by Wilbur Smith
‘There are other mines, other contacts. This was just the first – what the …?’
I followed his gaze, up the track to where the 4 x 4 was parked, and did a double take of my own. Where there had been one Land Cruiser, now there were two. Both were painted in the same white-on-green livery of Langdon’s mining company. The second had clearly just arrived, its exhaust still pumping out diesel fumes. Both Caleb and I stopped walking. Marcel and Francis and Amelia caught up with us. Francis saw why we’d stopped and gasped.
Both front doors in the newly arrived truck swung open at the same time, as if it was stretching its wings. Langdon’s driver stepped out of one, the same guy that had driven us in Kinshasa: I recognised his quick-stepping bandy-legged walk. More slowly, as if moving through water, Langdon himself emerged from the other door. He surveyed the five of us for a moment without saying anything. His shirt was busy, as ever, black swirls on silvery grey today. The corners of his mouth twitched and he gave a little wave.
‘Fancy seeing you here,’ he said.
I sensed Caleb stiffen, but it was Francis’s reaction – he was actually quivering with worry, the scar-lines on his cheeks pinched tight – that made me step up: we’d come here because of me, not them.
‘Weird, that he’s here too,’ said Amelia. ‘It’s almost as if …’
She’s so fast at the difficult stuff and yet misses the obvious. I put my hand on her shoulder to stop her saying any more, and stepped forward.
‘I’m sorry we came alone. I’m desperate. My parents. I knew you’d be doing everything you could in Kinshasa. The other trail led here. I made everyone come. I –’
‘Of course,’ smiled Langdon. ‘And I’m here as well now, if a bit late, to help.’
‘Yes, but it was my decision to come, nobody else’s,’ I said lamely.
‘You seem to think I might have a problem with that?’ One of Langdon’s eyebrows lifted.
‘No, but …’
‘No. But,’ he repeated.
I had one motive in that moment, to stop him going down to the mine and talking to his guards. If they let on that I’d been taking photographs, well, nothing good could come of that.
‘I think you’ve shown admirable initiative,’ Langdon went on. ‘Getting yourself here. Finding your own way.’ His gaze passed over Caleb to rest upon Francis. ‘Making use of the help.’
Caleb spoke up. ‘I gave Francis the order. He just did what I told him to do, Dad.’
The word ‘Dad’, tagged on to the end of Caleb’s assertion, made him sound as young as I felt in that moment. Langdon merely smiled at him, but everything about my uncle’s calm, friendly facade felt fake. Beneath it, he was seething, I could tell. The fact he said nothing further to Francis made no difference: the driver would definitely get it in the neck, and soon.
‘Either way, I’ve had no luck turning up leads,’ I said, trying to change the focus. ‘Nothing at Canonhead, and nothing here either. We talked to the guys in charge, but they hadn’t heard anything about a visit from Mum and Dad.’
‘I know that,’ Langdon purred, pulling out his mobile phone and waggling it from side to side. ‘Though this operation has nothing to do with me, I know who runs things here, and we’ve been in touch.’ He waved the phone in a loose north-east-south-west circle and continued, ‘The same goes for all the other mining facilities round and about. We’ve checked. The word is out. Should anybody hear anything, I’ll know sooner rather than later.’ After a further pause he added, ‘I understand why you wanted to look in person, but really there was no need. Your parents would want me to keep you safe, not let you run around the bush. As I told them, it’s a dangerous place.’
My hackles rose when Langdon said this. Of course the bush was dangerous. My parents had been kidnapped in it! ‘If you don’t mind, I’d like to carry on the search in person,’ I said as evenly as I could. ‘Francis has done a great job getting us here; he can take us to the next mine too, can’t he?’
I shouldn’t have made it a question; it gave Langdon the opportunity to breathe, ‘I’m afraid not,’ only too easily.
‘Why not?’ said Amelia.
‘I won’t be letting you out of my sight again. Your parents wouldn’t forgive me if anything happened to you.’
‘You said you were here to help,’ Amelia said.
‘And I am,’ Langdon replied.
‘How though?’ she asked.
‘Jump in the truck and I’ll explain,’ he said, with a smile so fake I wanted to punch it off his face. I didn’t though, because climbing into the truck suggested we’d be moving away from here, and that made it less likely Langdon would have a chance to ask the overseers down below what exactly we’d done during our visit. The truck was the lesser of two evils in that moment, so I did as instructed and climbed aboard. Amelia and Caleb followed me. The Land Cruiser’s heavy doors clumped shut behind us. My uncle, however, didn’t immediately take his seat. Seeing him take a step in Francis’s direction, I nearly jumped out again, but he seemed merely to want to talk to him quietly. I have no idea what he said. Whatever it was, it spurred Francis into action. He immediately fired up the other 4 x ***
4. I was relieved to see Marcel climb aboard with Francis before his truck leaped away down the track. Once Langdon and his bandy-legged driver were installed up front, we set off, the second half of the convoy, in hot pursuit.
55.
Not long after we moved off, I noticed the locks on the rear doors had dropped into their sockets. That happens on some cars automatically, I know, but in the truck, then, it seemed deliberate. Had Langdon locked us in? I didn’t like the idea of that at all.
Though Langdon had promised an explanation he didn’t offer one, just sat there in silence up front. At length Amelia asked where we were going, to which Langdon gave the one-word reply: ‘Canonhead.’
‘We’ve already been.’
‘I know. But I’ve work to do there before we head back to the capital. As has Caleb.’ He looked back at his son with another fake smile. ‘You’ve barely begun!’
Caleb didn’t reply to his father. He’d shrunk again, hunched over beside me. He whispered, ‘I’m sorry,’ and I realised he was beating himself up, thinking this was all his doing. But in fact he’d taken a risk for me, crossing his dad.
‘It’s not your fault,’ I said.
He looked out of the window. I did too, at the endless scrub scrolling past. It was an overcast day, the clouds thick and grey as the mashed potato they serve at school, and that, combined with the tinted windows, made the landscape look dead. Up ahead, Francis set a blistering pace. We ploughed down the road, not slowing even when we arrived at the occasional village. In one we clipped a stray goat. Langdon’s driver, swerving unsuccessfully to avoid it, let out the only thing I heard him say all day, a weary, ‘Merde.’
‘That means –’
‘I know what it means, Amelia,’ I said.
I’ve no idea if the goat survived. Though he’d swerved, the driver wasn’t about to stop. I didn’t even care much; in a trip filled with bad days I felt lower than ever – not just frightened for Mum and Dad, but powerless to help – in the back of Langdon’s truck that day.
Hours passed, punctuated only once by my phone which, having caught some random signal, buzzed in my pocket somewhere along the way. Before I checked the screen I willed it to be my parents making contact. But it wasn’t. It was Xander. He’d left me a voicemail. I fought back the hope his name conjured: might he have good news?
Surreptitiously – not wanting Langdon to see what I was doing – I pressed the phone to my ear.
‘Jack, heads up. Langdon worked out where you are. He’s on his way to you, and he’s not a happy chap.’ Xander’s voice, clear as you like, right there in my ear. In most circumstances I’d have laughed at the timing, but not today. ‘No news here,’ the message went on, ‘but I did have one thought: the hotel has CCTV covering the entrance and the lobby. I’ve asked them to dig i
t out so we can have a look at the guy who dropped off the ransom note. Probably useless, but I’ll let you know either way.’
I knew Xander was clutching at straws with this news, but even so it made me realise how much I wanted to get back to Kinshasa, not just to check out the footage, but to make sure the photos I’d taken of the kids in the mine made it into the right hands. I owed that to Mum and Dad: the fact they were out of the picture for now meant I had to step up. To be speeding anywhere other than the airport, in the hands of a man I didn’t trust, was a kind of torture.
We roared back into the Canonhead compound late in the afternoon. I was hungry and tired and simmering with resentment. Caleb trotted over to Francis and Marcel immediately we arrived, and they all sidled off, keen to avoid his father no doubt. Langdon, focusing on Amelia and me, made a great show of taking us to what he called the canteen, a clutch of plastic tables and chairs set beneath a corrugated roof on stilts. It was empty at this hour. Somebody had wiped down all the tables, but not very well. You could see the patterns where the cloth had cut through the grime. They reminded me of Langdon’s shirt. Nobody had bothered to wipe the chairs he pulled out for us though. They were filthy with orange dirt, and the bottles of lemonade and Coke he rustled up from somewhere were also filmed with dust. There was grit in the leftover lunch of chilli con carne and rice as well, I’m sure of it. Caleb joined us as we ate. I was biding my time, watching my uncle. He polished off two bowls of the chilli-slop and tipped half the contents of his hip flask – Jack Daniels, I bet – into his own drink before gulping it down.
‘You said you’ve work to get on with here,’ I ventured. ‘How long will it take?’
‘Not long. A few days. A week tops.’
‘Non-specific: unconvincing,’ muttered Amelia under her breath.
‘You don’t want us here that long, getting in the way,’ I said quickly.
‘Nonsense. You can help Caleb. Think of it as a learning opportunity.’
‘Thanks, but surely we’d be better off back in Kinshasa, waiting for news there.’
Langdon tipped his plastic chair onto its back legs, planted his drink on his belly and smiled. ‘You decided to take this little trip. You have to live with the consequences,’ he said.
‘Dad,’ said Caleb.
Langdon swivelled towards his son, the fake cheer draining from his face.
‘Come on,’ said Caleb. ‘If you went missing you’d want me to do all I could to find you, wouldn’t you?’
From away in the mine a heavy thumping noise struck up.
‘What I want you to do, now and always, is exactly what I say,’ Langdon stamped the words down in time with the pile-driver, or whatever it was.
Caleb sat very still in his chair for a moment. Then looked from his father to me and back again, a decision working itself out in his face. ‘I bet you would, I bet you would,’ he said, also to the beat.
The front feet of Langdon’s chair hit the plywood floor hard. ‘I’m not sure I like your tone, Caleb.’
‘And I’m not sure I care,’ Caleb answered. This time his sideways look took in Amelia as well as me. He drew a deep breath and pulled his shoulders back. ‘Let Jack and Amelia go,’ he said simply.
‘Or?’ said Langdon.
Caleb rose from his chair. Quietly but forcefully he laid down one word: ‘Else.’
My uncle carries the ominous swell of good living beneath his Hawaiian shirts. But although a little out of shape, he has as much weight in his shoulders as his gut, muscled forearms, a rugby-player’s thighs. He got up slowly from his chair and stood toe to toe with Caleb. They matched each other in height; if anything Caleb was the taller. But although gym-built, my cousin could not have been more than two-thirds of his father’s weight. Breathing heavily, Langdon said, ‘Repeat that. I dare you.’
‘You don’t get it, do you?’ said Caleb.
He opened his mouth to go on, but before he could, his father hit him. It wasn’t a punch – Langdon’s hand was open – but all the same it was a heavy blow out of nowhere, a backhander flung hard. Caleb’s head snapped sideways and he staggered backwards. But his feet were quick beneath him, and as soon as they’d stopped him falling they drove him straight back at Langdon. I couldn’t believe what I was seeing. With real speed Caleb fired three punches at his father. The first caught him square beneath the solar plexus. Langdon dipped forward in astonishment as the second, an upper cut, glanced off his jaw. The third punch was a straight jab, square in the face. Langdon dropped to his knees, a hand covering his nose. For a second nothing happened. Then he looked up. His nose and chin were already awash with blood. Caleb took a step forward and stared down at his father. He looked electric with anticipation, simultaneously aghast and ecstatic at what he had done.
I should have got between them but I was fixed to the spot, and before I knew it Langdon had exploded from the floor, throwing all his force head first at Caleb. He roared in fury as he rocketed at him. A memory of Spenser the silverback hurtling at Caleb in the jungle came to mind. Then, Innocent had tried to intervene. Perhaps it was lucky that I was too slow. Langdon barrelled straight into his son, knocked him flat on his back and pinned him down by the throat. His free hand rose, his fist making a club, and struck Caleb once, twice, again and again, about the head. In a frenzy Caleb’s knees slammed up into his father’s chest, but my uncle wouldn’t let go. He was possessed. The weight of those punches, the sound of them – I swear he’d have killed Caleb if we’d let him.
Without realising it, I’d picked up my chair, and now I swung it at Langdon’s side with all my might, knocking him off Caleb’s chest. The hand gripping my cousin’s throat came free. As Langdon tried to right himself, Amelia grabbed his collar and hung on so hard buttons popped off his shirt. This sent him off balance just long enough for Caleb to get a leg free, bunch his knee into his chest and aim the sole of his foot at his father’s bloody face. When he unleashed the kick it flipped Langdon over. He was stunned. Caleb sprang up and lashed out with his other foot, a penalty kick across Langdon’s temple delivered with a viciousness that made me gasp. The blow knocked my uncle out cold. He didn’t even attempt to break his own fall. His head bounced once on the dirt-encrusted floor, and he lay still.
Caleb dropped to his knees beside his father, wide-eyed with shock at what he’d done. He was clutching his own throat, coughing horribly, fighting for breath. ‘Go!’ he croaked. ‘Find Marcel. He’s with the bikes. I told Francis to give him fuel.’
I heaved Langdon onto his side, thoughts clashing. Call a doctor? Try to help? No! Help Mum and Dad. Do as Caleb was insisting. Flee. Stay. What had I just witnessed? Caleb obviously hadn’t planned to fight his father, but he’d thought to organise Marcel, and when Langdon struck him his response had been savage. A dam had burst. I felt for my cousin, for Langdon even. I don’t mind admitting I had no idea what to do.
‘That’s right, put him in the recovery position,’ Amelia said, helping me with Langdon. She had her fingers pressed flat against his neck. ‘His pulse is strong,’ she announced, very matter of fact. ‘Who knows how long he’ll take to come round? We should probably do as Caleb’s suggesting …’
Caleb’s face swam close to mine. His throat was already raw purple and his cheek was swelling up. ‘I owed you,’ he whispered, his voice sandpaper. ‘I’ll deal with this.’
‘But, Caleb …’
‘Go.’
56.
In a kind of daze, I bundled Amelia out of the canteen area and jogged – to have run flat out could have attracted attention – to the perimeter fence. Once we reached it we tracked west, past the horrible container we’d been cooked in, to where I’d last seen the bikes, on their kickstands amidst piles of pallets and empty oil drums, near the entrance to the mine complex. Marcel was sitting beside them. As soon he clocked us jogging into view he jumped up.
‘Vite, vite, vite!’ urged Amelia, and immediately he was astride one of the bikes. Our packs were there too. The
weight of mine, as I swung it onto my back, told me Marcel had thought to refill our water bottles. I unhooked my helmet from the handlebars and just about ripped my ears off jamming it on my head. Marcel’s bike coughed to life. So what if Amelia jumped up behind him? We’d make faster progress that way, I had to admit. The rumble of a truck leaving the mine took the edge off the noise of my own bike as I turned the key in the ignition. I motioned for Marcel to follow me so that I could control our pace past the sentry. It was agony to pause, but I waited to fall in behind a departing lorry, and trundled slowly through the gates in its cloud of dust, even managing to wave at the two sentries, one of whom was leaning back in a deckchair with his feet up. Their job was to stop the wrong people entering the complex, not leaving it, I suppose. Either way, he just waved back.
As soon as we reached the spur where the old track split from the bigger dirt road, Marcel cut round me and opened up, firing us into the bush as quickly as the ruts and potholes would allow. He clearly didn’t want to be caught by Langdon’s men any more than we did. Amelia, her hair bouncing around wildly below her helmet, struggled to hang on to him, and I struggled too: my bike was a live thing I had to wrestle if I was going to keep up. It took such concentration, and was such physically hard work, that I was immediately thrown into a sort of split-screen state. I was super-intent on what I was doing and yet totally distracted by what I’d just witnessed, by fear and by hope, at the same time. What would Caleb do when Langdon woke up? What would I do in his situation? I’d try to restrain him, buy time. Might Caleb have tied his father up? Dragged him into the container he’d rescued us from, even? What would Langdon do to him in return when he got out? What would he eventually do to me? One thing was for sure, I didn’t doubt he would want revenge.