The Gardener

by Tony Masero

  As they leave, Omaluli sits on the sofa. Adula obediently opposite him, hands clasped discretely in her lap. She is smiling. “I am most happy to fulfill your wishes father. This man Ndomo Boma is pleasing to me.”

  Omaluli appears is at a loss as to what she is talking about. “Forget that,” he says brusquely. “There are important matters we must discuss. I am cheated of my weapons. I must use alternative methods to keep my land.”

  Adula tries to listen, but her mind is thrown into confusion. It seems her father is ignoring everything he said about Ndomo.

  “Your weapons, father?”

  Omaluli frowns. “The guns, daughter. The mines, grenades, ammunition, vehicles. An army’s worth of equipment. Do you know nothing of what happens in this kingdom? Must I always be alone? Why am I cursed with sons too young to be of any use and women who only give me daughters?”

  She recognizes his monumental anger rising and quickly seeks to appease him. Her high-pitched voice rises, full of girlish charm. “Oh, no father, calm yourself. I am here to help and support you. Command me. I am ready to serve you.”

  Omaluli settles back. He is satisfied. “Good, good, daughter. Then this is what I wish. You will marry the first-born son of Ebu, the Dictator. We will make a treaty and I will give a very handsome dowry. It will buy me time, daughter. Distract them from our borders whilst I recover my weapons and make ready for war.”

  “Marry the son of Ebu!” It is like a blow in the face. “Never, father. This can never be. You have promised me Ndomo. He is the one I want to take as husband.”

  “Never? You are saying ‘never’ to me? You forget yourself, daughter. You will do as you are told. Do not think you are so precious that I will not have your back flayed with a rhino whip, arrogant girl.” Omaluli is beginning to boil. “Who is this Ndomo Boma you keep speaking of? What is this nonsense about dreams?”

  The truth is beginning to sink in and Adula feels the pit inside her stomach deepening with each second that passes. She is losing Ndomo. Her dreams of happiness are fading away beneath the tyranny of her father’s outmoded attitudes and scheming politics. She is a chattel. A trade good. A thing to be used, not treasured. Her diminishment is total.

  “I... I... only wanted...” she finishes weakly, tears beginning to run down her cheeks.

  “Today I am making preparations for a meeting with Ebu. The subject will be broached then.” Omaluli ignores her tears. “And you will make yourself presentable. The son of Ebu must find you most desirable. You understand this?”

  Without waiting for an answer, he launches himself from the room. A dangerous bundle of fiery energy. His bodyguards, like shadows, fall in behind him.

  Adula drops to the floor and claws at herself. She rents her clothing in anguish. Her long sobbing cry, as ragged as the tearing of the cloth, echoes down the corridors of the palace.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chayne walks the streets, clipboard under his arm.

  It has taken him only a moment to break into a site Portakabin and steal the board, a safety helmet, some bright orange overalls and a torch. He looks the part. Man at work.

  He has left the car parked out of sight, streets away in a supermarket car park. Night is coming early. The blanket of gray overhead blocking any sight of the sun other than a pale glow. It is cold. A rough wind blowing in off the nearby coast and he turns up his collar against the chill.

  The two extinct gas reservoirs stand stark against the skyline. Giant, fat lidded tubes. One raised to its full height, the other lowered. Telescopic, circular segments of metal sheeting held aloft by a network of superstructure. Rusted girders, bolts and rivets. The flaking green municipal paintwork streaked and darkening in the failing light. Below them, a field of white, glowing luminously under the gray sky. Tumbled heaps of brickwork and plaster. All that remains of the offices and buildings that serviced the gas supply. Amongst them, silent now, the metal beasts of modern day construction. Tilted on caterpillar tracks. Bright yellow. At odds with their gloomy surroundings.

  He walks the chain link fence that surrounds the site. Makes fake notes. Shrugs at the CCTV cameras positioned high. There is no one in the site office watching any monitors. No recordings being made. They are merely a blind deterrent against vandalism.

  The streets are empty. Deserted houses. Sad old terraces with brickwork blackened by age. Windows boarded up, doors blocked in. The whole area is a ghost town waiting to be rebuilt. Chayne slides into the doorway of what was once an off-license. It metal roller-shutters now sagging and covered with crude graffiti.

  He watches the two vans parked back to front in a street across the way. There is one house remaining at the foot of the gas tanks. Maybe in the fifties it had been a proud two-story head office guarding the entrance to the depot, but now it is a crumbling shell. A gap-toothed slated roof. Leaning brick chimney stacks, the pots broken or gone. Smashed window glass lying on the cobbled street below. Some windows have been covered, he notices. Rags and plastic taped in place.

  Beside the building, twin wings of a high wrought iron gateway. Twisted bars bent out of shape. Tipped with arrowheads. Blunted. Gone. A heavy chain and padlock holds the gates together.

  Whistling.

  He sinks back into the shadows. A man is coming down the road carrying two heavy supermarket bags. He passes by on the opposite side, following the chain link fence. He whistles, and then hums alternately. Oblivious to Chayne’s presence. The man’s skin is much blacker than the coming night.

  The Negro stops beside the iron gateway. Glances carefully up and down the street. Looks again as a soft drinks can, rolling before the wind, rattles along the gutter. Then ducks into a gap in the fencing. A flap is twisted up and dropped back in place. He disappears around the back of the decrepit building.

  Chayne waits for night to fully fall. The few streetlights flicker, glow orange, and then heat to a sickly yellow. By their dim light, he checks again that his Walther and knife are safely in the belt under his overalls. He has no intelligence. He is going in blind.

  Decides against the hole in the fencing. Too exposed. They will have someone watching the street if they are any good. The back door seems best. Over the rubble. Long way around, but more cover that way. He retraces his steps up to the Portakabin and pushing aside a broken concrete pillar, slips onto the site. Time to shed the overalls and helmet.

  Hunches down beside a JCB and scoops black grease from the track wheels. Pulls Clem's bandage from his forehead. Streaks his face and hands. He is ready.

  It is a long, slow process. Snaking over open clearings. Hovering in shadow. Trying to be as soundless as possible on the broken ground. But the piles of rubble supply good cover and he feels secure he is approaching unobserved. He is thinking now. There must be at least seven of them, perhaps more if they have backup. Will they be holding the boy here, or will he have been spirited away? There is only one way to find out, and that is to go in and see.

  He counts his advantages. These men will be used to the jungle and not urban warfare. Different environment. Their sense of smell will be dented by the dusty surroundings. Downside. They will be nervous. Edgy and watchful. They have lost three men. Different country. Different methods. It all depends on if they are a local team or imported. So many unknowns. Keep the boy in mind. Focus on an objective. Just one goal. Get Robert out safe.

  Fired. Chayne moves again. The wind picks up, hurls clouds of gritty dust into the air. Stink of stale damp plaster and the acid tang of ancient gas from the tanks. Bone cold. He flexes his fingers against stiffness. Moves on.

  Reaches the rear of the building. Light creeps from a chink in the blackout. Ground floor. One window. He slides over under the window ledge. The chink is too small, he sees nothing. A shadow moves across the light. Blocking it for a moment. He ducks down.

  He can hear the mumble of conversation. A laugh. Then silence. Tastes the air. The smell of cooking. Onions. A curried scent. There is a door beside him at right ang
les to the window. An old style wooden door. Iron knocker and knob heavy with paint. Yale lock. Paneled glass blacked out. Chayne tests the handle gently. The door holds. Locked. No way in there.

  Moves back. Looks up at the windows above. Possible? The old brickwork looks shaky, though, and the roof tiles are canted loosely. Noisy. The wind drops and he smells a latrine stink. Off to the right. An outhouse. They will be using that. The door is unlocked. He tentatively pushes it open with his knifepoint. Empty blackness. But the smell is undeniable.

  The door behind him rattles as someone unfastens the Yale. He slides into the blackness of the latrine. He is stepping on slippery things he would rather not think about. A torch. Thin beam. Penlight. A figure looms at the doorway. I need to ask questions, he thinks. Don’t get carried away.

  The man is rumbling a low song as he enters. The light reflects up into white eyes and shining brown face. The knifepoint is deep in under his chin before he can unfasten his zip.

  “Quiet!” hisses Chayne from behind. Blood is starting to run down the knife blade. The torchlight trembles, quivering a shaky beam up the cracked walls.

  “Is the boy here?” he whispers.

  The man tries to nod his head, but the knifepoint only prods deeper. Chayne changes grip. The long blade across the throat. “Is that a yes?” The man nods again. This time more successfully.

  “How many inside?” The man shrugs. I don’t know.

  Chayne draws up the blade sharply. Tight. “Show me fingers or I’ll cut your fucking throat.”

  The man fumbles with the torch. The beam shoots around the stinking room. Holds up five fingers of the left hand and a finger of the right. Six inside. No backup. Good.

  When Chayne leaves the latrine, he leaves alone. Six to go.

  The door to the building is still ajar. The Yale set on a locked latch to keep it open. He eases out the Walther. Knife in one hand, ready to go. He grits his teeth, breathes hard through the nose. Pumps blood through his system. Then slides in.

  A man is heating a saucepan on a camping stove. Glock in his back pocket. Chayne feels the draught as he enters. The room is lit by a portable canister lamp. It hisses in a corner. The light flutters, and then burns brightly again. Casts long distorted shadows on the wall. The man says something without turning. A question. A joke. Chayne moves like ghost across the room. Left hand cups the chin, dragging the head back. The knife goes in. Under the ribs and up. It’s hard. Muscle and tissue resist. The man is gurgling between clenched teeth. Chayne can smell his fear. The saucepan skitters off the stove, water and rice spraying over the floor.

  A chorus of voices is raised in the next room. Questions. Chayne lowers the twitching body. Makes an indistinct noise in answer. No more questions.

  He moves into the corridor. Bare wooden floorboards. Dankness of damp and tobacco smoke. A burnt out bulb hanging from a moldering flex. Stairway up to the first floor. All in darkness except for the glow of candlelight from the front room. He eases up to the half open door. Brings his eye to the crack. Small room. Bow window alcove. Peeling wallpaper. Three men playing cards and smoking, a half empty bottle of wine between them. They are sitting close together on old armchairs over an upturned crate. Time for the Walther.

  He pushes open the door. Faces turn expectantly. Eyes widen. Struggling to rise and reach the stacked automatic rifles. He does not hesitate. Three shots. The internal striker pumping out lethal 9mm rounds. The Walther kicking with each firing. Two head. One chest. Three bodies. One of them is still alive. Helplessly writhing in tiny spasms. He is no threat.

  Chayne is back in the hallway. A shout comes from the head of the stairway. Heavy footsteps. A shadow looms. He fires. The muzzle-flash a sear of light in the darkened hallway. The body tumbles. Freefalling down the stairs. Bumping and crashing against the banisters. Ripping the fragile woodwork apart. The stench of cordite fills the lower floor.

  Chayne is over the body and onto the stairs in one motion. One left. Lookout. He will be with the boy.

  First landing. He is in the dark now. Literally. Corridor stretches away, just visible in the gloom. Three doors. End one, facing him. A light under the door. Snuffed out.

  Quietly. He advances side on in a shuffling gait. Walther double gripped before him. The polymer grip tight in his palm. Opens the door to the left of the one he wants. The door creaks painfully. Steps inside. Rapid fire beats from inside his target room. Short burst. M16. The end room door splinters midway under the impact of the high velocity shells. Swings half open.

  “Come in and the boy dies.” The words are shouted. Clear. Calm. “You are warned.”

  He hears the whimper of Roger’s fear. Looks at the dividing wall beside him. Old lathe and soft plaster. The worse for wear. Could he push through? Take too long. The boy would be dead. Get the man in there to do the job for him. Now there’s a thought. He lies on the floor. Flat out.

  “It’s okay, Robert.” he calls. “I’m here to get you out.”

  “Chayne!” a sobbing cry of hopeful despair.

  The wall erupts. This is an older M16. Twenty round magazine. He has already fired a bundle through the door. Chayne watches the wall disassemble through squinting eyes. Chunks of plaster and splintered lathe fly in a swirling storm of dust. The man ratchets his shots backwards and forwards along the wall. A jagged hole appears.

  Silence. He is changing magazine.

  He is up on one knee. Pointing the Walther through the hole. Two outlines in a hazy sea of dust. He can’t see. Black on black. Which one? Finger increases pressure on the trigger. Breath escapes. No. Too risky. Lowers the weapon. Hears the magazine slapped home. The man is locked and loaded.

  Chayne stands. Back to the doorjamb. Takes the torch from his cargo pocket. Lights up. Rolls it onto the passageway floor pointing at the half open door. Pushes the door fully open with his toe. Quick look.

  The man lies on his back on the floor. Muzzle of his M16 in one hand, pointing at the door. Robert is upright on his chest. His left hand a bundle of rags. Pale faced. Tear streaked. An automatic is held under his chin.

  “You see, man. You will make to move and he is gone. You see?”

  Chayne sags against the doorjamb out of sight. The doors are built against brick pillars, so he is relatively safe here. “I see you.”

  Robert sneezes in the dust. “How are you, Robert? You okay?” Reassure the boy.

  “They hurt my hand, Chayne.” Robert sniffs.

  “I know they did that, Robert. They are paying for it now.”

  “What is this?” squeaks the man irritably. “Who are you? Paine or Crane. Whatever your name is. Why are you interfering?”

  “Listen,” says Chayne. “You don’t have many options here. So I’ll make it simple. I’ll give you just one choice. Let the boy go and I let you live.”

  “What have you done to my men?”

  “You won’t be seeing them around the campfire anymore.”

  “If you have killed them all, then you must be a strong warrior. For they were good men. So, hear me. My name is Nkele and I too am a warrior. But I must do as my chief commands me. If I do not, all my family in Africa will suffer for my errors.”

  “Son, right now, you’re the only one that’s going to suffer.”

  “If you want the boy, you must come and take him.”

  Chayne hears the determination in Nkele’s voice. He guesses the man is not afraid of death. It is probably the only life he has known since becoming a child soldier. Raised in civil war, death is meat and drink to him. It is ingrained in his blood.

  Chayne tries a different tack. “Some warrior you are! Nkele the great coward who fights from behind the safety of children. Does he wear a dress too, I wonder?”

  “Hah!” Nkele barks a laugh. “You think to enrage me, white man. I will run into your gun, is that what you think? Come. Come here and see if I wear a dress.”

  Chayne slides down. Squats, back against the wooden frame. “Well, I’m not leaving without the
lad. So it could be a long wait.”

  “No, my friend. I don’t think so. I will be coming out now and you will shed your weapon. I will have the child before me and you will walk backwards in front with your hands raised.”

  Could he do it? Wait for the moment the man drops his guard. Take Nkele with bare hands. He still has the knife. No. The minute he stands clear the man will lay twenty 5.56 shells through him. Chayne does not doubt it. He knows it’s the thing he would do if he were in the same position. There is one chance.

  The subject is highlighted by the torch. The hole in the wall is clear of dust now. Sweep round low and level. Single head shot. Can’t afford a fraction of inaccuracy. Difficulty is, he will be moving left to right. Tendency to over swing. If he does, he will hit Robert.

  Picks up a chunk of plaster. “Okay. You have a deal. Just don’t hurt the boy.”

  “Nothing will happen if you do as I say. Now relieve yourself of your weapon.”

  Chayne throws the plaster away into the hall. It lands with a dusty thump. Steps sideways into the next room and clear of the door. Swings low onto his knees, level with the hole torn in the dividing wall. The man is up on his elbow. Trying to see what has landed in the hallway. He is impeded by the weight of Robert on his chest. The automatic is lowered. He sights. A clear shot in the torchlight.

  It is over. Chayne moves into the room. Walther ready. No longer necessary. He sweeps Robert up with one arm and the boy clings to him desperately. Chayne takes one last look. Cordite lingers. A single, curving crescent of blood trickles down the wall. Shining in the torchlight.

  Sulphurous car park lighting. Headlights flick past. They are sitting in the car outside Safeway.

  He keys in the numbers. Hears her tremulous voice answering. “Yes?” Breathless.

  “I have someone here who wants to talk to you.” He hands the mobile to Robert.