Soldier N: Gambian Bluff

by David Monnery

  ‘So it is important that we offer no provocations, no excuse for intervention. At the moment we have no news of their intentions, but I will be asking their envoy here to talk to his government in Dakar this morning. And of course we shall be making the most of the friends we have in the international community.

  ‘The Senegalese will not act without French approval, so we must also make sure that nothing tarnishes our image in the West. The last thing we need now is a dead white tourist.’ He grinned owlishly.

  ‘The Council will be in more or less permanent session from now on – and when any of us will get any sleep is anyone’s guess. All security matters should be channelled through Junaidi here.’

  Taal smiled at them all, reflecting that it was going to be a long day.

  The British High Commission was situated on the road between Bakau and Fajara, some eight miles to the west of Banjul. McGrath finally got through on the phone around ten o’clock. The line had been jammed for the previous two hours, presumably with holiday-makers wondering what the British Government intended to do about the situation. As if there was anything they could do.

  He asked to talk to Bill Myers, the all-purpose undersecretary whose roles included that of military attaché. Myers had helped smooth the path for McGrath on the ex-SAS man’s arrival, and they had met several times since, mostly at gatherings of the expatriate community: Danes running an agricultural research station, Germans working on a solar-energy project, Brits like McGrath involved in infrastructural improvements. It was a small community, and depressingly male.

  ‘Where are you?’ was Myers’s first question.

  ‘At the Atlantic’

  ‘How are things there? No panic?’

  ‘Well, there was one outbreak when someone claimed the hotel was running out of gin …’

  ‘Ha ha …’

  ‘No, no problems here. People are just vaguely pissed off that they can’t go out. Not that many of them wanted to anyway, but they liked the idea that they could.’

  Myers grunted. ‘What about the town? Any idea what’s going on?’

  ‘Hey, I called you to find out what was going on – not the other way round.’

  ‘Stuck out here we haven’t got a clue,’ Myers said equably. ‘There seems to be a group of armed men outside each of the main hotels, but there haven’t been any incidents involving Europeans that we know of. There was some gunfire in Bakau last night, but we’ve no idea who got shot. And we listened to Chummy on the radio this morning. And that’s about it. What about you?’

  McGrath told him what he had heard and seen from the Carlton roof, and at the hospital. ‘It seems quiet enough for now,’ he concluded. ‘Looks like they made it stick, at least for the moment.’

  ‘If you can find out anymore, we’d appreciate it,’ Myers said. ‘It’s hard to give London any advice when we don’t know any more than they do.’

  ‘Right,’ McGrath agreed. ‘In exchange, can you let my wife know I’m OK?’

  Myers took down the London number. ‘But don’t go taking any mad risks,’ he said. ‘I’m not taking a day trip to Banjul, not even for your funeral.’

  ‘You’re all heart,’ McGrath said, and hung up. For a moment he stood in the hotel lobby, wondering what to do. The new government had only restricted the movement of ‘guests’, by which they presumably meant the three hundred or so lucky souls currently visiting The Gambia on package holidays. McGrath was not on holiday and not a guest, so the restrictions could hardly apply to him.

  He wondered if the guards at the hotel gates would appreciate the distinction.

  Probably not. He decided discretion was the better part of valour, and after moving the holstered Browning round into the small of his back, left the hotel the way he had come, through the beach entrance. Already twenty or so guests were sunning themselves as if nothing had happened, a couple of the women displaying bare breasts. McGrath supposed they were nice ones, and wondered why he always found topless beaches such a turn-off.

  Better not to know, probably. At least there were no armed men guarding the beach: the new regime was either short on manpower or short on brains. He headed west, reckoning it was best to avoid the area of the Palace and cut back through to Independence Drive just above the Carlton. There was a heavy armed presence outside the Legislative Assembly, but no one challenged him as he walked down the opposite pavement and ducked into the Carlton’s terrace.

  The hotel seemed half-deserted. There were no messages for him and the telephone was dead. He decided to visit the office he had been given in Wellington Street, in the heart of town. If he was stopped, he was stopped; there was no point in behaving like a prisoner before he got caught.

  Outside he tried hailing a taxi, more out of curiosity than because he really wanted one. The driver slowed, noticed the colour of his face, and accelerated away. McGrath started walking down Independence Drive, conscious of being stared at by those few Gambians who were out on the street. It was all a bit unnerving, and recognition of this added a swagger to his walk. He was damned if he was going to slink around the town in broad daylight.

  The stares persisted, but no one spoke to him or tried to impede his passage. Once on Wellington Street he noticed that the Barra ferry was anchored in midstream: no one could escape in it, and no one could use it to launch an attack on Banjul. McGrath found himself admiring that piece of military logic. The rebel forces were obviously not entirely composed of fools, even if they did include the last person on earth who could use the phrase ‘dictatorship of the proletariat’ with a straight face.

  The offices of the Ministry of Development, where he had been allotted a room, had obviously not been deemed of sufficient importance to warrant a rebel presence. McGrath simply walked through the front door and up to his room, which he half-expected to find as empty as the rest of the building. Instead he found the smiling face of Jobo Camara, the twenty-four-year-old Gambian who had been appointed his deputy.

  ‘Mr McGrath!’ Camara called out to him. ‘What are you doing here?’

  ‘I’ve come to work,’ McGrath answered mildly.

  ‘But … there is a revolution going on!’

  ‘There’s nothing happening at the moment. Why are you here?’

  ‘I only live down the street. I thought I would make certain no one has come to the office who shouldn’t have.’

  ‘And has anyone?’ McGrath asked, going over to the window and checking out the street.

  ‘No …’

  ‘Jobo, what’s happening out there? I’m a foreigner – it’s hard to read the signs in someone else’s country. I mean, do these people have any support among the population?’

  The young man considered the question. ‘Some,’ he said at last. ‘It’s hard to say how much. Today, I think, many people are still waiting to see how these people behave. They will give them the benefit of the doubt for a few days, maybe.’ He shrugged. ‘The government – the old government – was not popular. Not in Banjul, anyway.’ He stopped and looked questioningly at McGrath, as if wanting to know if he had said too much.

  ‘People don’t like Jawara?’ McGrath asked.

  ‘He is just a little man with a big limousine, who gives all the good jobs to his family and friends. He is not a bad man. People don’t hate him. But I don’t think they will fight for him, either.’

  ‘You think most people will just wait and see?’

  ‘Of course. It is easier. As long as the new men don’t behave too badly …’

  ‘They seem to have the Field Force on their side.’

  ‘Some of them. Maybe half. My uncle is in the Field Force in Fajara, and my mother wanted me to check on him, make sure he’s all right. That was another reason I came to the office: to borrow the jeep,’ he added, hopefully.

  ‘Fine, I’ll come with you,’ McGrath said.

  Franklin had been woken early by his mother setting off for the dawn shift at the South Western Hospital in Clapham, and then again by his sister
leaving for school. When he finally surfaced it was gone eleven, and he ate a large bowl of cornflakes in front of the TV, watching the opening hour of the Third Test between England and Australia. The play hardly came up to West Indian standards, but the England batting did remind him of the last time they had faced Roberts and Holding. Boycott and Gower were both gone before he had finished his second cup of coffee.

  With some reluctance he turned off the television, got dressed and left the house. He was wearing jeans and a T-shirt – the people he meant to see today would not be impressed by his uniform. In fact, they would probably use it for target practice if they thought they could get away with it.

  The weather was much the same as it had been for the Royal Wedding, but the mood on the streets seemed less sunny, more like its usual sullen self. Franklin’s first port of call was the address for Benjy which Everton had given him – a sixth-floor flat on a big estate in nearby Angell Town. Benjy, a thin young man with spiky hair and gold-rimmed glasses, was alone, watching the cricket.

  ‘You know why I’ve come?’ Franklin started.

  ‘It’s about Everton.’

  ‘Yeah.’

  He let Franklin in with some reluctance, but offered him a cup of tea. While he was making it Gooch was bowled out. England were doing their best to make the Australians feel at home.

  ‘Did you see what happened?’ Franklin asked, when Benjy came back with the tea.

  ‘When?’

  ‘When he was arrested.’

  ‘No. I’m running too hard, you know. One moment the street is empty, the next the policemen are tripping over each other. I go straight down the alley by Dr Dread and over the wall and out through the yards. The last time I see Everton he is standing there with the cricket bat. I yelled at him to come, but he must have run the other way.’

  ‘OK,’ Franklin said. ‘Did you know anyone else who was there, anyone who might have seen what happened?’

  Benjy shook his head. ‘They all got arrested. Or they didn’t stop to watch and didn’t see nothing. Like I and I. I’s sorry, Worrell, but that’s how it goes. Anyways, if the police all saying one thing, then nobody listen to nobody else.’ He opened his palms in a gesture of resignation.

  Franklin walked down the twelve flights of steps rather than face the smell of concentrated urine in the lift, and stopped for a moment on the pavement outside the building, giving the sunshine a chance to lighten his state of mind.

  It did not work. He walked back towards the centre of Brixton, hyper-aware of the world around him. There were too many people on the streets, too many people not actually going anywhere. It felt like a football crowd before a game, a sense of expectation, a sense of looming catharsis. It felt ugly.

  He walked up to Railton Road to the address his mum had given him, where the local councillor held surgeries on a Thursday afternoon. Franklin did not know Peter Barrett very well, but his father had always had good things to say about the man, and even Everton had given him the benefit of the doubt.

  The queue of people ahead of Franklin bore testimony to Barrett’s popularity in the community. Or maybe just the number of problems people were facing. Franklin took out his Walkman and plugged himself into the Test Match commentary. It was still lunch, so he switched to Radio One and let his mind float to the music.

  Around two it was his turn. Peter Barrett looked tired, and a lot older than Franklin remembered, but he managed a smile in greeting. Franklin explained why he was there, knowing as he did so that none of it was news to the councillor.

  It turned out that Barrett had already been contacted by half a dozen relatives of those who had been arrested in Spenser Road. He was trying to get them and any witnesses they could find to a meeting on the following evening. Then they could discuss what was possible. If anything.

  ‘Do you still live with your parents?’ Barrett asked.

  ‘No, I’m in the Army,’ Franklin said, wondering what the reaction would be.

  Barrett just gave him a single glance that seemed to speak volumes, before carrying on as if nothing had happened. But something had – Franklin had failed a loyalty test.

  Walking back up Acre Lane he wondered if he had doomed himself to a life in permanent limbo – for ever denied full access to one world, and with no way back into the other.

  In Banjul, Mustapha Diop had not had the most relaxing of mornings. The rebel soldiers who had arrived at his front door in the hour before dawn were still there, albeit outside. He had been ‘asked’ not to leave the house – in the interests of his own safety, of course – and had been unable to derive any joy from the telephone. The radio broadcast had rendered his wife almost hysterical, which was unusual, and all morning the children had been driving him mad, which was not. He was lighting yet another cigarette when two men appeared in the gateway and started across the space towards his front door.

  One of them was thin-faced, with dark-set eyes and hair cut to the scalp, the other had chubbier features and seemed to be smiling. Once inside they introduced themselves as Mamadou Jabang and Sharif Sallah, respectively the new President and Foreign Secretary of The Gambia.

  ‘I will come directly to the point,’ Jabang said. ‘We wish you to contact your government, and to give them an accurate picture of what is happening here in Banjul …’

  ‘How could I know – I have been kept a prisoner here!’

  ‘You have not been ill-treated?’ Sallah asked in a concerned voice.

  ‘No, but …’

  ‘It was merely necessary to ensure that you did not venture out while the streets were not safe,’ Sallah said. ‘The same precautions were taken with all the foreign embassies,’ he added, less than truthfully.

  ‘Yes, yes, I understand,’ Diop said. ‘But it is still the case that I know nothing of the situation outside.’

  ‘We are here to change that,’ Jabang said. ‘We are going to take you on a tour of the city, so that you can see for yourself.’

  ‘And if I refuse?’

  ‘Why would you do that?’ Jabang asked with a smile.

  Diop could not think of a reason. He smiled back. ‘I suppose you’re right,’ he said, and a few minutes later, having told his wife where he was going, he found himself seated next to the new President in the back of a taxi.

  ‘Do you know the town well?’ Jabang asked, as they set off down Marina Parade.

  ‘Quite well.’

  ‘Good. We will go down Wellington Street to the ferry terminal, and then back up Hagen Street. Yes?’

  ‘Yes, of course.’

  The taxi sped down the tree-lined avenue, then turned past the Royal Victoria Hospital onto Independence Drive. There seemed to be few people outdoors, though one group of youths gathered around a shop at the top of Buckle Street offered clenched-fist salutes to their passing vehicle.

  ‘It looks peaceful, yes?’ Sallah asked from the front seat.

  ‘Yes,’ Diop agreed. Actually, it looked dead. What were these people trying to prove?

  ‘Is there anywhere in particular you’d like to see?’ Sallah asked.

  My home in the Rue Corniche in Dakar, Diop thought to himself. ‘No, nowhere,’ he answered.

  They drove back up Independence Drive to the Legislative Assembly, where Diop was ushered through into a small office containing desk, chair and telephone. ‘You can speak to your government from here,’ Sallah told him. ‘And tell them that the fighting is over and the new government in full control. Tell them what you saw on the streets.’

  ‘I will tell them what I know,’ Diop agreed.

  At that moment someone else appeared and started talking excitedly to Sallah in Mandinka, in which Diop was less than fluent. The gist of what was being said, though, soon became clear. As Sallah turned back to him, Diop did his best to pretend he had not understood.

  ‘There is a problem with the telephone connection,’ the Gambian said. ‘In the meantime you will be taken back to your house.’

  ‘I …’ Diop star
ted to say, but Sallah had already gone, and two armed rebels were gesturing for Diop to follow them. He walked back to his house between them, pondering what he had heard – that all connections with Senegal had been cut by the Senegalese Government. That could only mean one thing as far as Diop could see – Senegal intended living up to its treaty with the ousted government, and troops would soon be on their way to dispose of this one. Where that left him and his family, Diop was afraid to think.

  Moussa Diba turned away from the cell window and its unrelenting panorama of mangrove swamp. Lamin Konko was dozing fitfully on the half-shredded mattress they shared, his hand occasionally stabbing out at the fly which seemed intent on colonizing his forehead. It was the middle of the afternoon – normally the quiet time in Banjul Prison – but today was different. Today all sorts of noises seemed to be sounding elsewhere in the building: whispered conversations, hammering, even laughter. And more than that: all day there had been tension in the air. It was hard to put his finger on exactly how this had expressed itself, but Moussa Diba knew that something was happening outside his cell, or something had happened and the ripples were still spreading. He did not know why, but he had a feeling it was good news. Maybe he did have his grandmother’s gifts as a future-teller, as she had always thought.

  Time would tell.

  His thoughts turned back to the Englishman, as they often did. The man had humiliated him, and he was still not sure how it had been done. One moment he had had the woman on the floor ready for him and enough drugs in his hand to live like a king for six months, and the next he was waking up in a police cell, on his way to this stinking cell for five years. If he ever got out of here, Anja would be his first stop, and the Englishman would be his second. And next time the boot would be on the other foot.