by Michael Ray
‘They claim not to have any operatives here.’
‘They would wouldn’t they.’
‘I think they’re taking a great pleasure in watching the Europeans falling over themselves.’
Paul stared at the house, thinking how odd it looked with it’s innards exposed, like something to be studied on a dissection table. ‘You’re used to this of thing, with the war and everything, but this is the first time I’ve come close to violent death. It’s a peculiar feeling knowing someone you were chatting to only a few minutes earlier, though still warm, doesn’t exist anymore. That you’ll never pass the time of day with them again, no more beers and idle conversation.’
‘You get used to it … though I hope you don’t have to,’ Harding replied.
‘What are you going to do about Graham?’
‘I’ll decide tomorrow, though I’m not sure he’s useful to anyone at the moment.’
‘I’ll take him back to my house tonight.’
‘Bring him round first thing.’ Harding put a hand on Paul’s shoulder then went over to talk to the ambulance men.
Paul stared at the remains of the house for a bit longer, watched the ambulance take away the remains of Amani and Jonathan. Then he realised Graham had left the car and was standing next to him.
‘Graham old chap, I’m so sorry.’
‘It was bloody Ngai wasn’t it?’
Paul nodded his head, ‘It would seem so.’
‘She told me I was a fool writing that article … now she’s dead … her and my best mate. I’ll kill the bastard.’
‘I’ll find you a bed in my house,’ Paul said guiding him back to the car. ‘Got a bottle of malt tucked away for emergencies.’
‘I’m not joking, Paul. One way or another I’ll kill the bastard.’
*****
The next morning Paul got up, drank a pint of water in an attempt to rehydrate then went into the living room. Graham was lying on the couch, still unconscious. He thought about waking him, but deciding against it, and went through to the kitchen to put the kettle on. As it boiled he heard a noise behind him and turned to find Graham standing in the doorway.
‘It happened didn’t it?’
Paul nodded his head, ‘I’m afraid so.’
‘Fuck … Paul mate, what am I going to do?’
‘Drink a large coffee for starters. After that, I’ll take you to see Harding.’
‘Harding, what for?’
‘He was there last night, he wants to talk to you.’
‘He wanted to give me a gun a few days ago, a service revolver. He thought I might need to defend myself. He knew I was being followed, might have bloody well told me.’
‘I think it’s more likely he just saw you as a potential target.’
‘Wouldn’t have been much good against a bomb anyway.’
Graham fell onto a kitchen chair, put his elbows on the table and held his head in his hands. ‘I feel bloody awful.’
*****
‘First, let me offer my condolences.’
Graham slowly nodded his head.
‘I’ve had a word with Bradley, he doesn’t expect to see you in the office for the next few days. You should spend some time with Amani’s family.’
‘You offered me a gun the other day.’
Harding shook his head. ‘Not until you’ve got over your loss.’
‘You knew I was a target.’
‘We had no direct evidence, only here-say. I offered it to you as a precaution. You’ll take a couple of days off work to get your affairs in order. I’m sure Paul Kabuye will help you if you ask him.’
‘I need to sort the house out first, I need to sort out a few things.’
‘Not until it’s been declared safe by the army engineers, that could take a while. Were you insured?’
‘There wasn’t much there to insure, a few books and clothes … The landlord’s going to be upset, I doubt he was covered for acts of terrorism’
Harding opened a drawer in his desk and took out a roll of banknotes. ‘Here’s a thousand shillings for services rendered, if you’ll just sign here. It should keep you going for a while.’
‘I didn’t know I was working for you.’
‘Just sign the form, the Government can afford it.’ Harding passed over the roll, ‘and don’t spend it all on booze.’
Graham put it into a jacket pocket and stood up. ‘Is there anything else?’
‘I’ll need an address, where are you going to stay?’
Graham hesitated, ‘No idea, I hadn’t thought about it … there’s a small hotel I sometimes use … maybe they’ve got a spare room at the Stardust.’
‘I’ll ask Paul Kabuye if he’ll let you stay for a while, I need to talk to him anyway.’
Harding stood up and shook his hand. ‘Again, my condolences and if there is anything you need, anything at all, let me know. If you could send Paul in.’
Graham left the building and sat on the flight of steps leading up to the main door. A few smartly dressed, official looking men came and went, some in uniform, one or two who offered condolences. He wasn’t sure how any of them knew him, they certainly weren’t part of his circle. He just nodded his head in reply and continued staring at the gravel drive leading up to the steps, thinking. After fifteen minutes Paul appeared.
‘You’re staying with me old chap, if that’s all right.’
‘Thanks mate, but could you drop me off at the Stardust for now?’
‘A bit early isn’t it?’
‘Just drop me off.’
‘If you say so, I can’t join you though, people to see and all that.’
*****
Later that day, Paul walked into Harding’s office.
‘Graham’s gone, disappeared.’
‘Where did you last see him?’
‘I dropped him off at the Stardust.’
‘Then he’s probably drinking his way through the thousand shillings I gave him.’
‘No, I’ve checked, he didn’t touch a drop.’
Harding absentmindedly straightened out a few paperclips and pencils on his desk, lining them up in a military fashion. ‘Did Graham know the Seychellois was a small time arms dealer?’
‘He’d heard the rumour, shall I bring him in?’
‘No need, just ask him if he’s seen Graham and be subtle about it. Whilst you’re at it, ask if he knows whether Graham is armed.’
‘Do you want me to go after him?’
‘No, he’ll have to take his chances, you’re needed here.’
‘I told him about the meeting with Ngai, I even asked him to join me.’
‘You told him about The Black Cat?’
‘I’m afraid so.’
‘Damn! Why didn’t you clear it with me?’
‘I’m sorry, I should have, just a spur of the moment thing. I thought an extra pair of eyes would help bolster any evidence.’
‘Well it’s too late to worry about that now. If he turns up let me know.’
Eight
Graham spent most of the night in a wakeful doze; serenaded by the gentle whine of mosquitos. One at a time, taking turns to hover near an ear then, in response to the spasmodic jerk of his head, working their way down to his exposed ankles. He longed to tear at the bites with his fingernails, but his feet and hands were bound, the best he could do was rub his ankles over the earth floor of the hut. It didn’t help.
He’d tried to get some sleep by rolling onto his stomach, relieving the pressure on his back, bruised from being tied up for what seemed like hours in the back of an old Land Rover. Then he’d wake, his face pressed against the dirt, his neck aching and yet another mosquito arriving for its supper. He’d shuffled up to the wall of the hut, leant against it, giving access to the bugs hiding amongst the mud and sticks and let his head fall forward and doze for a few minutes before being woken by yet another mosquito.
Throughout the night, in a state of half sleep, he’d watched a fire outsi
de the hut as well as the soldiers sleeping around it. He could see it playing on the faces of the two guards by the door, staring eyes, probably stoked up with miraa to keep awake. Three times they’d been relieved, replaced by clones with the same glazed expression. He’d closed his eyes and tried to ignore the bites, the aching of his bound arms, the thirst, his incompetent attempt to get to Ngai; hoping for a little more sleep then given up and miserably waited for dawn.
*****
At last a cockerel crowed and the camp began to wake. The previous night’s fires were refreshed and he could smell millet bread being cooked. Long shadows from the forest bordering one side of the camp kept the morning light at bay as long as it could, but the sky turned quickly from indigo to blue and shuffling towards to the doorway he could make out more. There were women doing the cooking, morning sunlight catching smoke from their fires and a background of chatter. They seemed out of place, but then every army must have camp followers, even The Army of Christ’s Inquisition. A few dogs wandered about looking for scraps to eat, pausing occasionally to scratch themselves. If it hadn’t been for the armaments and uniforms, it could have been a normal village and he was thirsty, very thirsty. He had to stop himself thinking about it, but then his mind would drift and idly start musing how good a glass of beer would be, even a cup of tea.
The guards were still standing by the doorway, still staring at him.
‘Have you got any water?’
They ignored the question, probably didn’t understand it, and continued to stare. They looked about fifteen, barely filling the fatigues they wore.
The camp must have been a village, the hut was properly made and not a temporary shelter, but it hadn’t been maintained. The straw forming the roof was coming apart and slivers of blue sky were visible. Mud in the wall had crumbled then fallen away from the woven twigs that formed the wall, leaving gaps.
A young girl entered. For a moment his guards’ eyes were distracted, following her movement, but they came back to rest on Graham. The girl had brought him some breakfast, a slab of millet bread and a metal mug of water. One guard came over, undid the bindings around Graham’s wrists and he gulped down the water in one go, thinking that he should probably have made it last, but if they saw how thirsty he was maybe they’d let him have a second. He tried the bread, it was stale, tasted of smoke and dried his mouth. He pointed hopefully at the mug, but the girl just stared at him, either not comprehending his actions or not interested in them. So, no more water, probably only give him diarrhoea anyway. The girl left, and while one guard pointed a gun at his head, the other redid the bindings. He protested at the tightness, formed a fist with his hands, hoping to make the bindings looser. It didn’t work.
*****
The morning wore on; the hut became hotter. Despite the holes in the walls, there was little breeze through the entrance and the sun hit one side full on, he could feel the heat radiating from the wall. Through the door, more huts, and a hundred yards away under trees, a row of army tents, similar to the those he’d been subjected to during his conscription. They’d probably bought them from Jean Vert. He tried lying on his side, but it just made him hotter and cut the circulation to his arm, so he sat up and let what little air movement there was play over his whole body. His head fell forward, and he dozed.
*****
‘Good morning Graham.’
His head jerked up. He automatically tried to move his arms, they were still bound; his wrists and shoulders felt as if he’d spent the last couple of hours on a rack.
The man smiled; ‘my name is David.’
Noticing Graham’s discomfort he motioned to the guard to release the bindings. Graham worked his shoulders around then grimaced at the pins and needles as the blood started to move again.
‘Why am I here?’
David looked at him quizzically. ‘You’re here because you came to kill the Prophet, surely you realise that.’
‘The Prophet?’
‘Our leader, the Prophet Ngai.’
‘Henry Ngai’s now a Prophet? I didn’t come to kill him, I came to interview him for my bloody newspaper.’
‘You turned up carrying a gun and calling yourself Paul. Graham, we know who you are, we have read your reports in The Standard, we know you are our enemy.’
‘Then you also know that you’ve just blown up my wife and my friend.’
‘Your wife was a common whore. What do you think she was doing with your friend?’
‘Getting a lift home.’
‘Your friend went up to the house with his arm around her and the bomb was set off under the assumption that this man was you. I am sorry for your loss.’
‘How very kind of you,’ said Graham sarcastically.
‘A pity, they were unfortunate bystanders. If you hadn’t insulted the Prophet they would still be alive.’ He smiled, ‘but then, perhaps you will soon have no use for a wife.’
Graham stared at him, thought briefly about asking him what he meant but decided against it. Either they planned to kill him or perform some bush surgery; neither choice was worth thinking about. ‘So I’m not going to get my interview?’
David smiled, ‘that is up to the Prophet. You won’t be running away will you?’
‘And miss the scoop of a lifetime?’
‘Then there is no need to keep you tied up.’ He gave some orders and a guard released the bindings around Graham’s feet. ‘You will, of course, be shot if you do attempt to leave.’
Graham rubbed his ankles, smoothing out the marks from the rope and scratching the mosquito bites at the same time. ‘Any chance of some water?’
David ignored him and left the tent.
*****
The day got hotter and Graham got thirstier. He moved as close to the hut entrance as he could, but any nearer than four or five feet and he was urged to reconsider by a gun muzzle. He made an occasional attempt to chat to one of the guards, but might as well have been talking to a tree trunk. For a while, he took the guard’s part of the conversation, but soon got bored. He went through his pockets and found an Everton Mint, put it in his mouth and sucked slowly, hoping to make it last. It made him thirstier.
Sometime later in the afternoon, more stale millet bread and water arrived. This time he was more circumspect and dunked the bread to soften it. Later on, David came through the entrance, smiling. Graham wondered if he had any other expression, he would probably be smiling as you ran him through with a bayonet.
‘I bring good news, Graham. The Prophet has decided you are to be saved.’
‘That’s generous, please thank him for me,’ Graham muttered.
‘Perhaps in time, you may thank him yourself. You are blessed, Graham.’
He left, still smiling.
*****
The sun set quickly, the air cooled and surrounding trees were lit by the flicker of cooking fires. Mosquitos resumed their attack, and free from his bonds, Graham spent an hour covering his legs and arms with their squashed and sometimes blood filled bodies. He’d learnt the technique in the army. No point in trying to hit them midair, wait for them to land, give them ten seconds to settle then a sharp slap. He was still thirsty and getting thirstier when David returned.
‘Come with me.’ David said, leaving the hut.
‘I don’t suppose you’ve got anything to drink on you?’ Graham asked, following him. As he left, he was grabbed from both sides.
‘What the hell are you doing?’
‘Don’t be afraid Graham. Soon you will be a new person, one more at ease with their past, one with a blessed future to look forward to. We shall purge you of your sins.’
‘I’m quite at ease with my past and my sins, thank you.’
‘That is only because you are blind, but we will open your eyes. We will show you the truth of your existence, the truth of the sinful world that you lived in. First you must drink this.’
A tin mug of fluid was pushed in front of his face. A brown soup smelling of fruit that had sp
ent a couple of months at the bottom of a compost heap.
‘You must be bloody kidding.’
David motioned to one of the guards who swung the butt of his rifle into Graham’s stomach. Held on both sides, he doubled up with a groan. The rifle butt came down towards his head, but David held out a restraining arm.
‘It would be as well if you did as you were told, now drink.’
Graham took a few shallow breaths, swore under his breath and straightened up.
‘I said drink!’ The rifle butt threatened his head again, so he took a sip; sweet, sickly and very strong….. strange aftertaste.
‘Drink it all!’
He did, and the world turned.
*****
‘Do you repent your sins?’
‘I repent my sins.’ Graham muttered from the foggy space behind half-closed eyes. He was on his knees, his arms bound, his back covered with the blood and bruises of a beating. He felt the pain but felt disconnected from it, only vaguely aware of where he was, unsure whether he was awake or in a nightmare.
David leant down to Graham and whispered in his ear. ‘I cannot hear you and if I cannot hear you, neither can the Lord. I said, do you repent your sins?’
‘I repent my sins! For God’s sake, I repent my sins!’ Shouted Graham then sobbed, ‘I repent my sins.’
David nodded at the men and they continued the beating until Graham’s brain took the easy way out and he lost consciousness.
*****
Manchester, he was lying on the kitchen floor, hiding under the table. His mother had just broken a wooden spoon over the back of his thigh. He wanted his father to rescue him, maybe he was still at work. He’d just returned from school with a bad report, and his mother was determined to make sure he changed is ways. His father might have protected him, but he wasn’t there … the war, his father must be in North Africa not at the factory. North Africa, in the artillery, messing up his shoulders carrying heavy shells. After the war he couldn’t lift his right arm above his head.