Dark Flight

by Lin Anderson

  In that moment, Rhona suddenly understood everything.

  Sam was the killer and he had come to deliver his prey.

  55

  THE BUILDING WAS little more than a shack, used by fishermen to dry the ugly mud fish they pulled from the river. It sat on a sandbank, exposed by the nine-month-long dry season. Come the full rains it would be gone, swept away in the thunderstorms that dug fissures in the clay landscape and swelled the river to the full height of it banks.

  A dugout took them across as the blood-red orb of the sun dipped below the horizon. The boatman paddled a steady rhythm, holding the canoe against the current that pulled them relentlessly south.

  Rhona sat in the centre, her hands gripping the sides of the roughly hewn wood. Stephen was huddled in the bow, held tight by Sam, who faced Rhona. At her back, Naseem’s henchmen watched their every move.

  Sam’s expression had changed swiftly from amazement to blankness when he saw her pulled from the vehicle. Whatever happened, Sam didn’t want to know her, or at least be seen to know her. What surprised Rhona most was the way in which Stephen clung to him. Stephen didn’t look on Sam as an enemy, but as a friend.

  She couldn’t believe it was just over a week since she’d sat with Sam and Chrissy in the jazz club and discussed juju. She’d even shown Sam a drawing of the bones. The desperate realisation that she may have played into his hands scared her more than anything. He had tricked her and, even worse, he’d betrayed Chrissy.

  The canoe ground over sand and the boatman jumped out and pulled them ashore. Rhona saw something pass hand to hand between him and Naseem’s man. Probably more Niara than the fisherman had ever seen in his life.

  Day dropped into night as they walked towards the shack. She was bundled in first, stumbling into the smell of blood and excrement. Suddenly she was back in that terrible building on the waste ground, the same decay filling her nostrils, the same overwhelming scent of death. There she’d had a powerful torch to illuminate the horror before her, here she had to imagine what lay in the shadows created by the smoking paraffin lamp. Then too she’d had an ally, McNab. What Rhona would have given, to see him run towards her, as he’d done on the waste ground.

  The altar was made of red mud and topped with a skull pierced with nails. The skull wasn’t human. Rhona forced herself to categorise it to stop the bile that rose in her throat. A goat’s skull, most likely.

  Behind her, Stephen cried out and she heard Sam whisper something to quieten him. Then she admitted to herself what she’d known all along: they had brought the child here to kill him. They had brought her here for the same reason. And she could do nothing to stop them. Everything she knew was useless here. All her knowledge couldn’t prevent death.

  They tied her hands together and pushed her down against the wall. When they tried to tie Stephen’s hands, Sam prevented them, saying something in Hausa. He took the child to the outside wall of the shack and sat with him there, near her. It was the first time Sam looked Rhona full in the face.

  He held her glance, willing her to understand something without words. But what?

  The suspicion that he was trying to trick her evaporated under that stare. Chrissy was no fool. She was an astute judge of character.

  Sam slipped his hand along the floor of the hut, and Rhona saw the glint of steel. She felt a soft sawing motion as the sharp blade cut through the twine that bound her.

  ‘Be ready,’ he whispered.

  The hut began to fill with shadowy figures, women and men. A drum took up a steady beat. Rhona could not see their faces, but their chanting pulsed through her veins like a hypnotic drug.

  A goat was brought in, bleating with fear.

  Behind was a woman. Rhona felt Sam stiffen beside her. He muttered something under his breath. It sounded like uwa. The woman was drugged, swaying between the arms of her captors. The chanting rose, deep and resonant. Rhona’s view of the proceedings was blocked by the mass of bodies, but she heard the squeal of the dying goat, the splash of the blood hitting the metal bowl and the explosion of joy from the onlookers.

  A male voice called for order.

  The chanting and shouting stopped.

  The man spoke in Hausa. His voice had the rhythm and resonance of the chant but Rhona knew it was more. It was an incantation.

  Sam sat up on his haunches and watched, the muscles on his neck straining.

  As the words ended, a great sigh rose from the company. The metal bowl was passed around, and the watchers drank from it one by one. When it came to Sam, he held it to his lips. Rhona heard him whisper, ‘May the blood of Jesus save her.’

  The woman was the last to drink, her drugged mouth forced open to accept the blood. Then it was over. She was taken from the hut.

  Rhona felt Sam relax beside her.

  ‘Now,’ he said. ‘We will go.’

  56

  WHEN BONIFACE SPOTTED the Land Rover coming up the drive, he came running towards them, his shouts a mix of Hausa and English.

  A rapid exchange with Abdul established they must go to the river quickly.

  ‘They have Rhona and Stephen on a sandbank,’ Henry translated. ‘Pastor Oyekunde told him to wait here for us.’

  McNab’s stomach lurched and he felt a sudden surge of hope. What if he had been wrong? What if Rhona and Stephen were still alive? ‘Pastor Oyekunde?’

  ‘Sam Haruna turned up here with Stephen. He told Boniface to get word to the pastor. Boniface hitched a lift to Kano and came back with Oyekunde and some church members. The pastor found out by bush telegraph that we were headed here.’

  Henry was already out of the Land Rover, the back doors open. He handed McNab a large torch. McNab would have been happier with a gun.

  ‘Let’s go.’

  Abdul led the way, directing his torch onto the narrow pathway that zigzagged down the side of the escarpment between dried grass and thorn bushes.

  ‘Watch where you’re putting your feet,’ Henry warned. ‘This area is bad for snakes.’

  Now Henry’s thick socks and heavy shoes didn’t seem such a bad idea.

  The night was ink black, the moon hidden behind cloud. A hot damp breeze brought out beads of perspiration on McNab’s face.

  ‘Rain’s coming,’ Henry muttered, looking up at the sky.

  As they reached the base of the escarpment, the moon swam free. Now McNab could see the river moving like thick brown sludge between high banks. In the distance a faint light exposed a sandbank.

  ‘Listen.’

  The drumming and chanting drifted eerily across the water.

  ‘It has begun.’ Abdul’s face filled with horror.

  The sound paralysed McNab. All the things he had heard in his life, all the violence he had witnessed, had not prepared him for this moment.

  He heard Henry’s heavy breathing beside him.

  ‘We’ve got to stop it.’

  Then another sound filled the darkness. A single male voice, deeply resonant, followed almost immediately by others. The words were in English, the rhythm African.

  Jesus! The name high o’er all,

  In hell, or earth, or sky,

  Angels and men before it fall,

  And devils fear and fly.

  Pastor Oyekunde and three of his followers stood on the river bank, each holding a wavering candle, their voices trying to drown the incessant drumbeat.

  Jesus! The name to sinners dear,

  The name to sinners given;

  It scatters all their guilty fear,

  It turns their hell to heav’n.

  McNab had never been a believer. He was a cynic who liked to think he was a rationalist. But in that moment he hoped, wished and prayed the singers’ words were true.

  ‘Come on!’ Henry was pulling off his socks and shoes. ‘God helps those who help themselves!’ he announced, striding into the water.

  57

  NASEEM WAS STRIPPED naked, his tall muscled body gleaming like black oil, his penis erect. The chanting
grew steadily louder. Rhona was shocked to feel her own body respond with a mix of fear and excitement. A man stood before Naseem, his face painted a shocking white. He tipped the metal bowl. Naseem gasped as warm fresh blood dribbled down the shaft of his penis.

  The witch doctor shouted something. The words were harsh and sharp, like a command. Sam stood up, Stephen’s hand in his, and walked towards him.

  ‘Stay close,’ he told Rhona.

  She rose unsteadily to her feet, clutching the rope as though it still bound her wrists.

  The party turned to watch the boy and the white woman led into the circle of light.

  A ripple of expectation moved through the group.

  Naseem was moaning, his penis still rigid.

  The witch doctor gestured wildly, commanding Sam to let go of the child. Sam did so.

  The world hung, balanced in a moment of time, as the witch doctor raised the machete above the child’s head. Rhona roused herself from her stupor and staggered forward, then saw the flash of Sam’s knife and knew what he would do.

  The blade moved too fast for her to see, but she heard Naseem scream and saw him slump, blood spurting from the artery close to the severed penis.

  But Sam wasn’t finished.

  He raised the knife again. This time it plunged up and under the lowest rib and into the kidney. Quick and efficient. The thrust of a killer.

  In the stunned silence that followed, she heard the words of a hymn floating through the darkness.

  Jesus! The pris’ner’s fetters breaks,

  And bruises Satan’s head;

  Pow’r into strengthless souls it speaks,

  And life into the dead,

  And life into the dead.

  Naseem’s minders were trying to push their way through the confused, screaming crowd jostling to get to the entrance. Rhona grabbed Stephen’s hand. Behind the witch doctor was an opening at the foot of the wall. She pushed past the wailing man and pulled Stephen to the ground, rolling him under and following.

  A beam of light hit her face, blinding her.

  ‘Rhona!’ McNab’s shout sent her reeling in that direction.

  Stephen’s eyes were better than hers in the dark. He pulled her towards the river, sinking into wet sand. The torchlight was coming from the far bank. Rhona stumbled hand in hand with Stephen into the water.

  ‘Can you swim?’

  She didn’t wait for an answer but dived forward, dragging him with her. She didn’t care what happened once she was in the water. She just wanted them away from the sandbank. She held the boy with one arm and kicked out into the current, remembering how the boatman had struggled to keep the canoe steady. Three powerful torch beams fought to hold her in view as the current surged south, taking her with it.

  Behind her, flames rose from the shack. Craning her head back, she desperately tried to pick out Sam in the mêlée spilling from the burning building, but she could not see him. Naseem’s men would never allow Sam to live after what he’d done. By taking Naseem’s life, Sam had lost his own.

  Stephen clung desperately to her, his rigid body pulling her down.

  ‘It’s okay, Stephen,’ she said. ‘You’re safe now. Swim with me.’

  She felt him relax as the water bore the two of them relentlessly onward and soon the beam of torches, the crackle of fire and the desperate shouts were lost in the distance.

  58

  THE RAIN BROUGHT her back to consciousness.

  Stephen was kneeling by her side, looking anxiously down at her. His face was just as it had been in his photograph. Rhona wanted to cry. Stephen. The little face that looked down from above her desk, so she wouldn’t forget what the case was really about. A lost child. But not a dead one, thank God.

  ‘I’ve been looking for you,’ she told him. ‘We all have.’

  The searchlights gradually came along the bank towards them. Then, as the beams finally skimmed across them, Rhona saw one light break free from the rest as McNab caught sight of her and ran headlong across the wet sand to where she lay.

  Stephen looked around, frightened, but Rhona sat up and took his hand.

  ‘This is Detective Sergeant McNab,’ she said, ‘And he came all the way from Scotland to look for you.’

  ‘Hello, Stephen.’ McNab helped Rhona to her feet. ‘Thank God you’re okay.’

  She stumbled, the weight of her body too much for her legs.

  ‘Let me help you,’ he begged.

  And just this once, she did.

  They sat on Carole’s verandah, sheltering from the downpour that had already turned the drive into a pond and attracted a choir of frogs. Boniface made them tea, hot and sweet and topped up with goat’s milk. Stephen stayed close, following him back and forth from the kitchen. The child was in shock, but Rhona knew it was best that he stay close to someone he knew and loved.

  Sam hadn’t followed them into the river and, according to Henry, only Naseem’s dead body was found in the remains of the shack. Searching for Sam along the bank would have to wait until morning.

  ‘I think you should head back to the consulate. We ought to contact Glasgow. Tell them you’re both safe.’ Henry still looked every inch the Brit, his socks and shoes back on. Even the muddy wet shorts didn’t detract from that air of confidence. ‘Stephen should go with you.’

  ‘Boniface too?’ she suggested.

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘What will happen to him?’ Rhona voiced the concern that they all shared. Stephen had no family as far as she knew. Everyone he loved was dead, except Boniface.

  ‘He’s a British citizen,’ Henry said.

  This meant he could return to Glasgow and be put in the care of the Social Services.

  Stephen and Boniface were chasing frogs through the pond, raising their faces to the dwindling rain.

  Stephen belongs here, thought Rhona.

  They set off shortly before dawn, leaving John Adamu and his men searching the surrounding area for Sam. The Land Rover drove through sleepy villages, rousing with the first rays of the sun. The smell of dust had gone for the moment, washed away by the heavy downpour. From a bridge they saw the Kano River already swollen by the storm. On its beach an empty mammy wagon was being washed by its keen owner. As they entered the outskirts of the city, the sun rose in all its splendour above the russet-coloured mud houses. From the minaret of a mosque, the faithful were being called to prayer.

  59

  IT TOOK ONLY a few days to collect the samples from the Rano area for comparison with Abel’s torso. While they waited for their flight back, the fruitless search for Sam continued.

  Each day that passed with no dead body gave Rhona a little more hope. Stephen asked for Sam constantly, and Rhona’s time with the boy in the consul’s garden revealed the true story of Sam’s involvement.

  Sam had removed the boy from that terrible building on the waste ground. How he knew Stephen was there and how he managed to bring him home, they learned from Sam’s mother.

  The Haruna house was in a quiet back street of little bungalows in the Sabon Gari. Its garden was carefully tended. Creeping grass surrounded two guava bushes, one pink, one white, both heavy with fruit. Planted around the verandah was lemon grass, its scent pleasant in the late afternoon air. Mrs Haruna sat on a wicker chair on the narrow verandah. Her face was bruised, her eyes swollen. She rose as they approached and the movement clearly caused her great pain. She seemed very frightened.

  ‘My son?’

  Henry shook his head. He spoke to her in a language Rhona presumed was Fula, the language of the Fulani.

  ‘It is my fault,’ she repeated in English. She sat down heavily in the chair, her legs no longer able to support her.

  Through the open window, Rhona saw an upright piano that practically filled the small sitting room. It was open, ready to be played by Sam, the returning son.

  Gradually Mrs Haruna explained what had happened. The Suleiman family had had the local witch doctor declare her a witch. People no long
er came to her shop. She was accused of harming people, especially children.

  ‘They threatened to burn my house down. Then Naseem’s men came and took me away. They beat me and threatened to kill me unless Sam did what they said. They asked Sam to bring the child home. They did not say why.’

  ‘And he did.’

  ‘Naseem’s family arranged everything. A company plane brought them from the UK. They passed him off as Sam’s son.’ She looked at Rhona. ‘The British do not care about Africans who leave their country, only those who want to stay.’

  Sam had made them promise to lift the curse from her and set her free.

  ‘Then he could kill Naseem,’ said Rhona.

  Back at the jazz club, they’d laughed at witchcraft. But Sam had been circumspect. Lots of well-educated people in West Africa still believe in witch doctors. Sam had come back to save his mother, but he had every intention of saving Stephen in the process.

  ‘What about Naseem’s family? Are you safe here?’

  Mrs Haruna shrugged. Without her son she didn’t seem to care.

  ‘John Adamu has made it plain to the Suleiman family that if anything happens to Mrs Haruna, they will be held responsible.’

  Rhona wondered if that would be enough.

  She had no doubt that Naseem’s family would be doing everything they could to find Sam and kill him.

  If he was found by the authorities, he might not fare any better. He would be charged with the murder of Naseem Suleiman during a juju ritual. Even should Henry make a plea for Sam, it was unlikely he would avoid the death penalty under Sharia law. He couldn’t go back to Scotland either, because he had aided and abetted the abduction of a minor.

  How could such a good man end up like this?

  In those terrible moments in the shack, when the machete was wielded against Stephen, Rhona could have killed Naseem herself. He deserved to die, for ordering the deaths of Carole and her mother, for the attempted murder of Stephen. An eye for an eye, and a tooth for a tooth. Old Testament philosophy.