Cut for Life

by Lucinda E Clarke

  Amie sat and fumed, glancing at her watch every couple of minutes, cursing and swearing under her breath at the stupidity of the drivers who refused to give way to any traffic coming from a different direction. On the second occasion, the deadlock was so bad it took the arrival of the police to sort out the tangle.

  As they neared the Embassy building Amie fought hard to control her panic. Calm down, she told herself, at the worst we can come back tomorrow. “What day is it?” she asked Mrs Motswezi.

  “Friday.”

  “We must make it today,” she muttered to herself.

  It was impossible to find parking. Amie drove round the block twice, before she saw someone approach a large black limousine with keys in their hand.

  “Are you leaving?” she called out.

  The well-dressed African lady smiled and nodded and Amie stopped to wait for the space. She glanced at her watch yet again, it showed a couple of minutes before two o’clock.

  The other driver was in no hurry. First, she put all her shopping bags down on the road then fiddled with her keys before unlocking the boot.

  “I wish she’d hurry up!” Amie cried.

  “No, problem, I will go ahead with the children and tell them you are coming behind. Leave it with me, ma cherie.”

  Before Amie could respond, Jean-Pierre had hopped out and was releasing the tail gate to allow Fazia and Linda out of the back, while the two younger ones slid across to jump down onto the road nearest to the pavement. In no time at all they had disappeared round the corner while Amie sat and watched the other lady wriggle into the driver’s seat pausing to check her make up in the mirror. Next, she wiped the sweat off her face and applied powder and then combed her hair.

  Amie hit her hand on the horn and kept it there. If she hoped it would encourage the women to hurry, she was wrong. She turned and gave Amie a filthy look and continued to take her own sweet time. At last she turned on the engine and began to drive back and forth several times as she attempted to manoeuvre away from the kerb.

  Amie chewed her lip as she watched the pantomime performance, convinced the woman had obtained her licence under the counter; she certainly couldn’t drive.

  Amie practically flung the truck into the empty space, and helping Mrs Motswezi clamber out, she locked the vehicle and set off after Jean-Pierre and the children. “We’ll meet you in the Blue Cafe,” she called out over her shoulder to the headmistress as she raced round the corner. She didn’t want to leave her friend sitting out in the boiling sun.

  She skidded to a stop in front of the embassy gates. They were closed. She looked round for a bell, but apart from the twinkling brass name plate, there appeared to be no bell, intercom or any other way of announcing her presence. The guards who stood outside on duty while the embassy was open, were gone and the stone lions on the posts either side of the wide-barred gates sneered down at her. She shouted out across the wide, sweeping driveway, but there was no response. The closed front doors seemed to mock her. She had no idea what to do next.

  20 EMAILS FROM MADDY

  Amie had dreaded walking through those doors again, visions of the days they’d kept her there flashed through her mind. She’d lost everything and they’d told her nothing. They’d refused to let her contact friends and family and they’d taken control of her life. After rescuing the children, fate had brought her full circle and would force her to enter the building. Now, when she so desperately wanted to get in, she couldn’t. How ironic life could be.

  She stared up at the neat row of blank windows, imagining the children inside. They would be safe with Jean-Pierre, wouldn’t they? They would be surrounded by British Embassy staff who would make sure they were repatriated as soon as possible and send an escort with them on the plane.

  She dragged her feet as she made her way back to the car. It was too early to go to the cafe, but maybe she could phone the Embassy, tell them she was outside. Yes, that was the answer, so obvious, why hadn’t she thought of that before?

  She hurried along the street ignoring the smart new cell phone store and its enticing plate glass window full of shiny, new models and dived into a side street looking for a less salubrious establishment. Once again she was trying her luck in obtaining a phone without the usual required documentation.

  She noticed a small, dingy shop which advertised phone cards and air-time top up, and ducking inside, walked up to the counter.

  A wizened old man she thought might be an Arab stared at her suspiciously.

  Amie gave him her best smile. “Good morning.”

  He nodded without returning her smile.

  “Do you sell second hand cell phones?”

  He nodded.

  “I’d like to buy one please, a smart phone if you have one.”

  He hesitated and Amie could almost read his mind. Was this a scam? Why was a white woman wanting a used phone? Why did she not buy one from the main stores?

  “Look.” Amie pulled out her money belt from under her cargo pants. “I can pay cash, American dollars.” Everyone knew that the sight of money was the best way to change minds, and using foreign currency in Togodo, however welcome, was strictly illegal. He’d change his mind for sure when he saw the notes. She yanked the zip and went to pull out her money but there was nothing there. It was gone.

  She made a hasty exit from the shop, her cheeks red, her knees knocking. Where? Who? When? The unanswered questions whirled through her mind. She’d only taken it off while she slept and when she’d gone for a shower the previous evening. Was it someone at the orphanage, one of the children, or Jean-Pierre reclaiming his property and helping himself to hers as well?

  There was nothing else she could do but go back to the car. She didn’t even have enough left to buy a cup of coffee while she waited. She was stuck. To get funds she would have to approach the embassy, and rely on either Jean-Pierre or Mrs Motswezi to lend her enough to phone them.

  She clambered into the Land Rover and wondered how long it would be before her friends returned. Her eyelids drooped in the heat and she pretended to sleep to avoid the street children pestering her for coins. They would never believe she had no money to give them.

  Jean-Pierre’s gentle touch on her arm startled her. He was standing next to the window grinning broadly. “Wait,” he said before going round the truck to climb into the front passenger seat. “I have the excellent news. I took the children in and you know who was in there?”

  “No, who?” Amie really didn’t feel like playing games.

  “The other two aid workers. I think they are Tony and Charlie, oui?”

  “What!” Amie sat bolt upright her misery gone. “Here? In the embassy, in Apatu?”

  “Yes. I too am surprised, but they have told of the terrible things the bad men do.” He took her hand in his.

  “How ... how did they get here?”

  “They escape when the big group sneak into Togodo. Then they get a lift to Apatu and of course they go straight to their embassy.”

  “Of course they would, but what about the children? The gate was locked and I couldn’t ...”

  “That is the good thing. They are flying home to England tomorrow and they will take the children with them. So you see it has all worked out very well.”

  There was something niggling at the back of Amie’s mind but she couldn’t put her finger on it. There was no reason not to believe the Frenchman, despite his charm, and the fact that all her money had been stolen, but she still wanted to be sure.

  “I need to phone the embassy, to know the girls are safe and ...” she was about to say and find out if you are telling the truth but thought that might not be wise. “I ... I’d like to say goodbye to them as well. I don’t want them to think I’ve just walked away. I’m sure you understand.”

  Jean-Pierre’s eyes widened and he nodded. “Mais bien sûr, ma petite belle, of course. Sadly, I do not have a phone, but we can buy one for you, yes?”

  “I can’t. All my money has been stolen. Your
money too. She grinned at his scowl. “But wait.” Something else had occurred to her. “Did you tell them about me in the Embassy?”

  “But of course, I did! Why would I not? They know we are working together and they are very happy.”

  I’ll check that out just as soon as I speak to them, Amie thought. I need to know if I can trust him.

  “Next, I go to the bank and I get money, yes? I need for the parts for the Nissan and we go to buy a phone for you.”

  “OK.”

  Once again Amie hopped out of the car. Once the Frenchman had emerged from the bank they made their way back to the seedy little shop where the wizened old man grunted when they entered.

  To Amie’s surprise Jean-Pierre spoke to the owner not in French or English but in what sounded more like Arabic. In no time at all, the deal was completed and he handed Amie a cell phone; one which had seen better days, and many of them. It was a very early Nokia with no internet facilities.

  “Désolé, ma cherie, it does not have the smart apps, but you can make calls.”

  “Doesn’t he have anything that will send and receive emails?” Amie moaned.

  The Frenchman shook his head. “No, he tells me he does not sell those, as it is too dangerous, the police – you understand – they can trace ... Here I have for you some cards for pre-paid air time.”

  “Oh well, it’s better than nothing. Thank you,” said Amie when they walked out into the bright sunshine. “Now I need the number for the British Embassy. Damn! I should have asked him if he had a phone directory.”

  “Ah, ma petite, you have only to ask and I, Jean-Pierre will give you.” He put his hand in his pocket and drew out a piece of paper. “This I ask them for.” He passed her the phone number.

  Amie pounced on it and copied it into the phone, but when she dialled the number it just rang and rang and rang.

  “No one’s answering.” She looked at him.

  He shrugged. “It maybe the number they give for people to phone when they are open, non?”

  “So, no one’s going to answer that before Monday morning, are they? Damn!” Amie stormed off ahead of Jean-Pierre looking for the nearest internet cafe. There was one in the next street, but much to her chagrin she had to wait for him to catch up so she could ask him for money to pay for computer time.

  “Of course, you want to talk to your Maddy. I quite understand and she may have another number for your embassy too, that would be good, yes?” He handed her some dirty Togodian dollar notes, far more than she’d need.

  Amie felt ashamed she’d doubted him. He’d done everything he could to help. She had yet to catch him out in one lie and he seemed just as passionate about protecting the children as she was. She turned and smiled at him. “Look, the Blue Cafe is just round the corner. I said we would meet Mrs Motswezi there so you go and wait for her. Order me a coffee, I shouldn’t be too long.” For some inexplicable reason Amie didn’t want him hanging around while she caught up with Maddy and put her in the picture.

  He nodded, giving her a peck on the cheek which lingered a little longer than necessary, then walked away.

  The exterior of the internet cafe was surrounded by flashing neon lights, which even in the bright sunlight caught her eye. Amie winced at the raucous reggae music which bounced out of the door, loud enough to cause small shock waves to hit her as she made her way inside.

  Jean-Pierre’s gesture had reassured her that she could trust him. His suggestion that she contact her own people, plus the fact he was not keeping too close an eye on her, was comforting. When she handed her money over at the counter, she remembered how trusting she used to be. I would have believed everyone, except perhaps the groups of punks that hung around the street corners or lurked in the shadows at night. Now, she confided in very few people; it would always be this way.

  She settled herself in front of the screen and logged on. There were several messages waiting for her in her inbox, all from Maddy. Starting with the earliest she clicked the button to open it. Suddenly, all the lights went out and the screen went black. Amie swore. Nothing had changed. The music had stopped and lights ceased flashing. The other internet users ignored the inconvenience and gathered in groups to chat. Patience was second nature to the African. These things happened and there was no point in getting upset. Time meant little; there was still the rest of the day.

  Amie walked outside, covering her eyes with her hand against the bright sunshine. A little further along the pavement an old lady was sitting on a tatty piece of cardboard on the broken pavement. She sat bolt upright legs stretched out in front of her in a pose that Amie had never been able to copy; it hurt her back. Laid out on a grubby white sheet was a selection of sunglasses and Amie walked over to inspect them. The seller’s smile was warm and welcoming. She began her sales patter, scrambling to her feet, picking up one pair after another, urging Amie to try them on. Amie found a not-too-garish pair that fitted her and asked the price. For a moment Amie was tempted to pay what she asked. The street vendor kept repeating that the high-fashion, logo-imprinted glasses were the real thing, not cheap copies from China. Amie nodded. In the likely event they had fallen off the back of a lorry, she was breaking the law by buying them; but no one cared.

  The sales lady was wearing a clean but well-washed skirt and top, and her flip flops were made from old car tyres. She probably only had one other outfit at home for special occasions; another example of the rampant poverty throughout the continent. Amie noticed her thin body and the deep lines on her face and handed over the suggested price. She was just too emotionally drained to begin the bargaining process, and if the seller thought her just another stupid tourist, that was too bad.

  She hung around for a little while then decided to go and meet the others in the cafe. She could pop back to check when the power came on and she needed a coffee and something to eat; it was way past lunch time.

  As she expected, there was no sign of Mrs Motswezi but the handsome Frenchman was lounging in a chair, feet out in front of him, reading a local paper. He jumped to his feet when he saw her.

  “You talk to your people, yes?” He drew a chair back for her to sit down and called for another coffee and sandwiches. “Ma petite, you have not eaten, non? You must be very hungry.”

  Amie sank down with a sigh and shook her head. “Power cut. I’ll have to wait.” There was another question that suddenly occurred to her as she reached for her coffee cup and grabbed the cheese and tomato sandwich. “There’s something I don’t understand,” she said between mouthfuls. “Why did the kidnappers leave two perfectly good vehicles behind in the village? Why not take them with them, transport some of the children in them? They knew they were there, but someone stripped everything out of them.”

  “They ... of course they wanted to take them, but I, Jean-Pierre am clever and I hide the keys. Then I put one key where you could find it so you could escape with the children, yes? So you see you can trust me, ma cherie. I have my own truck, the Nissan and I use that one to come and rescue you. I drive to Atari but I do not find them either. They do not come. I think they are going to the next place and I will wait for them there.”

  “Wait for them where?”

  “Here, in Apatu, of course. They tell me they go to the docks.”

  Did that make sense? Amie asked herself. Why bring them all the way to central Africa and then ship them overseas? Or, maybe they would perform the operation in Ruanga where it was legal, and then as soon as the children had healed, they would then send them home by sea, that made a bit more sense. Something wasn’t right though, but for the life of her she couldn’t pinpoint it.

  While Jean-Pierre sat calmly reading his paper, Amie fidgeted. Every few minutes she jumped up and walked to the corner, checking to see if the neon display was on.

  She hadn’t even thought of Simon in the last couple of days, but now, she desperately wanted to talk to him, tell him what was going on, ask for his advice. Why wasn’t he here with her? She tapped his work n
umber into her new phone, although it was most unlikely he would still be there at this time. Then she tried his cell number but once again it dropped into voice mail. Even hearing his voice so briefly made her heart pound. She so wanted to see him, hold him in her arms, make love with him again. But she blocked out the thought that she needed Simon to rescue her from the most devastating, charming, handsome Frenchman she had ever met. Was her mistrust of him all part of a potentially dangerous attraction?

  Jean-Pierre put the paper down and smiled at her. “Now the children are safe, we go after the bad guys yes?”

  “What? Just you, me and one small hand gun? No way. When I talk to them in the embassy on Monday, if they want me to get involved then fine – but only with proper back up.”

  Jean-Pierre’s face fell. He leaned across the table and took both of her hands in his. “Why do you still not trust me, ma petite?”

  “It’s got nothing to do with trust, Jean-Pierre.” Amie pulled her hands away. “It’s pure logistics. To take care of up to fifty children we will need at least a couple of dozen people. Anyhow, you said that both embassies are involved and with all their resources ...?”

  “Of course, of course. It is just a silly idea because I want you all to myself. I will report to my embassy on Monday morning.”

  Amie took another sip of her coffee which was good and strong just the way she liked it, but after three cups she was beginning to feel wired. Her hands were trembling and she found it hard to sit still. She was nervous at the thought of chasing off after a vicious gang of men who would kill her the moment they saw her. She wondered how big a party the embassy would put together. She would never forgive herself if she didn’t at least make some effort to try and stop them. But she might not have a choice if she was ordered to. The anger boiled up inside her at the thought of what they were going to do to those poor little girls. She had never felt so strongly about anything before, and if she could take her revenge on them she would. For the children and for Nigel and for Kirsty.