‘And our other two youngsters?’
‘I have sent Joe to his tent to recover from the climb. He is not well, this is clear. Ella too. We must be careful, she is not accustomed to the heat. Likon and I will keep watch over them. Inspector Murothi, there will be no wandering off to get lost!’
In the dark green interior of the tent there was an illusion of coolness. Joe dropped on to the camp-bed. The climb had flattened him.
But he dared not sleep. Even the canvas overhead resonated with the pulse of his dreams. He was afraid to close his eyes.
Yet, during the climb up Chomlaya with the policemen and Tomis and Ella, he had begun to feel lighter: expectant, even. As if the little memories were conjuring Anna and Matt and Silowa from the solid walls of Chomlaya; as if any moment they would walk down the path, chattering, and all the horror of their absence would be revealed as some peculiar, shared hallucination.
Now, though, the camp sucked hope away. Something desolate and bleak reasserted itself. He felt watched, yet alone; snared by the twilight of the tent, bereft, weighted by something he should know about his friends, but did not.
He knew the raw, inescapable possibility of their deaths.
There was a shift in the air beside him, a change in the refraction of light. Again, something swung on the edge of his vision, swung and turned and turned again, and a sweat broke from him, cold – a terror from somewhere else, deep in the murk of obscured memory. The thing was real, it had swung there, here, when they were all here, not in Charly’s tent, here . . .
He steeled himself, turned his head, slowly.
Nothing. Flare of light through the opening; dark, framing angles of canvas. Logic told him it could not be here, this was a new tent, raised only last night when he arrived with Ella and the inspector.
Then the brightness through the entrance dimmed, he braced against it, yelled at what might step through.
It was only Ella, bending, peering in at him. He wiped his face with his hands. He felt stupid, saw she looked embarrassed, even shy. He pulled a face: half-smiled at her, shamefaced at his cry, like a kid getting scared.
She said quickly, ‘Are you OK? You shouted . . . ’
But he didn’t answer because her voice came to him lifted on the song of a pipe, Matt’s pipe –
‘Hear that?’ he asked urgently.
‘What?’
‘The pipe. There – music . . . ’
She listened, carefully.
‘There’s a bird . . . can’t hear music . . . it sounds a bit like a pipe . . . ’ Doubtfully.
But its call tugged him, the physical wrench of a cord. At the same time the doubt in her voice showed that it was his own private delusion, no different from the tilting of the ground he had felt before or the echo pulsating in his bones. And as he thought this, the trembling sound ceased. There was only Ella’s persistent, ‘Joe, Joe, are you feeling sick? What’s wrong?’ and she’d pushed right into the tent, knelt down to look into his face.
‘Sorry,’ he said. ‘Just feeling weird. Didn’t sleep last night . . . ’
‘Maybe it’s heatstroke, too. Here, drink. Like Tomis said, you have to drink. Lots.’ She pushed his water bottle at him. ‘Come on, Joe! You should sleep, too. There’s nothing else happening while the inspector talks to everyone.’
Obediently, he drank. Then he said, grimacing at the ridiculousness of it, ‘Dreams – you know, nightmare things . . . ’ He laughed, self-conscious, and she saw, as clear as anything, that he was afraid.
‘If you like,’ she offered, ‘I’ll hang about for a bit . . . I’m not doing anything. I’ll just sit outside . . . you know, and you can sleep – I’ll wake you up if anything happens.’
He didn’t answer. Just looked at her for a minute, and then lay down, and appeared to Ella to be instantly asleep.
She didn’t move straightaway. She stood looking at him. He was sprawled on the camp-bed, just as he’d let himself fall back. Every few minutes his face flickered and he turned his head in agitation. She had the impulse to soothe him, as she’d wanted to in the hospital, that first night. But that seemed a lifetime away, and she hadn’t even known him then.
This, suddenly, was different. She knew him now. All the feelings she’d had – the shared fear, the desolation, the lost look that came over his face – washed over her. She wanted to put her arms round him. She wanted his arms round her. It was a feeling she’d never had before, and for a moment it obscured everything else in her mind.
Then she was stricken by how long she’d stood there: he’d wake, read her face, be embarrassed by what it said, want her to go away.
She ducked out of the tent, into blinding sunlight.
There was a crackle, which she recognised as the static of a radio, and she looked towards the police vehicles. One of the constables was leaning in and lifting a handset, speaking into it, his voice carrying, but the language meaningless to her.
The constable put the handset down, and leaned in the shade of the great squat baobab. Beyond him, the makeshift encampment sheltering the local helpers was just visible among the acacia trees. A single figure moved across the front. Otherwise it was still. Was it because people had moved to help search on the north side of the ridge, or were they dispersing, going home, giving up?
The thought iced the sweat on her back, and a wash of sour fear churned her stomach. She turned back and looked into the tent. Joe had rolled on to his side, facing away towards the canvas wall. He was lying still and seemed calmer.
She busied herself, repositioning pegs and guy ropes to make the flap of the tent into an awning against the relentless force of the sun. And then she sat cross-legged in the patch of shade, to wait.
She felt Sean before she saw him. Not quite a shadow, not quite a sound, not quite a movement. He was motionless, at the corner of the tent. Clearly he had not expected to see her there. But surprise was swiftly stripped from his face as she looked up. He smiled. A broad smile that Ella would have found quite friendly, had she not already experienced Joe’s reaction to him at breakfast, or the ambush by his two friends.
He crouched down very close to her, putting his hand on her shoulder, companionably.
‘Ella, right?’ he said. ‘Charly’s sister, yeah? Friend of Joe’s?’
It was not a pleasant feeling, his height. Even squatting, he loomed over her, and she had a sudden very clear knowledge that he enjoyed this. He was so close she could feel the heat of his skin. He was sweating, and there was a faintly perfumed, faintly oiled smell on his arms.
Why was he here, in Joe’s tent when everyone was called to the inspector’s meeting?
She jumped to her feet, deliberately dislodging Sean’s hand. ‘Joe’s sleeping!’
‘Yeah? Tired, is he? With all the stuff he’s trying to remember? Do your head in, that would, not remembering. What’s he said?’
As he spoke he moved, blocking her route to Joe, one hand resting on the ridge pole of the tent, the other hooked in his waistband. He bent his knees suddenly, making a show of crouching to look directly into her face, raising an eyebrow.
She stared past him to avoid his gaze. With a lurch, she saw he was not alone. Two boys: his friends. Keeping watch. She threw caution to the winds and went for counter-attack, glaring at him. ‘What’re you doing here?’
His smile didn’t alter. His hand though, moved from his waistband back to her shoulder, the grip harder, fingers heavy. He said, ‘Well, could ask you the same, couldn’t I? What’re you doing? Poor Joe’s armed guard?’
She flushed. ‘Inspector Murothi’s talking to everyone in the camp –’
‘He’s not talking to me, is he?’
‘Well, you’re supposed –’
‘I’m not supposed to do anything.’
‘Sean!’ One of the boys beckoned urgently.
Sean ignored him. He kept his eyes on Ella. ‘Tell your mate Joe here, with the empty brain that doesn’t remember anything, he should –’
‘I’m not telli
ng Joe anything,’ she said stoutly. ‘He’s recovering. And Inspector Murothi’s looking after him. All the time.’
‘Not all the time, eh? Sometimes it’s his brave little helper.’
She threw off his hand, took a step back, and dodged sideways so that she blocked the entrance to the inner tent.
He laughed, considered her for a moment, stepped closer, calling over his shoulder, ‘Hey, Denny, got that knife?’
‘Course not! I’m not stupid. There’s police all over!’
‘Fetch it.’
‘Look, I’m off, there’s Tomis. Sean!‘ Rapidly the other two were walking away, already out of sight as Tomis appeared and Sean ambled away, deliberately slowly, in full view of the ranger.
Tomis tossed his head in their direction. He raised his hand to Ella, called loudly, ‘I am the herdsman rounding up stray goats! Is all well with you?’
‘Yes,’ she said. ‘A few goats went that way.’
He chuckled, acknowledging her joke. ‘I see one. Two others also?’
She nodded. He set off after them, giving her the thumbs up.
Ella stayed where she was. How could she have let Sean’s pathetic effort at a threat frighten her? How could he do anything, anyway, with the inspector, and the sergeant, and Tomis and Samuel here?
It wasn’t what he did, or said – not even the talk of a knife, you couldn’t take that seriously! But she saw what he believed, his vision of himself: outside it all, beyond reach. He didn’t care.
She was on edge, reluctant to sit down, alert for his return.
Silence descended on the camp. Only the lethargic drone of insects, the breath-sucking heat buzzing on the plain. She caught a twitch of movement and turned her head. A gecko, like a white lizard-ghost pinned in alarm against the canvas . . . geckos and frogs and lizards camouflaged so completely you almost never spot them, Charly had mentioned. And she’d written about the archaeology and Burukanda, everything Joe had been telling them . . .
Ella pulled Charly’s emails from her pocket, and sat down again.
From: [email protected]
To: [email protected]
Sent: Saturday, 18 February, 2006, 17:37
Subject: More notes from Chomlaya
Now I’VE got the bug! Actually, Elly, I’m not joking. I got a real prickle up my spine when I was handed a skull and I stood looking down at it, into that bony, hollow face, and thought, ‘you might be my ancestor from 4 million years back’. It started me sort of understanding the mood I feel in Chomlaya. There’s something so ageless and forever about it. You can imagine people like the skull person, as if their spirits, over millions and millions of years, are all still in the air. Weird, wild nonsense, eh?
Got to keep to facts, Charly – like a good journalist.
Well, thought you’d find this pretty interesting (there’s a girl here who reminds me a bit of you, Elly, and she’s fascinated!). So, the facts (courtesy of what I’ve learned from my Burukanda friends, Véronique and Otaka – you’ll meet them when you come, I’m determined):
1) What they do know: human evolution started with an ape, taking millions of years, some apes evolving that were less ape-like and more human-like, and some standing up on their hind legs (all these – humans and uprightwalking near-humans, are called hominids, by the way). Could be an extinct ancestor of ours, or a relative that developed on a separate branch, or a true human, becoming a modern human (the only hominid living on Earth now). All humans are hominids. Not all hominids are humans.
From the fossils, they know the first hominids were still small-brained and ape-like, and they evolved in Africa somewhere between 7 and 8 million years ago – we last shared a common ancestor with the chimpanzee round about then. By about 2 million years ago, there’s a species we can actually recognise as human with a bigger brain.
2) But here’s what they don’t know: what exactly happened between those dates: 7 and 2 million years ago? Haven’t found enough fossils to tell how each type developed, how many hominid species lived and died, and WHICH OF THEM evolved a much larger brain. That’s what everyone at Burukanda’s doing – filling in a bit of the missing shape of the human family tree. What hominid species lived? How? HOW did WE (WHY did WE, of all other animals on earth) evolve from ONE of those strands to develop language, artistic imagination, technological innovation?
Intriguing, eh? I might volunteer for a month or three of hard work on the dig some time, find out what it’s like. Fancy coming with me, Elly, one summer? Let’s do it! As I said, there are a few students here who’re equally fascinated by it – though they have to contend with Our Leader who thinks fossils are unhygienic so she dumped them in the lavatory trench! The dreaded lady hasn’t invaded my space yet, but I wouldn’t put it past her. Beginning to wonder if I need to watch what I write and where I leave my notes!
Got to finish, Elly! Vehicle’s about to head off for Ulima, and I want them to send this for me, soonest. Next instalment in a few days.
xxxxxxCxxxxxx
Ella halted. Trying not to rush it, she went back a few sentences. Beginning to wonder if I need to watch what I write and where I leave my notes!
Charly’s notes! Where are they? She’d have pages and pages of notes! The inspector never said anything about notes!
What’s happened to Charly’s notebook?
Heart hammering, Ella leapt up, rushed into the tent, and woke Joe.
11 a.m.
Murothi surveyed the students across the canteen tent. They sat on tables and benches or squatted on the grass between. At his arrival, a wary silence spread from group to group.
They measure me, he thought. I am an unpredictable animal. They watch to see which way I will jump. And something more – the air was polluted with undercurrents – he smelled it as surely as a poisonous stench.
Sergeant Kaonga was breathing heavily, pulling a handkerchief from his pocket, mopping beads of sweat from his face. ‘Tomis is hunting the boy Sean and his friends. They believe they do not need to attend your meeting. And Likon is doing a lion’s work, facing Miss Strutton.’
Murothi took the list of names from him: fifteen boys, fifteen girls. The sergeant had ticked the ones who were already here – twenty-two in all – and crossed the five missing ones: Sean, Janice, Candy, Carl, Denny. Three were unmarked: Joe, Anna and Matt.
He allowed his eyes to drift casually over the heads of the students; a muted buzz of conversation had resumed. He remarked, ‘Sergeant Kaonga, I have some new thoughts. I will tell you about them afterwards. I would like to know what you think.’
‘And I have spoken to the climbers,’ the other man reported. ‘Where they are now, the radio communication is very bad across the rock. They are near where Joe was discovered. Nothing more has been seen, I am very sorry to say – Hoi!’ he broke off, glancing past Murothi. ‘They are here.’
It was Tomis, and beside him, with an air of offhand boredom, Sean. The four others trailed behind, all talking loudly. As if the world must be interested in what they say, thought Murothi. He resisted the temptation to scrutinise them obviously. But an unexpected certainty settled in his mind. Somewhere in this conundrum of disappearances these five played a part.
They pushed through the throng, to the table furthest from the policemen. Murothi detected the reluctant ceding of space to them, some people even giving up their places completely and moving away. Clearly Sean and his friends were not to be refused. Even as Murothi mused on this, Sean caught his eye. The boy’s gaze was purposeful; he did not shift his eyes on.
The effort at a challenge smacked of the games played by some grown men Murothi knew who liked to think they were all-powerful. Something deep in him tightened, became a little angry. Why is no adult stopping this? It is not difficult to see these undercurrents – the child, Ella, has seen them already!
Murothi raised a hand of acknowledgment to Tomis, and stood up. An instantaneous, keyed-up silence greeted him.
‘Well, you will know,’ he bega
n, ‘that there is very, very great urgency to find your friends. By the time the sun sets tonight, it will be nearly five days since they vanished –’
Unexpectedly this produced a muted shuffling, like a preparation for something, and he paused, surprised. But almost at once the unrest subsided, and all eyes fixed on him again. Even Sean’s.
‘The search has been extensive: even now the helicopters are ranging over a wide area and ground searches are being made on and round the rocks. Climbers are on the north face of Chomlaya, where Joe was found two days ago. Unfortunately, as you know, Joe cannot remember how he got there.’
There were sudden loud voices behind the policemen, among them, Miss Strutton’s. Several students stood up, craning their necks to look.
‘Concentrate!’ Murothi’s raised voice snapped their attention back. ‘I know you have already been interviewed. But I have asked you here again, because you may have knowledge that you do not know you have. The smallest thing! Think! Even guess! What could these people be going to do when they left this camp?’
The blank stares were like a wall.
‘Or perhaps you know who they were going to see?’
The silence altered: shock.
‘You mean someone maybe took them?’ This from near the front, close to Murothi. Everyone else looked towards the speaker, and then back at Murothi.
‘I do not mean anything,’ he said. The evident surprise told him the students had not imagined this. ‘At this point we do not know anything, except where they have not been found. We do not even know when they left the camp – by choice or in any other way. Do any of you have an answer to this?’
Across the group there was a ruffle of shaking heads, but still no words, and Murothi suppressed a sigh. Were English children always this reluctant to speak?
If you are on the road to nowhere, Murothi, find another road.
All eyes continued to watch him intently.
‘Who are friends to the missing students? Close friends?’
There was a tightening of the atmosphere. Why should such an obvious question provoke unease?
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