by Carl Hancock
The traffic was light, but Tom was happy to coast along, thrilled by the thought of the power packed underneath him waiting to be unleashed by a single twist of the throttle. The roadside dukas were busy, colourful with piles of vegetables and racks of clothes. In twenty minutes they reached the Kingoni police post that marked the end of the tarmac. Within seconds of leaving it they were climbing a steep incline, still no more than twenty metres from the lakeside. On one side there was a dry mud bank and on the other a long, deep ditch that had been scooped out of the track by rushes of the heavy rains.
Tom revved his way up the narrow middle strip, a bumpy stretch of hard, stony, pounded earth and on reaching the flat of a decent dirt road switched off the engine. Silence — at least it seemed that way until the last of the engine noise was filtered out of their ears. Stillness, peace and then the sounds allowed themselves to be discovered, a breeze to ruffle every stalk and branch and ancient birdsong.
‘That fence and this excuse for a dirt road, the only changes ‘round here in three million years. Well, I like to believe that. Now, take your boots off. We’re going to make our mark.’
On a stretch of soft, sandy soil running alongside the track they carefully pressed their feet, up and back with every step sharply defined. They looked back at the trail of footprints.
‘That’s why I love this country.’
‘Explain.’
‘Mmn … Difficult. People, families, our families have been here thousands and thousands of years. Footsteps, and we’ve just joined them. You can feel their spirits floating about. They’re here with us.’
‘Philosophical Mister McCall.’
‘No, just confused. Bertie’s not leaving, thank goodness, but others are. The wananchi, sorry, the ordinary people have to put up with the big boys filling their pockets with every shilling they can get their hands on. So what have we got? Malaria. AIDS, TB, terrible hospitals if you can’t afford to pay, the schools no better, muggings, kidnappings, treating their women like dirt, bashing down forests … oh, and I love this country. Look up there, Luce! Fantastic, like they’ve come on cue.’
A family of giraffe was crossing the track further into the forest. Two of the tallest were already stepping gracefully across a fence that they hardly seemed to notice. There was no hurry, but in seconds they were out of sight.
‘See what I mean? Gorgeous, gorgeous.’ Tom’s voice tailed off and he was staring down at their footprints.
‘Sorry, Luce, I’m still upset about Eddie. Africa finds you out, binds you to her with silken cords. Yeah, the cliches. I’ve said them so often, but they’re still true.’
‘So now it’s poetical Mister McCall. Sorry, Tom.’
‘Not mine. I wish I could remember that teacher’s name.’
‘I think I’m falling in love with it, too. Dreading going back. Not just the winter.’
Tom smiled and put his arms across her shoulders. She turned to look into his eyes.
‘I was hoping I was pregnant. No such luck.’
She stared him out, but as he looked away, she had seen clearly that the black tigress was still in total command of his heart. He said nothing but gave her a warm, sad smile. He moved to the Harley and stroked the shiny, red tank. ‘We won’t come back this way. I’ve got to warn you, the North Road is no better than this. Government stole the aid money, three times. Thank you, Mister Rubai!’
They dawdled. They took detours. He nosed the bike up to the edge of Crater Lake and looked down into the dark blue water that seemed as solid and still as a slab of rock.
Lunch was a success. Lucy was bowled over by the beauty of the Crofts’ home. There was a view of the lake through a scattering of huge, straight trees. House and trees were surrounded by freshly cut grass, light green and glowing in the light of late morning. The colours of the cascades of flowers would have graced the paradise garden.
Karuru Tu was another Kenyan object for Lucy to fall in love with. It was an added thrill to think that her parents would soon be enjoying it. She was not surprised when she was presented with a cutting from a Sunday Times supplement with the story and pictures of its construction.
She rode off clinging to Tom’s back. The shacks and hovels they skirted on their way back to the road were of another world. Neither these nor the raggedly dressed children playing close to the gatekeeper’s hut troubled her. They were part of the African scene that she had become used to. Two twenty-shilling notes brought whoops of delight when Lucy handed them over to the little girl who scrambled to see to the opening and shutting.
The landscape on this side of the lake was open with broad, rolling plains thick with brown grass. They followed a rough road that curved under the heights of Eburu. The worst parts came on the ascents and descents where storm waters had rushed down to break surfaces in the rainy seasons. Tom revelled in twisting and turning the Harley in the contest to find the smoothest way through. Lucy enjoyed the exhilaration of the thrills that time and again raced through her bowels as they bounced along.
The landscape changed briefly as they entered a narrow volcanic gorge. Lucy was taking a close look at rugged red-brown walls when she was thrown hard into Tom’s back. He had braked hard. She soon understood why.
The familiar sight of a black Mercedes. This one was parked sideways, was blocking the road ahead. Another sight, familiar enough to Tom at least, was five heavy, dark-suited men lined up in front of the vehicle, looking rather bored.
A shout to Lucy of ‘Hang on!’ and Tom skidded hard enough to swing the bike ‘round to face another Mercedes blocking that exit. Slabs of rock made passage off the track impossible.
Then there were the hand guns pointed at them, one from each side. Lucy slid from her seat and Tom heaved the bike into a parking position. He went to Lucy’s side, spread his feet slightly and glowered, trapped but alert. Total silence. From the other side a change of stance, five different versions of the of the bored African man’s pose. The sullen stares, the contemptuous smiles soon broke into hand-slapping laughter.
‘Nice day, Bwana. What you doing over this side of the lake?’
‘Jacob here likes your wheels, man. Why don’t you let him finish the ride with the lovely lady. He could give her a good time.’
Lucy began to tremble and then to sob. Without shifting his gaze from the muscular opposition, Tom put his arm around her shoulder and grasped her tightly. He was angry that he had allowed himself to be trapped on the only stretch of North Road where there was no chance of even trying to break out.
‘Let her go and I won’t try anything.’
‘You won’t try anything, period, Mister McCall.’
The voice was soft, cultivated. The speaker was older than his colleagues, fat and the only one not wearing sunglasses.
‘Who am I speaking to?’
Tom’s defiant query drew more wide grins and amused chuckles. These men were not in a hurry. This was no new situation for them.
Tom tried again. ‘Do you people like films?’
No response.
‘Is this being filmed? Where have you put the cameras?’ But they knew his name. That told him everything.
The older man straightened. ‘Bring him here.’ The false good humour evaporated.
Two young men stepped forward, grasped Tom and held his arms behind his back. A third, the slimmest of the group, set himself up directly in front of Tom in a boxing stance. Without removing his jacket, he rocked back and forth on the balls of his feet and sent half a dozen ferocious blows into Tom’s body. Tom went down and lay unconscious on the gravelly track
Lucy became hysterical. She was terrified, but she had found a voice.
‘Me next? You bastards! You horrible, cowardly, black bastards! Go on, shoot. Nobody will give a shit. But keep your filthy hands off me!’
She scraped the dust and hurled a shower of small stones wildly wide of the mark. She threw herself down by Tom’s crumpled body.
The men paid her no heed. There was m
ore important business to see to. Options were being checked. Fingers were clicked and instructions given.
‘Daniel, take the car. Peter, John, help him with the girl. Dump her half a mile from Kingoni Station, this side.’
‘Jacob, the bike. Can you really ride one?’
‘Sure, easy.’
‘Lead the way. Stay ahead, well ahead. Dump it where you leave the girl. We wouldn’t want people to get the impression that we’re a bunch of criminals, would we? When you’re done, come on to the usual place. One hour tops. Don’t touch the girl. She’s not part of this.’
Ten minutes later the Harley was sweeping past the entrance gate to Loldia. Mary Croft was waiting for it to pass. She had half a dozen eleven and twelve year olds on board. She was taking them over to Sanctuary Farm for a two-day camp out at the riding school. Michael and Gary watched the Harley race by and exchanged puzzled looks.
‘Didn’t look dressed for it.’
‘And, Mike, I’d swear that was Bertie Briggs’ bike. Tom and that girl were on it.’
Mary reversed and returned to the farm to tell the men. They phoned the McCalls.
Maura insisted on going with Alex and Bertie. She wanted to do something to help her fight down the rapidly mounting sense of foreboding. Bertie took a rifle and a hand gun but could not persuade Alex to do the same. Maura drove the Land Cruiser and followed the route Tom and Lucy had taken. Jack Croft and his cousin and neighbour, Peter Elliot, drove out from Loldia to the 104.
The Londiani people passed a Mercedes as they were slowing for the road bumps near Elsamere. Bertie had a good look at the smart-suited passengers as they, too, slowed. He fingered the trigger of his pistol. An instinct told him that these men could well have had something to do with whatever had happened to Tom and Lucy. He could not think of a reason to challenge them. And it was more important to get to their young people.
Lucy was struggling to lift the Harley when they came upon her. She was distraught, gulping and sobbing and the tears started flowing again as soon as Maura hugged her and pulled her close. They pieced together events from her halting story. Maura’s reaction to what she heard was the single word, a name, ‘Rubai.’ Alex and Bertie exchanged glances but said nothing.
Lucy took Bertie’s place in the Cruiser. Alex waited for his friend to check his bike. He started her up and revved hard and with a thumbs up set off in front of them to return to Londiani. Jack and Peter reported that they had found nothing on their side of the lake.
For an hour the twins, Alex, Maura, Bertie and Lucy tried to fathom out what must have happened. Eddie was very distressed and it was only his anxiety that kept Maura from breaking down. She made no mention of Abel Rubai, but she was convinced that he was involved. At the end of it all it was decided, reluctantly, that they would have to bring in the police.
Confidence in the forces of law and order in the country was not high. Most people’s contact with them came at one of the many checkpoints set up along the roads and these were seen as illegal money-spinners. Pay the bribe or suffer the inconvenient consequences.
The station in Naivasha town was tidy but run-down. At first things looked hopeless. The portly desk sergeant had glanced up when Alex and Bertie entered but immediately went back to his ledger. Mostly he stared down at it as if he were reading a newspaper, but from time to time he took his pencil from behind his ear and wrote … something. At last, he gave them his attention. Bertie had been to the station a few times before and each time whoever was on duty at the desk gave the impression that he was very bored and was annoyed that his peace and quiet was being disturbed. When Alex explained why they were there the sergeant fished around under his desk and came up with a crumpled piece of paper that he laboriously smoothed down before he asked a few half-hearted questions.
‘How many people involved here? Numberplates? Where are the victims at this moment? When can she come over to make a statement?’
The arrival of Inspector Caroline changed everything. She was bright, she was ambitious, she was disliked in the station for being too busy-busy. She had become a police-woman because she hated crime and criminals. She had read about an American police chief’s idea about zero tolerance. She liked that.
On her entry the sergeant sharpened himself up. After some brief exchanges with Alex she was into action. Within minutes she was following them back to Londiani. She was a model of tact when she questioned Lucy and very frank in sharing her first thoughts.
‘I’m sorry, but it doesn’t look good. There’s money involved here, big money. Seven, eight men, that’s expensive. My guess is that they have taken him to Nairobi, perhaps over the border, Uganda, Tanzania. They’re very confident, dumping the only witness so soon. If we’re lucky they will ask for a ransom.’
‘And if they don’t?’ Maura needed to have the answer spelled out.
‘The young lady has given us so little to work on. That car you saw on your way to Kongoni. Four men? I’ll ask in the town. Perhaps they stopped somewhere.’
The inspector was right about the kidnappers. The bunch was confident. They thought they were untouchable. Patrick Uchome, their well-paid leader, Kalenjin, graduate in fine arts at Nairobi, enjoyed a bit of risk in his work. It relieved the boredom. But the risks were all calculated. He was very careful about the boys he hired. Their only loyalty was to him. In return he gave them a comfortable living, much better than pushing a pen in some deadbeat city office or standing in a field counting coffee beans.
They waited for the second car at their usual meeting point, the Lucky Bar on the outskirts of Gilgil. Nyama Choma with fried onions and a couple of Tuskers put them in the mood to finish the day’s work.
A few minutes after the second car arrived with no trouble to report, there was a message for Uchome. He took it in the car outside and when he returned he brought a change of plan.
‘Can’t go tonight.’
‘What do you mean? The job’s almost done.’
‘Frankie, someone is having second thoughts. No, I don’t like it either, but quadruple pay will help.’
‘Is that what he said?’
‘Promised not said. You know he never breaks a promise.’
‘So what’s involved exactly?’
‘We hold the kid for twenty-four hours and go ahead as planned unless we hear something new.’
‘We can’t let him go.’
‘Yes, I know. He’s seen us. Don’t worry. Three of you can have the night off. I’m sure you can find some pretty ladies in the town …’
‘But why, Patrick?
‘I never ask him that question. As long as the big money keeps rolling my way. Three of you can come with me. We’re taking the kid. An old house built by some crazy English. Before we were born. Stinking road. Safe for one night.’
‘Will we let him out?’
‘Yeah. Blindfolded. Give him some posho and water.’
‘What a waste!’
‘Yeah. Just in case.’
The guns were out. Tom did not touch the posho. He’d always hated the stuff. He got a lot of the water down him, slowly. Some of the pain was gone as long as he could stay still. He sat slumped forward in the chair and rocked backwards and forwards like some drunk who was close to throwing up. Patrick’s assistants blamed their prisoner for their wasted night. When they dragged him to the outhouse where he was to spend the night locked up, they made sure that the short journey was very uncomfortable, finishing with a kick that sent him sprawling across a concrete floor.
For the first time since they had taken him from the stony edge of North Road, he was in a place away from his captors. They had followed him into the room to tie his hands and feet, half hoping that when they came for him next day he might have saved them a job. But Tom had small hopes of his own. He spent time trying to relax. He was aching all over, with half a dozen really painful spots. He knew that he was lucky to be still alive to feel them. Before they brought him to this house, this building, whatever, he had bee
n stowed away in the boot of the car and when he first came ‘round, he was being thrown around the spacious area and letting out involuntary groans of pain. With a big effort he managed to lock his feet against one wheel arch and his shoulders against the other, a small relief against the constant buffeting.
He heard things, too, many of them about himself, mostly about getting rid of him. A gun and silencer seemed the preferred method. He was puzzled how he had survived hours shut in with no problems in breathing. He would not be seeking explanations.
In the darkness and the silence of the night, he worked hard on shutting out every single negative thought. Yes, death was a strong possibility, but he was not gone yet. That must have had something to do with the telephone conversation he heard when the car was parked outside some noisy place like a bar. He caught the words ‘change of plan’. That was why he was still around. He felt that he had been given a second chance. There would not be another unless he could create one himself. Some chance. He must not give up hope. He must rest, even sleep if it were possible. He laughed and paid for the pleasure with a few moments intense agony in the region of his chest. He had visualised himself hobbling down the road chased by half a dozen lumbering heavyweights reaching for their guns. He decided to try the relaxation techniques that Mary had taught him years before. Imagining, pretending, accepting, a big advance on counting sheep.
The next thing that he felt was a kick in the back. More water, more posho to be left uneaten and back to his lodge in the boot of the car. He had no idea of the time. He was blindfolded, but surely they were into another day.
Hours later and the two Mercedes were parked again outside the Lucky Bar near Gilgil. As far as Tom was concerned they could have been close to the bar in the Intercontinental in Nairobi. Patrick Uchome and his men were enjoying big helpings of everything on offer.
‘Deja vu’. Francis Baringo considered himself to be Uchome’s deputy and liked displaying his superior knowledge. He had spent a happy day in pleasant company. He was in a good mood. He was about to get a fat payout for another job done. And here he was again, same place, same food, same company, twenty-four hours on.
