by Carl Hancock
‘So, what line of business are you in?’
‘You could call me a social worker. I work with people.’
Alfredo broke in. ‘Interesting. I work with people, too. Helping them on their way.’
Just at that moment, he was conscious that one of those he would be ‘helping’ along was sitting on his right. He was impressed with Lydia, a girl with good looks and a sassy temperament. But the boss considered her to be some kind of threat and he always went with the money. When the time came, and that would be soon, the ice would return to his veins, the job would be finished and he would move on. He took a perverse pleasure out of the invisible hold he had over his future victims. I know something about you that you will only discover at the very last moment, if ever. After dinner, he sat with her in a quiet corner and gave her a rundown on his hometown. She was full of questions and laughed a lot.
Rebecca had developed a pattern for concert nights. A regular rhythm had imposed itself on what she did, what she felt. She looked forward to every shift of mood, the tension of the minutes before she set foot on the stage, the elation of the magical moments of the performance, the languid sense of wellbeing as she wound down and returned to earth.
Tonight was different. Tonight she met Debbie Miller, a new, young architect. As part of her course she had completed a research project on designing public hospitals. For two of the partygoers, the celebrations lost their attraction. In imagination, Rebecca led Debbie to a patch of ground on the edge of Naivasha. ‘We are desperate for a new place. Just ask Paul and Miriam. You should see …’
Tom, sitting next to her, sensed danger for her in this mad rush of enthusiasm. ”Becca, tomorrow! If Debbie can stay over for the morning …’
‘Try and stop me!’
‘There. After breakfast, get around a table. I’ll provide the big sheets of paper and the etceteras. You’ll remember more after a, well, a sort of rest if not much sleep.’
* * *
Alfredo and his younger brother, Lucio, spent much of the next day working on their father’s books, ‘the family books’ as Lucio Senior insisted on calling them. There were no financial secrets in the immediate family, so that there was no surprise for the sons when they saw how much money Papa had amassed and deposited in banks all over the world. The job was easy because of the meticulous entries, all handwritten by their father in black ink. From time to time, Alfredo allowed his mind to drift away from the pages of numbers. When he had a contract on, he carried all the details in his head and was constantly making tiny adjustments to his program. He had a ticket to fly back to Nairobi next morning and was looking forward to the end game. He was confident that he had an alibi ready, if it should come to a situation where he would need one.
But the party in the Flamingo held his thoughts, too, and Lydia was right there in the middle of them. Rubai called her the whore from the slums and yet he admitted that they had enjoyed a few hours together. Perhaps it was the girl’s openness in combination with a shy innocence that was the attraction. He himself had been flattered by her eager enthusiasm for his stories about New York. He did not find it difficult to rationalise this reaction. It was natural to have an interest in a future victim and coming to terms with all these figures in front of him was becoming something of a bore. Little black squiggles in a book were not as engaging as the memory of a beautiful black woman.
And, as the afternoon wore on, he considered a return to the Flamingo. He knew that the evening performance was sold out, but that was a minor problem. Anyway he was more interested in watching than listening, watching without being seen.
When the audit was finished, Lucio, on his way to Little Italy, gave him a lift as far as Mid Town. Alfredo booked in for dinner at the Flamingo and took a wander northwards towards the Rockefeller Center. It was his favourite building in the city, though he had been inside only once. Sitting on a cafe terrace with a beer, he indulged himself in more watching. For Alfredo this was like going to the gym for a sportsman. He was honing his skills. He would pick out one of the hundreds of those strolling by and ‘do a job’ on him or her. After giving a name, he built up an imaginary dossier of personal traits, occupation, family, ending with an assessment of how he or she would react if they found a bag stuffed full of hundred dollar bills or were confronted by some punk threatening them with a gun.
For once he did not enjoy the game. He was not sharp enough. He had created a bunch of cliches. Instead of honing his skills, he cast a slight shadow of doubt on his self-belief.
He finished his third beer and phoned the Flamingo to cancel dinner. Then it was down to the subway at Rockefeller Plaza and home to join his mother and father for supper.
After an early night he was out on the streets by four and on his way to the airport, back on the job and looking forward to returning to Africa.
The bars on the ground floor of the Flamingo only closed when the last customer decided that it was time to go home. After three, the loudest sound was the comfortable low hum of the machines of the cleaning ladies. Not long after they had begun work, the relative peace of the early morning was broken. Of the five women making their hurried way to the exit door, four were in a state of mild but excited panic and the fifth was biting her lip and struggling to hold herself together in spite of the pain in her lower abdomen. Harry Thuku was holding the front door open with the driver of the limousine whose engine was running and ready to go.
Terri Burgon, the wife of Tommy, the band’s trumpeter, was in labour. Monica Mgoya , the mother figure of the Wajiru group, was struggling with her three companions to glide the first time mother to be out of the hotel and on her way to the hospital. Rebecca and Mary were still buoyed up by the excitement of the concert. Lydia had heard the commotion outside her room and came out in time to help Tommy in his struggle to balance three bulky bags as he trailed his wife in the direction of the lift.
General Monica insisted that Tommy sit with the driver and count slowly up to a thousand.
‘Keep you out of trouble. And don’t be nervous. This is going to be a great night, day, whatever. Colin, not too fast and, please, watch out for the potholes.’
Monica realised that total silence would be their enemy on their way to Saint Luke’s. It would give Terri time to worry and, maybe, bring on the arrival of the little one. She talked as if they were all sitting ‘round a table, drinking coffee and having an old-fashioned gossip.
‘Did you see those people sitting in the front row last night? Ali Baba and his people, three men, six wives and the forty thieves, waiting in the cars outside.’
‘Mon, all I could see from the stage was a row of dark glasses and the occasional flash of gleaming white teeth.’
‘Mary, you missed a treat. The dresses, every one white and weighed down with, well, if those stones were real, where were the security boys?’
‘Is it always so busy in the middle of the night?’
‘They don’t have nights in this part of the city, Lydia.’
They turned left off Broadway. Conversation died. Terri’s pains were coming more frequently.
‘How far now, Colin?’
‘Get you there in five, if the lights stay friendly.’
‘Terri is some lucky girl. Twenty minutes. I was four hours with Charlie junior. Girls, you go back with Colin. I’ll stay on a while, to hold Tommy’s hand. The way he’s going on, if a cop came along he’d arrest him for being on something!’
The conversation on the return journey was animated. Rebecca had seen something that lifted her spirits.
‘That’s what we need. Imagine a place even half as good. But ours is not going to be just half as good.’
‘We didn’t see much, ‘Becca. Lots of corridors, the labour ward office, three nurses, two doctors.’
‘Mary, the feel of the place. They care for the mothers in there. Didn’t you think so?’
‘Sweetheart, it was the luckiest day of my life when the sisters put us next to each other in the same dor
mitory in Santa Maria. You have such wonderful dreams for people.’
‘Yes, a dream, but soon it will be a new truth, a real building, and beautiful, too.’
‘Poor Tom!’
‘Why you say that?’
‘He is going to have a lot of listening to put up with for the next few days.’
‘Wrong, Mary. Debbie, she and I have a lot of work in the morning. Thomas has to go out shopping to buy a present for his mother’s birthday. By the time he comes back, we will be finished. No more talk till we go back to Kenya. Not much anyway.’
‘But he hates shopping. Even I know that, ‘Becca.’
‘One of the boys in the band will go with him. Unless …’
Mary and Lydia exchanged glances. Mary spoke for the two of them. ‘Of course we will. I think I know the best place for little boys to buy important presents for mamas.’
When Tom returned to the Flamingo in the early afternoon, Debbie had just left for the. station. ‘She is coming over.
The whole family, sometime in the week after we return. We have a proper architect, Thomas. Perhaps in six months …’
‘Don’t forget that we will have to ask the Naivasha council …’
‘Don’t be ridiculous, Thomas!’
‘You can always try an envelope with a few shillings inside.’
‘Thomas, you will soon be an MP. You can give permission. When the people know about the new hospital, they will all vote for you. Hakuna matata! There, that is all organised.’
The days passed quickly. Terri and Tommy brought their handsome new son back from the hospital. Debbie and Rebecca were in regular contact bouncing new ideas off each other. There were two phone calls from Londiani.’
‘Peter has finished the base. If it’s not quite right, it can be adjusted to suit, easily. He’s started landscaping.’
* * *
This first message was from Alex McCall. The second, from Rafaella was quite different. His grandmother was clearly distressed. There was a tremble in her voice and she seemed to be fighting back tears. ‘Tom, please come home at once. A terrible thing has happened. Please forgive me. Caroline is here. She will tell you.’
‘Thomas, Caroline Miggot, Inspector Caroline.’
‘Caroline, what’s going on?’
‘There has been a fire on the farm.’
‘You mean the house?’
‘No, just the farm. It started one hour after the workers began their shift.’
‘How bad? Anybody hurt? Of course there are. I …’
‘Thomas, give me a few minutes. I will tell you everything I know. Eight o’clock, there were explosions. Two flower trucks were blown up in the yard. Four more explosions in the sheds and the fields. The flames raced along the canvas walls and the netting like a crazy thing. No fire brigade, of course, and the farm hoses could not cope. The smoke could not get away until the ceilings were destroyed. Thomas, there have been deaths. Many were choked and many burned. Big House is like a hospital. Your mother is in charge. So many have come to help.’
‘My father?’
‘He had just left the yard and was on his way to his foreman’s office. He was blown over by the blast. He is unconscious, but he is going to be all right. Bertie is sitting by his bed. Stephen Kamau …’
‘God, he’s not dead!’
The hesitation before the reply terrified Tom. ‘He was carrying his people out into the fresh air. He was crying and praying all the time. His young assistant said he was doing the work of ten men. He saved dozens of lives.’
‘And lost his own?’
‘I cannot tell you. That is God’s truth.’
There was a long silence. Tom thought he had lost the line, but at last, Caroline began again. ‘It was not an accident, Thomas. Of course, it could not have been. And Hosea, my new sergeant, Maria’s husband, found, well, shall we say for now, devices. It was a very clever piece of work. It’s my job to find him, more likely them. I am starting this minute. I am so sorry about this. We will speak again soon.’
‘Thomas, you have not gone?’
‘How are you coping, sweetheart?’
Her girlish laughter was the sweetest sound that had come down the line to him since he picked up the phone in his hotel room.
‘At least you did not use that awful word. And I am better now. This minute a message from Bertie. Your father has just woken up. Angela is making a hot, sugary drink, and a double whisky for his best friend.’
‘Stephen?’
‘No news yet.’
‘What do I tell Rebecca?’
‘No one has been able to find him. Thomas, some were so badly burned. Say nothing to her or at least be vague. It is unbelievable. Those poor young people. You know they love to sing down in the tents. The whole house shook. Your mother ran out. She saw the flames over on the farm, and the smoke …’
‘All right, all right. I’m going to put the phone down right now. We want to be on our way … very soon. We’ll phone from the airport on this side.’
Chapter Thirty-three
wo evenings after the day of the fire, the news program on television was once again given over to the ‘horrors of the Naivaisha tragedy’. Two screens in rooms separated by ten kilometres in the city of Nairobi were being watched with the closest attention.
In the pink mansion in the heart of Karen, three members of a single family watched the unfolding story with different private reactions. The pictures of the lines of bodies under their protection of white linen sheets, the smouldering tents, the neat rows of blackened rose bushes told their graphic story once again. Messages of condolence from heads of state in Africa and beyond were replayed. Henry Akamba, the maverick Nation journalist and television interviewer, gave a hard time to two more top cops.
‘Do you people think that there is any chance that, for once, you boys in blue could actually come up with some successful policing here? I mean, do any of your men even know yet what caused all this mayhem? Where are you at, exactly in your … investigations?’
Mister Akamba was talking to the wrong policemen. Rather, he could not know that a female Naivasha inspector was making real progress. No report on that.
The human touch, that’s what audiences wanted. What more intriguing aspect of this massive event than to watch the arrival back in Kenya of the most famous woman in the country, called home from the glamour of a concert tour in New York itself? And that was the next segment of the program.
There were pictures of a plane landing in JKIA, Kenya Airways when she, Tom and Lydia were flying British Airways. Carrie Eagleton of CNN was providing the voice-over.
‘Rebecca Kamau and fiance, Tom McCall, flew in this morning. Bravely Ms Kamau agreed to meet the media, for ten minutes, as long as no one followed their car over to Wilson Airport where a friend was waiting to ferry them home.’
There was a series of bland questions and defensive answers before they set off. Rafaella had flown down with Laurie Buckle. On seeing her, Rebecca shed tears for the first time since hearing the news.
‘Papa?’
The single word carried the full emotional charge that had built up in thirty sleepless hours when an anxious mind fought its battle between hope and despair. Rafaella was ready. She had only her own truth to offer.
‘Darling, he has not been found, yet.’
‘“Yet”. Such a tiny word to carry such a heavy weight. Many were burned …’ Rebecca broke down. The mixture of pity and fear and guilt in her heart was unbearable. Through the sobbing, she forced herself on. ‘How many?’
‘Forty-five. Everyone is accounted for …’
‘Except one.’
The engine of the light aircraft droned on, the only sound in the warm cabin five thousand feet above the vast open plain divided into thousands of small shambas. To their right, the thin, snaking A104 was clearly visible as it crested the high point of the Escarpment. But Rebecca was looking left. Old Longonot. It was Papa who had introduced her to this dark peak whi
ch been a constant friend ever since. With an effort, she forced her eyes to look ahead and caught her first sight of the blue waters of home.
* * *
The only sound in the large sitting room of the pink mansion was the patter of talk coming out of the speakers of the large plasma screen. Darkness had fallen outside, but no lights in the room had been switched on. Three faces were illuminated by the flickering coloured images. Anyone who looked closely into those faces would have found only one that revealed the true feelings of the heart.
Sally was over the tears and the initial shock of seeing the scenes of horror in a place she knew and loved. The ache was as painful as ever. She found no relief in prayer. The foundations of her faith were rocked. She felt inadequate and unable to cope. If only she could have talked to Maura, been with her. But would she have been just a well-meaning nuisance in a situation that needed much more than kind, sympathetic words?
For her, seeing Rebecca surrounded by a crowd of men and women who were interested not in her but her story reopened the wound.
‘Why can’t these leeches allow grief to be private? Thank God they have not asked questions about her father.’ That powerful, good man. What had happened? Why have they not found his body? She thought again of the lines of the dead laid out on the lawn close to Londiani. Surely, surely he must have been with them.
Her son and her husband suffered no such tender thoughts as they watched those same images. For the third night Reuben had sat with his parents while the news was on. He found what he saw interesting, much better than the usual stuff that KBS had on. It engaged his mind like a half decent film. The people involved were distant, out there until that latest broadcast.
This time he was riveted. The sight of the piggy-faced farmer only irritated him, but he was shocked to see Lydia as the third member of the group that was being interviewed. What was she doing there? Nobody was bothering with her. Nobody mentioned her name, but she sat next to Rebecca as if she were her sister or something. He screwed his eyes tight in his concentration. Rebecca was polite and patient. If she resented giving precious time, she did not show it. Reuben wondered if anyone would dare to ask something about her father. Nobody did. Reuben finally realised that the reporters were content to have her to themselves for a few minutes, to hear her voice replying to their friendly inquiries.