Rift

by Beverley Birch

  For a moment there was a startled vacuum, as if no one had really expected to find anything happening. And then the inspector and the sergeant coming at a run from the police tents, and the teacher Ian Boyd from somewhere else, and a general babble of explanation.

  Suddenly shivery, sapped, Ella turned back into the tent. Joe was sitting on the camp-bed. He gave her a shaky smile. She sat down beside him.

  ‘Right,’ she could hear Ian Boyd saying outside. ‘Good, everyone. Now, back to your tents. No random wandering about with the main lamps out. Don’t want surprise encounters with other kinds of wildlife. Get some sleep now. Need you all fit and alert tomorrow. Inspector Murothi, I’ll see to Joe and Ella. And we’ll look for Sean, find out what he thinks he’s up to. We’ll keep an eye on him – Oi, you lot, don’t take liberties! Off you go.’

  Zak’s head came poking into the tent, followed by Antony and Tamara: like a totem pole, their faces one below the other. Zak gave a thumbs-up, and the others grinned, and then they withdrew into the sounds of general chatter, voices and footsteps gradually drifting away.

  After a minute, Ian Boyd peered in. Then he came fully inside, shone a torch over Ella’s face and then Joe’s, examining carefully.

  ‘Hurt?’

  Ella, tears of delayed fear and shock welling up, shook her head dumbly.

  ‘Sure?’

  She nodded.

  ‘Joe?’

  ‘He’s a savage, Sir, he’s a –’

  ‘And you stopped him, Joe. That’s more than . . . ’ the teacher hunched his shoulders, didn’t complete the sentence. ‘Look, get some rest – both of you. Stuff to do as soon as it’s light. Won’t be long, now. I’ll be keeping watch. We’ll sort Sean out. Promise.’ He glanced from one to the other, seemed on the point of saying something else, and didn’t. He went out.

  ‘He’ll come back,’ said Ella. She meant Sean.

  ‘Maybe,’ said Joe. ‘Yeah, he’ll try.’ He put his arm round her shoulder, pulled her against him and sat holding her. ‘I’ll stay. Two of us?’

  Outside, all the torchlight had gone. Only a sliver of moonlight slipped across the groundsheet.

  Suddenly Joe got up, zipped up the tent, and moved Ella’s pack against the entrance.

  ‘Trip him up,’ he said. ‘Warn us. We got to sleep. Like Sir said. It’ll be light soon.’

  He climbed on to the camp-bed beside her, put his arm across her and pushed her down, gently. He settled, and shut his eyes.

  For a while she studied his face, a shadowy mosaic of contours in the dark, until her shiveriness ebbed away. Then she turned over, pushed up close to him so she could feel his warmth against her back, and went to sleep.

  The notebook slid off Murothi’s chest and fell to the groundsheet with a slap. The lamp guttered, burning low and yellow.

  Something had jolted him awake. Something rattled in his head.

  It is two separate events. These people have left the camp for one reason. They have disappeared for another. In these two things is the answer; Murothi, do not confuse their separateness.

  Dawn was still two hours away. His throat was dry. He heaved himself off the bed and found his water bottle, drank thirstily. The liquid coursed through him, cooling, kindling him to an alert wakefulness.

  He picked up the fallen notebook. On the cover Charly had written CHOMLAYA CAMP/ OPENED 6 FEBRUARY 2006. Twenty-three days ago.

  What had struck him most was its scale and care: dated, meticulous, detailed. Notes about the place: sketchmaps, plants, animals, birds; trips made with students; notes of conversations with them: families, interests, friends. Likon, Tomis, Samuel – they were all there, and the two drivers, David Ntanyaki and Nicolas Waiputari. Even the various English teachers. She seemed to have made a point of talking, carefully, to everyone. There were Otaka and Véronique; other names from Burukanda that Murothi did not know. And all this was interspersed with her impressions, reactions, thoughts – even quotations. Like one from Samuel: He who is unable to dance says the yard is stony. Murothi could not help smiling, having a very good idea that the ‘he’ in this case was probably a ‘she’, Miss Strutton.

  He thought, you can trace the course of Charly’s mood, day by day. Here, in that first week, is her elation: Chomlaya, her happiness that the students were so enthusiastic, new sights, new friends. Barely two weeks later, is the beginning of the descent . . .

  The first hint came in a note on 18 February.

  You can see what’s happened – this friend of Ian’s comes here, falls in love with it – inspires Ian to organise the trip, he gets me involved, we all share an idea about why we’ve come . . .

  CRASH, bad fairy lands at the party: I’M IN CHARGE!

  It’s a personal kingdom for ES – not thirty kids and a handful of teachers in a semi-desert place, a place they DON’T KNOW, which could turn against them in a flash.

  She’s got to decide everything. Disagree with her, and it’s I DON’T HAVE TIME FOR THIS. She SULKS, she FUMES (if there were doors to slam, she’d slam them). The most ridiculous, tiniest detail of camp arrangement is a tussle of wills.

  EXHAUSTING!!!!!

  The really, really depressing thing is that someone has put this person in charge of children! And everyone here, EVERYONE, every other teacher – even Ian who knows better – just backs away! What if something serious happened? What if she wanted to do something really loony?

  Beginning to see how SERIOUSLY ill-prepared this all is. Like those disastrous school trips where people get lost in the snow and aren’t even dressed for a rainy day.

  Murothi dropped the notebook on the table. He unzipped the tent and stepped outside, drawing a deep breath of the clear night air. A path of moonlight shafted between the trees, and Mungai crossed it, acknowledged him with a brief lift of his stick, merged back into the dark.

  Murothi went back in, and took up Anna’s drawings. He had already studied the undisguised fury of the girl’s cartoons, particularly one of Miss Strutton behind a table spread with little boxes. Each box was labelled: Clever, Stupid, Winners, Losers. Tiny figures peered out of some. He recognised a smug Candy, a supercilious Sean. And it took little effort to detect Anna, Matt, Silowa, Joe, fighting their way out of a ‘Losers’ box while a giant, snarling Miss Strutton tried to push the lid down on them.

  He sat down on the bed, leafing to and fro through the pages. He let his mind wander loosely. Since the events a few hours ago with Sean, he’d seen these drawings in a different kind of light – recognised the particular savagery of Anna’s depiction of Sean.

  It told Murothi a hidden story – that Anna was the victim of some sort of very personal encounter with this boy, and it had rooted a deep, instinctive fear in her. And anger. The others did not know about it, not even Joe. This, Murothi was also certain about. Even in the strangled mood of this camp someone would have told the police about it, if they’d known. Anna had kept it to herself. He was getting a strong impression of this girl: not one to drag others into her battles, yet, from what Ian Boyd and the students said, not slow to take on the battles of others.

  He focused his mind on her sketchbook again. On the last page there was a drawing of a skull. No cartoon, this – detailed, and careful. Not a modern skull, he could tell now that Otaka had explained to him, and anyway, Anna had labelled it: ‘Burukanda boy – 1.5 million years old’.

  Not bad, is it? Véronique had said when he showed her Anna’s drawing, sitting by the fire earlier. This girl has a talent, certainly. We have a plaster cast of this skull at Burukanda, Murothi. The original is in the museum back in Ulima. It was the first very significant fossil find in this region, twenty years ago. You see here the famous discoverer! and she’d put a hand on Otaka’s shoulder.

  Ah, in my energetic youth, Otaka had smiled, with a lift of the eyebrow. Silowa is very proud of me. He tells everyone!

  Below the drawing, in the peculiar writing that looked like bubbles, was printed the number 1,000. It was Véronique w
ho had guessed its meaning suddenly: You know what I think that is, Murothi? The prize for the Burukanda competition! It is worth that in English money.

  Eee-ee! A very large pot! Murothi had retorted. For a children’s competition?

  Ah, no. I have not explained properly. The competition is a big, national one: the Burukanda Award, for undergraduate and graduate archaeology students. Winners can use it to help pay for their studies. Here, it pays for two years. The students at Chomlaya camp are being given the chance to enter the competition too, to help give their visit a focus, you see. But of course they will not win this main money prize. It would not be appropriate for them to get such money – it is for students in this country. There will be other rewards for their effort, to encourage them.

  But, thought Murothi now, looking at it again, Anna has written it down. If that is what the figures mean –

  A conversation with Ella flashed into mind, prompting him to turn to the journalist’s notebook. Finding what he sought, he contemplated it for perhaps the twentieth time. At the top of a page, Charly had scrawled: FOOTPRINTS. Underneath, in fat quotation marks, ‘In the history of the world, the history of the human race is no more than the blink of an eye.’ Beside it was something Ella called a ‘doodle’. The notebook was full of these, tucked here and there in the margins: little patterns, stick figures, words decorated with curls. Charly, Ella said, always did these when she was thinking or listening hard.

  This one looked to Murothi like stick people having a stick fight. But Ella had seen the figures were holding long bones with nobbles at each end, and managed to read the scribble up the side: THE BATTLE OF THE BONES.

  Oh, Véronique had exclaimed, when he showed her, I remember Charly doing that. Look, Otaka! It was while she was asking about the entry rules for the Burukanda Award, yes? and Otaka had agreed.

  Something here I should be seeing. Every time he looked at it again during this night, this thought niggled at Murothi. But he could not translate the feeling into fact, nothing he could grasp, or do something with.

  Frustrated, he went outside again. Dim lamps marked the perimeter of the camp, and the embers of the dying campfire glowed at its heart. Further out, by the police tents, a single light fell on someone leaning against a vehicle, and inside the tent occupied by Ian Boyd a lamp silhouetted the shape of someone sitting against the canvas. Otherwise, there was no movement, and for a moment Murothi could not detect the helicopter engines either. Then he concentrated his hearing and found the distant hum amidst the light wind sighing through the web of trees.

  Does the argumentative Miss Strutton manage to sleep tonight? Earlier, after the incident in Ella’s tent, she had looked like a balloon, pricked and collapsed, staring at Sean. Not a single word of protest as Ian Boyd took control. But Murothi had no illusions – she would bounce back into shape by the morning. A flare of vengeful anger had him wishing again that he had grounds to arrest the woman now – just to wipe away the self-satisfied, dangerous confidence in her own rightness.

  A different thought slipped sideways into his head. Charly made this doodle, this ‘Battle of the Bones’ scribble, at Burukanda, talking to Véronique and Otaka and showing them Anna’s sketchbook. That meant she had the notebook with her the night before the disappearances. The missing students were undoubtedly in the camp at that time, at supper with others.

  So, he thought, Charly returns to the camp the following morning, and finds the students gone. Then she puts the books below the rock, where Joe and Ella and Samuel find them.

  Then she goes away herself. And disappears.

  Concentrate, Murothi. Think, think . . . It says something about this woman’s frame of mind. She is not panicking. She does not fear the students are lost. She is not afraid for them.

  She does know where they are . . .

  Frustration flared again. If the intrusive Miss Strutton had not taken Joe’s camera, there might be photographs to help the boy’s memory. As it was, there was only one picture, taken by Zak, and that had prompted nothing new for Joe when he was shown it.

  Quickly Murothi went back into the tent, sifted through everything till he found the photo, scrutinised it under the lamplight. Ella had insisted it was important, from the beginning she’d said so. And of course she was right: Silowa and Anna, on the grass, Charly appearing to walk past, but now it was clear she was joining them: talking about what Silowa held on the palm of his hand, that small object that seemed to seal the English girl and the African boy in a shared absorption. A fossil. Possibly even that fragment that Otaka had shown him . . .

  Wearily he passed a hand across his eyes. They stung with the strain of reading in poor light. More and more his head ached. Fatigue dulled his brain. He craved sleep.

  He fought his thoughts into focus again: the fossil, the Burukanda Award; Charly checks the entry rules, Anna writes down the prize. Can this all be only about some plan to enter the competition?

  ‘No!’ Ella had said. ‘Charly didn’t like all that! She says it here, and here and here. Look, she says It makes me furious to see students actually beginning to bicker about who should be allowed to even enter the competition!’

  Ella was right again: yes, Charly’s writings resonated with her dislike of the rivalries brought by Miss Strutton into the world of the camp. Véronique had said to him, ‘Charly sees us all dig, dig below the skin of Africa, uncovering the origins of us all, our common ancestors! The students see it. The teachers see it. She says to me that it speaks loudly of the sameness of us all. We have the same roots! Everyone begins here: the cradle of mankind! Instead there was this Miss Strutton who finds every way she can to make all these little ranks: me big, you little; me clever, you stupid; me special, you ordinary. And there is no one who stops her!’

  Murothi drank more water. He walked up and down the tent. He lay down. He let his mind drift. Find the road you have not walked before, Murothi.

  Charly leaves the camp without telling anyone. Ella says this is strange: if Charly was going away, she would say so. Ella says her sister has a strong sense of safety. She does not take stupid risks. Murothi, listen to Ella hard. She knows her sister. There has been wisdom in everything she says . . .

  So, Charly goes away without telling anyone.

  It means . . . what?

  That she is not going away. She is not moving far. She is staying within the usual limits of movement round the camp.

  He sat up. Be careful, Murothi: there is no proof she went to the students, that she is with them now. Joe does not remember her with them.

  But there is a bond between this woman and these children. Everything points to this.

  All day, your thoughts have been on the young ones, Murothi. On Joe, Silowa, Anna, Matt.

  Think again, Murothi. Think only of the journalist.

  Think of Charly. Think of Ella’s knowledge of Charly. Follow them.

  He left the bed quickly, and turned up the light. He sat down, and, again, began rereading.

  *

  Joe started awake, gasping. His breathing was huge. A roaring filled his ears, like the thunder of a waterfall, his heart drummed, the pounding so loud that the darkness boomed, swelled, gigantic, like the pulse of the earth, like his chest would burst . . .

  He sucked in air, jerked upright.

  Ella stirred and mumbled, but didn’t wake. He sat beside her, chest heaving, till the pounding eased and only her soft breathing filled the dark.

  After a minute he stretched against her warmth, letting drowsiness numb him again.

  He began to dream.

  In the dream he is outside. Light just touches the world, coaxing pinks and browns and greens from the grey.

  Around flows a sea of movement. Animals throng to the drum of hooves and the beat of wings. Animals and birds fill the plain and the sky in a limitless moving tide.

  Mud oozes between his toes. The tracks of Silowa and Anna and Matt stretch away, cross, separate, loop together. The footprints of a thousand
animals pace beside.

  The lion treads with him. Heavy maned head swings with the sway of huge shoulders. The leopard pads behind. The eagle soars, the snake lifts and coils, and a thousand birds spiral away . . .

  The land is dry. Stones prick his feet. The footprints of Anna and Matt and Silowa curl on through the dust . . .

  Then Joe was awake and outside, and didn’t know how he had got there. It was still night; a pale silvering wrapped tents and trees and the spaces in between, and a stillness without breath of wind or faintest animal scuffle.

  Ella, pushing out of the tent, came beside him, anxious.

  ‘I think it was a dream,’ he said. ‘Just . . . don’t know –’

  ‘The same dream? Like before?’

  ‘It’s light . . . ’ It seeped over him as he stood there. But it was beyond him to put words to the weave of sound and touch and smell. It was like a texture in the air, and the other dream, the darkness fired with colour, galloping, flying, writhing, as if the animals of the day leapt through the night with him too.

  He shuddered, and Ella ventured, ‘What if you’re remembering, Joe? What if it’s not dreaming?’

  He stared at her, white-faced, stricken. ‘I haven’t been anywhere like the places I’m seeing!’

  ‘But you don’t know, do you? You don’t remember.’

  He looked away, and at the edge of vision something else moved, brought a twist of vicious shock.

  She saw him flinch.

  He said quickly, to ward it off, ‘Also, it’s like I keep getting this . . . picture . . . feeling . . . It’s in your sister’s tent, and I don’t know why, because she wasn’t there, she went to Burukanda, so why would we go to her tent?’

  ‘You told the inspector?’

  ‘Yeah, and we looked, but it’s not much good if I don’t know why, or if it’s true, or what we did after.’ He said it angrily, but he was not angry with her, and she did not respond.

  Then it hit him: Matt, doubled-up, retching, Anna running . . .