Savage Moon

by Chris Simms

  'We built that country. And the Government in London sold us down the river. When they decided it was all an embarrassment, they washed their hands of us. They even let out Kenyatta, the biggest terrorist of all.'

  'So you moved back here?'

  'Before they handed power over to those bloody savages, yes. We had to leave that farm behind and start again. My sister, Andrew's mum, went to South Africa.'

  Du Toit looked up. 'Hang on, this is all about a kaffir? You're saying my Aunty Rose was killed by a fucking kaffir?'

  A beeping noise sounded in the kitchen. Du Toit's head snapped to the side. 'Something's triggered the sensors in the top field!' He jumped to his feet, grabbing his gun as he did so.

  Sutton struggled to get up. 'No! Andrew, stay inside.'

  Jon was on his feet. 'I'm calling for back-up. Everybody sit down.'

  'Bullshit,' Andrew replied, hurrying into the kitchen. Sutton was reaching for his gun.

  'Stay where you are,' said Jon, pulling his mobile out. One bar of signal flickered on and off. He tried to dial Longsight, but the call was dropped after two shaky rings. Bollocks! Du Toit reappeared in the doorway and threw a walkie-talkie to Sutton.

  'I'm going out. Keep this turned on.'

  'Andrew, don't!' said Jon, grabbing Sutton's arm as he too made for the door. 'Where's your bloody phone?'

  Sutton struggled to get free. 'There, by the gun cabinet.' Jon bounded over to it. 'How does it work? I can't get a dial tone.'

  Sutton turned in the kitchen doorway. 'The green button. Press it.'

  'I have! There's nothing.'

  Sutton walked stiffly over, listened to the phone, jabbed at the green button and lifted it to his ear once again. 'He's cut the wires.'

  Jon remembered the line from Field's project. The Mau Mau chose isolated farms with no phones. Think. There must be some way of getting help.

  Sutton returned to his armchair and sat down on the edge of it, rifle in one hand, walkie-talkie in the other. Low static emanated from the speaker.

  'We should go and get him back,' Jon said, peering through the tiny windows set into the thick walls.

  'He knows what he's doing,' Sutton stated, before adding,

  'Kill the bastard, Andrew.'

  Jon paced up and down. Text messages! Don't they require less signal to get through? He started typing, Suttons farm.

  The walkie-talkie came to life. 'He's here, on the track. Climbing down one of your telephone posts. Looks like he's wearing an animal skin.'

  Sutton pressed the transmit button. 'Kill him! Kill the bastard!' As Jon tried to grab the walkie-talkie it emitted a sharp burst of static. An instant later the sound of a gunshot rolled across the fields outside. 'I think I winged him! He's running back to the top field.' The words came in broken snatches. 'He's fast.'

  Ken stood up. 'Now we'll show him who's boss.'

  Still trying to type the message, Jon made a grab for him.

  'Sutton, do not go out there!'

  The older man yanked his arm free, the walkie-talkie falling to the floor.

  'Jesus,' cursed Jon. Quickly he completed the message. Jammer here. Send help. He brought Rick's number up and pressed send. The little envelope on his screen folded itself over and flew off. A second later the words, Message Sent appeared. 'Thank fuck for that,' Jon said.

  Outside the quad bike roared to life. Jon got to the front door just as Sutton zoomed past, his rifle jammed into a gap behind the seat. The red lights bounced away down the track, Chip barking manically at them.

  Jon looked at the dog. 'This is a fucking nightmare.' He went back into the kitchen. What the hell do I do now? Inside the front room, the walkie-talkie continued to buzz. Jon went though, picked it up and pressed the transmit button. 'Hello? Andrew, can you hear me? Andrew?'

  He crossed the room and looked into the gun cabinet. Sutton's single shot .22, used for killing rats. Better than nothing. As he pulled it from the rack the walkie-talkie sounded again.

  'I'm near the wall. The sneaky bastard, I think he's doubled—' A burst of noise like a hurricane, punctuated by gasping screams. Silence.

  Jon pressed the button. 'Hello! Andrew! Can you hear me, Andrew!'

  He let his finger off and now heard the sound of an engine getting louder and louder. The noise died down and, as Jon stared into the fire, he heard Sutton's voice. 'Oh Andrew. Oh sweet Jesus Christ. Andrew can you—'

  A loud snarl. The start of a shout, abruptly cut off. Jon threw the walkie-talkie on to the armchair and ran from the room, the rifle in his right hand. Images seemed to register in freeze frames. The red light on the monitor in the kitchen flashing on and off, Sutton's cat staring smugly at him from on top of the Aga, Chip barking loudly and throwing himself against his chain, sheep in the barns with mouths open as they bleated in fear.

  He ran down the track, all the while glancing through the low hedge into the top field. The headlights of the quad-bike came into view. The vehicle was motionless on the far side of the field. Jon squeezed between the thorny branches and began jogging across the lumpy grass, all the time trying to scan the darkness before him.

  The headlights shone towards the dry-stone wall, just illuminating the beginnings of the moor as it loomed up, blotting out a good part of the night sky. Within fifty metres of the still idling vehicle he stopped. Two bloody forms were visible in the outer reaches of the quad-bike's beam, steam rising from their wounds. They were lying almost at the base of the dry-stone wall. Jon fought the urge to turn and run. Instead he began a slow circle round, trying to get a better view. Fuck this, a voice screamed. Get back to the farmhouse and lock yourself in. One of the bodies moved, a hand fluttered weakly in the air. Shit, Jon thought, drawing closer, gun held before him.

  Now he could see them better. Andrew Du Toit was on his side, a gory mess below his chin. His unblinking eyes stared at the grass and Jon knew he was dead. Next to him Sutton lay on his back, a hand still waving weakly in the air. Along with the steam rising from his gaping chest, Jon could see breath curling from his open mouth. He crept forwards. No sign of the killer. Maybe hiding on the other side of that wall? He knew that helping Sutton meant entering the beam of light and exposing himself to view. His heart was like a drum beating in the night. Do it. Go in fast, get him on to the quad-bike and drive for the main road. Don't! Just turn around and get away from here! He extended a foot, then brought it back. He took several quick breaths. 'Come on Spicer, go, go!'

  Keeping low, he ran across the grass and entered the bright glare. As he knelt down, he looked for their weapons. All he spotted was the other walkie-talkie by Sutton's leg. Quickly he jammed it into his pocket. Then he tried to hook an arm under Sutton's. The man was like a sack of coal. Jon looked at the rifle in his hand. Do I put you down? No fucking way. He grasped Sutton's collar and started trying to pull him through the long grass towards the vehicle. The lamp shone directly into his eyes and slowly he started to stagger towards it.

  Something black passed across the beam of light, a long tail trailing behind it. Jon squinted, just able to make out movement behind the vehicle. The engine abruptly died and with it the light. Jon blinked, suddenly unable to see a thing. At his feet Sutton let out a shuddering sigh then stopped breathing. Jon opened his eyes as wide as they could go. But all he could see was churning clouds of bright colours, his night vision ruined by looking into the headlight. Shit, shit, shit. From the darkness in front came a low rumbling snarl. Ice blasted through Jon's veins and he let Sutton's corpse sink to the turf. Hands shaking, he brought the weapon up, desperately trying to hear if something was running at him. He felt tears brimming in his eyes. Alice, I'm so fucking sorry to leave you like this.

  The noise came again, closer this time. Jon felt his last bit of self-control give way. Pure terror flooded him. His legs began to pump and he realised he was sprinting blindly across the grass. Pain exploded up from his left ankle and he pitched face first into the ground. He got back on his feet and tried to put s
ome weight on his twisted ankle. An agonising stabbing carried right up his leg, countering the waves of panic, clearing his head. The dipping sheds, he thought, somewhere to my right. He started to hobble in what he hoped was the right direction. He became aware of the wall at his side. There was light above. The moon. It had come out. He was regaining the ability to see. Turning round he searched the field, just able to spot a dark form in the silvery light. It was zigzagging across the grass towards him, pointed ears sticking up from its head.

  Lights on the track, flashing blue. Lots of them. The procession of vehicles was speeding towards the farm. 'Here!' Jon yelled, waving his arms. 'I'm here!'

  The police cars didn't slow. He pointed the rifle upwards and pulled the trigger. A weak pop and the procession continued past. From the corner of his eye, Jon could see the black shape was now less than thirty metres away. He turned in the other direction. The sheds were just ahead. Half running, half hopping, he set off, the anticipation of the claws sinking into his back increasing with every step. Into the courtyard, railings lining the edge of several deep trenches. He thought of hiding in one, then imagined being trapped down there as the creature, with claws extended, dropped into the other end. A wooden door led into the shed on his right. Please. Please God you have to be open. Gasping for breath, he yanked the handle. Locked. He rammed the tip of the barrel into the gap between the edge of the door and the frame, started levering it violently back and forth. The barrel suddenly snapped with a loud crack. As the broken halves dropped to the ground he looked wildly around. There was one other door in the far corner of the courtyard. Knowing it was his last chance, he hobbled towards it, curled his fingers round the rusty handle and pulled. No! It wouldn't budge. As he sank against the wooden surface the walkie-talkie sounded in his pocket.

  'Hello? Can anyone hear me? Jon, are you out there?'

  Fresh energy exploded inside him. A chance to survive, however slim. He pulled the handset out. 'Rick! I'm in the field above the house. There's some sheds on the other side. For fuck's sake, hurry!'

  At the edge of his vision a black form slid round the corner of the wall. His sense of elation vanished as he slowly turned his head. Holy Mother of God. The panther's pelt was dripping with gore, the fur matted together in stiff clumps. Beneath it he could make out a human form, totally soaked in blood. The cruel hooks of the weapons clinked against the concrete as the person lowered himself onto all fours and began crawling towards Jon, long tail dragging behind.

  Jon sank to the ground, drew his knees up and held his palms out. 'Please, please, don't do this. I have a baby. I have—' Snot broke from his nose. His eyes filled with tears once again and he choked on his words.

  Snarling quietly, the creature drew closer and a sour stench filled the air. The lower jaw of the panther had been removed and the upper part of the animal's head sat snug on the person's skull, long teeth curling down over his forehead. Now within striking distance, he sank on to his haunches and the low snarling stopped.

  Pressing himself back against the door, Jon's breath came in short snatches through his nostrils. The head lifted up and he found himself staring into James Field's eyes.

  'I remember you.'

  Jon blinked. Terror had robbed him of the ability to reply.

  'DI Spicer, isn't it?'

  He raised himself up a little and wiped the snot from his lips.

  'You offered me your card, tried to help me with a job. You have a good heart.'

  Jon cleared his throat. 'Are you going to kill me?'

  Field shook his head. 'One more person will die tonight, but it won't be you.'

  Jon felt some of the elation return to mix with his sickening fear. He looked at the blood and dirt smeared on the other man's face.

  'I disgust you. I can see it in your eyes.'

  Jon swallowed. 'You... your appearance. It's shocked me.' Field glanced down at his own body. 'I've been sleeping in ditches, fields and woods. Living off whatever I could find, washing in that river.'

  'You were following the Medlock?' He nodded. 'Since Kerrigan.'

  Unsure if Field would strike, Jon slowly lowered one knee, the ankle throbbing with pain as he slid his foot outwards.

  'Following it back here to Sutton?'

  'Not Sutton. Kiboroboro. The killer. That's what the prisoners at Hola knew him as. They never found out the names of their mzungu guards, so they gave them nicknames instead.'

  'I read your project about Kenya.'

  Field smiled. 'Good. I knew you'd come across it sooner or later. The project you read – the original – has gone to the Manchester Evening Chronicle. I sent it to the crime reporter there. Once tonight is over she will have to tell the truth.'

  'It was terrible, what happened there.'

  Field raised a bloody claw and used it to scratch at his head.

  'You shaved your dreadlocks off.'

  'Yes, I think this pelt has given me lice.'

  'Where did you get it?'

  'The Burma market in Nairobi. You can buy anything there.'

  'When you met your relatives?'

  'Yes. You know Trevor Kerrigan raped my mother when she couldn't pay her rent?'

  'We'd guessed as much. How did you learn that?'

  'The letters she sent to our relatives in Kenya. In one she mentioned his surname. It was easy to track him down when I returned to Britain.'

  'And Peterson?'

  'You know why. For pushing Danny into killing himself.'

  'Rose Sutton?'

  Field shrugged. 'If he'd had any children, I would have killed them too. He destroyed my family. You've read my project, but you won't know what men like Ken Sutton did. You should know. Everyone should know.'

  He sat down and crossed his legs, never letting go of the weapon in each hand. 'My grandfather, Magayu Gathambo, was an educated man. He went to the Tumutumu Presbyterian Mission in Nyeri. He worked as a clerk for a lawyer in Nairobi, then joined the British Army when World War Two broke out. When he returned home his family were living in squalor. But he refused to join the men who whispered about ending white rule. He still believed in those British values of decency and fair play, hoping they might be applied to black people too. When the soldiers drove into Nairobi in their Land Rovers, loud speakers blaring, ordering all Kikuyu to pack one bag and leave their homes, he cooperated.'

  'Operation Anvil,' Jon whispered.

  James inclined his head. 'Correct. At the screening centre in Subuku they tied him to a chair and extinguished cigarettes on his back. They shocked him with electricity and forced hot eggs into his anus. My grandmother, Muringo, had her breasts squeezed with pliers and banana leaves rammed into her vagina. They didn't confess to the oath because they hadn't taken it. But once they were set free, they took it straightaway. Muringo remained in Nairobi, Magayu left for the forests of Mount Kenya to join the KLFA. He fought for three years, living as I have done, before he was captured on a return visit to see his wife in Nairobi. They were both immediately put into the Pipeline.'

  Beyond the courtyard Jon saw the glow of torches starting to bob across the fields. He heard dogs whining and snatches of speech on the breeze, orders being given in low voices.

  James cocked his head to the side, eyes staying on Jon. 'Time is running out, your reinforcements will be here soon. When Magayu arrived at his camp the doors to his cattle truck were thrown open. They ran a gauntlet of whistle-blowing guards and barking alsatians. Officers screamed, “Piga! Piga sana!” Beat them, keep beating them! They were stripped naked and forced into a cattle dip of disinfectant. Some drowned in the stampede. He was issued with a pair of yellow shorts, two blankets and a wristband with a number. The few possessions he had were stolen, his clothes burned on a bonfire. He was graded as a black suspect, the ones most dangerously committed to independence. He was moved from camp to camp in shackles, forced to work laying roads, digging trenches, even building the runways for the international airport outside Nairobi. Many died on that project, but
still he refused to confess the oath. He was eventually classed as hardcore and sent to Hola for breaking there.'

  Now Jon could see the lights had split into two groups. From somewhere in the black sky came the chopping sound of a helicopter. 'I don't know what to call you.'

  'Jammer. I'm neither James nor Njama.'

  'Well Jammer, we need to discuss what's about to happen. That's an armed response unit coming across the fields.'

  Jammer raked a claw across the concrete. 'It's not important. Just listen. Magayu survived the beatings and torture at every camp, but nothing could prepare him for Hola and the rule of

  Kiboroboro.'

  'Sutton was the camp commander?'

  'He had many ways of trying to make prisoners confess. Sometimes he'd put them in coils of barbed wire and kick them round the central square. But his speciality was his Land Rover, Gitune. That means Big Red. The prisoners called it that because it was so covered in blood. Kiboroboro would tie an inmate to the rear bumper by his ankles. Then he'd say, “Last chance to talk, Nugu.” That means baboon. If they didn't, he'd drive round and round the camp perimeter until the body was just pulp.'

  Jon remembered Clegg describing how Sutton had dragged the carcass of the dog back to its owners in the same way. Behind Jammer heads began to peer round the corners of the courtyard. They disappeared for a moment. Then armed officers ran out, forming a line. An amplified voice boomed out. 'Drop your weapons and move away from the officer!'

  Jammer crouched lower. 'Because my grandfather was literate, he was given basic tasks in the camp office. He learned Kiboroboro's real name from memoranda he saw there. He also stole paper and smuggled out letters detailing the atrocities. They went to people in authority, both in Kenya and here, in Britain. He knew the letters reached their intended recipients.'

  'How?'

  'Because the people he wrote to returned them to the camp, demanding to know how such letters had leaked out. The treatment of prisoners was sanctioned at the very highest levels. They signed his death warrant. Kiboroboro tied him to the back of Gitune.'