by KJ Griffin
Chapter 23
'Dad, when's Farah coming?' Little Stevie asks in the grey light of dawn the next morning. 'I want to do running with Farah again. And you can come too.'
I yawn several times and stretch. The merest thought of physical exercise in my condition makes me almost too weak to move.
We are stretched out on tartan camp beds side by side in the living room, and these basic metal contraptions with noisy springs and arthritic joints seem out of kilter with the plush cream carpets and designer d?cor all around us.
'We can't go running yet, Stevie,' I grunt. 'It's still not safe outside.'
Which draws no direct reply, only:
'Real Zaragoza 3, Sporting Gijon 2.'
And why not? At least it sounded like a good game!
It was a late one for me last night, almost two in the morning before Julius and I returned to Kileleshwa after dropping Dismas somewhere in the thick of a middle class neighbourhood called South B, at a private house bristling with stiff iron grilles and concrete walls rimmed with broken glass, which Dismas insisted would be a much safer option for him and for us all. If the amount of armed Masai watchmen prowling the night shadows with spears and bows and arrows was anything to go by, Dismas had surely made the right call. 'He is with his own people,' Julius had wistfully explained.
'Get your laptop and the fixture lists,' I growl at Little Stevie. 'We need to pick some winners right here and now.'
'But we always have our selection meeting after breakfast, Dad! And I'm not hungry till I've been for a run.'
'Today's different,' I snap. 'So let's get on with it right away. This selection meeting has got to be our best ever.'
But as I scour the fixture lists which Little Stevie wasted no time in printing off as soon as the internet came back on yesterday, I'm left feeling weak and grumpy. Suddenly my betting touch seems to have deserted me. There's a lot of dross playing in the Premiership, the sort of games where Bolton, Blackburn or Stoke flaunt their dour, northern grit in the faces of cultured Spurs or Arsenal teams. I've tiptoed around those kinds of games too many times before over the years and have always come away lighter in the pocket.
But when I turn my attention to the European games, it just get worse - I'm hit by a devastating loss of confidence that I can't explain. Even mulling over home bankers like Sevilla at home to Osasuna does no good - too much mildew in the marmalade. I rub my hands through my hair irritably and almost envy Little Stevie the detachment of his comfort books.
Short on ideas, I gather the computer printouts again and stare down at the fixtures, but still nothing gels. There's the ultra-reliable Prussian clockwork steel of Borussia Dortmund, for example, at home to minnows Freiburg, yet all I can see in my moribund crystal ball are strikers missing the bar and one of Dortmund's famous black-and-gold shirts getting sent off.
Further down the list I sniff at home specialists Lorient to ensnare Valenciennes in their Breton lair, but even that smells only of a soupy blanket of damp fog rolling in from the Atlantic to envelop all in the most dismal of bore draws.
'It's no use,' I moan to Little Stevie, holding my head in my hands and throwing the papers on the bed. 'I just can't think straight. Let's get some breakfast instead.'
Little Stevie is flicking through his comfort books and writing things on the rear inside cover somewhere near Ronaldo's arse - a new habit I haven't seen him indulge before. But he dutifully puts the books away and dresses exactly one garment at a time behind me till we're ready to move to the kitchen, where Julius is slurping coffee noisily and his short fingers make staccato taps on the worktop computer - every room in this modern house seems to be web connected.
'Look at this, Brian,' Julius shouts, beckoning us towards him. 'A call for mass action tomorrow on the FC Kenya webpage.'
'What does it say?' I ask glumly, staring at the Swahili text.
'All true supporters must come to Uhuru Park at noon tomorrow! Together we have the strength to set Mosiro free and win the biggest game in Kenya's history!'
'But Dismas is already free. Don't they know that yet?'
Julius gulps more coffee and winks at me, stroking the gauzy sides of his never-quite-made-it goatee:
'The greater the injustice the people feel, Brian, the harder they will fight on the day.'
'There's no point,' I tell him, pouring large cups of this succulent Kenya coffee for me and Little Stevie, who has strolled out of the sliding doors and is probing a large, rubbery leaf in the centre of the plastic pool cover with his bare toe. 'Luxmi is locked up and I can't send the text alerts out without her.'
Julius shrugs and smiles, turning once more to his computer:
'Things have moved on you know, Brian. Now the internet is up and running the word will spread. People who have seen the website will text their friends all over Kenya. With or without your Asian friend the FC Kenya game is coming to Kenya. You wait and see.'
Which only reinforces my own despair. But there's no point in making any more of Guarav and Luxmi's predicament to Julius, for Kenya's very own CNN superstar is once more busy on his mobile, and his animated phone conversations end only with a flurry of tie-knotting, shoe-lacing and a round of goodbye kisses when Njeri and Nancy join us in matching white dressing gowns.
Only just behind the Chege ladies comes Yasmiin in a long African wrap of deep-water blues and ripe-fruit yellows. She bypasses everyone to join me by the sliding doors, watching Little Stevie gambolling round and round the pool as he chants out loud some of his finest old football scores in a paean of praise to this elusive Nairobi early-morning sun.
Yasmiin clasps my shoulder and through the thin fabric of her shukha I can feel the plumpness of a full breast succouring my chest. A light kiss brushes my cheek, then she sets off barefoot around the pool, counter-clockwise to Little Stevie's orthodoxy, till they meet and embrace on the far side.
When Yasmiin has finished with Little Stevie she leaves him to resume his pacing and rejoins me in the doorway, where I'm showering in a vault of morning sunlight. Yasmiin wants to know all about the deal in General Ochieng's house last night, while Njeri is busy with pancakes and eggs that smell delightful but taste like they've been fried in battery acid as soon as I've forced the first few mouthfuls down.
We sit at the breakfast table and talk like earnest lovers with hands clasped over the top of the black and white ceramic, while I tell Yasmiin the story of Ochieng's deal and Dismas's release.
'So why are you still so sad, Brian?' she asks. 'Are you feeling sick again? I mean really sick?'
Which only reminds me of my stomach. I wince involuntarily at the thought and have to push away the plate, finally giving up all attempts with fork and spoon:
'No, it's not the sickness. It's Wamunyu?' and I'm forced to explain all about Wamunyu's latest demands for the release of Luxmi and Guarav.
Yasmiin springs to her feet when I've finished, resolve and purpose swishing out of the folds of her blue and yellow dress like crumbs from the breakfast table:
'Don't worry, Brian, I will get Vic to take care of Wamunyu,' she seethes, spitting out her near-miss lover's name like Vic is directly to blame for all the trouble poor Luxmi and Guarav are in. I grab her hands only just in time:
'That won't help, Yasmiin. Not any more,' I say, clasping her fingers. 'Wamunyu is still smarting from the last time Hanson paid him out. I think he knows his time is running out, and that has turned him into a hungry wolf who's only been fed half a kill. Something tells me that if we don't deal directly with Wamunyu this time, things will go badly wrong for Luxmi or Guarav.'
'Is everything all right?' Njeri calls out from the far side of the kitchen.
Our voices must have been rising steadily across the kitchen, and when I look up towards Njeri I notice out of the corner of my eye that Little Stevie has finally sat down in a sun lounger by the pool with what looks like one of his comfort books on his lap.
I nod to Njeri and force a smile, running a tremulous h
and across a tired face:
'The trouble is,' I continue to Yasmiin, lowering my voice just a little, 'I've lost it; I've simply lost all my touch - with the betting, I mean. I can't even get my head around the simplest of games. Everywhere I look I see doubt. Anything I touch in this frame of mind will be a loser - I know that for sure. And on top of it all, this time I'm playing for the highest stakes ever, for the lives of two very dear friends.'
Yasmiin lets go of my hands and takes up the list of fixtures that has been lying next to me on the table. Her fingers toy with a long coil of dark hair, while she casts her fresh eyes over tricky ground:
'What about Inter Milan away to Catania?' she asks.
I shake my head:
'Catania are strong at home and Inter are in diabolical form.'
'Then Schalke at home to Kaiserslautern in the Bundesliga?'
'Too short a price,' I sigh.
So Yasmiin probes me with three or four possible selections from across Europe. And each time I wince at her suggestion.
I should be impressed at all this football betting prowess Yasmiin has acquired over the last few months, but in my current frame of mind everything irritates, however well intentioned.
In my discomfort I get up from the breakfast table and shuffle outside.
Little Stevie is still poring over his comfort books, muttering some stale old scores to himself. Instinctively, I pat his shoulder and feel a gulp of sorrow at the permanent separation we must both soon face, while Yasmiin puts a graceful arm though mine. We stand this way in the sun for some time. It should be blissful, but once I'm done with a few seconds of ante-post grieving, I'm all bellyache and tetchy nerves again:
'I'd better go back inside and look at those fixtures one more time,' I sigh, 'What else is there?'
But Yasmiin pulls me back and points to Little Stevie:
'Listen, Brian, he's doing it again,' she whispers earnestly.
'Doing what?'
'Listen!'
I'm just about to say something to Yasmiin I'll later regret but shake my head instead and try to slip my arm from hers. I've listened to half a lifetime of stale football scores, and believe me, Wigan 1, Blackburn 1 can really grow on you when you've heard it a couple of dozen times in one day and have really savoured every conceivable nuance of the score inside out and back to front. After all these years it finally feels like I've heard enough repeats.
But as slip my hand from Yasmiin's, she yanks me back and suddenly I see what she has seen:
'Catania 1, Juventus 1,' I hear Little Stevie say, then a after a few more 'results', 'Schalke 3, Kaiserslautern 1'.
What the hell is going on? These aren't old scores Little Stevie is regurgitating. Not in the slightest. What he's doing is assigning scores to today's fixture programme.
'What the??' I shout aloud, then lunge at Little Stevie's exercise book and grab it from his hands before I can finish my sentence.
'Dad!' Little Stevie protests, jumping off the sun lounger to grab the corner of the book:
'Dad, give it back!'
'Wait,' I gasp, thumbing frantically backwards four or five pages in the grubby exercise book:
'Wait, let me have a look!'
There are neat lists of fixtures copied out in pencil on every page in Little Stevie's scrawny hand. Most of the entries have minute ticks next to them, again in pencil, but around just a couple of entries I note a couple of red-ink rings. So I home in on these markings and spot a little red cross next to each one, with revised scores written in, this time in red ink.
'Aston Villa 2, Fulham 0,' I mutter. 'That was two weeks ago, wasn't it, Stevie?'
He nods.
'But the writing you did in pencil which says Villa 1, Fulham 0, did you put that in before the game?
'Yes, Dad,' he admits warily, like he's been caught out about something naughty, his eyes anywhere but on my own.
My fingers work the pages for a few seconds more. And with every flick, I feel a tighter and tighter constriction at the back of my throat till I'm starting to pant. Harder and harder my heart pounds; soon I can barely stand:
'Stevie?' I almost shout - too loudly, for he covers his ears with the palms of his hands.
'Stevie, you wrote all these scores down before the matches were played, didn't you.'
'Yes, Dad,' he acknowledges, eyes closed shut and hands tightly clasping his ears.
I'm forced to sit down on the sun lounger now, so intense is the racing of my heart, and Yasmiin and Little Stevie watch me in silence as my hands endlessly turn over and over again the same pages.
It's Yasmiin who finally breaks the silence:
'He got all the results right, didn't he Brian, even if a few of the correct scores were out.'
'Four weeks of correct results,' I tremble, 'in all of the major European leagues, and now Portugal too!'
Then it finally erupts:
'Stevie!' I shout pouncing on my son like a polar bear on a beluga whale, 'Stevie, this is incredible! You're a genius. A bloody genius!'
The sobs come pouring out of my chest in great convulsive gasps, which are so loud that Njeri comes sprinting out of the kitchen with straighteners in her hair shouting, 'What's the matter?'
Yasmiin restrains Njeri before she gets to me, for I'm left to stand hugging Little Stevie, the tears rolling off my cheeks and falling in a sodden mess on the ochre-red pool tiles.
Little Stevie flinches a little at all my mobbing then finally breaks free with a beaming smile on his face:
'Does this mean I can go for run now, Dad?' he asks.
I nod several times in feverish in agreement:
'Of course you can, son. You can do whatever you want now, Stevie,' I sob. 'You don't need your dad's permission anymore. Not for anything.'
I still haven't stopped wiping my eyes by the time Little Stevie is back at the pool changed into his running gear. He finds me slumped on the same sun lounger now, trying desperately not to inundate this cherished comfort book with slobber and mucus, while Njeri and Yasmiin sit next to me offering tissues from either direction, like we're mourning a tragedy not celebrating a miracle.
I don't even ask my son which direction he's running in or how long he'll be gone, just wave him off and watch him trot off through the house to the front door. Somehow I think he can manage by himself now.
Finally, long after Little Stevie has left, I find enough strength to go inside the house in search of my mobile.
'Yah, Mr Wood.'
Wamunyu's gangster-rap voice sounds sullen at the other end. And trying desperately not to sound too excited I say:
'Put a large bet on Inter Milan to draw in Catania this evening, with a small but sizeable lump on the 1-1 correct score too. Then drive over to Kileleshwa police station with my two friends after the game. I'll give you another rock-solid tip as soon as you've handed the pair of them back to me.'
'As long as your first tip wins, Mr Wood,' Wamunyu says drily. 'But I never thought you would be dealing in draws, Mr Wood. Not your usual style.'
'Neither did I. But this one is as good as nailed on,' I sigh and am glad when Wamunyu brings the pleasantries to a swift close and the line goes dead.
It must be hours later when I wake up from a fitful sleep on the sun lounger, dishevelled dreams of Inter dishing out an absolute hiding to Catania disturbed by the sound of splashing in the pool. It's Little Stevie, long back from his run, and he's doing that stretching-out-and-jumping-around-with-eyes-tightly-closed-in-the-shallow-end, which he calls swimming. Also in the pool right next to Little Stevie, Njeri's two sons, Lucas and Alphonse, don't seem to be much stronger swimmers than Little Stevie. They hug the shallows nervously keeping close to each other and they eye my son warily as he froths the metre-deep water.
Yasmiin is just behind Little Stevie on another lounger in the shade, plumping out her cream bikini again in all the right places. But my mind is on other things:
'How long till kick off in Catania?' I shout out across th
e pool, rubbing my eyes.
Little Stevie wades over towards me and climbs the steps, dripping across the red tiles to the chair next to me, where he has left his watch.
'Four hours, Dad - the game starts at seven p.m. Kenyan time.'
Then,
'Now you're awake, Dad, I want to turn on the satellite radio on and listen to the UK scores.'
'Give me your book, Stevie,' I grunt, which he passes my way as he switches on the radio, where the familiar voice of Alan Green on BBC 5 Live via the World Service brings some welcome reassurance to a football betting world of mine that's been thrown into disbelief, turmoil and utter incredulity.
Yes, that's right, I'm sweating, teeth chattering, a nervous wreck, my heart pumping so strongly that I feel woozy just lying on this lounger. And I bet you thought I'd be lying back and laughing, throwing every penny I ever owned on the 1-1 draw in Catania with a giant grin on my face and two thumbs up in the air! Well, you'd be wrong. Little Stevie's book is utter madness. It's a fairytale world that will surely unravel before my eyes just when we most need a result for Gaurav and Luxmi' sake. I've been in this business too long to believe in miracles.
On the satellite radio Alan Green is commenting on Arsenal's home game to Blackburn. I glance down in the exercise book and see that Little Stevie has pencilled in a 2-1 Arsenal win. Nothing too controversial there, though a greater margin of Arsenal victory might have been anticipated by most. But already fifty-seven minutes have been played and the score has flatlined at 0-0. It's a lot to ask for three goals in just over half an hour; this game is all set up for a classic 1-0 to the Arsenal.
The realization that Little Stevie has surely called this one wrong makes me even more tense and a nervous chill breaks out in goose bumps all over my flesh. Now I'm really glad of the blanket Yasmiin must have draped across my shoulders earlier.
But no sooner have I wrapped myself in its folds than Alan Green's voice becomes animated, and suddenly there's the Arsenal opener. I glance at Little Stevie and pass his exercise book back over with a strained smile. He flicks to the front of the book and his pencil is quickly at work, but the short burst of scribbling is only just done before Alan Green is in uproar again - Blackburn have taken the ball straight down the other end and scored the most unlikely of equalizers, a header from a deep cross.
Yasmiin joins us for the final twenty minutes of the match and apparently she already knows the predicted score. Like me, Yasmiin is covered in nothing more than a towel, but hers reaches no higher than the waist. From there on up it's bikini top alone, yet sadly not even all that heavenly flesh just metres away from my sun lounger can distract me from the dull throbbing in the core of my bowels that gets stronger and stronger by the second and is nothing to do with the cancer.
There's simply nothing happening at the Emirates Stadium, nothing at all. And to reflect this drab equilibrium, Alan Green's voice turns listless too, and he quotes scores from around other grounds, which must be of interest to the fans of Burton Albion, St Mirren and Hamilton Academicals, but are sheer torture to all the rest of us, especially me.
The closing stages of our game have become so stale that soon Alan Green's commentary mutates to witty exchanges with his expert commentator, Robbie Savage, but even the added firepower of Savage's razor-sharp banter can't make up for what's not happening on the pitch, so in response Alan Green takes the opportunity to switch to flashes from all the other premiership grounds, while the time trickles inexorably towards injury time and the groans of the Arsenal fans in the background grow ever more plaintive.
Just then the referee's whistle blows shrilly above the moaning Gooners. I'm already crushed by despair when I realize that he hasn't blown for time - it's a free Kick to Arsenal just outside the box. Santi Cazorla measures this one up. Seems to take forever to do so, calibrating the range for his howitzer right foot. We hear the whistle-blast, then wait the entire duration of a molecular micro-second on an atomic clock before the explosion of noise from the home fans reveals what Alan Green can only echo another microsecond later: 2-1 Arsenal!
Yasmiin has moved even closer to me now and she massages my shoulders with the palms of her hands. Little Stevie takes it all in like we've just been listening to a traffic update and merely makes another entry at the front of the book, while my head is pounding so forcefully I have to lean forward and clasp it in my hands.
I suppose I ought to be awash with relief and buoyed by confidence ahead of the Italian game, but I'm not. If anything, this win only seems to narrow the odds on Little Stevie's first slip up coming on the sun-drenched shores of Sicily.
We shower and change before the Catania game kicks off. Njeri and her daughter, Nancy, have prepared bowlfuls of steaming stew and chicken and chips for Little Stevie, all of which smell delicious, but as soon as I swallow my first mouthful, the leaden magma that lurks deep inside my guts rises to kill any appetite.
Likewise, Little Stevie's appetite seems to have shrunk back down again to pre-Meru levels and even Yasmiin is not much better. Njeri sits opposite us, smiling sympathetically across the table at me as I pick morosely at her beautiful food, and I can see that Yasmiin must have been telling Njeri just how sick I really am while she's been staying in the Chege house. At least Njeri's own three children have proper African appetites. Without much help from any of the guests, Lucas and Alfonse whittle a huge plate of ugali down to size, while Njeri picks thoughtfully at hers and asks me over and over again about last night's meeting at the GSU headquarters.
'Julius should be here by now,' she laments, looking down at his empty plate laid out on the table. 'He called half an hour ago to say he was coming.'
But we have moved on into the lounge before Julius appears in the doorway in a pink shirt and white trousers, pensively stroking his goatee, while his children take turns away from the Xbox to hug their returning father.
Next Julius greets Yasmiin and then Little Stevie too, but gets no response from that quarter, for it's ten minutes into the first half in Catania, which means that Little Stevie is totally immersed in a constant refresh of the flashscores.co.uk webpage.
'I've been with Dismas Mosiro this afternoon,' Julius sighs from the doorway, looking at me first, then turning his head towards his wife, who has appeared in the doorway to squeeze his hand. 'He's concerned about the rally tomorrow. He doesn't think enough people know about it yet and is worried the turnout will be low. And what's worse, the GSU are still very visible all over town and were at every roadblock between here and downtown when I drove home just now. I'm starting to wonder if General Ochieng really did mean what he said.'
'I thought you said word would get round via the website alone without any help from Luxmi's database?'
'I did,' Julius sighs, looking fidgety, 'but I'm not so sure it's working.'
That's just what I wanted to hear! Feeling ever more miserable, all I can do is stare down at my feet while Julius and Njeri have a quick-fire conversation in Kikuyu:
'Are you OK, Brian?' Julius asks, 'You really don't look so good, you know.'
'1-0 Inter Milan,' Little Stevie shouts impassively from the computer chair, without averting his face from the screen.
'I'm fifty times worse now,' I sigh, cupping my head in my hands.
'Is the football letting you down?' Julius asks with a ghost of a smile, and if only he knew high how the stakes are on this dodgy game in the land of dodgy games.
I've long made it a matter of pride not to show flashes of temper when matches turn the wrong way, but for once I can't reign back my frustration and swipe out with the back of my hand at a pile of books and magazines perched on the edge of the coffee table:
'Bollocks! We did not need that! Certainly not so early in the game. Inter are more than capable of whacking in a few more goals on the break while Catania chase the game.'
Julius, Njeri and the children are shocked at my outburst, which even Yasmiin can't soothe, so they leave us for the kitchen, where it's Julius's
turn to see what the kids have left of the ugali and stew, while Little Stevie, Yasmiin and I remain in the torture chamber.
The rest of the first half ebbs away uneventfully. And by the time play resumes, the tension has got to me so much I have to leave the comfort of Yasmiin's shoulder, against which I've been propped up for the first forty-five minutes, and instead start manically pacing the room from end to end, pausing every so often to join Little Stevie at his lonely vigil of constant webpage refreshing.
Sixty minutes of play pass, then seventy. Soon after there's a ring at the doorbell. I hear Njeri's voice welcoming a guest, then recognize Kiwi John in the hallway. But I can barely even glance my old mate's way when he's shown into the lounge. It's up to Yasmiin to explain what's going on, which she does in a stifled whisper.
'Shit, Wamunyu again!' Kiwi John curses, sounding like he's about to spit his disgust onto the plush cream carpet.
After the eighty-minute marker I feel the now-familiar chill descend on a cold and clammy skin, and the nervous energy that's been keeping me functional over these turbulent last few weeks simply ebbs away in one sudden, treacherous swell, forcing me to slump back on the sofa, where I sit clasping my face in my hands.
Yasmiin puts an arm on my shoulder and Kiwi John joins Little Stevie at the computer, while I start to rock myself backwards and forwards with ever-increasing sway, pausing only to ask Little Stevie every few minutes for the latest time. He has just told me we are into the eighty-ninth when the computer pings out its atonal goal alert. Everyone in the room stares rigidly at Little Stevie:
'Never!' I hear Kiwi John murmur.
'1-1, Dad. Catania have scored a penalty,' Little Stevie announces, his trademark whiny voice still stripped of any trace of emotion.
By a long shot Catania's equalizer is the single most important goal ever scored in our betting history. But like Little Stevie, not a whelp, nor leap, nor shout, nor whimper comes out of me. I'm too spent for all that. Instead, something inside instantly relaxes, then just switches off, leaving behind only the profound sense of reverence you get after every close encounter with the dread hand of awesome divinity. Last time something like this happened, I believe, someone strolled up a mountain in the Sinai desert and returned with a wheelbarrow full of oddly engraved stone tablets. These days Betfair makes it a lot easier for you on the backbone and on your weary legs, but the sense of utter incredulity you get is just the same as it ever was.
Yasmiin is clasping my left hand in hers and is squeezing it so hard it starts to ache. We sit tight this way till we hear a virtual whistle blow from the computer and Little Stevie says, 'Game over,' in such a drab, flat voice, you'd think he had just been whiling away the time with this Sicilian job waiting for a more interesting game to start in the Swedish second division.
Kiwi John looks perplexed:
'But that's the result you wanted, isn't it?' he asks. 'What's wrong with a little celebration?'
'It will do,' I smile weakly. 'But till we know whether Wamunyu will pay up on his side of the bargain, it's only a job half done.'
So there follows an uncomfortable wait till my mobile finally rings, and I see that I will get my answer:
'I have to admit, Mr Wood. You're good. Damn good!' Wamunyu chuckles. 'Thanks to you, man, I've nearly got the sort of money in my Betfair account I told you to get me when your son was my special guest in Nairobi Central.'
I could certainly resurrect enough energy to stop that cruel laugh with a fist through his teeth if Wamunyu were standing here with us in Chege's lounge right here and now, but he's not, so I keep my calm. My ensuing grunt is barely audible:
'You owe me both friends for that one. You can bring them to me tonight.'
There's a pause at the other end:
'The girl you can have. But the problem is I'm hooked now, Mr Wood. Hooked and greedy for one more big win. The Asian man I will keep with me, I think, just for one more game. If you provide the same service again, you can have your Hindi man too.'
I surprise myself with how level I keep my voice:
'Bring them both. Now. Tonight. I'll give you another good tip once I have my friends.'
Again, the unpleasant chuckle:
'But can I trust you to give me a winning tip, Mr Wood? If I don't have anything you want, maybe you will give me a loser just to fuck me up!'
With reserves of forbearance I certainly never possessed before, I still somehow manage to keep my voice down:
'Your choice, Chief Superintendent. But if I don't see both of my friends tonight, you'll never get another tip from me ever, ever again. Winner or loser.'
Which brings another long silence. Finally:
'Meet me at Kileleshwa police station in one hour. But come alone - otherwise no deal.'
The line is dead before I have time for any more bargaining, and it takes me nearly half the intervening hour to persuade both Kiwi John and Yasmiin that I should take the old Land Cruiser by myself and go alone as ordered without Kiwi John hiding in the back, or even taping himself to the underside of the rear wagon, as he briefly and theatrically suggests.
And when I do finally persuade the pair of them that the stakes are too high to risk using their help, Kiwi John offers me all sorts of goodies from the secret arsenal he keeps behind the driver's seat of his Land Cruiser, running by me one by one a selection of knives, all sorts of cans of noxious gas and finally a Somali sword, all of which I decline and insist he removes. All the while Yasmiin clucks and fusses about my clothes and my general health, and I'm deeply relieved that it will be entirely out of character for Little Stevie to give me a third dose of this sort of attention by the time I'm ready for the door.
It's only just under a mile from Julius's house to the Kileleshwa Police station, but rattling along in the old Land Cruiser with cool air streaming in the open windows and a deep-set moonless night outside, it seems like one of the longest trips in recent memory.
There's no traffic on the roads to puncture the total darkness ahead, while the intermittent streetlights I pass are so dim and dysfunctional they are more spooky than illuminative. Through the rush of night air outside nothing can be heard other than the baying of guard dogs, who bark out snarling threats across the road to each other from behind the cover of cypress hedges.
I arrive just before the allotted hour at the police station and park up outside the little compound, inside of which I'm relieved to see no active police presence. There's obviously no expectation of trouble in Kileleshwa tonight, and whoever has been left inside is certainly easing up a little after what must have been a hectic last few weeks.
But it's a longer vigil than I had anticipated. Far too long. I check my watch: Wamunyu is already over half an hour late. And don't I now wish I had followed Yasmiin's advice and wrapped up warmer, for I'm shivering in the dark inside the Land Cruiser, whose front windows don't close properly and so leave me exposed to the fresh night air. Outside, apart from the continued barking of the neighbourhood dogs, only the dull buzz of a decrepit streetlight can be heard, reverberating warnings of its imminent breakdown from inside the protection of the police compound.
I'm just about to call Wamunyu again when I see headlight trails, then hear what sounds like a Land Rover engine roaring up the hill from the direction of Westlands.
Sure enough, it is the long wheel-base police type, which turns left into the compound almost without dropping speed, where it pulls up in a gravel-churning tyre spin some fifty metres behind me.
I jump down from the Land Cruiser and enter the compound on foot. Wamunyu is standing in front of the vehicle, his fat gut and colossal bulk silhouetted in the glare of the headlights.
I walk slowly towards him, like we're engaged in a gunslinger's showdown, then hear the sound of a rear passenger door open and slam shut, followed by the rapid dash of light footprints running full pelt towards me.
Dazzled by the glare of the headlights, I feel something soft and half my size grab my around the waist, th
en strands of long hair tickle my chin from underneath, and before I realize what's happened, I find I'm holding Luxmi in my arms, like we've long been lovers, not just business partners whose association dates back a mere year and a half. But I'm too tired and emotional myself to feel anything odd about what seems so natural, and in my relief I hug Luxmi just as tightly in return. Through a light blouse I can feel her chest sobbing against mine, while I stroke the side of her cheek and plant a gentle, fatherly kiss on the top of her head:
'You're safe now,' I murmur. 'Where's Guarav?'
But while I've been comforting Luxmi I haven't noticed Wamunyu's continued approach, and now it's his gangster voice that answers:
'The man is safe, Mr Wood. Safe with me. I just want one more certain winner from you tomorrow, then your friend will be released. You can be sure of it.'
In the shadows behind the Chief Superintendent, I hear the driver's door open and a figure jumps out, quickly followed by another from the rear side. Now the headlights catch and reveal the colour of their police uniforms and the pair start toe-poking first one and then the other of the front wheels, and from where I am standing I can hear them shouting 'puncha!', a discovery which only makes them kick all the harder at the tyres in frustration.
Wamunyu turns to bark an order at his men in Swahili, probably to change the tyres, for I see both men disappear to the rear of the vehicle.
That's when it all kicks off.
For a second neither Wamunyu nor I budge, then with surprising alacrity for a man of his size, I see Wamunyu reach down to his webbing and make a desperate lunge for the revolver strapped inside.
'Get down!' I shout to Luxmi, pushing her to the floor and turning on Wamunyu with an adrenalin burst of strength even the sickest dog can muster.
Wamunyu's hands are fumbling. I lunge straight at the brute and seem certain to have my hands around his throat before he has had time to work his weapon free, when I'm suddenly and catastrophically felled in my tracks.
At this most crucial of crucial moments, my body has simply given up! My legs buckle and my chest is heaving like I've just been sprayed with poison gas. Disaster!
On my knees and retching in the dust, I look up just in time to see Wamunyu's face as he registers something's up with me and watches me trying to retch up a vomit that wants to stay at home on the sofa.
But the split second costs him dear, and this time it's my turn to see what must surely be the figure of Big Evans Majengwa bursting from the shadows before Wamunyu's revolver arm can straighten, and I hear, rather than see, the sound of the former boxing champion's right uppercut land in all that acreage of soft gut.
The Chief Superintendent's dull groan is deeply satisfying, and his massive gasp is instantly followed by the sound of a series of body blows fired straight into a flabby midriff, every one of the blows distinctly audible in a five-punch special.
The revolver dropped from Wamunyu's hand at the first hit, to be scooped up by one of the figures who are now pouring from the shadows. And with this killer combination-punch fizzing in his guts, it's now Wamunyu's turn to sink to his knees on the gravel, and in a copycat move I can hear him retching his own dinner from any of the stomachs that are still compartmentalising portions.
'Mr Brian!' Fingers grins, hauling me up by the shoulders, soon to be joined by a circle of helpers, all of them talking in excited whispers. Flashes of their faces are lit up here and there in the glare of the headlights, but I didn't need the light to confirm that it was indeed Big Evans Majengwa who has just floored Wamunyu. And as the former Kenyan middleweight hauls Wamunyu to his feet, gripping the police chief from behind in a vice-like arm lock, Wamunyu spits out blood from his mouth and tries once more to vomit unsuccessfully:
'Mr Brian, you and your friends are safe now!' Big Evans Majengwa grins.
But before he can reach out a giant fist to grip me, our hero-of-the-hour is interrupted:
'Careful with Brian, he's sick,' Luxmi orders, pushing through the protective cordon at about chest height to run a supportive arm around my waist.
She's right. And I do need to clutch Luxmi's arm to make sure of staying upright while I greet as many of the Kibera crew as I can. For their part Fingers' gang can sense I'm up against it, and they touch, rather than slap, my outstretched hand each in turn, and even Big Evans Majengwa resists a backslap, clasping my shoulder gently and patting me on the back with one hand while his other is sufficient to pin both Wamunyu's wrists together:
'Mr Kiwi John told us to come,' Kevin explains with a solemn face creased into a ghost of a smile, answering a question I was wondering about myself.
But amid all this out-spilling of affection, suddenly a more pressing concern:
'What will happen to Wamunyu? You won't??'
Fingers shakes his head:
'Don't worry, Mr Brian, we will lock him in the back of the Land Rover. He can spend the night there, that's all.'
'Good, because before we do anything else we need him to get this one's brother out,' I add, pointing at Luxmi.
Wamunyu is struggling for breath and panting hard, quite incapable yet of answering any of the questions I fire at him. Fingers looks on in disgust as I speak, then says:
'Leave it to me, Brian. We can arrange with this pig how to get your friend out. You just stay here and rest.'
So with that Fingers and Big Evans Majengwa haul Wamunyu off to the vehicle, with Fingers growling at the Chief Superintendent in what sounds like some pretty unfriendly Kikuyu.
'What about the policemen inside the station?' I ask the others, thumbing towards the station. 'What if they come out?'
Which only draws knowing smiles all round:
'We have already visited them, Mr Brian,' Kevin replies, grinning more distinctly than ever now. 'Before you came. All five of the policemen are locked inside their own cells with gags in their mouths. And we have kept the keys.'
At this disclosure there's a lot more mirth, but Kevin can see that I am unsteady on my feet and he helps me and Luxmi over to an old wooden bench just in front of the police building.
I needed the chance to sit down, however basic the bench, and as I sway backwards and forwards trying to restrain another bout of puking, Luxmi and I watch several of the Kibera boys pulling police uniforms from out of the bushes. With a curious levity that seems totally at odds with the situation, there's a lot of play-fighting and horseplay as they choose who will get a uniform, measuring each other up with noisy howls of derision before five of the gang are finally selected and duly don the hated livery.
Soon afterwards Big Evans Majengwa and Fingers reappear amid the grunting sounds of five men who are finding it decidedly difficult to gear up in the darkness behind the police building.
'That was easy,' Fingers smiles, patting my shoulder again. 'Wamunyu has radioed Nairobi Central. On his orders, another vehicle is bringing Mr Guarav to you right now. And when they arrive we will take good care of the next lot too, just as we did with Wamunyu and his men, and you will have your friend back, Mr Brian.'
Luxmi lets go of my arm:
'I hope Guarav will be safe,' she says, sounding dubious.
'How will you handle it?' I ask Fingers. 'There'll be more policemen inside the vehicle.'
'Same like we did for Wamunyu, Mr Brian. The car will be full of 'punchas' just like the Land Rover over there. We have men further down the road spreading nails all over the tarmac.'
'Sounds good to me,' I say, trying to appear more confident than I feel. 'Meanwhile, we'll just have to wait here in the dark.'
Which seems to grow cooler and more uncomfortable by the second. When the cramps in my stomach allow me to talk, Fingers and I while away the nervous wait by catching up on the missing pieces of each other's stories, for although we've met twice now since Mombasa, they were not occasions for idle chat.
Fingers tells me how close the city was to genuine revolution the day Little Stevie and I arrived back in Nairobi and ended up in the cells of Na
irobi Central. The Kibera boys lost friends to GSU bullets that day, and all the gang are angry when Fingers tells me the story, which they punctuate with noisy threats and promises of doing the job properly next time round.
I ask Fingers if he has heard rumours about the GSU being off the streets tomorrow.
'Yes, we have heard that,' he nods. But his simple statement provokes a noisy debate in Kikuyu all around us.
'There are too many rumours and not enough hard information,' Kevin explains. 'How can we know what to believe, Mr Brian?'
'But you will all be there tomorrow?'
There's a loud chorus of ndiyo, of course bwana! - Big Evans Majengwa, in particular, looks affronted that I should even have asked. Fingers alone sounds the only voice of caution:
'We hope that all the people come out on the streets, Mr Brian. But I am fearing that we will not be enough.'
Which draws a chorus of mumbles from the assembled group and the first hint of a mood change. And when the grumbling subsides, we are left in an awkward silence, broken only by the sound of nervous feet kicking at the gravel.
Then a series of whistles leapfrogs ever closer towards us from the direction of Westlands. Fingers and the Kibera boys usher me quickly up from my seat and into the cover of clump of bushes sprouting just in front of the police station. Here, Luxmi and I crouch low on the soles of our feet, panting hard as Fingers and most of the gang head for the bushes nearest the entrance. Only two of the uniformed officers stand out in front of the headlights of Wamunyu's Land Rover, whose battery must be running pretty low with the full beam left on for over half an hour.
Then comes the drone of a diesel engine and the arc of a new headlight beam sweeps across the compound, its feeler tentacles probing only inches from our toes, before the engine is cut just in front of us.
Now we hear the front passenger door swing open, and after it is slammed shut again, I can distinctively hear the hissing of escaping air from what sounds like at least one tyre. Those nails have done their job.
Next, a dialogue in Swahili between the new arrivals and several of the approaching Kibera boys in uniform. I hear the sound of tutting and a boot prodding first one then another tyre. Then the inevitable scuffle we have been waiting for breaks out and we hear shouts, jostling and blows only inches from our faces.
The shouts grow louder. More doors open and slam, soon followed by the frenzied thudding of police rungus and truncheons and yelps of pain.
I can take no more of this concealment and decide to break my cover. Stumbling and bent double I trot the intervening few feet between my hiding place and the police vehicle, one of whose rear passenger doors opens free and unlocked at my first attempt. And as the door springs back in my hand I don't know who's more startled, Guarav or me.
'Brian!' he blurts out, then bolts out of the vehicle almost knocking me over, dashing straight past me and on into the arms of his sister, who must have followed on behind me. Never keen on trouble at the best of times, I can begin to guess how traumatic this whole sorry business must have been for my dear old biking mate and so I leave them to it.
By the time Luxmi and I have calmed Guarav down and hauled him into the dim, humming streetlight to check him over, all the Kibera boys are thronging round, shouting with cries of delight at each other about another successful venture.
Guarav has about a week's worth of beard, his hair is dishevelled, and his checked shirt and jeans are uncharacteristically torn and tattered, but apart from that he is quite unharmed.
'Thank God that's over, Brian,' Guarav moans, shaking his head disconsolately. 'I hope I never see the inside of a police station ever again.'
The sight of someone apparently weaker than me has given me a little unexpected strength. And now that Guarav is safe and free, both Luxmi and I hug him one after the other, and when it's my turn, I pull Luxmi towards us too:
'I'm getting you both straight to somewhere safe, somewhere where you can wait in total security till all this wretched business is over.'
'Not just yet, Brian,' Luxmi cuts in, pulling out of our huddle. 'First I must do something for them.'
The 'them' are mostly standing around us now, laughing and joking, though I can hear the sound of some car doors being slammed and at last the headlights on both vehicles are switched off.
'What do you mean?' I ask.
'My computer and the Football Kenya database are safe in my cousin Neema's house not far from here in Lavington. Take me there now, Brian, and I will do one very last thing for you and Football Kenya. No more bets, no more banking or payouts for the watu, but we can send a text out to every FC Kenya supporter in Kenya right here and now tonight, telling them all that they are needed on the streets of downtown Nairobi tomorrow morning at eleven.'
'Yes, yes, yes!' the Kibera boys shout out in unison and some of them peel off to do a little jig. 'Send the texts out, Mr Brian, send the texts!'
I look down at my watch:
'But it's gone midnight already. There's really not much time.'
Luxmi has a defiance about her I haven't seen before:
'No problem, Brian. We will wake up Neema's house whatever it takes.'
'We'll see you all tomorrow then, boys,' I shrug, and just about find the energy to shake all their hands and show a little enthusiasm for what must come tomorrow. And so, with the whistles of the Kibera boys ringing in our ears, I lead Luxmi and Guarav out of the police courtyard towards Kiwi John's Land Cruiser.
But as I swing open the Land Cruiser's unlockable doors, Fingers and behind him, Big Evans Majengwa, pull me back.
'We are coming with you, Brian,' Fingers tell me. 'Just in case.'
I suppose I should be more reassured than concerned, but I can't help feeling just a little shudder when Fingers and Big Evans Majengwa jump into the open rear wagon behind and a dull glint of metal in either of their hands tells me that we're carrying an armed guard now.
'Show me the way then,' I say to Luxmi, switching my mobile back on and calling Kiwi John. He and Yasmiin will be worried as sick as I feel.