Darkness

by David Fletcher

  He actually slept for nine hours. It would have been longer, but in the early morning the forest came alive with a sound he’d heard before and a sound he recognised. It was the singing of what must have been a sizable group of forest elephants. It was again quite beautiful, and it constituted the best possible alarm call for somebody who had some more travelling to undertake and who wanted to be away from his present spot as soon as possible. Yesterday he’d canoed throughout the heat of the day, and it had been a mistake. Today, he wanted to start early while it was relatively cool, and thereby give himself the opportunity to rest up in some riverside shade in the middle of the day before pressing on. Apart from anything else, it would probably help out with his water supply. And that was really quite important.

  So, by seven o’clock he was back in his canoe, eating another energy bar, and by ten past seven he was undoing his collection of knots in preparation to make his way further downriver. It was as he was tackling this task that a particularly large crocodile surfaced no more than six feet from his vessel. Dan went rigid. At the same time, his mind began to race. He found himself thinking about the improbable number of teeth in a crocodile’s mouth, this creature’s reputedly acute sense of hearing, and its position as a feared apex predator. Then he began to ask himself a series of questions to which he didn’t have an answer. First and foremost, had this crocodile heard him – maybe as early as the previous evening – and had it waited to ambush him as he re-joined his canoe? If so, would it mount an attack? It was certainly larger than the canoe, and the canoe’s flimsy construction would succumb to the power of its jaws in an instant. So should he get out of this canoe now and climb back up the bank?

  He couldn’t decide. His mind still racing, he then remembered that humans mostly come to grief with crocodiles if they’re wading or swimming in water or if they’re near water on a gradually shelving bank. They tend to be OK if they’re in a boat. However, he also remembered that the owner of a lodge in Zambia, who had twice mounted an expedition down the length of the Luangwa River, had told him that on more than one occasion he’d had to fire warning shots from his gun to deter large crocodiles from assailing his boat. And his boat had been a substantial reinforced wooden canoe. And it was difficult to think that this huge reptile was loitering around this small green canoe for any purpose other than to attack and eat what was in it.

  That was it. He would have to abandon his little craft and get back up that cliff. Pronto. He therefore began to stand up – causing the canoe to wobble disconcertingly – and as he did so, the crocodile disappeared. Its head slid below the water and there was no indication of where it was at all. It could now have been virtually under the canoe or making its exit from this riverside scene of distress. Dan responded to this development by hesitating for a second before deciding to carry on with the evacuation of his craft, only then to change his mind when he saw the crocodile, now more than thirty yards away and swimming slowly upstream and out of his life. There was no doubt about it. Dan would not be providing it with breakfast this morning, and he could now continue with his preparations to leave and to put an ever-increasing distance between himself and the owner of all those teeth. When he was then underway, he still felt a little shaken but also greatly relieved. He had, after all, no desire to meet his premature end in the mouth of a giant reptile, and this now seemed highly unlikely. At least, it did if he didn’t capsize his canoe…

  He found himself being very restrained in his use of the paddle. The combination of aching shoulders from yesterday’s exertions and the desire to be cautious as a result of this morning’s encounter saw him doing little other than again deploying it as a rudder. He would let the river do virtually all the work and just concentrate on keeping his vessel pointing downstream in the middle of the flow. This did mean that progress was rather slow but he did begin to feel at ease, and he found he could even take time to appreciate the ambience of what was still a quite magical waterway. Indeed, he soon became aware that, for the first time in a very long time, he didn’t feel at all morose. Instead he felt only contentment; pleased with his situation on the river and genuinely happy in what he was doing. And this was as unexpected as it was welcome, and it sustained him throughout the day.

  He had taken a two-hour rest – in the hottest part of this day – but by continuing his journey into the late afternoon, he finally reached his boating destination. This he heard before he saw it. It was unmistakeable; a new forest sound, not of the forest itself but of the river cascading down a series of rapids, rapids that meant his use of a canoe was now nearing its end. Instead he would soon be resorting to his legs again. If, that is, he could find another safe refuge for the forthcoming night and this refuge proved successful in its role.

  And it would very soon be very dark. He needed to find that safe place as soon as he could.

  twenty-six

  Dan had always had an interest in snakes. He thought they were not only beautiful but also special, in the sense that they rather stood apart from the rest of the animal kingdom. Not as outcasts, despite their undeserved role in that Garden of Eden nonsense, but more as models of evolutionary success – all that potency and deadly efficacy within the simplest of streamlined bodies. They were nothing less than a triumph of evolution and they demanded both admiration and respect.

  Dan tried to remember this when he was deciding how to deal with the Gaboon viper he’d encountered in his den for the night. It was a good den. It was a little way from the river and it was the product of the roots of an enormous fig tree conspiring with the trunk of a fallen tree to create a small natural fortress. It would certainly prove effective protection against any passing crocodiles and it even looked rather cosy. However, it did have a sitting tenant, a serpent of about four feet in length with distinctive markings on its body and a cream head with blackish triangles beneath each of its eyes. Dan recognised it immediately. His interest in snakes had equipped him with a good knowledge of the Gaboon viper’s appearance – and also of its nature. He knew, therefore, that whilst this viper is extremely venomous, it is not particularly aggressive and, indeed, it tends to be sluggish in its habits. Most of its human victims are those who have unintentionally trodden on it – or possibly have unintentionally slept on it.

  He therefore reached a decision on how to deal with it. He would find a stick and he would use this stick to relocate the snake to a less intimate situation, one that was as far away from his den as he could reasonably manage, after which he would attempt to convince himself that Gaboon vipers are nomadic and that they do not seek out the same place to sleep in each night. Accordingly, this particular viper would not seek to return to what would now be Dan’s exclusive residence for the next few hours.

  The stick worked very well. It was as though the viper was barely aware that he was being lifted up, and entirely indifferent about the prospect of being transported to another situation. Dan was able to balance him on the chosen stick and keep him there until he had walked fifty or more yards from the den. Here he deposited him – just beyond another fallen tree trunk. In his new surroundings, the snake then simply coiled himself up and became motionless immediately. It really didn’t look as though he had any intention of moving anywhere. However, despite this encouraging outcome, Dan’s success with the stick was not matched by his ability to convince himself of the snake’s nomadic tendencies. So that when, back in his den, he lay on his bedroll, he found himself listening for the slithering sounds of a returning viper. And he began to feel as though he’d been a complete fool.

  He wondered whether he could possibly move somewhere else, but it was far too late for that. It was already nearly dark, and the prospects of finding an alternative refuge for the night were zero. He would just have to accept his situation and maybe attempt to distract himself with a brief review of his present circumstances, and with what he would be doing in the morning – always assuming that he was still entirely well in the morning…
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  The review element of the distraction kicked off with the recognition that he had successfully negotiated the river, and that he had even dealt with his canoe. It was now wedged between two rocks at the head of the rapids and would probably not be found for years – if ever. This stretch of the Lodié River was essentially off-grid. From what he’d been told back in Britain, there weren’t even any local tribes. And there was certainly no imminent threat of “progress”. This was an area of Gabon that, as well as being encouragingly remote, was also of “little worth”. Nobody had discovered any minerals here and it was far too removed from any of the country’s infrastructure to make it attractive to even the keenest of commercial loggers.

  So, it was so far so good, and of course, on top of his physical accomplishments he could also take a great deal of satisfaction from the fact that he was coping mentally. He might be anguishing about the return of a snake but he had dealt with so much already, most of which had been well out of his comfort zone. After all, not only had he dealt with the psychological challenge of marching through a forest for two days, but he had also dealt with being on his own in an unfamiliar environment, and an environment that was full of all sorts of dangers, not least creatures such as large inquisitive crocodiles. Then he’d also managed to ingest the contents of that package, and he now knew that if he could manage that, he could manage anything – including a further walk through the forest, this time at his own pace.

  That was the plan for the morning. If the briefing was correct (and he had no reason to think that it wasn’t), by following the course of the river past its series of rapids, he would come to a small river that joined the Lodié from the north. This would be his route into the further depths of the forest, and whilst it might not be an easy route to negotiate on foot, it would be an obvious route. He could not get lost – or at least, no more than he wanted to get lost. He was very unsure of how long this last stage of his odyssey would take or how long his meagre supplies would last. But that didn’t really matter. All that mattered was that he had got this far and that he had therefore given himself a real chance of accomplishing what he had set out to do: bring to an end his sadness, and in the place where he wanted it to end.

  It was ironic, he thought, that on the verge of possibly achieving this goal, he actually felt much less sad than he had for a very long time. The sense of contentment that had begun to overtake him on the river earlier in the day was still there. It wasn’t in the least bit threatened by the prospect of another night in the forest, or by the possible company of a viper, or by whatever lay in store for him in the morning and beyond. It was maybe the commitment, he thought, the commitment to a course of action that he had contemplated for such a long time but that was now irreversible. In one way or another, it would soon be over and that was a thought that on its own had the power to assuage sadness and at the same time cultivate contentment. He therefore wrapped himself in that thought and tried to push all other thoughts from his mind as the darkness closed in. And it worked. He was soon dozing peacefully, still aware of the sounds of the forest but now not of the threat they might represent, and eventually he dropped into another deep sleep. He would stay there until the early morning when, on this occasion, he was awoken by a troop of putty-nosed monkeys. Their own booming alarm calls – probably as a result of seeing this odd animal below them – had acted as Dan’s alarm call, and he was soon wide awake and eager to get moving.

  When he did, the putty-nosed monkeys continued to call – although whether this was still because of Dan or because they had now spotted a slowly moving Gaboon viper making its way into Dan’s night-time den, it was impossible to tell.

  twenty-seven

  There was a place he knew on the outskirts of Redditch that offered a full laundry service and even a separate ironing service, but he still didn’t like the idea of somebody else doing his shirts. So once again, here he was at the ironing board, and once again doing the best he could with Kim’s old iron. He had six shirts to do this morning, and he had just finished number five when the doorbell rang. His immediate thought was that he wasn’t expecting anybody this morning, and then he remembered that he was. And how could he have forgotten? After all, how often did he receive a visit from the Press these days? As soon as they had all feasted off the story – when the story was still fresh – they had ignored him completely. They, like everybody else, had lost all interest in what had happened in Morocco, and when this guy from the Daily Mail had phoned, Dan had been quite astonished. He was apparently one of the paper’s senior journalists, and he had wanted to come to see Dan and get a full account of everything surrounding Kim’s murder. Dan had agreed to this immediately and had arranged for him to come this morning – at 10.30. And it was now just before 10.30, and here he was with an iron in his hand. How could he possibly have dismissed this visit from his mind?

  Well, that he would have to resolve later. Right now, it was time to abandon his domestic chores and let the guy in. It was also time to compose himself and not lose sight of what this visit might represent: a real opportunity to find out who had killed his wife, or at least an opportunity to breathe some life into what was quickly becoming a quite futile pursuit.

  The guy’s name was Quentin De Vere – not a name, thought Dan, that sat particularly well with being a Daily Mail journalist. But there again, now he was here, he didn’t sound or appear very “Quentin” or, for that matter, very “De Vere”. He spoke with a slightly flat East Midlands accent and he had an unremarkable, slightly creased face that complemented perfectly his unremarkable, slightly creased clothes. His only outstanding features were his eyes, which were glacial blue, and his manner, which was direct, if not almost rude. But not quite.

  After the visitor had declined some coffee, he immediately embarked on a brief explanation of his purpose, following an even briefer expression of his sorrow at Kim’s death.

  ‘I wish I didn’t have to be here,’ he started. ‘I wish your wife was still alive and that I was working on another story. I really do. But I am here, and I’m here to try to establish whether there is still anything to find out. And what I mean is… well, it’s now eighteen months since she was killed, and I find that quite often… well, after the initial… frenzy, something emerges, something that might just lead to something important…’

  Dan felt a surge of excitement. It was just what he wanted: a chance, a chance that – no matter how small – might still lead to some answers. And better still, here was somebody who had the motives and the skills to help him, to assist him in what he’d been left to do more or less on his own: track down the bastards who had blown up his wife. He responded to Quentin’s opening remarks as calmly as he could.

  ‘Quentin, I haven’t given up hope, I really haven’t. But what you’ve just said gives me real hope. Or should I say renewed hope? But whatever… I am at your service. I’ll tell you anything you want.’

  ‘That’s great, Dan. The more that you can tell me, the better. And I’d like to start by asking you what happened after you first met this Azoulay chap – you know, the guy from the DTS.’

  Dan harrumphed.

  ‘Yeah. Mr Azoulay, the guy I placed my faith in.’

  ‘Wrongly.’

  ‘That’s putting it mildly. The guy gave every impression that he knew what he was doing and every impression that he wanted to find the killers. He was a little… well, reserved and pretty uncommunicative all round, but I thought that was just his manner. I really thought he was a competent guy who knew exactly what he was doing and would end up with some results.’

  ‘Our information is that he was.’

  ‘What?!’

  ‘We’ve done a lot of digging on this chap, and what we’ve found backs up your view of him exactly. He was a high-flier, someone tipped for the top. And while we don’t know whether he was chosen for the job in hand for that reason, he was probably one of the best of his kind, and you were v
ery fortunate to get him.’

  ‘Fortunate!’

  ‘Sorry. I should have said “fortunate in theory”. We all know he didn’t perform.’

  ‘No, he certainly did not perform. He just kept prevaricating and then he became more and more uncommunicative, until finally it was as though he’d lost interest entirely. I ended up having to go back through Inspector Harrack. And without wishing to be flippant, I would have done better with Inspector Clouseau. He might at least have given me a laugh.’

  ‘Have you thought that maybe Azoulay was… discouraged in some way?’

  Dan responded abruptly.

  ‘Yes. Of course. But the British Embassy in Rabat assured me that that wouldn’t happen. And it wasn’t as though they didn’t have an interest as well. After all, they were as keen as I was to find out who was responsible. And they did everything they could…’

  ‘What are they doing now?’

  ‘Well, I don’t know. I now have a contact at the Foreign Office…’

  ‘And when did you last speak to him – or her?’

  ‘It’s a him. And… well, a few weeks ago now.’

  ‘So do you still think that there is anybody in the embassy in Rabat or in the Foreign Office who is still as keen to find out who was responsible for killing your wife?’

  Dan suddenly felt uncomfortable.

  ‘What are you implying?’

  ‘Are you still convinced that the embassy’s assurance that Azoulay was being left to conduct the investigation without any… let’s say, hindrance, is entirely valid?’