by Carl Hancock
The handshake was accepted.
‘You African bastard. They warned me about crooks like you before I took this job on.’
‘So I take it that you agree to my being a spectator.’
Alfredo leaned back into his armchair and contemplated the log fire that had been lit against the chill of the night. He was working his way through half a dozen possible scenarios while he was being scrutinised closely by his smiling employer. At that moment, life was very agreeable for Mister Abel Rubai, fixer in chief. He was about to get his wish to be present at the climax to his big project. An unexpected thought struck him. The raging anger that had been set off by a potent mix of grief, guilt and frustration had cooled. The thirst for revenge that had become an obsession that would not leave him alone was weakened. They were replaced by the excitement of anticipation. Thomas McCall and the rest of them would be part of history, he would be free with the bonus of being able to pick up the wreck of Londiani for a knock down price.
‘So, when do you go in?’
‘You insist on this, er, interference, then?’
‘Don’t let’s waste our breath on that any more. Give me a day and a time, and name a place with a view.’
‘Listen. When I’m ready, I will make a single brief call. Then it’s up to you. To you this business may be some kind of crusade, but to me it’s a job. I am a man who takes pride in his workmanship. I will deliver.’
* * *
Next morning, breakfast was late in the pink palace in Karen. Papa had slept on. Sometimes he was grouchy on the morning after. Today was different.
‘Abel, bacon and eggs, all that toast, a whole pot of coffee, you must have had much success on the screens last night.’
‘Woman, can’t a man feel happy just to be with his family on a lovely morning?’
‘Papa, it’s raining.’
‘Reuben, the fields will be happy, the trees will be happy, the animals will be happy. That makes me happy.’
He would have been even more pleased with life if he could have shared his news. Pembroke House, that ramshackle school, high up in the Rift Valley, the White Highlands, in that place a bad seed had been sown. That tiny seed had been big enough to carry a name: McCall. For years it had grown without him understanding the danger. When the truth of this ugly weed had revealed itself he had failed to cut it down in time to save his Julius. There was some regret that he had been obliged to bring in a stranger to finish the job, but soon …
‘Sally, I’m thinking of going into the flower business. Perhaps we could be lucky. When a farmer has lost his crop and many of his workers, he might lose his interest in the land.’
‘Londiani?’
‘Sure, Reuben, and with you as the man for Nakuru South in parliament, we would have somebody on the spot to make sure everything was in order.’
‘Abel, I don’t like that idea. It would be like stealing.’
‘Stealing! I would offer double what the place is worth. I would not make the first move. I would be doing them a favour.’
‘I know those people better than you. They are tough. They will make that farm better than ever.’ Sally was staring out at the rain. When would her husband be able to shake off this imaginary burden? Her hope was being carried in her belly.
* * *
The crowd around the village fire at the rondavels was the biggest anyone could remember. It was also the quietest. You could actually hear the sound of the newly placed logs as they crackled and spluttered in the leaping tongues of flame. No one from the village had been taken by the fire down in the fields. Six of the young women sitting in that crowd owed their lives to Bwana Kamau.
When the family left the Kamau home, their entrance roused the villagers and their other well-wishers. They stood as one, cheering and applauding. Rebecca was used to such receptions on stage, but here, amongst her own people, with Jane and Martha leading the way and she and her mother flanking her father, the positive emotions were overwhelming.
The release of pent-up feelings burst around them, sending the waves of screaming and wailing out into the lake and up the empty hillside towards the dark ridge of the Escarpment. Stephen himself showed little emotion. How could anyone know the feelings of the heart of a man who had left the world and been restored to life? As he moved along, he was still deep in a sense of wonder. ‘How can this be?’ He had whispered these words a thousand times since he woke on a bed in that cool room and looked up into the eyes of those two smiling, weeping women. He had never experienced love of such intensity. The first word he mouthed was ‘angels’. When his strength began to return, he recognised the white robed figures and chuckled, and felt a sharp prickle of pain across his chest and arms.
* * *
‘Lazarus.’ He did not want to get into that territory, but it was the name that Martha spoke just as they were cresting the ridge of the Escarpment.
‘Papa, I have been thinking. You are just like him, aren’t you? Do you think that Jesus was helping you after the fire? We have read that story so many times.’
Angela watched her husband’s reaction carefully. She thought she detected some discomfort, even embarrassment, behind his patient smile.
‘Child, you are asking me to claim a pretty big thing there.’
‘But if we are in trouble, you say that Jesus will always be ready to help us.’
‘That’s true, Martha.’ He nodded his head slowly, overwhelmed by the mystery that was still engulfing him. He drifted off into a long silence and peered down the long hillside as his beloved lake came into view. ‘To tell the truth, I feel a little funny in the head. Now, no jokes, please! There’s a kind of emptiness, coolness up there. I cannot get a good hold on it.’ His tone changed and he reached for his wife’s hand. ‘Angela, why have I been spared? I’ve seen it over and over in my mind, the flames rushing along the tents like madmen, the screams of pain, smoke throttling the breath out of you. Next thing, everything goes quiet and I’m walking away, going home along a grassy path. And I feel so tired I take a little spell under an acacia.’
* * *
A wooden armchair, softened with blue cushions on the seat and back, is ready for Bwana, close to the heart of the gathering. Big-eyed children watch him pass along while their anxious parents, scarcely able to believe that their Stephen is back amongst them, stare and hope that all is really well and that this upright, dignified figure is restored in full. At last, his little family group reach the chair. Stephen grasps the back and looks around. After a brief pause, he begins to speak.
‘Agnes Kibet, Antony Wakamba, Mary Macharia, David Dalon, Thomas Koskei, Rita Koskei …’ He continued to recite the names until the list was complete. His eyes were closed and he paused between each name. The deep baritone of his voice rang out like a heavy church bell. The long silence that followed was broken by the piping tones of little Sammy Koskei, youngest brother of the twins who had died as they searched for one another up and down the lines of different flower tents.
‘Bwana, is there a story tonight?’
Stephen, unruffled, reached into the crowd to lift Sammy out. He sat on a blue cushion and placed the child on his lap. The boy felt no fear, hoping rather that his hero had singled him out for special treatment.
‘How old are you, Sammy?’
‘I am eight, Bwana. I am going to school now. Sometimes the teacher tells us a story, but we like your stories better.’
‘I know that you are a very clever boy. Your brother told me, just a few days ago, that you told the people at home better stories than me.’
‘Oh, that is a very big whopper, Bwana!’ Sammy’s face was beaming with a naughty boy grin.
‘Yes!’ Stephen reflected with a deep sigh. ‘A story. Sammy, you know that I love telling you stories.’
‘I know it. You tell a story and Rebecca sings to us. That is the best time for me.’
‘And you know that I have been away from the village for a few days.’
‘Thomas and Rita,
they have gone away, too. On a long journey. Did you see them when you were away?’
‘You know, Sammy, I think that I just did. We passed each other. I forget where it was now.’
‘Mama said that you would. They have died, you know. Gone to be with Jesus, our teacher told us.’
‘She is a very wise lady.’
‘Mama said that things have changed. Papa and she were talking. What does it mean?’
Rebecca was standing behind her father. She began to sing, one of Toni Wajiru’s songs and one of her favourites, ‘Hope comes with the dawn’. The cheering and the excitement were far behind them all now. A mellow tranquillity had settled over the gathering. The physical beauty of the singer and the poignancy of the words she sang soothed the pain, made it more bearable. There was a golden edge to the heavy clouds hanging over the village. Sammy slipped from Stephen’s lap and returned to his mother and father.
And what did Sammy’s mother’s words mean? All those friends were laid to earth and he had returned. But why? He saw clearly that it was a mystery and would stay so.
Soon the crowd dispersed, satisfied that they had seen that Stephan Kamau was with them and he was well.
Later Stephen himself with Angela, his firstborn and the young bwana took the path to the flower fields. In the half light, he saw that the vast garden where he spent his working day had been returned to an expanse of dark earth. He bent to pick up a handful of soil. He sifted it with his fingers and lifted it to his nose.
‘Bwana, the land is ready for us again.’
* * *
Alfredo Rossi was brooding. This was a new experience for him and he did not enjoy it. The hotel room was everything he could ask for, but it had become just a comfortable prison cell. The best of it was the large window with a close view high above Uhuru Highway. He liked to look down on the traffic on the busiest road in the country. Not once did he step through the French window onto the balcony. He would not take the infinitesimal risk of being seen and recognised. He still had qualms about the night visit forced on him by his employer. The man was plain stupid and too used to being obeyed in his smallest whim.
On his normal jobs he made little contact with the particular rich person (he was popular with well-heeled widows) paying for the contract. He worked alone and was happy enough just to let his client know that his goods had been delivered and then fly out. No one ever took advantage of his absence to welsh on a payment. This time the vibes were bad. He saw himself as an artist. He was proud of the precision, the finesse he displayed. His studio was out of doors in a different location for every job, a factor that brought special problems, increased the risks. But this Rubai jerk was getting in his way. Alfredo was nervous, distracted. He needed to go to a good restaurant, have some conversation with intelligent people out there in the big world.
There was something else. He was in danger of allowing his emotions to interfere with his plans. When his parents decided to bring a touch of class to the Rossi family of New York, they worked it out that if they sent their smartest boy to the only fancy school in England that they had heard of, any rough edges in their son would be smoothed away. What they could not have foreseen was how hard it would be for him to settle in this alien environment. He was below average in size for a thirteen year old, he was not interested in the ancient Etonian traditions, his Brooklyn accent was a curiosity to his classmates. When one or two tried to imitate it, he was in with his fists to let them know that you did not make fun of a Rossi man. In time things worked out. In a matter of weeks, his speech was indistinguishable from the sophisticated patter of Dickie, the son and heir of some rich lord from the heartland of the aristocracy.
Eton toughened him up. He learned to distrust his emotions. He was pleased to learn that his favourite character in history was an Italian. Nicolo Machiavelli taught him that, more often than not, it pays to be something of a bastard. Calculate honestly and cut the sentimental crap. To be hard usually meant a satisfactory profit. So a career of eliminating the unwanted, doing the dirty work for the ultra rich suited him perfectly. ‘Don’t get involved’. That was his number one guideline.
Now this African Mister Big was rousing an uncharacteristic anger in him. That was one side of the problem. The other side had a greater potential for disaster and, this time, it was all his own fault. He had been too clever. Get to see his victims, use his visit to make his plan for the first strike. Smart move and the result was top-class. Anyone who watched the television saw that.
But, in spite of himself, he had got to like the people he was planning to send to glory. The McCalls had treated him with kindness. Normally such treatment was accepted but had no influence on his plans. He had dealt with many so-called nice people and moved on without a backward glance. He had spent time in his hotel room working on this problem. He had to understand it before he could root out its cause.
The conclusion he reached did not surprise him. But why Lydia Smith? He had heard some of her story and sympathised with her for the tough times she had endured. But she was not a part of the McCall tribe. Rubai had described her as an optional victim. He had steered clear of any involvement with women. Now this one had caught him unawares. He had enjoyed her company. He wasted time thinking about her. It was easy to rationalise that there was no future in such a relationship, even if she were interested. And there was not much chance of that. He was a midget Italian with a voice like an old-fashioned colonial bwana.
No, he would be able to cope. He was already beginning to squeeze her out of his consciousness. A small dose of body battering and he would be almost there, system clear and ready for action. He went through his routine of very hard physical exercise to the point where perspiration was dripping onto the thick pile of the carpet and followed it with a long soak in a hot bath.
The end of the job was close. That night he dined well and fell asleep with the best book ever written in his hand. He had read Catcher in the Rye at least a dozen times. He admired Holden Caufield for his free spirit and envied him that he had been lucky enough to have attended a boarding school within easy reach of his New York home.
He spent most of the next day checking and rechecking every detail of his plans. He shifted the desk close to the window. The light was better there and it gave him the chance to look down on life going on in the world below. He found the constant noise of the traffic comforting. It suggested energy and purpose. He was too far back to see the lines of cars, matatus, coaches and trucks easing their way along the dual carriageway in the warm morning sun. The red earth paths that crisscrossed the parklands opposite were alive with black shapes. Downtown Nairobi was on the move. He smiled. When he had accepted the job, he had inexplicably overlooked the people problem. A white man among thousands of black brothers and sisters would not make it easy to hide himself in a crowd.
He was excited, confident and the attack of broodiness was far behind him. The ice was back. The artist was ready to execute. At midnight he would leave the hotel through the back entrance, turn left and a hundred metres down the road slide behind the wheel of the black BMW waiting for him. It was time to travel north to make his final preparations for the climax of the exercise.
* * *
Not far away, in the suburb of Langata, two lawyer brothers were reading the national papers. The Nation and The Standard each carried almost identical headlines. ‘Dead Man Rises From The Ashes’ declared The Nation.
‘So this is Rebecca’s father?’
‘Yep. Barnie, I wish I knew half of what is going on here.’
‘You mean about the fire? How are the local cops getting on with finding the people behind that?’
‘I’m not sure, but the Naivasha police have got some top-class officers. Yes, I know about the reputation about our men in blue. Inspector Caroline and her new sergeant, Hosea Kabari, would be an asset in any city force in the States.’
‘Paul, I could get them a start in our precinct.’
‘Our need is …’
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br /> ‘Okay, okay, only kidding.’
‘Did you notice the name Maria Kabari in the report? She’s Hosea’s wife. Not much about her in the story, but ever heard of Maria Miller?’
‘Our Maria? You know, I’d forgotten her married name. She never contacts us. I thought she lived in Western District.’
‘Our Maria is quite a woman. Barnie, there’s no doubt she has, well, healing gifts.’
‘Faith healer? I remember, when we were kids, she was a dreamy sort of girl, sang weird songs. So it’s Naivasha now. Three girls, isn’t it?’
‘They’re all coming down next week. Family reunion.’
‘Paul, who’s this coming up the driveway? Carrying a briefcase. Not another lawyer? No. Can’t be. He’s not wearing a suit.’
Paul rose to meet his guest. ‘Not a lawyer. Much cleverer than that.’
Jimmy Burgon, tall, with the long, slim legs of a middle-distance runner was smiling. Barnie noticed the expensive, fashionable clothes, especially the leather jacket which must have been tailor-made. Whatever this kid does for a living, there must be big profits.
‘Paul, another set of pictures for you. A couple of puzzlers that may or may not be useful. That’s your department.’
Paul explained to his brother. ‘Barnie, technology has come to the Kenya legal system. Those last three words are in quotation marks, of course. Strictly speaking, what Jimmy and I do is not by the book, but it works. Electronic recording cameras, Jimmy makes them. See that pepper tree just there? What is it, ten metres away? See the camera on that low branch on the left?’
‘Can’t say that I do.’
‘I’ll show you later. What happens is that one of Jimmy’s boys places one or maybe more in a place where it will take pictures.’
‘I think I get it. A Mister Bad Guy appears in glowing colours in a place where he shouldn’t be.’