‘I’d like my passport back.’
‘Is not possible at the moment.’
Howard got up and marched out of the room. When he was once more beside Lucy he was shaking with anger, he discovered.
‘What happened?’
He shook his head, trying to calm down, not wanting to dismay her. ‘It’s just that they’re a thoroughly cussed lot, these people. They bombard you with questions. And they’re not giving the passports back. And they search both you and your luggage.’
Lucy was silent for a moment. ‘There’s something odd going on, isn’t there?’
‘I’m sure it’ll be all right. Don’t worry.’
She looked at him. ‘I’m not going to get in a stew. I tend to be fairly calm.’
‘I’m sure you do,’ said Howard. Each time he studied her face afresh there was now this incredible sense of familiarity. Not so much that he had always known it, as that he had always needed to, but been unaware. As though a void had been filled. And how on earth was it possible to be simultaneously uplifted and profoundly apprehensive?
The group had disposed itself around the room, slumped against the walls or seated on the floor. Indignation was giving way to weariness. It was by now early evening. A mellow light filtered in through the dirty windows, through which could be seen only the compound and the wire perimeter fence, which was patrolled by a guard. One by one the passengers carried their passports into the adjoining room and returned, empty-handed and resentful. The several children in the group had passed through restlessness to tears and in some merciful cases to sleep. No refreshments were offered. Those demanding the toilet were escorted to a single offensive facility at the back of the building.
At last the entire party had been interrogated. The door into the adjoining room was closed. The officials vanished. Three soldiers remained in attendance at the entrance to the corridor. Those of the group whose exhaustion had not reduced them to a state of total apathy now gathered to take stock of the situation. A putative leadership emerged, principally comprised of a forthright woman called Molly Wright, who was the chairman of a local health authority on a visit to Nairobi to advise on hospital administration, and James Barrow, director of a film company, a more flamboyant and loquacious figure. Howard and Lucy joined the small gathering which was now debating what could or should be done. It was generally recognized and accepted that they had become unwittingly involved in some kind of Callimbian political crisis.
‘It seems to me that they’re looking for someone,’ said Molly Wright. ‘Hence the intensive screening. Maybe they think there’s someone on the plane they want.’
It was pointed out that this would be a curious coincidence, since the plane had never been destined for Callimbia in the first place.
‘True,’ said Barrow, ‘but they’re very interested in nationality. This segregation process. That has to be significant in some way. I can’t fathom what the hell it is they’re at for the moment, but I think we’re being much too bloody compliant.’
Howard observed that there was not really a lot of choice, given the presence and attitude of armed soldiers.
‘Yeah, but I doubt they’re actually going to take a pot shot at any of us if it comes to the point.’
‘They hit someone, on the plane,’ said Lucy. ‘At least, there was a man with his face bleeding.’
‘If you want to try making a run for it, feel free,’ said Molly Wright briskly. ‘But where to, anyway? What we need is a line to our embassy. Have they any idea we’re here, one would like to know?’
It was now quite dark outside. Lights had been switched on and there sounded to be activity in the corridor. Outside, some large vehicle was heard to arrive.
‘Aha,’ said James Barrow. ‘Action of some kind. A nice air-conditioned coach to take us to the local Hilton, maybe.’
There was now a great deal of coming and going without. Shouted instructions. Footsteps to and fro and the thump of objects being dumped on the concrete floor. Those of the group who had been slumped semicomatose around the room stirred and watched the door, which opened to admit a couple of porters staggering under the weight of a pile of mattresses.
‘Oh, no!’ exclaimed Molly Wright. ‘This is unbelievable.’
For the intention, it soon became apparent, was to transform the room into a makeshift dormitory. The mattresses – thin lumpy affairs, a number of which bore disagreeable stains – were disposed about the floor. There were not quite enough to go round. The group now hived off into those who had perceived this and began furtively to appropriate a mattress and those who concentrated on vociferous objection. These converged upon the soldiers at the door.
‘No!’ said James Barrow, pointing at the mattresses. ‘No good. We refuse to sleep here. You get your commanding officer, right?’
‘Is not possible.’
‘Oh, shit, don’t give me that. You go and get someone right away. Now!’
The man stared without apparent emotion. It seemed indeed that he might be about to comply. And then with a single neat action he unslung his rifle and slammed the butt of it downwards into Barrow’s stomach. Barrow bent over, clutching himself.
‘Are you OK?’ said Howard.
‘I will be in a minute. Christ!’
A concerned group gathered round. A chair was brought. Barrow subsided into it, retching. People were angrily admonishing the soldier, who shrugged and returned to his post at the door. Molly Wright tried to persuade Barrow to lie down on one of the mattresses. ‘I’ll be fine in a minute. He’s winded me, the bastard, that’s all.’
More soldiers now arrived with a heap of insalubrious blankets and a trolley furnished with a pile of bread rolls and a tea urn. The initial horror and disbelief gave way to a kind of exhausted acceptance. Those who had grabbed mattresses began to establish private enclaves in the corners of the room. There was a rush for blankets. The trolley was rapidly stripped bare.
Lucy went along the corridor to the washroom, escorted by a soldier who looked all of sixteen and who stood sternly at attention outside the door while she was inside. There was a single cold tap above a sink, and a foetid lavatory. She washed as best she could and re-emerged. The boy motioned her to go ahead.
‘What’s your name?’ said Lucy.
He shook his head.
‘Name?’ She pointed at him. ‘My name’s Lucy. What’s yours?’
The boy looked panic-stricken and motioned her ahead of him. ‘Go! Go!’
Back in the room she looked at once for Howard. And felt again that surge of pleasure. This is absurd, she thought. Everything is absurd. I don’t understand.
‘I’ve got a mattress for you,’ he said.
‘But what about you?’
‘I’ll manage. I managed to grab a blanket. And I’ve got my anorak.’
They found a space under the windows and established themselves.
‘You’d better have my jacket as a pillow,’ said Lucy. ‘This is going to be a fairly horrendous night, I’m afraid.’
‘Up to a point,’ said Howard.
He did not appear particularly dismayed. Either he’s a very phlegmatic fellow, thought Lucy, or … or what, exactly?
She delved in her flight bag. ‘Would you like to join me for dinner? I seem to have two packets of crisps and one of chocolate biscuits.’
3
At some point in the small hours Howard plunged briefly into a black pit of sleep, and awoke to an instant of wild confusion. He sat up, saw huddled figures around him, shadowed in the light of a single naked bulb slung from the ceiling. He saw the closed door, a standing man who held a gun. The room rustled and murmured. It was both cold and stuffy; there was a disagreeable smell. The whole scene was nightmarish and yet eerily significant. And then he turned his head, saw Lucy, and was instantly slotted back into a sequence. He knew where he was, and why.
She was asleep, facing him, hunched into a foetal shape. Her mouth was slightly open, with a thread of saliva at one corn
er, and there was a smudge of dirt on her cheek. He gazed at her, and then felt intrusive. Her position suggested that she might be cold; cautiously, he laid his anorak over her. He was stiff and numb from lying on the concrete floor. Taking care not to disturb Lucy, he inched himself to his feet and moved towards the window, where he could see James Barrow leaning against the wall.
They conversed in whispers.
‘That fellow must have given you a bit of a bruise.’
‘I haven’t had a chance to inspect,’ said Barrow. ‘But I’ve spent the night working out exactly what I’d do to the bastard given half a chance.’
It was beginning to get light outside. Above the dark line of the perimeter fence the sky was streaked with grey and lemon. The compound within was lit by sodium lamps and bare except for a line of parked lorries and stacks of oil drums and petrol cans.
‘What I want to know,’ said Barrow, ‘is where the hell is our embassy in all this?’
‘Maybe they’re not aware we’re here.’
‘They have to be. A plane full of people doesn’t just vanish into thin air.’
The door opened. A soldier entered and held a brief muttered exchange with the one already present, who departed.
‘The changing of the guard,’ said Barrow.
Howard saw that Lucy had woken, and was sitting up. He moved back to his blanket and sat down beside her.
‘You managed to sleep a bit?’
‘Yes. I seem to have got your anorak on me.’
‘I put it there. I thought you looked cold.’
‘That was nice of you,’ said Lucy. She smiled, and Howard was suffused with pleasure. He sat there on the dirty blanket, in this squalid room, and wondered if he were becoming slightly unhinged by circumstance. Lucy had fished a comb out of her bag and was trying to tug it through her hair. He watched, entranced.
‘I don’t suppose you’ve got a mirror on you?’
‘No, sorry,’ he said.
‘I seem to have lost mine. Oh, well – least of our worries. Is my face filthy?’
‘There’s a smudge on your right cheek.’
She licked a kleenex and rubbed vigorously.
‘That’s better,’ said Howard.
‘You know something? I’m really glad I found you – all this would seem much worse otherwise, I’m sure.’
‘I’m glad too,’ said Howard. ‘Quite extraordinarily glad.’
‘How bad do you think it is?’
He looked straight at her, startled. ‘How bad what is?’ he said cautiously.
‘This situation. These people locking us up here like this.’
‘Oh …’ He collected himself. ‘I can’t think it’s going to last long. Presumably they’ll sort themselves out and get us another plane.’
‘Hmmn … Well, I hope you’re right.’
As dawn broke those who had achieved some sleep awoke. The room, awash with mattresses, blankets and their dishevelled occupants, looked like some refugee rescue centre. The door remained closed, and was opened only to allow escorted visits to the toilet. There was another armed soldier on the outside, and more who patrolled the corridors. Each turned a blank face to questions and demands. At eight o’clock a trolley was brought with an urn of watery coffee and a supply of bread rolls. The sun was beating upon the windows and the chill of the night had given way to an increasingly oppressive heat.
Groupings and alliances had now developed within the party. The several families with young children had set up a corral by the door. The computer salesmen, Jim Rankine and Tony Saunders, had joined up with some other single business travellers; a desultory card session was in progress. Four Irish nuns returning to their convent school in Kenya kept themselves to themselves. Howard and Lucy were drawn into the small cabal trying to assess what was going on and work out a strategy of response. Molly Wright and James Barrow had been joined by a slightly bombastic but evidently acute and forceful man called Hugh Calloway, the managing director of a big engineering company with interests in Kenya.
‘As I see it, we’re blocked until we can get access to someone in authority. The blokes we’re up against here are rank and file. They’re under orders to stonewall, and to clobber anyone causing trouble.’
‘I doubt if they’re under orders to start a bloodbath, though,’ said James Barrow. ‘What if we rush them? Put them on the spot? Announce we’re not staying in this dump any longer and walk out? I can’t see them risking a massacre.’
‘Try it if you like,’ said Calloway drily. ‘I’ll pass, if you don’t mind.’
Molly Wright broke in. ‘It would be thoroughly unwise to provoke them. We have to get to someone higher up – I agree. But we mustn’t be compliant, either. We must keep up the pressure.’
‘If I knew more about what’s going on here it would help,’ said Lucy. ‘What’s the political situation? Is someone in control, or is it chaotic? If anyone’s got a radio …’
‘No one’s got a radio,’ said Barrow. ‘Not any more. I’ve asked around. That search they did was for radios just as much as for weapons. Nobody had so much as a blunt instrument on them but one of the kids had a transistor, and so did a couple of other people. They took those.’
There was silence. It’s like when the lights go off, thought Howard. Or your car engine cuts out. That feeling of being set aside – grounded. But this is worse, much worse. The less you know the more helpless you are.
‘I don’t like it,’ said Calloway. ‘Up to now what’s going on could have been sheer muddle. Conflicting instructions, what have you … This is positive and deliberate and I think we have to take it seriously. Ah … something’s happening!’
The door had opened to admit a couple of soldiers bearing what appeared to be recording apparatus and an amplifier. They were followed by another carrying a table. An area of the room was unceremoniously cleared of mattresses and occupants, and the table set up. One of the men arranged the apparatus on the table and connected it to the power supply. Adjustments were made, and a blast of martial music swamped the room.
‘Oh, Christ …’ said Barrow. ‘This we do not need.’
Everyone was now alert; many were protesting. The soldier, apparently satisfied, surveyed the room and switched off the music. He fiddled further with the machine. There was a burst of static, a silence, and then a male voice, speaking precise and only slightly accented English. It was the same voice heard over the tannoy on the plane and in the airport.
‘Good morning. The Callimbian government regrets the inconvenience to passengers on CAP 500. This is due to temporary disturbances in Callimbia which make it necessary for passengers to remain a little longer in transit before continuing their flight. This is in the interests of your own safety. The representative of your government has been informed and is satisfied that all steps are being taken by the Callimbian authorities to ensure your comfort and safety. Further information will be given when this is available.’
The tape was switched off and replaced with the martial music, at full pitch.
James Barrow strode across to the soldier and pointed at the machine. ‘Turn that thing off, please.’
‘Is not possible.’
‘Then I’ll bloody well make it possible myself.’ He reached out a hand towards the machine. The soldier lunged at him.
Lucy pushed forward. ‘Don’t. Let me try.’ Barrow hesitated and Lucy confronted the soldier. She beamed. ‘Please. Too much noise!’ She put her hands to her head and pulled a face. ‘Not good. People tired. Children crying.’
The soldier considered. Lucy continued to beam at him. Finally he stepped in front of the machine and turned the volume down by several decibels.
‘Well,’ said Barrow. ‘Bully for you. Softly does it.’
‘He’d obviously been instructed that the thing wasn’t to be turned off, but not that it couldn’t be turned down.’
Everyone was now talking. Speculation and interpretation ran around the room. The prevailing mood was one of
exasperation and anger allied with a grudging acceptance. Maybe the airport had been put out of action. Maybe there was fighting going on still. Maybe the communications centres had been knocked out.
‘Balls!’ said James Barrow. ‘If you have a reasonable explanation you give it in person, not like this.’
‘And if the representative of our government is satisfied, then he or she isn’t doing their job,’ added Molly Wright. ‘Where are they, I ask? Why aren’t they down here kicking up an almighty stink? Because nobody has said one word to them about us, is my guess.’
‘And what about the Foreign Office …?’
‘Surely London must be …’
‘They have to know the plane came down here …’
It doesn’t wash. None of it, thought Lucy. The Callimbian government regrets … It is just a stalling process. A way of keeping us quiet while … While what? While they decide what they want to do with us? While something goes on that they don’t intend to tell us about? She looked at Howard and read in his expression similar thoughts and questions. ‘I don’t care for this at all,’ she said.
He put his hand on her arm. ‘Nor do I. But I still prefer to think that they’re inept rather than dangerous, these people.’
The military band blared on. A baby was yelling. Molly Wright embarked on a tussle with the sentry about opening a window, and won. A hot wind blew into the room and somewhat dissipated the smell.
Howard and Lucy returned to their encampment.
‘Share the mattress,’ said Lucy. ‘We can put it against the wall and make it into a kind of sofa. If this is some sort of endurance test then we may as well endure stylishly. Would it be pretentious to read Anna Karenina?’
‘Not pretentious, but perhaps a touch antisocial.’
‘I’d rather talk too. I thought you might be too exhausted.’
‘Not as much as I’d expect.’
‘There’s the feeling that you need to keep your wits about you,’ said Lucy. ‘Keep track of time, and that sort of thing. I hope my mum hasn’t heard anything about this. She’ll be doing her nut.’
Cleopatra's Sister Page 14