacking clearly paid well in Mauritius.

  ‘Look at it,’ breathed Chris. ‘This puts Daddy dear’s place in the Cherryblossoms to shame.’

  ‘He’s rolling in it,’ agreed Danny. ‘From what I heard, this Dodo is supposed to be some kind of whiz at breaking the codes on some of the off-shore accounts held with the Mauritian Banks. They call him ‘The Dodo’ because your account becomes ‘extinct’ once he’d touches it.’

  ‘The room service boy at the hotel told me that ‘the Dodo’ is a renowned playboy throughout the island,’ said Chris. ‘But that’s only a cover for his work. He’s evidently deadly serious about trying to get rid of some of the foreign influence within Mauritius, and has set about destroying confidence in the off-shore accounts.’

  ‘Do you think he’ll help us, being foreigners, chief?’ asked Danny as they walked towards the massive front door; the entrance way was like the gateway to a temple, or a palace.

  ‘Absolutely; the reason we need the Precisioner is so we don’t have to stay here, isn’t it?’ reasoned Chris.

  ‘Well, we can only try,’ Chris had already pressed his finger onto the doorbell.

  A small Indian man of indiscriminate age answered almost immediately. He was immaculately dressed in the same thin white linen suits which they’d seen so many of the locals wearing. Thin tufts of facial hair surrounded his tight, thin mouth, and huge brown eyes covered almost the whole of the top half of his face.

  ‘Can I help you?’ He asked, again speaking in perfect English, his mouth pursing into a beak as he rolled his tongue around the words.

  ‘We’re looking for the master of the house, a Mr. Ramnawaz?’ asked Chris, as politely as he could manage; he was impatient to meet ‘the Dodo’ in person.

  ‘And what, may I ask, do you wish to see Mr. Ramnawaz about?’ asked the man, whose expressions made him look more and more like a baby owl; he had not shaken Chris’s proffered hand.

  ‘That is a private matter, between ourselves and the master of the house,’ Chris snapped dismissively, sounding very much like Mal.

  ‘I am sorry if I have annoyed you, sir, but I have to be careful about security in these times. Can I ask your names?’

  The baby owl was very persistent.

  ‘Is he here?’ said Chris, ignoring the question.

  The baby owl ran a tiny claw-like hand through his thinning brown hair and blew air from his cheeks, creating a chirping sound. ‘I cannot pass a message on to the master of the house if I do not know who you are.’

  ‘It’s a job we have for him. Okay? Does that pacify your inquisitive mind? I’m sure that your master wouldn’t be very pleased with you if he knew that you were turning down work for him without his knowledge…’

  Danny was almost dying with embarrassment at Chris’s display of the worst type of Englishness. He began to drag his friend away.

  ‘Chris, he’s clearly not here. All of the shutters are closed on the windows; he’s not here!’

  ‘Your friend is right,’ said the doorman. ‘Mr. Ramnawaz is visiting friends on the coast. If you wait one moment, I will take your details and pass the message on to him.’

  With that the small man fluttered away, but swiftly reappeared with a small paper and pen. ‘Your names, please?’

  They passed on the message and set off back to the centre of Rose Hill, back to the hotel. Danny suddenly stopped and jogged back to the doorstep with a cry. The baby owl was silhouetted in the light of the doorway, watching them leave. Danny carefully peeled off a crisp Mauritian rupee note, about ten pounds worth, and thrust it into the baby owl’s claws with a whispered apology.

  Sega

  Mark walked through the streets as though in a trance. Small boys ran up to him and grabbed at his hands, trying to lead him to their makeshift stalls by the side of the road. He walked between tall buildings, which dwarfed the small shacks by the side of the road.

  Everywhere the noise of crowds followed him; everywhere, the beeping of angry car horns of life. But life was not anything he was part of anymore. He didn’t know where he was going, or what he was going to do. All he knew was that he had failed; he had only done half of the job. His mother would have some of the money by now, but he just didn’t know if it was enough to rescue her from her fate. It was the not knowing that killed his soul; the uncertainty. He didn’t want to contact her in case he got her in trouble. Mark was still convinced that the authorities would be hot on their trail. The trap was surely hanging over their heads, just waiting for one of them to spring it.

  Mark’s unconscious procession through the streets of Port Louis and away from the Hotel Midas led him into the middle of a huge marketplace. He only became aware of his surroundings when the exotic smells of spices, the intoxicating wafts of fried sugar cane snacks and the intrusive aroma of fish reminded him that he was absolutely ravenously hungry. He couldn’t remember the last time he had eaten, but now his body was nagging him back into the world of the living. He was suddenly aware that his stomach was thundering its complaints to him, growling in contempt at his weakness. He began to feel light-headed at the abrupt realisation that he had absolutely no money. He stumbled through the mixed crowd of Africans, Indians and Chinese. A towering babble of languages were shouted at him as he crashed through groups of hagglers or families buying their food.

  His arm was suddenly gripped by a huge black woman who was wearing a dazzlingly colourful smock. She asked him something in what Mark thought was French, and when he did not respond, she tried again, in halting English.

  ‘You drunk?’ she asked, incredulous at his zigzagging, staggering performance. ‘You will be robbed if you’re seen so out of control here. Everyone will see you as their meal ticket. Come sit down with me and calm down.’

  She led him between two fish stalls which were wriggling with their fresh catch, past the shouts of the stall-keepers, and through to a small area which was shaded by tatty tarpaulin. She drew up a wooden stool and helped Mark sit down.

  ‘You need something to eat? Drink? You might have sun-stroke.’

  She knelt down at Mark’s side, her eyes meeting his inquisitively.

  Mark tried to open his chapped, parched lips, but could hardly speak. He mumbled just one word: ‘Water.’

  The large woman, hips-swaying as if she was dancing, lumbered over towards one of the stalls and began to talk animatedly to the stall-keeper, a tall, thin Chinese man. Eventually, with a weary shake of the head, he provided her with a small bottle of water, and she brought it back to Mark wrapped in a red, blue, yellow and green striped napkin which matched her smock. Mark drank deeply from the bottle, feeling its life-affirming goodness flow down his throat, passing through each of his internal organs and giving them a vivacious kiss.

  Mark downed the entire bottle in about thirty seconds, and then gasped his thanks to her. ‘I don’t know what I would have done if you’d not given me that water… thanks. But I have no money to pay you. I’m sorry, no money…’

  As if to emphasise his point, he slipped his hands into his pockets, he was going to turn them inside out for her to see. But his fingers closed around a wad of notes which remai
ned in his right hand pocket, and he had to shake his head to make sure that he was not dreaming. He pulled out the handful of notes, smelling them to ensure that they were real.

  ‘Put that money away,’ the woman ordered. ‘I told you not to show your money around here…’

  ‘I’m sorry. I didn’t know I had it,’ Mark was still confused, disorientated. Suddenly though, he remembered the bank. It seemed like so long ago he’d been there. He’d tried to hand over a second batch of notes for them to wire over, but the manager had shooed him out, claiming that the bank was closing. In his haste, Mark must have shoved the cash into his pocket. He knew that there was probably around five thousand pounds there… He replaced most of the money into his pocket but tried to force the woman to take one of the notes for herself; payment for helping him.

  ‘In Mauritius,’ she cautioned, ‘we do not expect that we must receive payment for everything we do for another person. Sometimes, we do things from the goodness of our hearts.’

  She beat a hand on her huge breast, highlighting that she really meant what she said.

  ‘We are slowly losing this though. The examples set by westerners lead some to lose their responsibility, their morality, and they begin to treat everybody else like they can take advantage of them.’

  ‘I’m just trying to say thank you,’ pleaded Mark, ‘I was about to pass-out and you saved me. Please take the money…’

  The woman seemed to sense the sincerity in Mark’s voice, and visibly softened towards him. She dragged up another stool and sat down, taking the proffered note and tucking it under her smock with a smile.

  ‘So, what are you doing here?’ she asked, pulling a bowl of sugar cane seemingly from underneath her smock and offering him some to chew.

  As the darkness descended on Mark’s second full day in Mauritius, he finally began to feel as though he was there in mind, body and spirit. Although a small part of him would forever remain at Edison’s Printers, he now began to appreciate his new reality. He felt the light breeze which whipped off the harbour wall and tickled his cheeks. He smelled the salted dry fish which was laid out on the table in front of him. He tasted the thick brandy which he was being encouraged to drain in order to revive his spirits. His eyes drifted over the bobbing lights of the small fishing boats moored close to where he was sitting, and the larger, more lurching movement of the bigger vessels which were docked further away. A thin layer of salt – scattered into the atmosphere by the waves which lapped against the harbour wall - beached in his rapidly growing hair.