Echo of an Angry God

by Beverley Harper

  Lana paced her room, furious and frustrated. She was also shaken. The man was a toad but there was something else about him which disturbed her. In her experience, people who worked in the diplomatic services never voiced personal opinions to anyone other than their closest friends. They never indicated that any one individual was responsible for any one thing, always taking cover behind a collective ‘we’, ‘us’ or ‘they’. Gilbey had made frequent references to himself. Thinking about it, he was the most atypical diplomat Lana had ever met, not to mention the most unpleasant.

  She had dealt with British Foreign Office diplomats on a number of occasions. Without exception, they turned the word diplomacy into an art form. One man in Oman stood out in her mind and she often wondered how he managed to remain polite in the face of what she now regarded as excessive stubbornness and a fair sprinkling of stupidity on her part.

  PAGET had been invited to conduct a detailed survey of natural gas potential. PDO – Petroleum Development Oman – worried that their reservoirs of oil were running out, were looking at diversification possibilities. Lana wanted to be on the survey team. Bernard had advised her against going on the grounds that the Omani men would never deal with a woman. Against his better judgment, he allowed her to talk herself onto the team.

  Two weeks into her job there, after a threatened walkout by Omani jug hustlers – men who work with the seismic crew and handle the geophones – who refused to take orders from a woman even if they were distilled through a front man, Lana, with a little advice from a charming British diplomat, could see going to Oman had been a mistake. The diplomat had been kind, sensitive and sympathetic, despite having to drive 500 kilometres into the desert to talk her into leaving and then escort her back to Muscat. As she was leaving the country, irritated by his blandness, she asked him if part of his training was to practise smiling while people were slapping his face. He had smilingly replied that it wasn’t, wished her a pleasant journey and turned to leave. It was at that moment she caught sight of controlled hysteria in his eyes, a look which shamed her every time she thought about it. She acknowledged that, if ever she had needed a boot up the bum, it was then.

  This man in Malawi, this Tim Gilbey character, had been threatening, rude and, more to the point, appeared to possess none of the professional detachment required for his position. The more she thought about it, the more angry she became. ‘Bugger him,’ she said to herself. ‘I’ll go to his office in Lilongwe, register my arrival and demand to see someone else.’ The idea had merit. Lana was not in the habit of getting people into trouble but she expected, and demanded if the occasion warranted it, simple common courtesy.

  Putting Tim Gilbey out of her mind she explored the room, discovered a mini-bar refrigerator concealed behind the wardrobe door, examined the contents, selected a bottle of Carlsberg Green Label and used the wall-mounted opener. She drank from the bottle. ‘Not bad,’ she thought. ‘Could have done with a bit more maturation though.’

  The telephone shrilled. ‘If that’s bloody Gilbey again I’m about ready for him,’ she thought crossly, striding across the room. She snatched up the receiver. ‘Lana Devereaux.’

  ‘Karl Henning.’ There was no hesitation; he just barrelled in and announced his name, knowing she’d remember him.

  She was surprised. ‘How on earth did you . . .’

  His deep laugh rumbled down the line. ‘Lana, Blantyre only has two reputable hotels. You had to be in one of them.’

  Lana was disturbed by his persistence. Damn it! I don’t need this. ‘Look, I’m really quite tired . . .’ She was deliberately cool, not wanting the further complication of his attentions.

  ‘That’s a fine hello, Miss Devereaux.’ His voice was light and teasing. ‘You’re a visitor to this country and don’t know anyone. I just wanted to make sure everything is okay.’

  She regretted her curtness. The man was only being friendly. ‘I’m fine. It’s good of you to call.’

  ‘My pleasure,’ he said warmly. ‘I must confess to an ulterior motive though. I wanted to restate my invitation to join me on the yacht. I was thinking about what you said and it made me realise that some local assistance might actually be appreciated. In any event, it’s not really safe for a woman on her own to go...’

  Lana cut in. ‘I can take care of myself.’

  His deep chuckle sounded friendly and reassuring. ‘I have no doubt you can.’ He hesitated briefly. ‘Now don’t get mad at me but...well...if I had a daughter your age I’d feel a lot better knowing she was in good company. I know how independent –’

  ‘Karl, you’re very kind.’ Lana relented. He was only trying to help. The knowledge made her voice warm. ‘I’ll think about your invitation, I promise.’

  ‘You’re about to say “but”, I can hear it coming.’

  She laughed. ‘Not really, but...’

  ‘There,’ he said, delighted. ‘I knew it. Listen,’ he went on, ‘your father told me he was doing some kind of survey of the lake bed. What better way to follow than by water?’

  Lana was tempted. Karl Henning had at least met her father. ‘I don’t know,’ she hedged. ‘I don’t really want to tie myself down.’

  ‘No commitments,’ he promised. ‘Just say the word and I’ll let you off anywhere you like.’

  ‘Why are you doing this?’

  Again the deep laugh. ‘I’m not doing much. I planned this trip a while ago. I just thought you might like to join me. Besides,’ he added, ‘I would enjoy the company.’ He laughed again. ‘To be honest, I would enjoy your company and I don’t say that to many people. How about it?’

  As a rule, Lana had no difficulty in turning down invitations. Under any other circumstances she would have politely told Karl Henning ‘no’ and that would have been that. The fact that he had met her father was tempting but her wariness of the man made her cautious. ‘Where is your yacht?’ She was stalling and knew it was beginning to sound obvious.

  ‘Normally I keep it at Nkhotakota. Know where that is?’

  ‘Not off the top of my head,’ she replied, loving the strange word.

  ‘It’s about a hundred kilometres from the farm. It has an airstrip so it’s quite convenient to reach.’

  ‘You have a plane?’

  ‘Of course.’

  The way he said it implied ‘doesn’t everybody’. ‘You said normally you keep it there. Isn’t it there now?’

  ‘That’s the reason for the trip and it’s also why I thought you might like to join me. The yacht is currently up at Chilumba. I have to sail it back to Nkhotakota.’

  Still she hesitated.

  ‘Chilumba is about seventy kilometres south of Karonga,’ Karl pushed.

  Karonga! Her father had been in Karonga. She needed to go there anyway to speak with Moffat Kadamanja, this could be the perfect opportunity. She was on the verge of accepting but she heard herself say, ‘Can I let you know? I’ll call you in a couple of days.’

  There was a slight hesitation at the other end. ‘Fine,’ he said at last, a little too heartily she thought.

  As she hung up the receiver, Lana frowned at the far wall. The man was making it impossible for her to refuse without appearing rude. Resolved not to be pushed into something which could prove a waste of time, and deeply reluctant to closet herself on a yacht for several days with a man she hardly knew, but who was making it abundantly clear that he found her attractive, she nonetheless wondered why she had not accepted his invitation. At the same time, however, she found it hard to fathom why Karl Henning was being so persistent. It was his persistence which made her wary. She could not shake off the feeling that it was due to more than just finding her attractive.

  Sipping her beer, Lana crossed to the window and looked out. Had her father seen the same view? She felt very close to him again, somehow treading only a little way behind a time span of fifteen years. Was that his Old Spice aftershave she could smell? ‘Where did you go from here, Dad?’ Bernard had said he’d met with a Cabinet Mi
nister who, several weeks later, was one of four found in a burnt-out car. All had bullet holes in them. Had her father been caught up in some deadly political power struggle?

  Irritated at the sudden onset of melancholy, Lana turned from the window, unpacked her suitcase and took a long, hot shower. Feeling somewhat refreshed, she dressed in slacks and T-shirt. ‘Thank God they’ve changed the dress rules,’ she thought. In Banda’s day, trousers on women had been banned. Lana virtually lived in jeans, slacks or shorts. The dining room, she noted from the hotel information brochure, opened at six-thirty. Her watch was reading three forty-five. ‘Can’t be. It’s getting dark.’ Then she remembered that Malawi was two hours ahead of London time. She reset her watch and then, feeling the need of exercise and fresh air, decided to go for a walk.

  Crossing the lobby, she intended to leave her key at reception but a noisy crowd of Japanese tourists milling there changed her mind and she pocketed the key and went into the street.

  The May temperature was mild. Lana strolled down the main street of Blantyre, enjoying the balmy evening and the feeling of having nothing pressing which required her immediate attention. She did not notice Tim Gilbey following some one hundred metres behind.

  There was very little traffic and only a few pedestrians. At a quarter to six, night was coming in fast as it tended to do in Africa. Street lamps had yet to be switched on. In the gentle twilight, descending like a mantle of sea mist, the air was redolent with scented flowers, unfamiliar spices and a soft dampness which coaxed an earthy fragrance from the soil. Lana walked slowly, the sensation of being far from the traffic fumes of London caressing her senses like that of a caring lover.

  Most of the shops were shut for the day. They were a strange mixture of designs. Many showed a strong Portuguese or Indian influence, others were modern, still others had an old English look about them. Lana, who always looked for local arts and crafts wherever she went, was delighted to find a homecraft boutique displaying a comprehensive selection of carved wooden objects. She spent several minutes looking in the windows before stepping into an arcade which led to another craft shop. The arcade went back some ten metres to the lifts which serviced the eight-storeyed building. It was dark in the arcade, lit only by display lights in the shop windows. Absorbed, she barely registered hearing the long, drawn-out whistle at first. Then it sank in. The whistle hadn’t been one of appreciation or one to get attention. It had sounded more like a signal.

  Realising that the shadowy and deserted passageway was not a particularly safe place to be on her own, and sensing danger, Lana spun round. Something, an inner sense, warned that she was in trouble. As she pivoted on the ball of her left foot, a shadowy figure stepped in close and behind her. Lana had not seen anybody coming and only just had time to register his presence when an arm, scratchy in a woollen jacket, whipped around her throat, cutting air. She was pulled roughly backwards, a hand over her mouth and she lost balance, falling back against her attacker as he dragged her deeper into the shadows. The man’s hand smelled strongly of carbolic soap.

  A second assailant, outlined in silhouette against the fading light, stepped against her and she was sandwiched between them, their burliness hiding her completely. Acting instinctively, she forced herself to relax, sagging into the man behind, trying to get a precious few centimetres of space to bring a knee up into the groin in front of her. The men were too professional to fall for it, the one behind tightening his arm around her neck, the one in front sagging with her so that she was pinioned and helpless. Hands roamed her body but she quickly realised they were intent on picking pockets rather than thrill seeking. She mentally blessed a decision to leave all but a few Kwacha back at the hotel, along with her traveller’s cheques and passport.

  Lana’s mind quickly assessed the immediate predicament. She ruled out rape – these men were too cool for carnal intentions. Mugging was the obvious motive and yet she could not shake off the feeling that she had been a deliberate target, rather than a random victim. Murder would, she reasoned, be unlikely in the middle of Blantyre, although she would be helpless to prevent the quick thrust of a knife if that were their intent. She was being mugged, rather expertly, by two large men. She had been taught that when the odds were against her to lie back and think of England. Typically, and without stopping to consider the consequences, Lana exploded into anger and action.

  The arm around her neck slackened a fraction. The man in front of her, in an effort to search the hip pocket of her trousers, had his face two centimetres from hers and was the immediate recipient. Butting her head forward, she connected with the bridge of his nose. Ignoring the warm spurting blood and making the most of his shocked second of inactivity, she sank her teeth into his shoulder. The man shouted in pain and pulled away but Lana hung onto his flesh grimly. His attempts to get rid of the searing pain gave her the space she needed to deliver a punishing knee jerk which found the satisfying softness of testicles just before making hard contact with pelvic bone. The testicles had nowhere to go, crushed in an explosion of excruciating agony. At the same second she unlocked her jaw, falling limp and bending both legs.

  Caught unawares, the man behind nearly lost his grip around her throat but quickly recovered and his arm tightened painfully. Instead of fighting for air, Lana used the added impetus to push up and back, her head making contact with teeth and lips. Cursing her sneakers as being useless weapons, she kicked backwards as hard as she could, a heel slamming into his shin. She nearly got away but he jerked hard, arching Lana back and off the ground.

  Another shape loomed in the arcade and her heart sank. She hadn’t expected a third attacker. ‘What the hell is going on here?’ He was halfway into the entrance before she registered that he had spoken in perfect English. He stepped over the man on the ground without even looking at him, making no attempt to stop him. The African staggered up and ran, bent double, down the steps and away across the street. ‘You there, let go of her at once.’

  The suffocating arm dropped away and Lana was pushed forward towards her rescuer as the remaining assailant dodged sideways and ran from the arcade. She slid down the shop window and sat on her haunches, head hanging, one hand on the ground for balance as she tried to lose the sudden dizziness and blurred vision.

  ‘Are you hurt?’ He squatted next to her.

  She shook her head, fighting to gain control of her breathing.

  The light of a torch shone on her. ‘You’re bleeding!’

  ‘His,’ she managed.

  He grunted, half amused. ‘They won’t try that again in a hurry. You can certainly dish it out.’ He put a hand on her arm. ‘Can you stand?’

  She raised her head to look at him but saw only a dark shape. ‘Give me a minute.’ The warm pressure of his hand was reassuring. ‘Turn the torch off will you.’

  He played the light on her face, carefully avoiding her eyes. Lana stayed where she was. The rush of adrenalin and anger she had used to such good effect was waning. In its place, shock, nausea and dizziness had begun to kick in. She was trembling, and the urge to burst into tears was very strong. Breathing deeply, Lana concentrated all her willpower, her last reserves of strength, towards suppressing an overwhelming desire to give way to hysteria. ‘That’s incredible,’ she heard her rescuer murmur, almost to himself, as he snapped off the torch. ‘You’re controlling it,’ he added, admiration clear in his voice.

  ‘What did you expect?’ she asked, still looking up, glad her voice was steady. ‘Tears?’

  ‘As a matter of fact, yes.’ He hesitated, then asked, ‘Want to try standing up?’

  Lana took his arm and he stood, bringing her up with him. They moved out of the dark arcade. ‘Thank you,’ she said, looking at him. He was tall, without a spare ounce of excess weight. Broad shoulders accommodated a blue Lacross shirt with elegant ease. Thick, dark, straight hair fell forward over his forehead. His eyes were dark too, she could not tell their colour, but his gaze was direct and warm. He was strikingly attractive.<
br />
  He smiled, a lopsided grin exposing very white teeth. ‘You look a little the worse for wear.’ His accent held the faintest Scottish burr.

  She glanced down at her clothes. The T-shirt was blotched with blood. Her head ached and her jaw was sore. She touched the back of her head gingerly and looked at her hand. No blood. She looked back at her rescuer. ‘It was preplanned, I’m sure of it. They were waiting for me.’ She remembered the whistle.

  ‘Where did you learn to defend yourself like that?’ The admiration was still there.

  ‘Black belt karate,’ she said briefly.

  He nodded. ‘Then you’d know that what you just did was incredibly stupid.’ There was no censure in his words, he was simply stating a fact.

  She grinned. ‘Non-practising.’ She laughed out loud, the tension and fear slowly dissipating. ‘I’m a little rusty. I forgot the rules. Besides, there were only two of them.’

  He laughed with her. Then, ‘Where do you live?’

  ‘I’m staying at the Mount Soche.’

  ‘Business or pleasure?’ He had taken her arm, moved to the road side of the pavement and was leading her back towards the hotel.

  ‘Holiday.’ Lana noticed the old-fashioned courtesy. It was oddly reassuring.

  ‘Try to stay out of dark places,’ he commented lightly.

  She didn’t take offence. He was making conversation to divert her thoughts. ‘Um . . . I don’t want to walk through the lobby like this.’

  ‘I know a back entrance.’

  She wondered how he knew. ‘Shouldn’t I report this to the police?’