‘He’s coming back soon. He said I should wait.’
‘How long ago was that?’
‘I don’t know,’ said Abass, shrugging as he inspected his purchase. ‘Not very long, I don’t think.’ Then with more emphasis, ‘Like a minute, maybe.’
‘Twenty minutes now,’ said the vendor as he took the money.
Kai looked at the man properly this time. ‘Did he say where he was going?’
‘No,’ said Abass chirpily. ‘He didn’t say anything, except I was to stay here.’
The vendor didn’t reply directly but pointed with his chin as he pushed the notes into his money belt. ‘This road here. This is the one he took.’
‘Thank you. Come on.’ He reached out for Abass. ‘Let’s go find Adrian.’ He released Abass’s hand and watched the kid run ahead, his arms whirling, kicking up dust.
No sign of Adrian down the road the stallholder had indicated. The street was empty, the market extended no further than the square. Dusk was deepening. Houses were shuttered up, the occupants mostly out back, gathered around the cooking fires. Abass made a game of it, rushing to peer down every side road and calling out Adrian’s name. When he heard Abass’s cry, Kai began to run. By the time he reached the corner his heart was racing. He turned into the street.
In the half-light, Abass was standing staring ahead in the middle of the road, his hands hanging limply by his sides. Beyond him a man lay on the ground.
It took ten minutes to reach the car. Kai placed one of Adrian’s arms around his shoulders and hoisted him to his feet after he’d checked to see if anything was broken, running expert fingers across Adrian’s ribs. Abass ran ahead to open the door of the car so Adrian could lie on the back seat, but Adrian demurred, climbed gingerly into the front. Kai sent Abass to the boot to fetch water. The boy stood and watched, frowning and intent, while Adrian sipped from the bottle and then handed it back. Kai said little, but concentrated on finding his way back on to the main road. In the white light of the passing vehicles, Adrian’s skin was bluish, covered in a sheen of sweat.
‘Is Uncle Adrian going to be all right?’ asked Abass. The boy sat pressed against the upholstery, clutching the water bottle in his lap.
Adrian turned his head stiffly. ‘Yes. Don’t worry about me, Abass. I’m going to be fine.’ And then, ‘I was hit by somebody on a bicycle. I don’t suppose he saw me in the dark.’
‘A bicycle?’ repeated Abass wonderingly.
‘Yes.’
Kai said nothing and they left it there, by silent mutual assent. An hour and a half later they dropped Abass at home. The boy pushed the water bottle into Adrian’s hands, along with his new cassette. Adrian kept the water but handed the cassette back. ‘We’ll listen to it together another time. How about that?’
Abass nodded.
‘Tell your mum I’ll be back later,’ said Kai. ‘I need to take Adrian home.’
Kai listened to Adrian’s account of what happened. Of seeing Agnes, following her to the house, the son-in-law, the daughter, Agnes’s reluctance. Then had come the attack, by the son-in-law, Adrian had no doubt. The man had been with him one minute, gone the next. Kai drove in silence throughout.
‘You went to her home?’ he asked, when Adrian had finished.
‘Yes,’ replied Adrian. ‘I shouldn’t have. I mean, not strictly speaking. But these are unusual circumstances. She needs help.’
‘I’m just saying you have to take some care, you don’t understand this country. There are a lot of bad, bad people out there. You could have got yourself really hurt.’
In the apartment Adrian disappeared into the bathroom. Kai went to the kitchen, where he filled the kettle and put it on to boil. Though he wasn’t hungry he began rummaging through the cupboards, purely out of habit. A life lived without fast food and snacks had made him an opportunistic eater. As a child he ate whatever was put in front of him, meat was a treat, he and his sister fought surreptitiously with their forks over the best pieces. Then later, training as a doctor and eating on the run. Years of half-eaten meals, finished cold often hours later. He never suffered indigestion. He decided against tea, lifted the kettle from the stove and helped himself to a beer from the fridge instead.
Adrian appeared.
‘How do you feel?’ asked Kai.
‘I’ll live.’
‘Do you want me to take a look?’
Adrian shook his head. ‘Actually what I really want now is a whisky.’
‘Let me have a look at you.’ He stood in front of Adrian, surveyed his face, reached for his wrist and checked his pulse, pressed on the ends of Adrian’s fingers. Then he located one of the two tumblers Adrian possessed and poured a sizeable measure of whisky into it. He handed it to Adrian. ‘I could run a couple of X-rays. Just to be sure.’
‘No, really. I’m fine. He wasn’t trying to kill me. I’m sure if he wanted to he could have.’ Adrian poured a small amount of water from a bottle into his whisky, stared deep into the glass for a moment, swirled the contents and inhaled. ‘Smell that. My father used to call it releasing the serpent, the water frees the flavour. He was a whisky man. I didn’t really take to it until a few years ago. Funny, that.’
‘What did he want?’ asked Kai.
For a moment Adrian looked at him, perplexed.
‘The guy back there, I mean,’ said Kai.
‘I don’t know.’ Adrian shook his head and stared into the glass. ‘Money?’
‘And yet he didn’t steal anything from you?’ Kai took a sip of his beer and shook his head. ‘Makes no sense. He had every opportunity. You were out cold.’
‘What then?’
‘My guess? He just didn’t want you around.’
‘So it would seem.’
‘For sure not.’
They were silent. Adrian continued looking into his whisky glass. Then, without warning, he said, ‘I need to go back.’
Kai didn’t answer. Instead he tipped the rest of his beer down his throat, opened the bin and dropped the bottle inside. Then he opened the fridge and brought out some eggs, set the frying pan on the flame. By the time he broke the first egg into the pan the oil was so hot the edges of the egg curled up and began to brown. When he cooked he could think more clearly. He flicked hot oil over the surface of the egg, watched the white grow opaque, the yolk stiffen.
Behind him Adrian repeated, ‘I need to go back.’
Kai gave a slight shake of his head. ‘Don’t be fucking crazy.’
‘I need to.’
‘Listen,’ said Kai, more sharply than he intended. ‘You have no idea what you’re getting into. A lot of things have happened here. During the war, a lot of people did a lot of things. Others used the opportunity to make a lot of money. War makes some people rich. That guy is mixed up in something heavy. Whatever is going on in that house – drugs, most likely – you don’t want to know.’
‘What about Agnes?’
‘What about Agnes?’
‘She’s suffering post-traumatic stress. She’s ill.’
‘Jesus!’ Angry now, Kai turned to face Adrian; oil dripped from the spatula on to the worktop and the floor following the sweep of his hand. ‘How the hell can I explain this to you in a way you’ll understand? How many months have you been here? Two, three? There’s been a war. What do you expect? This isn’t a game. The guy in that house doesn’t give a damn that you’re a British passport holder. If he needs to kill you, he will.’
Adrian took a piece of kitchen roll and wiped the oil from the counter, squatted down to wipe the floor. Kai saw the grimace, the juddering in his breathing, evidence of the effort it cost him. Now he felt bad. He shook his head. ‘This isn’t your country, man. I’m sorry. But this isn’t your country.’
‘I know that,’ said Adrian. ‘I know this isn’t my country. But it is my job.’ He stepped forward, reached for the whisky bottle and poured himself another glass before returning to his former position against the wall, only this time he slid down it an
d sat on the floor.
Kai removed one egg and cracked another into the pan. It was errantry that brought them here, flooding in through the gaping wound left by the war, lascivious in their eagerness. Kai had seen it in the feverish eyes of the women, the sweat on their upper lips, the smell of their breath as they pressed close to him. They came to get their newspaper stories, to save black babies, to spread the word, to make money, to fuck black bodies. They all had their own reasons. Modern-day knights, each after his or her trophy, their very own Holy Grail. Adrian’s Grail was Agnes.
And yet.
And yet, for Kai it was simple. His patients came, an unending trail. If he worked as a surgeon his whole life it would never be enough. In that way his professional life was self-sufficient, possessed clarity. His achievements were measurable. The people he treated walked again, or breathed again, lived again. Kai knew something of Adrian’s early experiences here at the hospital. When they first met, he remembered his sense of the other man as, what? Unanchored. Since then Kai had witnessed the shift in Adrian. Talk of Ileana, of the man who ran the mental hospital. What was his name? Attila. Kai had met Attila only once. At a funding conference he had found himself alone with Attila for a few minutes, the only two black faces in the room. Kai had been impressed, thinking Attila had got closer to a kind of truth than anyone else. Attila understood something which Adrian didn’t. Not yet.
He looked at Adrian’s face, narrow and pale. The lethargy in his friend, dispelled during the course of the day, had returned.
Kai thought, too, of the last time he’d been to that town, Port Loko. With Tejani, their last trip together, on their way to find the Lassa fever doctor. They’d done it against the odds, not even knowing if the man existed, the country on the brink of anarchy. For the hell of it. Ah, Tejani.
The second egg was cooked on the underside. Kai flipped it over. He said, ‘So what’s the plan? Go back when he’s not around?’
Adrian lifted his head. ‘Yes. Talk to the daughter. She wanted the best for her mother. It was the son-in-law who was the problem. Whatever he is involved in, she isn’t a part of it. I’m certain.’
Kai removed the pan from the gas ring, slid the cooked egg out on to the plate, reached for another egg and rolled it around the palm of his right hand, contemplating possibilities. ‘And how is that going to work? You can’t just hang around on the street corner in a place like that. You, especially.’ With one hand he cracked the egg into the pan.
‘You’re right,’ said Adrian. He struggled to his feet, whisky in his hand. ‘What if …? No, it’s too much to ask.’ Then, ‘What if you came with me?’
Kai looked at Adrian and looked away. He took a deep breath and released it. A moment ago for some reason, he’d been on the brink of saying yes. Now he felt Adrian’s hopes building, filling the space. The idea was reckless. He shook his head.
‘It’s just too dangerous. Look what this guy already did to you. You could end up making it worse for Agnes. Listen, man, I’m sorry. I know how you feel. But it isn’t worth it.’
Kai could feel the disappointment in Adrian, the slackening of the shoulders. He didn’t look at him. Too bad. What to do? There were too many like Adrian, here living out their unfinished dreams.
He reached up to the shelf above his head and brought down a bottle of ketchup. ‘Come on. You should eat.’
CHAPTER 26
My first reaction, upon my release, was to rid myself of the odours of that vile place. I showered twice, then shaved. Later I called and arranged to see Saffia. She was thinner, the skin beneath her eyes puffy and darkened, strands of hair had loosened from her braids. She embraced me and for a few seconds she remained with her forehead pressed against my shoulder. I became overwhelmingly conscious of her physical presence. Her relief, of course, lay in knowing where Julius was being held, if not the exact reason why. In the account I gave of my own time in custody, I omitted mention of the visit to me by the Dean. I’m not sure why. I suppose I felt it would complicate matters unnecessarily.
First thing Monday Saffia visited the building where Johnson worked. She telephoned me later. Johnson, with his usual obtuseness, had kept her waiting for two hours then sent down a number of forms for her to complete. She’d had no option but to oblige. When she returned he promised to process them. It might take a few days.
‘In a few days!’ I could hear in her voice how close she was to tears.
‘Shall I come over?’ I asked.
She said she was going to bed.
Meanwhile I was having my own troubles. Earlier that day as I went to buy bread I noticed a man standing in the street. I would have thought nothing of it, only later, emerging from the bakery, I saw him again, on the opposite side of the street. I eased my pace, just to see what happened. I noted he let a vacant taxi pass him by. He was still there when I reached my door. Later, I checked the street. No sign of him. Instead there was another man standing at the cigarette kiosk. He had his back to me, but as he turned I was certain I caught him glancing up at my window.
All through that oppressive day I stayed in my apartment, seeking solace and distraction among my papers, but to read was impossible. Instead I smoked and paced, twitching, moving an object here or there. You’d think that after two sleepless nights I would be exhausted. And I was. Exhausted and yet incapable of rest. Outside my window the sound of a workman’s hammer played on my nerves. In an effort to regain control and try to put my thoughts in some sort of order, I wrote down everything that had happened. It helped, as it often did, to see it in black and white on the page.
I went to bed late, slept erratically and woke determined not to endure another day like the one before. I left the house and hailed a passing poda poda. As we drew away I watched from the window for a sign of anything suspicious. I switched vehicle twice during my journey and arrived at the university mid-morning.
Nothing unusual, either, on campus. It was my luck this whole episode had taken place during the holidays. Today was Tuesday. Friday, the day of my arrest, was always a slow day. It was likely few people had missed me. I made my way up to my office, checking my pigeonhole on the way, saw two of my colleagues and exchanged greetings. I reached my room and closed the door behind me, remained leaning against it for a moment or two. I looked around. Somebody had been in my room. Several items had been moved. Vitally, my typewriter was missing. I looked through cupboards and opened drawers. The typewriter was nowhere to be seen. It became apparent my room had been searched, the typewriter removed as some sort of evidence. I walked down the corridor to the Dean’s office.
The Dean was facing the window. He stood with his legs apart, hands behind his back. He did not turn his head or acknowledge my presence, yet I had the sense, in that still figure at the window, of a tremendous alertness. He turned around to face me.
‘Good to see you, Cole. How are you?’
I replied I was well.
‘Excellent,’ he said.
‘I just came by to thank you for your help last week.’
He waved my words away and said, ‘Bad, bad. These sorts of matters. No good for anyone.’
‘Yes,’ I said. ‘I was wondering …’ I hesitated and then continued, ‘Is there any news of Dr Kamara? His wife is very worried.’
‘Dr Kamara?’
‘I wondered if you had any information. If, perhaps, you could use your good offices with Mr Johnson to enquire.’
But the Dean was already shaking his head. ‘I barely know Mr Johnson.’
I tried again. ‘I’d like to be able to reassure his wife.’
The warmth had left his face entirely. He moved to sit down behind his desk and began to straighten some of the piles of paper upon it. When he spoke his voice contained a slight but significant change of tone. ‘My advice to you is to leave this matter alone, if you are not involved, as you maintain. The point of authority is not to question it.’
‘That’s why I have come to you. To see if there is anything you can
do.’
‘We have been through difficult times,’ said the Dean, with some irritation. ‘And nobody in this country wants a return to the problems of the past. The police have a job to do. Once trouble begins, it has a habit of spreading. Now it’s the universities. Look at Europe. Students burning down their own libraries, taking to the streets, disobeying the law. Now the disease has come over here. Ibadan. Nairobi. Accra. The students are no longer interested in learning. They’ve turned into hooligans. I have no intention of allowing this university to go the same way.’ As he spoke his gaze rested upon me; he was entirely still, his eyes reflected the light from the window. Just before his eyelids dropped down over his eyes, I saw the depths of the ambition in them.
I had the unerring sense the discussion was at an end. I rose to go.
‘One moment.’ He fetched something from the cupboard behind his desk. I saw it was my typewriter. He said, ‘Unauthorised use of university property. It may seem unimportant to you, but then you do not have my job. Once you let something slide, it is just the beginning.’ He handed it to me. ‘In this case, though, I am willing to accept it was an honest mistake.’
‘Thank you,’ I said.
Just as I reached the door, he said my name. ‘Cole.’
My hand was on the doorknob. I turned.
He was standing reading a document. He looked up fleetingly. ‘Be careful of the company you keep, Cole.’
Kekura, as it turned out, had escaped arrest. He had spent the night with a woman friend and, stopping by Yansaneh’s house early in the day, had got wind of the arrests. He’d decided to visit some friends who happened to live over the border until he deemed it safe to return. Saffia told me this on Wednesday when we met over coffee at the Red Rooster. She’d been busy pursuing her own lines of enquiry. Her face was serious, resolved. Delicate lines on the sides of her eyes I had never noticed before. Other lines – of determination – either side of her mouth. They did nothing to diminish her beauty. She seemed to have regained her poise: the news of Kekura delivered by a friend, the dancer apparently. For some reason it grated upon me that he should have played a part in the restoration of her confidence. I wondered about him. I wondered about Kekura, too.
The Memory of Love Page 26