Sam Harris Adventure Box Set

by P J Skinner

  Bruno squirmed. He couldn’t look at Frik or Sam. His cheeks were pink with pleasure. The volte face in attitude fascinated Sam. Frik was a simple man, hardworking and gruff. Someone who took things at face value. His whole demeanour changed as he engaged with the plan.

  ‘What do you think?’ said Sam. ‘Can you schedule it?’

  ‘Absolutely,’ said Frik. He slapped Bruno’s leg hard. ‘Have you got the funds?’ he said.

  ‘Yes, you can start straight away,’ said Sam.

  ‘We must move the present canteen and kitchens next door to the communal building. It has an identical layout so it shouldn’t be difficult,’ said Frik

  ‘If it’s identical, why don’t we adapt the communal building instead. That way we don’t have disruptions,’ said Sam.

  ‘We could lay the piping and drainage on the back patio and cement the lot in place. Do you have the layout plan, Bruno?’

  ‘Yes, sir. I calculated the voltages and the metres of wire and pipe too.’

  ‘Will we need a bigger generator?’ said Sam, hoping the answer was negative.

  ‘No. We have massive overcapacity on site in anticipation of a project expansion that did not materialise,’ said Frik

  ‘Okay, can you get the new sparky to deal with that please? How’s he working out?’ said Sam.

  ‘Fantastic. I forgot to thank you. The lads are learning a huge amount from him,’ said Frik

  ‘That’s great news. And just for good measure, I got us some cash for maintenance on the site accommodation. Can you please start on Alain’s quarters first as he is on leave? I’d like that finished as soon as possible. Could you make a list of the fixtures and fittings you’ll need and get Moussa to order them from Uganda please? I think most rooms will need fridges and televisions,’ said Sam

  ‘Televisions?’ said Frik.

  ‘Yes, I’m ordering satellite television so we can watch the sport on our day off. Is that okay?’

  ‘Brilliant.’

  Frik stood up.

  ‘Hang on. We’re not finished yet.’

  Frik sat down again, but this time mirroring Bruno’s attentive state.

  ‘Health and safety programmes have almost shrunk to nothing on site.’

  Frik went to interrupt, but Sam put her hand up to stop him.

  ‘Dr Ntuli has been lax on this matter but it is no excuse to stop doing safety training.’

  ‘Where’s the Dr? If he is a doctor,’ said Frik.

  Sam ignored the slur.

  ‘I sent him to do an intensive refresher course in the Ntezi project. He should be back next week, full of new ideas. Please be tolerant if he is overenthusiastic at first. But meanwhile, I want you to restart the daily toolbox talks.’

  Frik and Bruno regarded each other in embarrassment.

  ‘Safety talks. In the morning. Daily...’ Sam trailed off but recovered. ‘Okay. A toolbox talk is a short talk about an aspect of safety that affects your working environment. So, for example, tomorrow you could talk about having a clean floor area, tidying away trip hazards like pipes or wiring. The next day, hygiene, washing your hands after going to the bathroom and before eating. We can write out a list of topics.’

  ‘No, that won’t be necessary. We’ve got this covered, haven’t we, Bruno?’

  ‘Yes, sir, Mr Els.’ Bruno beamed, a smile that lit the office.

  ***

  The next day Sam and Hans took a drive around town to monitor the sites which bought artisanal gold. They were illegal but the amounts sold to them were pitiful and Sam was loath to get them shut down just to prove a point.

  On their way back to site they drove past the hospital. Sam spotted Mbala Samba, the mayor’s wife sitting on a concrete bollard weeping her heart out.

  ‘Stop. It’s Mbala,’ said Sam

  ‘We shouldn’t get involved,’ said Hans. ‘It will only bring trouble.’

  ‘We are involved. Stop the car.’

  He pulled into the side of the road so Sam could get out. She went up to Mbala and crouched down beside her. Hans stood behind her, impotent in the face of such pain.

  ‘Mbala. It’s me, Sam. What’s wrong?’

  Mbala raised her head and sighed. Tears coursed down her cheeks and dripped onto the pavement.

  ‘My sister. She died.’

  ‘Oh no. I’m so sorry. How awful. What happened? Wasn’t she having a baby?’ said Sam.

  ‘She was. They cut her open to take it out because it was stuck. She contracted an infection after the operation and died this morning.’

  ‘And the baby?’ said Hans.

  ‘Also, dead.’

  Mbala wailed in sorrow. Sam tried to comfort her, but the bollard made it awkward. Hans stepped forward and picked Mbala up in one movement. He put her into the front seat of the car, locking the seatbelt over her damp chest. They drove her home to the house on the hill. Hans carried her inside following Victor Samba who shrank from sorrow at the news, his head sinking into his shoulders with grief.

  ‘Can you wait for me?’ said Victor. ‘We need to discuss the hospital. This can’t go on.’

  Sam sat on the steps listening to the dry chirping of the crickets. The air was full of dust and smelt like rotten leaves. Hans leaned against the car smoking a cigarette. His face betrayed the struggle he was having to control his emotions. Then she remembered.

  ‘Jacques told me you lost your wife a few years ago,’ said Sam. ‘I’m sorry.’

  Hans whirled around as if she had fired a gun at him, his eyes wide. He appeared thunderstruck as if caught doing something forbidden.

  ‘It was an accident,’ he said. ‘A plane crash.’

  ‘You must miss her.’

  He stared at her as if looking for a trap in her words. Finding none, he sighed, a sad sound.

  ‘I do. Every day.’

  He turned away. Sam searched for something to say but was saved by the appearance of Victor Samba who had tear tracks on his cheeks.

  ‘I’m so sorry about your wife’s sister. You must be devastated,’ said Sam.

  ‘We’re stunned, but not surprised. If you go to that hospital, you’re likely to come out in a coffin,’ said Victor

  ‘But don’t Consaf pay a monthly supplement to improve it as part of the community programme?’ said Sam.

  ‘Unfortunately, the money is absorbed with no visible results,’ said Victor, unable to look her in the eye.

  ‘Can you take me to see it?’ said Sam.

  ‘I wouldn’t recommend it. You might pick up a disease,’ said Hans.

  ‘It can’t be that bad,’ said Sam.

  ‘It’s worse,’ said Hans. ‘Like the gates of hell.’

  ‘Don’t exaggerate. Anyway, I need to go,’ said Sam.

  ‘We can visit tomorrow.’ Said Victor.

  ‘Do we need permission?’

  ‘As the mayor of Masaibu, I’m entitled to do an inspection whenever I feel like it,’ said Victor. ‘Can you meet me at the gates mid-morning?’

  ‘I’ll be there. Please let me know if we help with Mbala.’

  Victor shrugged and returned indoors.

  Sam and Hans drove back to the camp in silence. The air was thick with unspoken words. Hans smoked with quiet desperation like a man who needed to be alone to cry. Sam did not want to intrude on his thoughts. Her own fought for supremacy inside her head.

  How could this happen? The Mayor appeared weighed down by guilt or remorse. Did he absorb the money meant for the hospital? Or was he just powerless when confronted by his wife’s grief? She didn’t know whether to feel sorry or furious.

  Sam needed to be alone to digest the morning’s events but to her chagrin, she could see Jean Delacroix waiting in her office, his back to the window. He had draped himself on the visitor’s chair, limbs too long for comfort. When Sam entered, he jumped up, dropping a book on the floor. Sam bent over to pick it up, almost knocking heads with him. She wasn’t in the mo
od for a visit, social or otherwise but she composed her features.

  ‘Good afternoon, Jean. What can we do for WCO today?’

  ‘I bear good tidings…’ He hesitated, as he caught the strain on her face. ‘And from your expression, you could do with some. What’s up?’

  ‘The mayor’s sister-in-law died in childbirth at the hospital,’ said Sam. ‘The baby died too. Victor and his wife are in mourning.’

  ‘That’s awful, if predictable. Why did she go there? It’s a death sentence.’

  ‘I don’t understand. What’s wrong with the hospital?’

  ‘You haven’t been?’

  ‘No, but I’m planning on a visit tomorrow morning,’ said Sam.

  ‘Prepare yourself for a nasty shock.’

  ‘Is it that bad?’

  ‘Worse,’ said Jean, screwing up his face in disgust.

  ‘Why are you here?’ said Sam, desperate for him to leave.

  ‘The extra rangers. I had a chat with head office, and they are one hundred percent behind the idea. I don’t know why we didn’t think of it before, but we’ll need help with the funding.’

  ‘The stakeholders will have to agree to pay for them from the Consaf community fund. I’ll get permission at the next meeting.’

  ‘It won’t be as easy as you expect. Nobody around here cares about wildlife, except to eat.’

  ‘There’s only one way to find out,’ said Sam. ‘I’m sorry but I’m not feeling social right now. The wind has been knocked out of my sails by the death of Mbala’s sister.’

  ‘No problem. I was in town anyway. I wanted to keep you posted.’

  Jean pushed the small book across the table as he stood up to leave.

  ‘You might like this,’ he said.

  She picked it up. The Beetles of West Africa. To her surprise, a beetle similar to the one she had found was on the cover. It was on the windowsill in her cabin. Before she could remark on it, he was leaving, holding the door open until she noticed him go.

  ‘Let me know if you suggest any changes. I put our fax number at the bottom of the page of regulations,’ said Jean.

  ‘Okay, thanks for the book.’

  ***

  Sam worked late on an email to Dirk, filling him in on the plans for the kitchen and her projected visit to the hospital. She was careful not to mention any wildlife, even though she was dying to tell him about the beetle book.

  Finally, she shut down her computer and left her office intending to sit outside on the porch and stargaze for a few minutes to rest her eyes before going to bed. Not a single cloud interrupted her view of the sky which resembled a planetarium. She stood transfixed, her head tilted to the stars.

  A cough told her she had company. Half hidden in the shadow, Hans lounged at a table with a bottle of whiskey and a bowl of ice in front of him. It was only afterwards it occurred to Sam that there were two glasses on the table. She jumped.

  ‘I didn’t see you there,’ she said.

  ‘Will you join me for a sundowner?’ said Hans.

  ‘It’s a bit late for that, but yes please,’ said Sam, pulling up a chair.

  ‘Ice? Well, ice and water. It doesn’t last long in this heat.’

  ‘Perfect, thanks,’ said Sam.

  He handed her a tall glass filled almost to the brim with whisky and icy water.

  ‘It’s only red label, I’m afraid,’ said Hans.

  ‘It’s good. I didn’t realise how much I needed a drink. It’s a tough gig out here.’

  Sam took the glass, cool in the heat, and relaxed. She leaned back against her chair, peering again at the blanket of stars hanging over Masaibu. They sat in the dark without speaking much for over an hour. Just drinking whisky and muttering about work. Every now and then Hans would bark out a laugh at something she said. It was nice.

  She was thinking that it was time to go to bed when Hans fixed her with one of his wolf-like stares. It made her uncomfortable to be scrutinised so closely.

  ‘What?’ she said.

  ‘You’re beautiful,’ he said.

  ‘Don’t be silly. That’s the whisky talking,’ said Sam, biting her lip.

  ‘No, not beautiful outside. Beautiful inside. Brave and stubborn and intelligent.’

  Sam couldn’t decide if she was insulted or not. It was a strange sensation. This was how prey felt.

  ‘Um, thank you. I think.’ She stood up. ‘I have to go now. I enjoyed our drink.’

  Hans stood up too. He stretched out an arm and pulled her close to him. She looked into his eyes expecting to see lust and saw only sorrow.

  ‘You are like her,’ he said.

  He did not try to kiss her and she drew away again.

  ‘Goodnight Hans,’ she said and went down the stairs where she almost bumped into Jacques who was standing at the bottom. How long had he been there?

  ‘Oops,’ she said, and kept walking.

  ***

  ‘You’re some hypocrite,’ said Jacques, as they walked to their prefabs.

  ‘All’s fair in love and war. You should know that,’ said Hans.

  ‘You don’t even like her.’

  Hans stopped and faced him.

  ‘And you do? You’re married.’ Hans turned away and sighed, a long sad sigh. ‘She reminds me of Helga,’ he said.

  Jacque put his hand onto his friend’s shoulder.

  ‘I’m sorry. I should’ve known. Sam is like her. I can see that,’ he said.

  ‘I’m not trying to seduce her, I just get comfort from the way she is,’ said Hans.

  ‘Okay, let’s call a truce. It would be better if neither of us gets too close. Just in case. If we have a crisis, we must be able to think clearly.’

  ‘You’re right. I let my guard down. It won’t happen again.’ Hans smiled.

  ‘Brothers for life?’

  ‘Of course.’

  Chapter XIII

  The next morning Hans and Jacques didn’t sit with her at breakfast as usual. Instead they ate side by side with Frik and Bruno. Her breakfast lost its taste as she ate alone with her thoughts. It was hard not to feel resentful. How is this my fault? It wasn’t me who set up a whisky ambush.

  The truth of the matter was that she needed her security men to be friends and to depend one hundred percent on each other. If that meant she became isolated, so be it. She picked at her food unwilling to think about the day ahead. Could the hospital really be that bad? She was about to find out.

  Ezekiel dropped Sam at the hospital gates. The Mayor waited for her with ill-concealed impatience. He had deep bags under his eyes and his handshake was feeble.

  ‘How is Mbala?’ said Sam.

  ‘Sad, very sad. She sends you regards.’ He wiped his eyes which had filled with spontaneous tears. ‘Let’s go. Don’t touch anything.’

  A porter in a filthy uniform opened the gate, and they entered a compound surrounded by a breeze block wall lined with wilting trees. A row of dustbins leaned against the wall. Bloody bandages dangled outside their lids attracting swarms of flies. The air smelt of sewage. Sam turned away from the gruesome site, her stomach heaving.

  The hospital comprised a series of parallel bungalows in two rows on either side of a concrete path. The walls of the bungalows had iron stains crawling down to ground level from gutters hanging loose in their fittings. Large cracks crisscrossed the bare earth and plastic bags glided around in hot zephyrs of air.

  They entered the first bungalow which housed the staff room and reception. A metal reception desk, piled high with mildewed files, languished in the gloom. The porter pushed open the door to the staff room which had frosted glass panes, two of which were missing. It was full of people in blue or white house coats smoking, drinking coffee and playing cards. No one noticed them when they entered, or if they did, they didn’t care.

  ‘Where is the administrator?’ said the Mayor, frowning at the scene.

  A plump, self-satisfied man wit
h a goatee stood up from the table still holding his cards.

  ‘Good morning Mr Mayor. What brings you here? Who’s the lovely lady?’ he said.

  ‘My name is Sam Harris. I’m the General Manager of the Masaibu project. I’d like to see where you are spending our donation please,’ said Sam.

  Her no nonsense tone of voice cut through the room silencing the occupants. The Mayor rocked back on his heels as if he had discovered a cliff at his feet. When the administrator glanced to him for help, he shrugged and jutted his chin out at Sam.

  ‘Of course, Mrs Harris,’ said the administrator, recovering.

  ‘It’s Miss but you can call me Mama Sam.’

  ‘This way please, Mama Sam.’

  The administrator led the way out of the bungalow his thighs slapping together in their polyester flannels. There was a large stain on the back of his housecoat the colour of vomit. Sam scanned the ground but spotted a discarded syringe instead making her feel sicker.

  ‘Let’s start at the malaria ward,’ said the administrator.

  He opened to door to hell. It was worse than Sam could ever have imagined. The overpowering smell of sweat and urine brought bile to her mouth. The floor was sticky with bodily fluids and there were stains of blood and vomit on the walls. Sam had to peel her feet off the floor to walk across the filthy linoleum. She struggled to keep her breakfast down. Lucky she hadn’t finished it.

  ‘Sweet Jesus,’ she said. Her head swam with horror. She looked to the mayor for his reaction but he stared into space as if he was trying to be somewhere else.

  Basic metal beds lined the ward, many of them without mattresses. Those that did, had thin sponge pads poking out of ripped, stained covers. None of the beds had linen or pillows. Their occupants were lying or sitting on the thin mattresses and bare metal supports. Most of the beds had two of more occupants, skinny women wrapped in sweat-soaked material, with babies at their flat breasts. A thin wailing broke the silence.

  When the visitors entered, the women surveyed them as if hoping for a doctor or a relative among them to bring succour. One woman pushed herself to a standing position and tottered over to them. She tugged at Sam’s sleeve.