Guardian

by Dan Gleed

  The problem agitating the papers and the one on which they seemed to focus was the Kenyan police who had, so far, failed to get anywhere near the real power behind the criminal throne. Contenting themselves purely with chance discoveries on those infrequent occasions when they stumbled on a shipment more by luck than judgement. Even with their monumental mismanagement, they had still occasionally succeeded in rounding up low-level minders shipping insignificant loads in clapped-out vans. But when it came to the big boys, their on-the-spot intelligence was virtually non-existent, and it showed. They desperately needed someone on the inside, someone with the guts and background to fit in, but they simply didn’t have the resources, so they never got that close. The sordid drugs and slavery empire, headed up by a megalomaniac known to have shot and terrorised his way through every confrontation he’d ever faced, had only drawn encouragement from the many police failures. By all accounts this capo now considered himself untouchable. And it was all coming back to me; the newspaper’s insistent demands for the death penalty and the withering contempt the neighbours held for the scum who killed so indiscriminately, crushing anyone foolish enough to get in their way as dispassionately as they would an annoying insect.

  Hence, with shocking clarity, I knew exactly who was holding me. But unlike the police, I was also beginning to understand where the true horror lay. And it wasn’t in drugs. Yet even as I reached this stomach-churning conclusion, I was already out of date in the fast-moving world that had wrapped its insidious tentacles around me. Giuseppe grunted, nodded brusquely at the men opposite him, stood, signed to my guard to hand my tether to the psychopath and promptly left. With a leer, that bald-headed maniac, who had worked me over so comprehensively, jerked on the rope and led me out, back down the stairs, but this time further on down, below the ground floor into the coolness of an underground passageway.

  I was sure I was going to throw up. With my mind numbed by shock and in growing despair, I stumbled along behind him, fully aware that any opposition to my bull-necked, bald-headed guard would bring instant retribution and this time, with no one else around, who knew what the outcome might be? Right now, I knew I could take no more physical abuse. All I wanted was to stay alive and if that meant doing exactly as I was told and keeping quiet, so be it for now. Barely able to see by the feeble light of a lone bulb, we turned into what appeared to be little more than a black hole in the wall, but one that proved to be the entrance to some sort of low tunnel and after several steps my shoulder struck against something solid as I was spun round. At the same time I heard the sound and felt the pull of a razor-sharp knife slicing through the bindings that held my wrists. And then, with the rope still dropping around me and a sharp shove accompanied by the sound of a door slamming shut, I found myself in pitch darkness, with only the muffled padding of swiftly retreating sandals to disturb the stillness.

  In seconds I discovered that I was not only alone, but incarcerated in almost total silence. So quiet and still was the cell that I could even hear the weird susurration of blood pulsing through my ears. “What little might be left,” I thought sourly. Flexing slowly, trying to moderate the worst of the pain, I rubbed my wrists and arms in an effort to get the muscles to relax back to normal, but was rewarded only with a prickling numbness, which soon gave way to the excruciating pain of a fully restored blood flow. And, one by one, the contusions left by the expertly wielded sjambok sprang back to life until throbbing waves of agony lacerated me to the very core. Sick with nameless fears, caught in an anguish of grief over the full extent of my predicament and rocking to the detonations of pain in my tortured body, my desperate circumstances threatened to overwhelm me. And at that moment, for two pins I could once again have contemplated taking my own life. Except it seemed, on brief and more sober reflection, that I wasn’t quite that far down and out yet. Not quite. Not if I could get a grip on my trembling self. It took a deeply physical effort, but I finally steeled myself to explore this limited world.

  Moving felt like wading through treacle and my mind constantly threatened to slip away, to spill over into the terror of madness, almost as though it was being pulled by someone or something else. It was weird, but gradually I summoned the strength to overcome the appeal of surrender and instead, slowly and carefully, elevated my arms. With all sight and sound removed, my senses were reduced to touch and smell and I have to say I wasn’t too impressed with either. The moment my hands went up, I discovered I had barely an arm’s length to left or right. The depth of the cell was little better. It took only a single step before some sixth sense warned me to stop. An exploratory foot discovered a rock wall little more than a couple of inches in front of my face. Clearly, I wasn’t even going to be able to lie down and it took no more than a couple of seconds to determine there was nothing but the rough floor to sit on either. But it was the nauseating smell that really got to me. The coarse mixture of decay, urine and faeces that rose in waves every time my feet moved was getting close to unbearable and I had to fight down several involuntary spasms to stop myself adding to the sum of putrefaction plastering the floor. Standing there in abject misery, head hanging in almost hopeless surrender, a raft of conflicting thoughts burst in upon me and for a moment I again lost all rationality.

  How could I expect to survive? Even assuming I lasted long enough to find a way out, surely, it wouldn’t be long before some fatal disease contaminated the lacerations peppering my body? And what hope of escape anyway? Who could possibly mount a rescue? No one who mattered knew I was alive, never mind where I was. Even my gaoler appeared to have abandoned me without food or water. Moreover, for the first time in my life, I consciously gave way to the horror of claustrophobia, feeling my senses reel and rebel in the coffin-sized area. For the space of several minutes I couldn’t stop jerking and twitching convulsively as I fought to contain an irrational fear of being buried alive. For one long and ghastly moment reason itself teetered on the edge of insanity and only the sound of a long drawn-out howl bursting from my lips anchored me back into reality. The feral sound echoed around the underground cellar, slowly dying away as it bounced from wall to wall, leaving me trembling from the strength of raw emotion torn loose in that profound anguish.

  But the reality check was precisely what was needed, because now I knew the odds. It was fight or capitulate then and there. Which really marked the beginning of my resistance as, breath by laboured breath, beginning with the effort of bringing my hyperventilating lungs under control, I embarked on a struggle without end. At the same time and with a profound effort, I managed to wrap my throbbing arms around myself to gain some measure of control over the intense shaking that wracked my body. And from elsewhere deep within me, I found a power whose authority amazed me, but which seemed to assist in the conscious subjugation of the remnants of seething panic still waltzing around, just on the edge of perception. Gritting my teeth until my jaw ached and digging my fingernails deep into my palms, I gradually fought back to a semblance of sanity. And slowly, to my intense satisfaction, I felt the hysterical dread give way to logic as, unseen in the all-pervading darkness, the hot tears slowed and yielded to this newfound determination. And as they did, I told myself firmly that I would survive, promised myself I would never again let go. Thus ever so slowly, I reached a plateau of calm from where I truly began to believe I could make it through, whatever might be thrown at me. It made little rational sense, but it beat anything else I could think of.

  Chapter 18

  And in the surrounding darkness that meant nothing to them, a praetorian guard of recently arrived angels took up a defensive box formation around me and then faced outwards. With only occasional glances towards each other for mutual encouragement, they reserved their taunting smiles for the slavering pack of red-eyed, repulsive demons swarming not far above their heads. A pack compelled to retreat and now holding at a distance sufficient to allow themselves the feeling that really, if only they could summon the courage and discipline to attack en masse, they could take
the angels down.

  Inhabitants of another world, they were ignoring what I could not – passing backwards and forwards around and through my prison walls with impunity, as though they didn’t exist, which as far as they were concerned was as good as fact. Always just out of sword range, they slavered over the thought of me, their intended victim, from whom they had so recently been forced to flee, hissing and snarling at each other in their efforts to stay clear of the angels, lashing out with spiny fingers and sharp stiletto blades whenever one of their own kind got in the way. Brave enough amongst themselves, they were never quite able to defy the immense and dazzling immortals who now stood sentry just outside the four corners of my cell. Guardians of the insignificant lump of flesh and blood slumped against the cell wall, they waited quietly, hands resting lightly on the pommels of their flame-like swords, the razor-sharp tips of which seemed to pierce even the rock upon which their owners stood.

  Light glittered along the folds of their fine-woven, thigh-length togas stirring gently in fluid movements that had little to do with any recognisable gravity. Breastplates of pure gold matched by dazzling gold greaves defended them to the front. Across their backs were slung wide silvery white shields embossed with what looked like liquid red lacquer in the shape of a vertical cross, the whole glowing with all the appearance of a living light, so swiftly did a myriad of vivid hues coruscate across their broad surfaces. Completing their protective armour, magnificent red-crested helmets, gold with beautifully worked silver inlays, covered their heads and lent an air of quiet, intimidating authority. Swarming and muttering angrily, the cloud of satanic spirits undulated back and forth as though some ethereal wind blew them, while they threatened and darted in the hope of getting back to me, their unwitting victim. One more moment with me was all they asked, one more moment to finish what they had begun, to savour the forbidden invasion of my body and send me spiralling down through unbearable pain into sudden, grisly suicide. Death, their ultimate spectator sport, their definitive thrill, the final obscenity each longed to inflict on every mortal before their due time.

  For long moments the angels stood still, relaxed, almost indifferent to the gruesome creatures flitting round above them. But then a dozen or so, gaining courage in numbers, surged too close. For a second it looked as though, between them, they might even succeed in achieving a co-ordinated attack and actually break through to me but, in the blink of an eye, the two nearest angels launched themselves into action. As one, they stepped swiftly forward and upward, whipping their long, laser-like swords with the expert precision of prolonged practice to cover the six-dimensional hemisphere they were constrained to defend. Behind them, the guard commander spoke quietly and with utter assurance. “To God be the victory.”

  Perhaps he failed to understand the import, but the nearest demon, bolder than the rest and wearing the insignia of a captain, launched himself straight at Israfel, one of the guards. Instinctively, the latter’s sword arced down flat onto the creature’s head, as though disdaining the inconvenience of a kill, and the snarling beast was flung backwards to bounce against his nearest subordinate, setting off a chain reaction deep into the rushing horde. Quick as lightning, the second angel thrust forward, impaling another adversary on the end of his weapon before cutting swiftly down then up to split him end to end. But the marauders were quick too, and for a moment there was a melee of cutting, thrusting swords as they tried to take advantage of greater numbers. For several seconds no words were spoken, but the disorganised and hellish rabble was no match for the angels’ co-ordinated speed and precision. Nor did their shrunken, withered limbs oozing with undressed sores and rank with the odour of sulphur permit them to deploy any meaningful opposition. They were comprehensively and immediately out-fought and they knew it. Leaving several dead and a dozen or so nursing gaping wounds as they dragged themselves weakly out of sword range, the rest backed off far enough for the four guardians to once again stand easy.

  Simultaneously, Tamar, their field commander, acknowledged a voice coming directly to his ear alone, then, nodding, he turned to the others. “The captain of the Lord’s Host has ordered that all those involved in this insurrection, dead, wounded or living, are to be dispatched to the pit of Hell. Apollyon(1), the keeper of the Deep Pit, can have them. They have wantonly overstepped the mark and done too much harm and there is to be no appeal allowed and no quarter given. This time they went too far.”

  His voice was deliberately loud, designed to carry to the belligerent mob hovering far enough from the guardians so as not to provoke them, but not so far that they couldn’t take advantage of any perceived weakness. But Tamar’s words, ringing out with serene authority in a voice that sounded somewhat like a river thundering over a precipice, changed everything. As the significance of the verdict dawned on them, a wave of sound like the wailing of souls already in torment rolled out of their midst, growing in sobbing volume with every passing second. “Not there, not there, it isn’t time yet, it isn’t ‘Judgement Day’ yet. It isn’t fair, it isn’t fair.”

  Yelping despair mixed with frightened, pointless defiance poured out of them as they flew in an ever tighter, swirling pattern, each lost in the torture of their own depravity, sunk into the total isolation of corruption. Eternally lost and completely beyond rescue through their own free choice. And as the howling lament rose in pitch, those on the edges of the spinning mass got their final look at retribution in the form of a squadron of immense, dazzling angels who appeared as if from nowhere, dividing with military precision to surround and drive the demons. Every one of whom had once been a contemporary of their appointed executioners until they had cast in their lot with Satan, rebelled against God and been thrown out of Heaven.

  Whirling a vast net of silver cords, the avenging angels closed relentlessly until, with pinpoint accuracy, they launched an inescapable trap, like fishermen throwing a weighted net ahead of their boat, and promptly drew it tight. No sooner was that done than the newly arrived Squadron Commander, an incredible being of ethereal perfection and masculine splendour, strode forward to swing his blade in a wide arc below the writhing ball of doomed evil. And – as though the very space–time continuum had been rent – a great fissure opened in the living rock. Far, far below, outlined in the awful glow of what looked like red-hot lava, the colossal, fire-blackened demon named Apollyon glowered upwards in enraged anticipation. And in the same instance, the depraved globule of netted misery was swallowed forever as the earth’s maw snapped shut above them, once again impenetrable, leaving them lost to Heaven and Earth as if they’d never been. In their wake, only disciplined ranks of the invincible host stood at ease in mid-space, knowledge of a job well done brightening the moment.

  And in my cell, totally oblivious to all this, it yet seemed for a moment as though the gloom had lifted slightly, almost as if some profound darkness had been momentarily pierced. For the second time since my arrival. Or was it simply imagination?

  Chapter 19

  Jill’s heart went out to the vulnerable young girl sitting beside her and she put an arm out to hug the slim shoulders still shaking from the storm of receding tears. They were sitting together on one of the comfortable, faded old sofas. This one nestled into the far corner of the veranda, tucked away from the glare of the sun that was painting everything around them with an almost silvery sheen of heat. In the distance, through the light green tops of the palms marching down to the wide sandy beach, they could just glimpse the brilliant blue of deep water beyond the reef. Far out at sea, the vivid colours were complemented by an occasional dhow on slow passage north, white triangular sail stretched to the southern monsoon winds that riffled the long rollers arriving all the way from Australia. A tranquil, idyllic scene, in complete contrast to the frenzied distress that, for an hour or so, had been in danger of gaining the upper hand in the Joubert household.

  Secretly, Jill harboured very little hope that Paul could be found, but she was impressed by the courage and tenacity Roz had shown
over the past few days of tedious, non-stop searching and she wasn’t about to dent the girl’s hopes any further. “Come on, Roz, I know it’s tough, but I’m sure you’ll find him. He can’t have vanished completely. He has to be somewhere and anyway, Malcolm won’t let you down. He’ll give you all the help he can. I’m sure Paul will be OK and you said yourself you’re convinced he’s still alive.”

  Turning her head, Roz managed to raise a watery smile, grateful for the real friend Jill was rapidly becoming and indebted to her wholehearted support.

  “I know you’re right, but it’s just so hard. We’ve walked miles and drawn a complete blank with everyone we’ve talked to. Nobody’s seen him, or even had the slightest idea where he might be.”

  For the eighth straight day in a row, Roz had been up since before dawn and out with Malcolm, tramping the early morning back streets of downtown Mombasa, braving the often gut-wrenching smells slithering out from the open drains, stepping delicately round the less recognisable deposits smearing the cobbled passageways, and stopping to talk to every trader, every early rambler and every late street walker who chanced across their path. They had begun at the railway station and worked their way outwards, following the only road into town, sometimes driving, sometimes walking and always stopping to question anyone they passed, asking the same questions over and over again: “Have you seen or heard about a young white man with thick ginger hair and covered in brown freckles – probably very sunburned?”