“Oh God!” Kirsty said bitterly. “Lascelles. What now?!”
“And Okello,” Cady muttered. “I recognise him from that photograph in Time.”
Lascelles and the two Africans walked past the guard and into the villa. The guard remained standing stiff-backed, the butt of his rifle next to his right foot. Another light came on in the guardhouse and one in the villa.
“They’ll kill Garret!” Kirsty said in panic. “Let’s move!”
“Wait,” Ramesh cautioned. He was watching the guardhouse door. It opened and a head peered out and called something to the guard. He answered and the head was followed by a body; a tall African wearing only shorts and a holstered pistol. He walked across into the villa.
Ramesh shifted his gaze to the area behind the guardhouse. It was open ground leading to a line of trees which curved around to the other side of the villa.
Kirsty clutched his arm. “Let’s go,” she pleaded.
“Wait!” Ramesh turned to Cady. “It will take you five minutes to cut back and get behind those trees. I want you on the other side of the villa facing the guardhouse. Kirsty and I will approach from this side. I will shoot the guard at the door and we will go in. Just cover the guardhouse. Shoot anyone who comes out. Once the noise starts throw grenades. Even if there is no one there.”
His voice was crisp with purpose and authority. Cady grunted “OK,” and slid away into the darkness.
Inside the villa Lascelles, Okello and ‘Doctor’ Bakari walked down a corridor and came to a steel door. Bakari, who before the revolution had been no more than a male nurse in the local hospital, took out a key and unlocked the door. The African in shorts came running up behind them, his eyes full of sleep.
“Help us,” Okello said curtly, and pushed open the door. They went into a room that had been converted into a makeshift clinic. A bed with a white sheet was at one side, a large refrigerator in one corner, a glass fronted cabinet in another. It contained bottles and stainless steel cans. There was another steel door on the far side of the room. Bakari selected a key and opened it. He reached in and flicked on a light.
The room contained just a bed. Above it was a heavily barred window.
There was a young man lying on the bed. He wore a pair of faded blue boxer shorts. His skin was white from lack of sun. He had a beard unkempt and untrimmed. He raised his head, wiping his eyes with the back of his wrist. His long, matted blond hair fell down to the pillow.
Lascelles said, “Hello, Garret.”
The young man’s blue eyes focused and he recognised Lascelles. Abruptly he sat up and swung his feet to the floor.
“What are you doing here?”
Lascelles grinned. “We came for some blood.”
Garret stood up. His sleepy eyes were puzzled. He looked at Okello and Bakari.
“But they took it two days ago,” he said. “This is Friday.”
Okello smiled and said, “But we want more.”
Garret backed away from the bed, coming to rest against the wall. He was shaking his head in bewilderment.
“No. It’s too soon. Dangerous.”
It took the four of them. They manoeuvred him into a corner. He lashed out with his fists, catching Lascelles on the side of his face. Lascelles cursed and kicked him viciously on the knee. Garret collapsed and Bakari and the guard leapt on him as Lascelles turned away holding a hand to his face.
Three minutes later Garret was lashed to the bed. A thin rubber tube ran from his left arm to a large glass bottle on the floor. He watched in consternation as Bakari took two more bottles from the cabinet and put them next to the first.
“What are you doing?”
Lascelles, still holding the side of his head, was fascinated. He watched as the red liquid ran thickly down the side of the bottle. There was already an inch at the bottom. He moved forward and looked down at Garret’s anxious face.
“We’re taking it all, kid-every last drop!”
At first Garret failed to comprehend but then, as he looked up into Lascelles’ sneering, sadistic face, his eyes widened in terror.
Okello was watching the flowing blood intently.
Lascelles grinned down at Garret. “Yeah kid – every drop. Blame that bitch mother of yours. She hounded me right across the Indian Ocean -an’ now you’re gonna die-in just a few minutes. Then I toss you over the cliff an’ the sharks get their meal – finally.”
Garret was straining against the cords, twisting and pulling, his teeth clenched in effort.
“Where’s my mother?” he gasped.
Lascelles’ grin widened.
“She’s close kid . . . but too late.”
He stood back and watched the writhing moaning figure on the bed — and the steady rise of red in the bottle.
Garret arched his back and screamed.
Ramesh and Kirsty had crept close. Twice they had flattened themselves to the ground as the guard had shuffled his feet restlessly and glanced around him. Now they were twenty yards away. Ramesh raised his Sten gun. He could feel his heart pumping, the copper taste of fear in his mouth. He was still uncertain whether he could do it when the silence of the night was rent by the piercing scream.
He froze, the muzzle of the Sten half raised. Beside him he heard Kirsty’s answering scream.
“Garret!!!”
Then he heard the stuttering cough of Kirsty’s Sten and the guard was spinning, his rifle dropping into the dust. Kirsty was moving, a black wraith sprinting for the door. Ramesh’s head cleared and he followed.
As he reached the entrance he heard sounds behind him. He twisted to see the door of the guardhouse open. Men rushing out, guns in their hands. Instinctively he raised his gun but again he was too late. He first saw the chips of stone flying off the wall near the door and then the men jerking and spinning like marionettes. He turned back and ran into the villa; caught a flash of black as Kirsty turned a corner.
In the clinic there was a logjam at the door as Lascelles, Bakari and the guard tried to get out. Okello, cunning and cautious, waited, backing against a wall by the door. The guard, pistol in hand, pushed through first. Bakari followed. Lascelles had just got his head out when he saw Kirsty ten yards away. Saw the black muzzle flickering white, heard the bullets thunking into flesh. Saw Bakari and the guard hammered down in the corridor. He ducked back into the room, his eyes glazed with terror. Beyond the bed was a window. Ignoring Okello he ran towards it.
Kirsty flashed in through the door. Saw first her son strapped to the table and, beyond him, Lascelles. She did not see Okello slip out behind her.
She screamed, “Lascelles!” and he turned and saw the black barrel aimed at his chest. He threw up his hands, sobbing “No! No!”
Then he heard the click as the pin came against an empty chamber. It echoed in his brain. He saw the rage in her eyes as she clutched for a new magazine. He turned and launched himself at the window and splintered through it.
Ramesh had turned the corner and seen Okello scuttling through the door. He raised his gun and fired a burst, but it pulled high, chipping plaster off the wall. Okello sprinted for a door at the end of the corridor. As he reached it Ramesh fired again and saw him twist and go down on his knees. Again he fired, but his first bursts had been too long. He fumbled for a new magazine; saw Okello rise, open the door and stagger through. Ramesh was opposite the clinic door. He glanced in. Saw the blond boy on the bed; Kirsty beyond it at the window, firing out into the night.
‘Okello!’ Ramesh thought. ‘He’ll be mine.’ He clicked the magazine into place and ran to the door. It opened on to a walled garden. In the dim light he could see Okello on the far side, his elbows on the wall. He pulled himself up and got one leg over and most of his body. Ramesh raised his gun, took aim and fired the entire magazine at the remaining leg. Saw the chips fly off the wall, bracketing the leg, heard Okello’s scream of pain and terror, and the leg disappeared from sight.
Ramesh moved forward and then paused. Through his rage he
heard Kirsty’s sobs. He turned and ran to the clinic.
At the front of the building Cady had been wreaking havoc. As men poured out of the guardhouse he lobbed grenades, killing most and driving the rest back inside. Then, in a state bordering on euphoria, he rushed the building itself, firing his Sten gun from the hip. He tore through it, firing bursts into all the rooms. Then ran out through the back door. Great loping strides, changing the magazine as he went. Someone was firing at him from the line of trees: he saw the muzzle flashes; heard the bullets whipping past. At least three guns.
He charged, firing the Sten until the magazine was empty. He pulled out a grenade, snatched out the pin and hurled it, ducking low and following. In the flash of the explosion he saw bodies blown back into the trees and figures running in blind panic. He was at the edge of the trees, crouched listening, hearing only running feet and bodies crashing through the undergrowth. Then firing from the main building. He turned and saw a window explode and a figure hurtle out of it amid shards of glass. It rolled and gained its feet and ran towards Cady, ducking and weaving. Cady saw Kirsty at the window. Saw the muzzle flashing of her gun and ducked as the bullets chopped the leaves above his head.
The figure reached the trees, ducked down into the darkness and began to crawl, blood streaming from his face, panting with fear, into the undergrowth. Just at the moment when he thought he must have made it he raised his head and was looking into Cady’s eyes two feet away.
Lascelles struggled to his knees and begged. “He’s alive. It wasn’t my fault. He’s with his mother. It’s over! It’s over!”
“Where’s Okello?”
“I’ll take you to him. Help me.”
Cady bent to help Lascelles to his feet, but didn’t see the short knife. All he remembered was a stinging pain.
Instinct — and wrestling the weapon from him. Lascelles kicking and gouging.
Cady drew his legs up protectively, his chin tucked into his shoulder. Looked into his eyes.
Lascelles saw death.
The knife travelled up through the stomach and into the heart.
Ramesh arrived at the clinic to find Kirsty leaning over the bed. She had a scalpel in her hand, slashing at the cords. He moved to help her but she was oblivious.
She cut the last cord and Garret was sitting up and mother and son were locked in each other’s arms, both sobbing with relief.
Ramesh clicked a fresh magazine into his Sten. He heard another explosion from the front of the building and he put his arms between them and prised them apart. He grabbed Kirsty by the shoulders and shook her.
“Cady!” he shouted. “I’m going to help him. Follow carefully.”
He left them and ran down the corridor and hall to the entrance and almost crashed into Cady rushing in.
“What happened?” Cady demanded.
“He’s all right. They’re behind me. Lascelles got away.”
“He didn’t. I killed the bastard!”
“You OK?”
“Just creased. It’s nothing.”
Ramesh slapped him on the shoulder. “What about the guards?”
Cady grinned. “Runnin’ like rabbits. But others will be comin’ soon.”
They turned and saw Kirsty with her arm around Garret. Immediately Ramesh said, “Help her Cady. I’ll go ahead - wait until I call.”
In a crouch he ran through the door. There was no one to be seen. He sprinted for the ridge and, reaching it, turned; gun tucked against his shoulder, eyes searching the darkness for movement — nothing.
“Come on!” he shouted.
They came through the door. Cady had an arm around Garret’s waist, half lifting him off his feet; Kirsty running behind.
Three minutes later they were at the coconut tree. A siren wailed and shouts came from behind the villa.
Garret leaned against his mother while Cady slipped a T-bar on to the rope.
Ramesh grabbed the radio, pushed the button and said, “Lani, we have him! Stand by, we come down!”
Cady was pushing the T-bar between Garret’s legs, trying to explain to him what he should do, but he was dazed, his eyes blank. The shouting was getting closer.
In frustration Cady said, “I’ll take him down.”
“Yes,” Ramesh said. “I’ll bring up the rear. Go Cady.”
Cady pushed the T-bar through his own legs and pulled Garret across in front of him, clamping him down with his elbows. Then he duck waddled to the edge of the cliff and, as Kirsty screamed, launched over it.
A bullet cracked overhead and Ramesh grabbed another T-bar, slung it on the rope and pushed Kirsty across it. Instinctively she grasped the handles. He pushed her to the edge of the cliff. Another bullet spurted dirt near their feet. She turned to look at him, anguish in her eyes. He gave her another push and she was gone. She dropped like a stone, her mind filling with terror. Then as the slack was taken up she shot out a few feet above the rocks. She saw the vague black outline of the Manasa and remembered to close the handles. As she hit the water she was thinking of Ramesh back on the cliff. Then she was kicking away from the T-bar and swimming the few yards to the ladder on Manasa s side. Cady was leaning over, a strong hand pulling her up; and then Lani was throwing her arms around her.
On the cliff Ramesh was about to loop the last T-bar over the rope when there came a burst of automatic fire. He felt the two bullets hit him, one across his waist, the other creasing his thigh. He twisted and fell, hearing yells of excitement. The Sten was in his left hand. He pulled himself to a sitting position, raised the gun and waited. He saw them when they were ten yards away. A row of five moving cautiously, peering into the darkness.
He remembered all the instructions even as he saw the flash of a muzzle and a bullet whipped past his ear. He held the gun steady, tight against his shoulder, and, like plucking a ripe plum, squeezed the trigger. He traversed the barrel and hosed the entire magazine at the advancing line and saw them go down like skittles, screaming.
Below on Manasa they stood on the stern hearing the shots and peering anxiously up into the darkness.
“Please,” Kirsty whispered. “Please Ramesh. Come down! Don’t leave me now.”
Cady had just put an arm round her shoulders when the exuberant shout floated down: “Geronimooo!”
Chapter 28
There had been too many farewells and Ramesh was tired of them. In a two-month period he had said goodbye to more people than he had met in the preceding forty-eight years of his life.
But he made a great effort to be pleasant to Murphy and Ray and Howard, Harriet and Lester. During the past month they had showered him with kindness.
They all stood on Manasa’s deck, with glasses in their hands – Murphy had brought along a bottle of champagne. Howard raised his glass and said, “To a good voyage.”
They all echoed the sentiment and drank. Ramesh looked at his watch.
“Sure,” Murphy said. “You’ll want to clear the land by nightfall. Come on folks!”
The men all shook his hand warmly and slapped him on the shoulder. Lester shook his hand shyly and Ramesh was still embarrassed to see the hero worship in his eyes. Harriet hugged him warmly and kissed him on both cheeks.
They climbed on to the jetty, cast off his lines and stood waving as Manasa pulled away. They waved for ten minutes until he passed out of sight around the curve of the channel.
Half an hour later Manasa was heeling and heading due east in a steady force three. Ramesh had decided not to go north up the East African coast. He felt the need for a long spell away from land — and from people. Needed time to recover — and commune with himself. He would head out into the Indian Ocean for four hundred miles, and then turn due north. He would make his first landfall at Mogadishu on the horn of Africa; a voyage of almost a thousand miles. From there he would push up into the Red Sea and on to the Suez Canal, and then to Cyprus. Afterwards? He did not know.
His emotions were numb. He remembered one of the ‘bird men’ telling him t
hat sometimes on Aldabra a tortoise would roam too far foraging for food in the morning and find itself at noon, stranded away from the shade. It invariably died of sunstroke. He felt a kinship. Right now he was racing for the shade of solitude.
Away to his left, over the horizon, lay Zanzibar. He had deliberately chosen his course so that he would not see it. But he felt its presence. The few hours he had spent on its soil had represented the apex of his life and his present instability.
Inevitably his thoughts swung back a month to that apocalyptic night and its aftermath. His reaction to fear. The realisation that he, Ramesh Patel. ex babu of Bombay, had faced the ogre of death and fired back, had instilled within him a serene confidence. But the aftermath of that night had left him with deep emotional scars.
They had pulled him, bleeding, up on to Manasa s deck. He had felt only a stinging on the side of his stomach, but one of the last bullets had gouged a track through his flesh, and he bled copiously until Kirsty had padded and bound the wound.
Old Salim had guided Manasa out through the reef and waiting there was Murphy and the others on the cabin cruiser-certainly well within the three-mile limit. They had escorted Manasa to Dar es Salaam as the sun ushered in a new day. Obviously Murphy had been in communication with the Embassy for there was a big reception waiting.
The Ambassador putting on a brave face, Tanganyikan officials, police, doctors and ambulances.
Everything had happened with bewildering speed. Ramesh found himself in hospital. His wounds were dressed and a doctor pronounced him extremely lucky. An inch or two to the right and he could have died.
He went through a period of euphoria. Perhaps the pain killers they gave him heightened it. He, Ramesh Patel, had partaken in an extraordinary adventure, and had shared it with three other people, whom he felt were bound to him for ever by the shared experience. They were more than children or parents or lovers. They were fused to him in the furnace of fear and courage and achievement.
Blood Ties Page 26