Everybody had gone to schools, to their projects on the periphery of the villages or elsewhere. The camp was silent, except for non-human noise.
Marcus had escaped teaching that day by playing his ‘recovery’ card. He felt a little odd, he might stay back – it wasn’t fair to the children, etc., etc. They were all so terrified of mental illness, of the unpredictability of emotions, that they gawped and nodded, not knowing which words to speak, what they could possibly say. This worked in his favour.
Now he had Stephanie to himself. He approached her, quietly, he didn’t know why. He wanted perhaps to startle her at the last possible moment, to gain her utmost attention in a concentrated second.
She jumped.
‘Marcus! Oh my word.’
‘Sorry.’
‘I forgot you were here.’
‘I stayed behind, remember? I wasn’t feeling too great.’
‘You’ve got to be careful. Don’t push it.’
‘Exactly. That’s exactly what I’m doing.’
‘Relapse and all that.’
‘Exactly. May I sit down?’
Her eyebrows shot up, she blinked several times in succession. ‘Sure.’
He dragged out a chair and planted himself down.
‘Beautiful day,’ she said, panicking at the prospect of sustained conversation.
‘Well,’ he considered. ‘It’s a bit like any other day.’
‘Well. I suppose so. But… Warmth, sun. It’s a rare thing in England sometimes.’
Pause. ‘I’ve always wondered why people associate sunshine with happiness. What makes this a “good” day and not a bad one? What makes it beautiful? Is it a rush of vitamin D? A serotonin boost? Is it social conditioning? Isn’t there something beautiful about mist, as well? Snow, rain, fog? What is “beauty”, anyway?’
‘Well,’ she said, flustered. ‘I hadn’t quite thought of it like that.’
‘What is this meaning we give to a blue sky? What is this human element that we project on to it? Because it’s just a sky without any cloud in it. It’s just a colour. It’s still just the carapace of a void. And why are clouds bad? Clouds signal rain. Rain helps our crops grow…’
‘We could certainly do with some rain here.’
‘It’s too simplistic to say that these constructs of beauty–’
‘I was just making conversation,’ she snapped. ‘My god.’ she instantly regretted the outburst. She bit her lip and turned to him, anxious, scouring his face for any hurt or outrage. On the contrary, he looked quite chipper.
‘I’m sorry,’ she said, anyway. ‘I’m a bit tired.’
‘Thinking about the villager? The one who died?’
‘Yes.’ She continued, despite herself. ‘She’s the first person I’ve known to die here.’ Then she trailed back off. He counted to ten. She still didn’t speak.
‘Stephanie?’
‘Yes?’
‘I’ve been meaning to say. I still want to go back soon.’
‘Back?’ Her eyes widened. ‘Oh yes. Yes. Right. You said. That’s right…’
‘I don’t think this is quite what I expected,’ he said, gesturing around, at the ether itself.
‘Oh right.’ What did you expect, she thought (to borrow Kondwani’s favourite phrase); but she let the thoughts circle around in her mind, her lips lowered like a lid on a boiling saucepan.
‘And the whole… malaria thing. Apparently you can get flare ups. It takes a while for those drugs to leave your system. I’d really feel much happier at home, surrounded by – you know, mod cons, technology, normal 21st century stuff.’
That isn’t normal for most of the planet, she thought – but, again, she said nothing. She held herself tight.
‘And it makes sense to go back now – just before Christmas. It’s really weird to be out here, with all this tinsel and fake snowflakes sprayed on the windows. Honestly, I think I’d rather go back.’
After a few seconds of processing, Stephanie said: ‘We can help you book your flight. But it’s going to cost a lot to fly back at this time of year. And you will have to pay Kondwani a flat fee to take you to the airport.’
The thought of the camp disintegrating, of the camaraderie ebbing. Everyone was a bit spooked, already; people acting as if meningitis was something you could catch, like measles. What if they all packed up now, what if she never saw Kondwani again?
‘Can I persuade you to stay, though?’
‘Persuade? God, no. Sorry. I’m made up.’
‘Well, I respect that. I do. But it’s just… We have so much to do. So much to accomplish. We promised the village–’
‘I appreciate that, but–’
‘What if we paid you? I mean, it wouldn’t be much. But it would be something. As a token for your time. You couldn’t tell the others. It would have to be a secret. I’d clear it with Philippa. I’d find a way to…’
He hadn’t thought about money for a while. Money. That golden ticket. The piece of paper that justified everything, which could fool you into thinking that you were living your life well, that you were achieving your goals.
‘Couldn’t you just stay for a month? With us paying you, a bit. And then see how you feel? We can achieve so much, I know that we can. But if we all disperse…’
‘Can’t you just get some more volunteers?’
‘It doesn’t work like that. We have to get people visas, sort out their flights, make sure they get their jobs. We have to fill out forms, do checks on insurance. We have to train them. We’re only a small group. We are such a small charity. Every day is a battle, a battle to survive. To achieve what we set out to achieve. Please.’
‘Money would help,’ he admitted. ‘I could be earning big bucks at home. This would be… a kind of compensation.’
She blinked a few times. ‘Well, like I said, it wouldn’t be much.’
‘But something. That’s good.’
‘And the children have gotten to know you. Have you gotten to know them?’
He shrugged. ‘They’re just children. They seem nice enough.’
This time she didn’t blink. She stared at him for several moments, her eyes wide and her pupils constricted. ‘Can I say something?’
He waved his hand to signal consent.
‘You don’t fit the profile of our usual volunteer.’
‘Oh? What’s that, then?’
‘Well,’ she floundered. ‘Liberal, humanitarian, compassionate…’
‘Compassionate?’
‘Sorry, I suppose that’s too strong. But you know the type. I’m the type. Feeling guilty at the state of this world, this terrible burden on your shoulders.’
‘Guilt?’
‘Yes.’
‘Guilt.’ He pushed the seat back away, stood up from the thighs, so his torso and shoulders stayed rigid. ‘I don’t feel any guilt. Why should I?’
‘Well, that’s kind of what I meant.’ She hesitated.
He mumbled something inaudible, his eyebrows hunched down to the bone. ‘I’ll stay for a month,’ he said, and walked back to his room. But today he found the peace too disturbing, and he popped in his headphones and shut out everything but songs: singing along to the lyrics so there was no room for the words in his head.
#
It was a good month. It’s true that the skies stayed dry and the crops stayed shrivelling. An unspoken panic true enough to cause some villagers to creep around the pizza oven, clumsy hands held out for charity, knowing what it was like to starve hollow and desperate because nothing would grow. And it’s true that everyone thought about that young woman and her early demise, although improbable that anyone missed her. They’d already forgotten her name.
But Marcus had a good month. He found their Christmas to be surprisingly fun. He didn’t usually like Christmas because his father had died just before it, on the way to buy presents. Marcus had badgered him all year for a PlayStation, he just had to have one, he’d gone on and on about it for weeks. So after that,
he never really liked tinsel or crackers or mincemeat. Yet he decided to treat this one like it was just an extra-colourful party, of the ilk he’d had in student days. Cheap bottles of wine and silly, flirtatious games. It all ebbed away in an indulgent blur.
He also enjoyed the teaching, in a way, now that it was ‘work’ and earning a wage. Even the children were growing on him, you could say – there was something of him in them, an eagerness to learn, to try and be something, do something. Of course, in other ways, they were different – they seemed to have everything figured out much better than he did. They seemed to know a secret in life that they would not share. They stared at him sometimes, and did not look awkward when he returned their gaze. They just kept on staring.
Best of all, Marcus was now sleeping again: deep, restful sleeps with normal, colourful dreams. He ate a lot of pizza from the pizza oven. He’d always loved pizza. And he made an almost friend, a buddy: Chris. They bonded over a competitive tournament of charades on Boxing Day – both on the winning team, no less. It was funny because Marcus hadn’t spoken to Chris before that moment, but he discovered that Chris was in finance, too; that he was doing this trip as part of some elaborate favour to his boss. Playing the long game on the court of promotion. Marcus understood and related to those reasons. Although even Chris could be a touch too pious sometimes, and a bit of a pussy (a teetotaller, non-smoker, strictly faithful to his girlfriend back home), he was perfect for a touch of kick ball or a chat about women (which he grudgingly gave in to, after a little persuasion… And turned out to be as lascivious and perverted as the best of them). His biggest asset was his willingness to talk. Pretty much everyone ignored Marcus completely – whether for his mental hiccup or for something else, he didn’t quite know. But he didn’t give a rat’s ass. Which he told Chris repeatedly, as they lay in the sun. Chris would just murmur or nod or offer reassurances to the contrary. Marcus didn’t care for this half of the conversation: it was the talking he savoured. Luckily, Chris was weak and genial. It was a good month for Marcus.
One small annoyance was the day he drew short straws with Annabelle to stay behind and man the camp, while the others went off on a boat trip excursion along the Shire River, the day before New Year. He had been desperate to leave these confines, to try to capture some kind of holiday feel. People came here on holiday. There must be fun, ‘holiday’ things to do, besides swatting mosquitoes and sweeping up dust.
‘It’s full of hippos, anyway,’ said Annabelle, as she stretched out her legs and opened up a book. ‘They’ll probably all be killed. Then we’ll be pleased we drew the short straws, won’t we?’
‘Oh god,’ he drawled. ‘Do you have to turn everything into a silver fucking lining?’
‘Yup.’ She said this with a proud tone, but nonetheless drew her legs up to her chest, and sucked in her lips so she looked sort of hurt.
‘Are you fucked off with me?’
‘Nope.’
‘If you are, can you just say so, instead of moping around all day?’
She lowered her sunglasses. ‘Would you be sorry if I was?’
‘I wouldn’t be sorry, but I’d be relieved to know where I stood.’
‘Oh great. I’m so desperate to relieve you of this burden and not even get an apology for it.’
‘Yep. You’re fucked.’
‘Oh–’ she began, and flung down the book.
‘Yes?’
‘Nothing.’
‘You were about to say “fuck off” to me, weren’t you?’
‘No, I wouldn’t sink to that.’
‘You were, too!’
‘I wasn’t.’
‘You really were.’
‘I don’t think I was, actually.’
‘You know what?’ she said, now shoving the book across the table… ‘I’ve been so nice to you. Why do you have to say such mean things all the time?’
‘I wasn’t trying to be mean. You’re just always so… Upbeat.’
‘I’m not upbeat!’
‘You are. You’re always upbeat and smiley and optimistic and super nice.’
‘Why are you spitting out those words like they’re bad things?’
‘I just don’t get how somebody can be that way for twenty-four hours a day. You must be acting or something.’
‘Me? Acting?’ Her eyebrows trapezed across her forehead. ‘You’re the one who is acting. Trying to be sane when you’re clearly mentally ill!’
He put his book down. ‘That’s better. Some truth at last.’
She looked away, embarrassed. ‘I’m sorry. That was super harsh.’
‘It’s OK. I don’t care what people think of me.’
‘Well, I wish I could be like that.’ Her eyes went dreamy. ‘I always anticipate judgment.’
He could see the plan to read was suspended. He lay down and closed his eyes. ‘Hence the super-niceness, then. You’re trying to get everyone to like you.’
‘No, I don’t think I’m doing that, Dr Freud! Maybe I’m trying to like… Oh, this is getting too personal. And I can tell that you’re bored.’
‘I’m not bored.’
‘You’ve got your eyes closed.’
‘I’m just blocking everything out. Focusing on your words.’
‘Really?’ Her voice was incredulous but soft, pert…
‘Yeah. Whatever.’ She was so easy to win over. Nancy at least had more dignity. She’d have kicked him in the balls by now.
‘Well. Anyway. It was strange at school yesterday. Wasn’t it?’
‘What do you mean? No, not particularly.’
‘An odd atmosphere, I mean. When Blessings asked us about Britain.’
‘Why was that weird?’
‘I didn’t know what to say.’
‘Right… Well, it didn’t matter. I jumped in.’
‘Yes, but then you just started talking about Nando’s and high streets and binge drinking and iPhones…’
‘So?’
‘So, it was strange. I could tell the children were baffled. Just completely astounded. Trying to imagine this land where everyone can ride into these giant supermarkets and you have all these motorways and cars and central heating and office blocks. All those things we take for granted.’ She gestured towards the generator. ‘Electricity, I mean. Turning on the light like it comes out of nowhere. Like it’s not even special.’
‘They have their cities. I mean, this lot don’t live there – but many do.’
‘But their idea of a city is nothing like ours. Compare Lilongwe to London! Come on! Think of the station, with those big piles of plastic. And that smell. That smell, like sweet and sour–’
‘Well, they’ve heard it all before. They know our country’s really rich and theirs isn’t. They know we have different lives.’
‘But didn’t you feel embarrassed when you were telling them that? Making the distinction out loud? I was curling up inside. I couldn’t even look at them. I felt really ashamed, Marcus.’
‘Why were you ashamed?’ He half opened his eyelids.
‘Because they know we’re all going to go back to that. That lifestyle. We’re just going to leave them floundering in this one.’
‘So what?’
‘I felt like a hypocrite. That’s all. None of them have anything to eat right now. The soil’s rubbish, they’re out of fertiliser. It’s not even raining, is it? I’m a hypocrite to even be here.’
‘A hypocrite?’
‘Yes, a fraud.’
‘You’re mad. They’d go back to Britain if they could. They’ll probably try to sneak under the back of our aeroplane, tie themselves to a wing. They don’t blame us for it. Why should we? What are you going to do, stay out here indefinitely, out of some twisted sense of guilt? Just count yourself lucky.’
‘But that’s all that divides us, then. “Us” and “them”. Luck?’
‘Well…’ He considered a fuller reply, but trailed off. ‘Then you get into politics and shit. It depends on your ideologies, doe
sn’t it?’
‘I’m not sure it does.’ Her voice was sad and broken. ‘I don’t think it has anything to do with that. I think you were right the first time. It’s luck. Historical luck. And we’ve just exploited that, ever since. We had a good first hand and we’ve just exploited it.’
‘Come on. You’re beating yourself up for nothing.’
‘Well, I saw their faces when you were speaking. When I finally got the courage to look at them. And they just looked confused. I guess maybe some looked enchanted, like you were telling a fairy story. A children’s book or something. But a couple of them – including Blessings… They just looked sad. Defeated, I guess. Defeated and resigned and all given up inside. I could see it hit them. This awful sad anger. Thinking about how the rest of the world lives. All these things they’ll never have. All these things we take for granted.’
‘Of course they can have it! They just need to grow their economy. Sort out their shit. Stop lazing around and believing in witchcraft.’
She swivelled her eyes, tough as two pricks of frost. ‘You don’t seriously believe that?’
‘I do.’
‘These countries can’t get rich as long as we keep feeding our greed.’
‘Wow. Everyone has an agenda, don’t they? Yours is communism and self-flagellation.’
‘Most of the world can’t live like we do. We live in our little bubble and we talk about the new millennium and the 21st century. We say, “Ooh, are we all going to ride hover cars in fifty years time?” “Ooh, are we going to invent some injection which means we’ll all live forever?” “Ooh, isn’t the internet great?” “Isn’t progress great?” We think that everyone lives like we do. But they don’t. The majority of the world does not. We’re the elect. We’re the elite. And that’s just how this shitty world runs. They’re condemned from birth.’ Her voice rose higher. ‘What are we educating them to be, Marcus? Tell me.’
‘What are you on about?’
‘We’re going into these schools, we’re teaching them stuff. What are we educating them to be? When the best most of them can hope for is to maybe work as a cleaner or in a shop. Maybe get married in a year or two, if you’re a girl. Or maybe just fall under the radar and belong to nowhere at all.’
Another Justified Sinner Page 16