Journey from Darkness

by Gareth Crocker

  ‘Exactly,’ Noah answered. ‘And it might mean that we’re looking for two men.’

  ‘What makes you think that?’

  ‘We’ve been watching a pair of suspects for some time now. We believe they’re foreigners and might even be brothers as well. Something’s not right about them, but we haven’t been able to catch them doing anything wrong yet. But hopefully that’s about to change.’

  ‘Do you know their names?’

  ‘Not yet. But we do know where they stay,’ Noah replied, and then hesitated. ‘In a red cabin a few miles south of Crook’s Corner. At the bottom of a deep valley.’

  ‘Red?’

  ‘As in blood.’

  ‘Is that common here?’

  ‘Yes, if you’re painting an outside floor. Not if you’re painting your entire hut with it. The locals call it the blood hut.’

  ‘And these men have a truck?’

  ‘Not only that, but Morgan personalised their tyres the day after they arrived in town.’

  ‘And you suspect it’s them?’

  ‘It’s just a feeling right now, but a strong one. Something about the way they look. How they carry themselves around town. The money they throw around. A couple of the townsfolk have made a few allegations against them, but nothing that we can prove. Not yet, anyway.’

  ‘The older brother, if that’s what he is, is a mountain of a man,’ Morgan added. ‘As poachers go, he doesn’t fit the profile. He’s a good-looking bastard, real smooth, and covered in tattoos. They’re mostly horses and angels, but there are French or Latin phrases as well. We suspect he’s maybe an ex-legionnaire. Smart asshole from what we’ve heard.’

  ‘And the other one?’

  ‘He’s got some kind of facial deformity. A mouth like a punched cactus. He also has a large and flat nose. He’s not quite carnival material, but he’s in the neighbourhood. Probably former legionnaire as well.’

  ‘We also think they could be involved in more than just poaching,’ Noah added.

  ‘Such as?’

  ‘Rape and maybe murder as well. At least three coloured girls have been attacked in the area by what one of them called “white devils”. Neither of them are willing to give us any more than that. They’re terrified half to death. We’re still working on them, but it’s not looking good. Superstitions run deep around here.’

  ‘And the murder?’

  Noah considered his reply. ‘Recently some youngsters found a young woman wandering naked through the bush. She was being tracked by a pack of wild dogs, but the boys managed to scare them off and get her to a doctor in town. After working on her for more than three hours, he reported that her attackers had likely taken a knife or steel implement of sorts to her … down there. Possibly even the barrel of a rifle.’

  Joe grimaced. ‘Did she survive?’

  ‘For three days.’

  ‘Did she say anything before she died?’

  ‘Not a word. She fell into a coma and never recovered.’

  Joe pushed his glasses up the bridge of his nose. ‘How much further?’

  Morgan shifted gears to clear a small rise and then glanced down at his watch. ‘We’re probably just over an hour away. How long are you planning on staying?’

  ‘I was thinking about a couple of days, but after what you’ve just told me I might need to stay a while longer. If you both don’t mind, that is.’

  ‘Of course not,’ Noah replied. ‘It would be great to have you with us. We could definitely use the help. Besides, I’m sure there’s a lot you can teach us about what you boys get up to on your side of the fence.’

  ‘I guess I know a few things about a few things,’ Joe replied, drawing on his first conversation with Noah.

  ‘If you don’t mind my prying,’ Noah asked, glancing up at his hair. ‘I gather you weren’t born in this part of the world?’

  ‘Ah,’ he winked at the detective. ‘I’m not from Ireland, if that’s what you were guessing. This is Edinburgh rust.’

  ‘How long have you been in Africa?’

  ‘My parents moved here when I was a boy and they fell in love with the place. We were only supposed to be here for a few months, but my father could never find a good enough reason for us to go back.’

  Noah sat back in his chair and slipped his hands into his pockets. ‘I have a sailor friend who believes that all the world’s ports are just rest stops on the way to Africa.’

  ‘I take it you’re not going anywhere,’ Joe said.

  Noah looked back at him and smiled. ‘You take it correctly.’

  36

  The bones of the dead elephants reached up from the river bed like the timber ribs of sunken ships. Joe hastened down the embankment, his right hand pinning his glasses to his face. From what he could see, at least four or five elephants had been butchered, their tusks long since hewn from their bodies. The sight of their desecrated corpses drove parallel spears of loss and anger up his spine.

  Leaving Morgan to scour the banks for tyre tracks, Noah followed Joe into the river bed. He noticed that the detective was in a particular rush to get to the elephants, as if there was still something he could do to help them. That if he hurried, they could somehow be spared. It was immediately clear that his devotion to the animals extended well beyond the realms of his profession. It made Noah realise just how hardened and callous he had become to the slaughter sites, how familiar the sights and smells now were to him. He felt ashamed by the thought.

  As Joe pulled up in front of the first elephant, he brought his hands up to his mouth. It was a gesture born partly out of a need to filter out the lingering stench of death but, in equal measure, out of respect for the life that had been lost.

  ‘Enormous, aren’t they?’

  ‘Yes,’ Joe agreed. ‘How long do you think they’ve been here?’

  ‘A week. Maybe more,’ he replied.

  ‘How do these bastards live with themselves?’

  Noah searched for something to say but, finding nothing helpful, decided not to venture an opinion. Instead, he fished out a pristine navy handkerchief from his pocket and pressed it over his mouth. He sank onto his haunches and began to search the sand around the bodies. He spotted the first shell almost immediately. It was as though it had been placed intentionally at the scene for their benefit. ‘It’s them again,’ he said, scooping up the casing with a cross on its side.

  As they stared at the shell, different versions of similar thoughts stirring in their minds, Morgan called out to them. ‘I’ve got something!’

  They turned and rose to their feet. ‘Tracks?’ Noah called back.

  ‘And something else.’

  Breaking into a run, Joe waded through the thick sand and followed Noah up the embankment. Morgan was sitting with his legs crossed, his file open across his lap. ‘Take a look,’ he said, pointing to an area a few inches in front of his right foot.

  Noah bent over. ‘That what I think it is?’

  Embedded in the middle of the tyre track was a gold stone.

  A nugget, with half an X slit into its side.

  ‘They must’ve driven over the shell on their way out,’ Joe surmised. ‘This has to be where they took up their position.’ He looked back at the fallen elephants in the middle of the river bed and estimated they were at least two hundred and fifty yards away, maybe further. ‘The bad news is that our suspects really know how to shoot,’ he continued. ‘Close on three hundred yards … moving targets … wind … heat … at least one of them has to be a marksman. Perhaps they both are.’

  Noah stood up and used his hand to shadow his eyes. ‘They were all brought down in a ring of about fifty yards. That’s impressive, even in the best conditions.’

  ‘Got it!’ Morgan suddenly cheered. ‘It’s a match for them.’ He sprang to his feet, clutching an image of a plaster tyre track with two small triangle impressions on its shoulder. Looking down at the ground, the track in the sand was a clear twin.

  Joe clapped his hands. ‘Outstanding.
Now we can go after them.’

  Noah shook his head and held out his hands in a calming gesture. ‘Hold on, Joe. We can’t get ahead of ourselves. This isn’t enough. We need more than just these tracks as evidence. All this really proves is that their truck was here at some point after the shooting. It’s not enough to go on. But it’s a promising start.’

  ‘I hear you, of course, and I’m not suggesting we rush out and arrest them,’ Joe replied, mindful of eroding the goodwill he had built up with the young detective. ‘But surely we can follow them for a while and perhaps bring them in for questioning?’

  ‘Absolutely. Sounds good,’ Morgan chimed in, dusting sand from his file.

  Noah did not share his partner’s exuberance. ‘I’m happy that we trail them and do some more digging. Maybe even talk to them. But we need to consider our actions. There are procedures we need to follow.’

  ‘Absolutely,’ Joe replied, sensing it important not to push any further.

  After photographing and cataloguing the evidence, they headed back to their truck. As they walked, Joe was beginning to understand that Noah was indeed a meticulous man driven by a set of deeply held values and principles. It was clear that the law and its dictates were sacred to him and little would permit him to breach their confines. Even if it meant that a pair of murderers would be left to continue their killing unabated.

  Joe, by comparison, respected the rule of law, but knew that sometimes – in certain circumstances – it held little currency. That, occasionally, other roads needed to be explored. Cold and unlit alleyways, the kind frequented by shadowy figures but often forsaken by maps. Where the law, and all its formalities, held no jurisdiction.

  Where there were no eyes to see and no mouths to pass judgment.

  37

  The following morning, Morgan remained behind at the station to fill out the necessary paperwork while Noah and Joe set off in search of the two suspects. They agreed simply to trail them at a distance – nothing more intrusive than that.

  They began by heading straight for the only place that made sense.

  The blood hut in the valley.

  ‘Morgan has many strong suits. Cleaning, unfortunately, is not among them,’ Noah said, wiping the inside of the truck’s windscreen with a freshly pressed burgundy handkerchief. To Joe’s eye, the glass seemed more than clear enough.

  ‘Mind if I ask you a personal question?’

  ‘Go ahead,’ Joe replied.

  ‘Do you have trouble sleeping?’

  Joe smiled and pointed to the pronounced stains under his eyes. ‘You referring to these?’

  ‘Is it bad?’

  ‘It can be. It comes and goes. The heat doesn’t help.’

  ‘I imagine it must wear you down after a while.’

  ‘I’ve become used to it over the years. I’ve been able to adapt to some extent. I try use the extra hours to think about cases I’m working on. Actually, it often allows me the space to put things into perspective.’

  Noah rounded a corner and had to brake firmly to avoid an axle-snapping ditch. ‘If you don’t mind me saying, I couldn’t help but notice how much yesterday seemed to affect you. The elephants obviously mean a great deal to you.’

  ‘You notice a lot.’

  ‘It’s just an observation.’

  ‘Well, it’s an accurate one,’ Joe conceded. ‘Although they didn’t always mean that much to me.’

  ‘Really?’

  Joe seemed reluctant to elaborate, as if their conversation had now meandered into unsafe territory. ‘Let’s just say an elephant saved my life.’

  Noah glanced across at the detective, wondering how and in what form that could possibly be true, but decided not to pry.

  ‘Seeing that we’re sharing here, mind if I ask you something?’ Joe asked.

  ‘Sure.’

  ‘Why do you bother?’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘From what I’ve gathered, hardly anyone around here gives a damn about trying to stop the poaching. Probably because so many people are making good money out of it. What makes you different?’

  ‘I might not care for the animals quite as deeply as you do, but that doesn’t mean I’m willing to abide their slaughter.’

  ‘Is that what compels you? Or is it the law?’

  ‘Both, I suppose.’

  When Joe spoke again, there was some distance in his voice. ‘I feel for the situation here, I really do. But it’s already so far gone. I just hope we can keep most of these bastards away from our borders. That’s really why I’m here.’

  ‘If I’m honest, I think you’re going to have a real job on your hands to make that happen. When fishermen empty a lake, do they change what they do? Or do they just look for another lake?’

  Joe folded his arms, considering the comment. ‘I admire you for what you’re trying to do here. And keeping with the metaphors, it takes courage to stand alone in the path of a river as it comes down in flood.’

  ‘Who says I’m alone? By my count there are at least three of us.’

  Joe smiled at that, but did not immediately reply. A handful of men – with or without badges – were no match for an overwhelming tide of poachers. ‘You know, you and Morgan could just climb out of the river before the water reaches you.’

  ‘What?’ Noah shrugged. ‘And leave you standing there?’

  After abandoning their truck and choosing to cover the last stretch on foot, Noah lifted the binoculars and raised his head above the tall grass. They were less than a mile from the blood hut. ‘It doesn’t look like our friends are home. There’s no activity inside and I can’t see their truck. Unless it’s parked around the back.’

  ‘You weren’t joking about the red paint.’

  ‘The paint is the least of our concerns, trust me. Now that we’re in range, we need to watch out for traps.’

  Joe paused and looked across at the young detective. ‘Really?’

  ‘Local poachers often set traps around where they live, both as a security measure and a source of easy food.’

  ‘What kind of traps?’

  Noah kissed his wrists together and stretched out his fingers. He then slapped them shut, fingers knitting to knuckles. ‘Ones that can really ruin your morning.’

  ‘Gin traps?’

  ‘Mainly, but not exclusively. We’ve also come across knife and spear traps, so keep your eyes open.’

  Joe scoured the land ahead of them. ‘What am I looking for?’

  ‘Wire … twine … also look out for grass that’s been cut and laid down flat. Any kind of ground cover that looks unnatural could be hiding something.’

  They had made less than a hundred careful yards when Joe spotted an odd pile of grass and leaves ahead of them. It was stacked neatly in the only available space in a row of trees. ‘Something like that?’

  ‘Something exactly like that.’

  Noah stepped forward, picked up an old branch and knelt down next to the mound. Without bothering to move the foliage, he stabbed the stick into the centre of the heap. Rusted teeth leapt up through the grass and shattered the branch as if it were made of glass.

  ‘If you get caught in one of these out here, your best hope is that you either bleed to death quickly or the person who laid the trap finds you and either frees you or puts a bullet in your head.’

  ‘Because of the pain?’

  A knowing smile spread across Noah’s face. ‘Because this area is full of hyenas that, come nightfall, will have picked up the smell of your blood and will waste no time in getting to work on your body. Dead or alive.’

  Joe raised an eyebrow and then slowly fanned out an arm. ‘Forgive me, Noah. I’ve forgotten my manners. This is your country and you really should be leading the way.’

  38

  Having circled around the back of the hut and peered through a few of its filthy windows to ensure nobody was home, Joe headed for the veranda. The first thing that struck him was how much bigger the structure suddenly appeared
now that he was standing in front of it; it was as though it were somehow able to alter its dimensions and transform its shape at will, its seams and planks expanding as though alive. He and Noah stepped up onto the porch shoulder to shoulder, and their arrival disturbed a horde of bulbous horse flies. They had been feeding on a pot of congealed fat and, as they rose into the air, he could see their legs were now coated in greasy white boots, like carnivorous bees. Turning away from them, he scanned the rest of the scarlet deck. There was a heavy wooden table, stained black and dark brown in places, flanked by two benches. There were cutting implements – saws, axes, picks and spades; likely the tools of their trade – propped up against the wall. There were also what appeared to be water drums and other containers filled with darker fluids. The only other item of interest was a heavy French Bible lying on the floor next to the door, its covers long since torn away. Presumably, the weight of its words was now being used to prop open the door during hot summer evenings.

  ‘We can’t break in.’

  ‘Look, Noah, it would be a little pointless if we didn’t have a quick look around inside.’

  ‘This isn’t what we agreed.’

  ‘Come on. What’s the harm? They won’t even know we were here.’

  Noah shook his head but, before he could protest any further, Joe reached for the doorknob and gave it a sharp twist. The hinges sighed and creaked open. ‘Wonderful,’ he said. ‘No need to break in then.’

  As Joe stepped inside, Noah held his ground.

  ‘Come on, Noah.’

  ‘This isn’t right.’

  ‘And what they’re doing is?’

  ‘We don’t know if they’re doing anything yet.’

  ‘Well, why don’t you step inside and we can try find out if that’s true?’

  Noah deliberated briefly and then, reluctantly, followed inside. ‘We’re just having a quick look around. Don’t touch anything.’

  ‘Sure. Whatever you say.’

  Joe had expected the innards of the hut to be a natural extension of the grubby veranda, but there was no comparison. It was something altogether different. It consisted of a large and orderly room in the centre, off which two bedrooms led. The main room possessed only two chairs, a small cupboard containing kitchen supplies and a solitary oil lamp. The room on the left side was equally sparse. It contained a mattress, a pile of clothes, some boots and another oil lamp. The final bedroom – slightly larger than its mate – was similar, with two notable exceptions. There were large piles of books stacked up all over the floor. Columns of French texts and English titles dealing mainly with religion and the afterlife. The other difference was the walls. Blazoned across each of them were rows of drawn figures. Vivid sketches of winged horses and soldiers descending from the sun, of serpents and hooded creatures spiralling over naked women in differing states of distress. Priests and other robed forms worshipped idols while lines of French prose, in sweeping cursive, trailed down onto the floorboards and ran under their feet.