Another Justified Sinner

by Sophie Hopesmith

  There was a party on Friday, once all the new recruits had survived. The trees were strewn with solar lights. The pizza oven was fired up to hungry roars. Aldo took the helm and could spin pizza dough like a pancake: this flamboyant flourish caused several whoops of approval. Other people stood by the sound system: a HiFi relic from the 90s with a temperamental CD player. The Spice Girls blasted out from nowhere and there was an even split between groan and cheer.

  It is unclear what time the band arrived: an impromptu gala of locals who made musical instruments out of nothing, drumming with a scrap box and plucking an empty oil container with a single string. One of the older village men held his brown guitar quite high, with apparent pride. The A string was missing, but he worked his way round this with consummate skill.

  It didn’t take long before everyone was dancing. The beer was potent, the heat speeding up the effects. Marcus was the last to join in. His head was pounding with exhaustion, there was bitterness in his mouth. But the alcohol soon took hold, as it always does; and it seemed a better prospect than just standing there, talking earnest small talk with Philippa.

  He excused himself to get another drink, and was willingly sucked into the vortex, arms swinging above his head, moonlight dappling his torso. Even Philippa joined in then, her feet keeping time to the drums, to the rhythm, to the soulful warble of the frontman.

  A girl called Katie. He and she backed up against a wall. She seemed to smell the money off him. Shouting him questions, queries about his job, whatever. A rapidly raised eyebrow when he told her that he owned his property.

  ‘In London?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Zone 1?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘You must be loaded.’

  ‘Not loaded, no. But I’m doing all right.’

  ‘What on earth are you doing somewhere like this, if you don’t mind me asking?’ She blew on a canary yellow fringe: over-bleached and sun-dried.

  He did mind her asking. When faced with this question, he felt his heart rate quicken, like he’d been found out for something; like he was on the run from the police, like he was under witness protection. Every part of him felt a peculiar sensation, a mix of adrenalin and nausea.

  ‘I could ask you the same thing,’ he said, trying to chuckle it out. In fact, he was employing a tactic, trying to cause conversational diversion. Everybody loves to answer questions about themselves; everyone is deep down gagging to be pressed on their life story.

  ‘Oh you know,’ began Katie. She wrinkled her sunburnt nose and snorted. ‘I know where you’re coming from. I have a bit of money, myself. Family money. But I hate it. I hate it.’

  ‘Really? How so?’

  ‘It’s a fucking chain round my neck. I’m renting at the moment. I’ve refused to touch their money. It’s given me nothing but grief. Don’t get me wrong, it’s not like I think all money is bad. My money, or my future husband’s money – that’s different. But my parents are academics and I was educated at about ten different schools. Expensive schools. Ridiculous. Really ridiculous.’

  ‘Ten of them?’

  ‘Oh, maybe not that many. But, you know – a lot. They kept moving around the country. I never saw them that much. It was ridiculous. Then they decided to send me to this hideous prep…’

  So it goes. At an opportune moment, he slipped away to the toilet. He made his way there by keeping very close to the wall. He pricked up his ears for any rustle, scamper, patter. He could only get through the toilet business by whistling to himself and going as fast as possible. He touched the back of his head several times to make sure that nothing had dropped on it from the ceiling.

  On the way out, he staggered into Annabelle. Her breasts were covered up in a loose tunic – but he still found it hard to remain on her face.

  ‘Marcus!’ She roared. The eyes darting around the sockets. ‘Good to see you. How’s your first week been?’

  ‘It’s been… interesting.’ He thought that was a good reply.

  ‘Interesting?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘That sounds… uncertain.’

  ‘Well, it’s been a tough adjustment, I suppose.’ He loosened a button from his polo shirt. He was cornered, with his shackles down.

  ‘I’m sorry to hear that.’

  The first part was slurred. He saw an obvious change of subject. ‘You enjoying the beer?’

  ‘I’m not drunk, if that’s what you’re saying.’

  ‘I didn’t say “drunk”. Did I ever say “drunk”?’

  She stared at him, indignant, with iceberg eyes, and her lips jutting out. Then she fell about laughing. The mood swings of an inebriant.

  ‘I am drunk,’ she laughed. ‘I’m incredibly drunk.’ She flung her arms out. ‘Isn’t it brilliant?’ She looked around herself. ‘Have you seen Dora?’

  ‘I think she’s dancing on the sand. Everybody’s dancing on the sand.’

  ‘There’s so much sand.’ She nodded, sagely, and then collapsed into laughter. ‘Oh dear. I’m sorry. I must be really annoying. You seem so sober. Why are you so sober? Here, let me get you a drink.’

  He lifted up his beer bottle.

  ‘Then why are you so sober? You mustn’t be so sober.’

  ‘I’ve drunk a lot of beer in my time.’ And shots. And pills. And coke.

  ‘I can handle my beer,’ she insisted. ‘And it’s not like you weren’t wasted that first night. I mean…’ She belched. ‘Oh dear, I’m so sorry.’ Her hands flew up to her mouth. ‘I can’t handle beer. I don’t usually drink beer. I’m really drunk.’

  ‘That’s all right. Most people drink to get drunk. Although you could stop there, if you like. Everybody’s just dancing now, anyway.’

  ‘It’s so strange being here, isn’t it?’ she said, with an odd change of tack, as if answering a voice in her head. ‘It’s so different. Last week, or the week before – we were all in our different places. We knew – none of this. Crazy, huh?’

  ‘It is indeed.’ He nodded. Christ, he thought. Such inanity.

  ‘It’s such a mad thing to do. Being here. Isn’t it?’

  ‘I guess so.’

  ‘But leaving behind friends, family…’

  ‘I guess.’

  ‘Do you miss them?’

  He shrugged, a faraway look to him. ‘It’s hard to say…’

  ‘I don’t miss mine,’ she said. ‘I miss the scenery. If you wake up every day to the same thing, it sort of becomes part of you, doesn’t it? Your identity.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Where is home to you?’

  ‘London.’

  ‘Oh, OK. I’m from Manchester. Well, the outskirts – Cheshire, really.’

  ‘You don’t sound Mancunian.’

  ‘It’s just the odd thing, really. “Laugh”. “Bath”’.

  ‘Oh. Yes. Spotted it there.’

  ‘It’s probably more obvious when I’m drunk.’

  ‘Not at all.’

  ‘Well, I was born in Croydon. Lived there until I was six.’

  ‘I was born in Croydon, too, actually.’

  ‘No way! It’s an honour, isn’t it?’

  ‘Yep. Very proud to be the holder of a “Born in Addiscombe” badge.’

  ‘Oh my god, I was born in Addiscombe, too! I didn’t mention it as no-one’s ever heard of it. Plus, it’s a shithole. Sorry! Don’t know if I’m allowed to say that… You might be very proud of your Addiscombe.’

  ‘Of course I am. It’s the bit of Croydon that made Kate Moss. And where would we be without Kate Moss?’

  ‘I know, right? And I love the fact that I was born in the same ward as her.’

  ‘Not Mayday?’

  ‘Oh my god! Yes – “May-die”, they call it. What a small world. I can’t believe I’m in Malawi, of all places, and standing next to someone who was born in the same hospital as me.’ She stumbled. ‘Oh dear, I’m so drunk. I’m sorry. I just wanted to let my hair down, I think.’

  ‘You’ve got ve
ry pretty hair to let down.’

  This seemed to sober her up. She gaze him a quizzical look, tumbled her fingers through her hair. ‘Yeah, well…’

  He sparred with the awkwardness. ‘Yes, well, I think it’s time we went and danced with the others, don’t you? Let your hair down properly.’

  She bit her lip. ‘OK, sure.’

  He led her down to the sand, where the drums were still beating and the hips were still thrusting. The light was now a pale sliver, and the moon was a mouth, threatening to eat it all up.

  A few songs later, a few glugs of beer, and he was running to the shoreline. He flung off his shorts, his top, kicked off the sandals… Dipping his toes in, then wading in further – the water, still warm.

  ‘Marcus!’ He ignored it. ‘Marcus!’

  Dora ran up to the water with a stick and prodded him. Now a small group was trotting down. The music stopped.

  ‘Marcus, you’re walking through reeds. Marcus, you’ve got to stop. Right now. That water isn’t clear.’

  He froze and span round. ‘What?’

  ‘Bilharzia. Remember?’

  ‘Bull-what-now?’

  ‘Oh, man. Just get out of the water. Now. Please, you idiot.’

  He darted out. He didn’t know what the peril was, but his skin was burning. He was itching all over.

  Stephanie handed him a towel. ‘Do you remember my instructions? On induction?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘So, it’s “bilharzia”, Marcus. We discussed it about five times over.’

  ‘OK. I admit. I’ve forgotten. All right?’

  ‘You weren’t listening, you mean.’ Dora was frowning with that baby face of hers. The medical martyr. It disgusted him. He wanted to strike her face.

  ‘Well, I’m listening now. You’ve got my attention.’

  ‘Marcus, I can’t have any of you coming down with something like that. We’ve got some insurance, but it’s really not much… Philippa can’t afford to get sued.’

  ‘You wouldn’t get sued.’

  ‘It’s from the freshwater snails. They carry a parasite. The larvae enter your skin. Or through an orifice. Your arsehole, do you understand? It can give you diarrhoea, fever, fatigue. All the good stuff. If you don’t treat it, it shuts down your internal organs. Do. You. Get. It. Now?’

  ‘If you’re swimming in the lake, always avoid standing water. So, anything swampy, anything with reeds, like here. That’s a big risk area.’

  The party disbanded after that. Literally and figuratively. He wanted to bid Annabelle good night, but she was gone. He was left with the animals and tailwind. The village candle blown out.

  Later. In the whirl of darkness around his bed, he saw a slug thicken out of a puddle. It grew and grew, in a tornado of mucus, until it was seven or eight feet tall. It stood over his bed with its eyestalks twitching: for a few minutes, dripping, just staring at Marcus and Marcus looking back. Then a rasping tongue burnt through the bed netting like acid. Marcus went to scream but sound was impossible. Only the squelch of moisture as the slug sagged down and leaked juice on his face. Crumbles of skin sloughed off into his hand. Then an eyeball plopped out and there was nothing at all. He could only sense burning, this ebbing away. And when he lifted his hand to his head, he could feel only skull…

  The screams woke the hallway. The light switched on and Toby was there, mumbling, ineptly: ‘It’s all right, mate.’ Embarrassed grin. And that woman called Paula was undoing the mosquito nets and peering into his face. ‘Are you OK?’

  ‘Yes.’ The sweat dripped into his eyes.

  ‘You were having a nightmare.’

  ‘Yes. OK.’ But he didn’t believe it.

  ‘He had his eyes open, it was proper weird,’ said Toby, to no-one in particular.

  Marcus sat up and saw a small crowd around the doorway. Stephanie was there. She said: ‘I really thought someone had been bitten.’

  Paula turned. ‘My first thought was snakes.’

  The sound drifted into speculation: the murmurings and mumblings of hearsay. Marcus took these few moments to recollect. He hadn’t been dreaming. He had been awake, he had been in his bed, he had been aware of the room. He saw that slug growing and thickening, he had watched it slide closer…

  ‘Right, everyone back to bed.’ Stephanie came forward to prod him. ‘No cheese at dinner tomorrow, you hear?’ Everybody laughed at this, everyone felt the matter reduced and resolved. But Marcus didn’t laugh. His eyeballs were all red and stiff as they filed away.

  ‘You OK for me to turn the light out, pal?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Right you are.’ Blackness. ‘Night, mate.’

  ‘Good night, Toby.’ And he stayed like that all night: sat up, barely blinking, chest puffed up and shoulders thrown back, primed for a fight that would have no end. When morning finally came, he felt such relief that he cried into his pillow.

  On Monday, they made their way back to the second village. He felt like there was nothing inside him, he was just a puppet wound up. The others chatted in the car, but he sat at the front and was silent. He didn’t know how he was going to be able to teach a class. The sickness was returning, he felt it hatching in his stomach. He was resigning himself to going back to the UK and writing the whole thing off.

  The class, however, went surprisingly well. He was always best with an audience, and this was the keenest audience you could possibly get. He enjoyed the happy babble that his questions prompted. He liked the chalk between his fingers, the spells he could cast with it. Their eyes widened at his stories of Britain and of London, of red buses and the Queen. Although they already knew a surprising amount about British history, especially the Commonwealth. Often they were the ones teaching him. Abikanile’s eyes would twinkle when a child corrected him on some minor detail.

  Outside, the group shuffled around the van, waiting for Reuben, who was chatting to Abikanile. Marcus’s stillness had tainted them, and nobody else spoke, even Dora and Annabelle. The children bounced between them, while hands mechanically fluttered open and shut.

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘What?’

  Dora beckoned. ‘That.’

  Everyone turned but nobody had an answer.

  ‘Kondwani… Kondwani!’ Dora tapped on the window.

  ‘What?’

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘What, now?’

  ‘That.’

  ‘Ahh.’

  ‘What’s she doing?’

  ‘Witch.’

  ‘Witch?’

  ‘Keep voice low.’

  Annabelle’s eyes stretched apart. She hissed: ‘What kind of witch?’

  ‘Spell witch, magic witch. Witch fly at night.’

  ‘People don’t fly at night, Kondwani.’

  ‘Yes! Her!’

  ‘So she’s not a good witch?’

  ‘Good?’

  ‘Does nice spells? To get people better?’

  ‘She spells to get people better; she spells to get people sick. You teach, she spells.’

  ‘Why do we have to keep our voices down?’

  ‘Everyone know she a witch, but you cannot say witch. In law, there is no witch. That is law. But sometimes a witch go to prison. Witch not always safe.’

  ‘I don’t understand,’ said Annabelle. ‘Why–’

  Dora interrupted: ‘How come that man’s dancing around her?’

  ‘He knows she is witch. Everyone know. He try to warn her.’

  ‘Of what?’

  ‘Sometimes people die by witch. Sometimes people want witch to die. Witch doctor knows. He look after village, like herdman.’

  The witch doctor’s dance grew frantic. He wore a belt of shells that rattled together. There were bangles up his arms. He blew on a whistle. The children ran towards him, clapping.

  The old lady tottered away, using a large stick to propel her. Her face was dark and scrunched, like her life had had several revisions. Even Reuben and Abikanile stopped talking. The
y were all facing the old lady as she headed their way; their backs pressed to the van.

  She stopped and squinted into the sun. A bony finger unfurled and pointed. Her voice was as crackly and weak as a gramophone. She seemed to say the same thing again, but louder. Some children stopped dancing to look at her. Their faces were unreadable. The witch doctor danced on.

  ‘What did she say?’ asked Ben. His skin was paler than ever.

  The old lady hissed and walked away.

  ‘Kondwani, what did she say?’ Dora fidgeted with her dress.

  ‘She said, “Fear the white man.”’ Abikanile paused. ‘She said, “Children, listen: fear the white man, fear the white man.”’

  Abikanile’s adoptive parents were American but her Malawian was flawless from frequent visits. She liked to let the words trip off her tongue to naive ears. So she continued: ‘We say “bogeyman”: “if you misbehave, the bogeyman will come and get you”. We’ve all heard that, right? Their equivalent is “white man”. Fear the white man. He will come and get you.’

  ‘But why would they say that?’ asked Marcus, piping up. ‘We’re the good guys; we’re the ones who have actually come here to help you.’

  She replied, ‘Oh, you understand nothing’, and swiped him away.

  After that first day at school, the weeks rolled by on the train tracks of habit. Marcus was living on autopilot, just trying to get by, seeking to duck those nightmares and sudden feelings of panic. He mostly kept to himself.

  There was a daytrip at some point – some river, some waterfall. He wasn’t really listening. Most people went. He opted out and slinked around the village, finding corners in the shade. Here, he lovingly dug out his Kindle and read motivational books about success and prestige. The dust crept over him and he felt very old, like he had already lived too long. Then he lay on his back and watched the clouds travel the sky. Always searching, always seeking; they never stopped. He tried to find patterns out of them, like he had as a child, like he had as a man, but now he saw only different shapes of the same thing. He saw only cloud. And just a short while later, Marcus disappeared into the landscape.