Guardian
Page 7
Pretty soon the ochre murram gave way to tarmac and the vans picked up speed as they entered the almost deserted town, first, turning along the one thoroughfare I was sure I recognised, Princess Elizabeth Avenue. Thereafter, beginning to weave their way southeast towards the narrow streets and alleys surrounding the old harbour. Which was when I understood why they were using such small trucks. The walls of the overhanging houses closed in on either side and soon we were reduced to a crawl, passing between a colourful assortment of mud-spattered walls set with massive old mahogany doors, age darkened and often carved in intricate detail. Each one testifying to the owner’s intention to keep a hostile world at bay. High above us, firmly shuttered windows completed the picture as each man assiduously guarded his wives and daughters against any hint of impropriety.
* * *
A whitewashed courtyard, just big enough to take the four pickups, signalled the apparent end of our journey, for now at least. Here the few shuttered windows were arranged high up on the mostly blank walls, their only major relief a straight staircase rising steeply to the top and an obvious walkway encircling the wall. That and a wood-framed entrance just wide enough to let the trucks pass carefully through completed its somewhat limited attractions. A houseboy with jet-black face and dressed in a long white kanzu(1) , cinched at the waist with a broad red cummerbund, had latched back the heat-stiffened gates as we arrived and, just as swiftly, had drawn them shut again the moment the last truck was through. A few curt words were exchanged and Giuseppe, as I had since heard the men refer to their boss, hurried after the houseboy, disappearing swiftly through a low door I’d failed to notice as we turned in. I was incredibly tense, but could only sit, agonising about what might be going on. I had already exhausted any hope of gleaning something useful from the driver. The man was either dumb or defiant, because beyond a rather too obvious tightening of his jaw in response to my arrival, there had been absolutely no acknowledgement of the opportunity presented by the momentary departure of our guard to join his mates. Even the minder’s single sharp command to keep the speed up had met with little more than an angry, almost dismissive wave of the driver’s hand.
Behind us, all the guards had now brought their rifles into sight and were either leaning impassively on them, or picking their teeth with studied indifference. But, for all that, there was a palpable air of tension. I wasn’t the only one with something to worry about. Some fifteen minutes went by and I could see the wariness translating into half-raised rifles and abruptly narrowed eyes scanning the tops of the sunlit walls. It occurred to me that down here in what was, effectively, a cockpit, we were totally vulnerable, painfully exposed to anyone who might wish to shoot down from behind the safety of the high white parapets. We couldn’t even drive to safety. If things got out of hand, it would likely be carnage and I had a fair idea of who would be doing the bleeding. And it was clear the same thoughts were occupying a number of other minds as they waited with mounting unease for the boss to return. Whatever it was this lot were up to, it wasn’t just about ivory, because poaching wasn’t a particularly heinous crime by anyone’s measure. It had to be something else to warrant this level of security and tense anticipation.
Time dragged, but just as we passed the twenty-minute mark, the houseboy returned and, in the mannered custom of African tribes, beckoned my now returned guard with a time-honoured palm-down motion. Immediately, this stalwart climbed off the truck and disappeared into the cool darkness of the open door, only to return within a few seconds preceded by a shout with which he clearly intended to galvanise the rest into some sort of action. Quickly, I turned to the driver, trying desperately to sign with my eyes and to mumble through the tape still firmly glued to my skin. But the driver merely stared back at me with almost pitying eyes before slowly opening his mouth. To my horror, I saw that behind the betel-blackened stumps(2) that passed for teeth, the man’s mouth was empty. A stub, all that was left of his tongue, moved jerkily as he formed a guttural noise somewhere at the back of his throat and shrugged helpless shoulders. His eyes slid towards the men streaming backwards and forwards behind us and I caught the look of pure hatred lancing outwards, momentarily darkening even that ravaged old face, before the mask of indifference dropped firmly back into place.
Stunned and impotent, I remember staring at the man, trying desperately to signal acknowledgement of a senseless crime with just my eyes, before turning slowly and heavily, in time to see the last box of ivory hauled down and carried out of sight. But it was what followed that really caught my attention. For the first time I spotted some tightly wrapped hessian parcels being dragged from beneath where the ivory had been. They were heavy, because the men were having difficulty as, two by two, they laboured across the courtyard into the inky blackness beyond the low door. Surprised at having missed what must have been obvious in the freight wagon, I counted some thirty of the large packages in transit before my guard returned to jerk me roughly out of the vehicle by the hank of rope trailing from my bound arms.
Chapter 16
The darkness was something of a relief after the harsh white light and dusty heat of the courtyard and it took me some while to adjust as I was prodded up a flight of stairs and along a corridor to be confronted by a closed door at its very end. Beyond it, I could hear the murmur of voices with an occasional burst of sound as one or other of the occupants raised the tempo. I had barely stopped before the sticky gag was stripped from my mouth, taking with it a couple of days’ worth of nascent beard, the guard turning swiftly back towards the door. At the sound of his deferential knock the talking stopped and the old wooden latch sprang up with a sharp click, allowing the door to be pushed outwards by someone waiting on the other side.
By this time I was getting used to being shoved around, but I wasn’t ready for the painful blow between the shoulder blades that caused me to measure my length on the cool marble floor. I tried to get up, but a merciless foot in the small of my back meant I simply sprawled forward again, this time connecting my head painfully with the hard floor. “Be still, boy.” The words brooked absolutely no argument and recognising the voice of my tormentor, I contented myself with moving just my eyes as I tried to assess the surroundings (this was becoming something of a habit). What I saw did little to reassure me. Ranged around the room on lush Turkish carpets, five swarthy, bearded men in flowing jalabiyas(1) sat cross-legged, drinking the ubiquitous thick black Turkish coffee laced with ginger from small, brightly patterned coffee bowls, the handle-free cups so beloved by coastal Arabs. One of them drew slowly on a hookah and except for the fat one in the middle, whose puffy, calculating eyes were fixed steadily on Giuseppe, the rest were staring straight at me. But it was the arrogant disdain and the speculation I could see quite clearly forming in the row of hooded, almost unblinking eyes that, despite the very palpable menace directed at me, finally triggered a response in me other than abject surrender. Thoroughly riled and probably rendered stupid through exhaustion, I mustered all the venom I could and, looking straight at the fat Arab, advised the lot of them to go roast in Hell. Which probably wasn’t the brightest thing I could have done in the circumstances.
* * *
By the time the overnight train drew into Mombasa, Roz had been up and about for some time, watching the flat open grasslands and scattered game give way to the gentle slopes and swaying palms of the coastal region. The tiny, old-fashioned basin in the corner of her sleeping compartment with its dark mahogany cover, latched with a silvery hook, had served well enough. Morning tea had appeared promptly and efficiently at six, delivered by the hand of a shy young African waiter who neatly arranged her newly gleaming shoes at the foot of the bunk. Green blankets with a central grey stripe bearing the legend ‘East African Railways’ stitched down their entire length lay piled in the corner and her meagre belongings were tightly strapped into the old rucksack now propped upright against the pillows. For most of the night Roz had lain awake, rocking to the rhythm of the bustling train. Every so o
ften a whistle announced yet another stop on the long journey to the coast and in the darkness she had heard the sound of children as they ran up and down beside the hissing, steam-swathed coaches, shouting their wares in high-pitched, laughing voices. She could have bought anything from a bottle of coke to a pineapple, from flip-flops cut straight out of old tyres to packs of Camel cigarettes, universally assumed to be rather too closely acquainted with their namesake’s regular by-products. But her mind was elsewhere, endlessly speculating on what might have happened, thoughts running pointlessly down blind alleys, recreating a thousand different scenarios as the night hours dragged her along through well-rehearsed fears. Where to begin her search? How to find me, a needle in the proverbial haystack? What to do when she did find me? However, lulled by the train’s hypnotic cadence, she had finally slept, but not before revisiting the strange moment in the Moiben church. A bizarre encounter – and ‘encounter’ was the only way in which she could think to describe it – the experience being beyond the realms of anything she had faced previously. An event she could neither deny nor forget. There had been something curiously reassuring about the overwhelming sense of a very real presence and, as she mulled it over in the dark, swaying cab, the feeling of well-being that had so captivated her at the time stole quietly back and the balm of reassurance drained away the last barriers to peaceful sleep. Drifting, still just conscious, her mind teasing the final vestiges of thought, she knew there was something there of momentous importance, if only she could put her finger on it. Something or someone. And then had come the deep shadows of sleep.
Well, now it was morning, the night and its fears were behind her and it was time to get going, to start the hard part. Thinking aloud, the words “Copper Kettle” jumped unbidden to her lips. She could do far worse than visit its cool, coffee-laden atmosphere, its uplifting hustle and bustle. Hefting the rucksack, she stepped lightly down from the carriage and started looking for a taxi. There would at least be a satisfying breakfast to be had at the Copper Kettle and, being such a well-known watering hole, it would probably be full of settlers on their way to work. Maybe even someone she knew.
The flurry of hard-pressed waiters and the luxurious smell of freshly ground coffee, the world’s finest, transported all the way from the sprawling farms of Kiambu far to the north, dispelled the last vestiges of drowsiness, and Roz revelled in the familiar clamour and heat of the dusty, coastal capital. Ordering from the restaurant’s comprehensive array of fruit and well-stuffed omelettes, she leaned back and studied the faces around her. So far she recognised no one and there had been no cheery greeting from any of the many men and women scattered around the room. The staff’s constant chatter as they threaded their way between the closely packed tables brought memories of her beloved Malindi flooding back, and she felt content to simply relax and wait. She was certain she would recognise someone sooner or later. After all, there weren’t that many whites living along the coast and it tended to be a somewhat introvert, reserved society, adept at recognising its own. She needed a base from which to operate and by time-honoured custom, hospitality would be open and generous.
Half an hour passed and she was just finishing her third cup of sugar-laced black coffee, when a shadow fell across the table and a loud voice, thick with Dutch overtones, announced itself as belonging to one Malcolm. “Roz, it’s good to see you. Thought I might find you here. Your Dad called me yesterday and asked me to look out for you. The old man’s a bit worried, but I said we’d see you alright and Jill’s getting the spare room ready. You remember me? Always a sucker for a gorgeous lady and they don’t come much more gorgeous than you.”
Roz studied the tall, red-necked settler standing relaxed beside her in his all-purpose khaki shorts and sweat-patched bush jacket. Piercing eyes enlivened by a glint of kindness stared out at her from below a broad forehead, dispelling her sudden suspicion of mockery. A heavily unshaven jaw cluttered with the chewed stub of a half-smoked cigar and hands the size of meat plates completed the picture. There was no mistaking him and no way could she have forgotten. Ever since she could walk Malcolm and Jill Joubert had been part of her parents’ close circle of friends, and his booming voice an integral part of childhood memory. His heavy, at times impenetrable Afrikaans accent and ready wit were always the centre of female attention, whenever there was a get-together and the chance of an ale or three. Roz smiled her relief and welcome, standing to receive a bear hug, which she returned with interest: the smoky, slightly stale smell of him transporting her instantly back to her youth.
“Oh, Malcolm, am I pleased to see you. Join me for a coffee, won’t you?” She signalled the waiter who came hurrying over with fresh coffee and a cup that almost vanished in the big man’s paw, about the only description that could do justice to such a huge hand. Settling himself, Malcolm had soon relit the foul-smelling stub and sniffed in appreciation at the thick black liquid swirling around his cup.
“So tell me. What’s going on and who’s the lucky lad?” For twenty minutes he listened in silence while Roz started right back at the moment the family had left Malindi to head for Moiben and a new life. She described her first meeting with me and all that had transpired since: our growing friendship; my sudden disappearance; her fears for my safety; her utter certainty that I was innocent of the accusations levelled against me; and her unswerving ambition to find me before the police did. Finally, in halting tones, she let him see into her soul, into the real reason, the one he had already guessed at – the passionate, tender first love that was driving this crusade and, with that confirmation, he understood perfectly.
“Come on, young lady, let’s get you back home first, then we can have a think about where we start searching.” Malcolm hefted the rucksack and Roz followed him meekly to the battered, open-topped Jeep standing just outside, a much treasured ‘leftover’ from the big Afrikaner’s wartime exploits, the ones no one cared to ask about, not if they valued his friendship.
“Jill’s looking forward to seeing you again and she won’t thank me for keeping you here.” With the warm air riffling her hair and the comforting sound of Malcolm’s voice rising above the engine roar, Roz was momentarily almost able to forget her quest, letting herself succumb to the coast’s mystical delights. But even so her eyes never stopped their automatic roving, always on the lookout for an ‘out-of-place’ white face and one face in particular, a face whose features were indelibly etched on her mind and heart. Mine.
Chapter 17
And that face was in the process of being judiciously rearranged. I suppose I should have guessed, but I didn’t really appreciate I was about to journey into a pit of emotional and spiritual darkness far beyond anything I could have imagined. Descent into the very Hell I had invited Giuseppe and his friends to visit really began with that simple act of defiance. True, forty-eight hours of torment had already left me in considerable shock, alone, disorientated, and with my world turned upside down. But I should have known that retribution for my defiance would be as swift as it was merciless. With barely a glance and only a single, guttural word to the guard standing in the shadows behind me, the fat Arab had set in train my utter humiliation, and the short leather sjambok(1) in the hand of a fully paid-up psychopath had begun its work quickly and efficiently. If you can equate efficiency with ruthless, bloody mayhem. There was nothing I could do except curl up and try to protect at least my head, but even that was futile. By the time the ordeal was over, fresh blood smeared everything. My face was swelling fast, my arms felt as though they were broken and the searing pain around my groin was beyond description. An uncompromising message had been delivered, loud and clear. Even I couldn’t miss it.
“Now get up.” I tried to keep things simple. But even breathing was hard between my pulverised lips and the bloody gaps left by a couple of missing teeth. I can just about remember staggering to a vaguely upright position to stand swaying against the pull of the leash still held in my guard’s hand. There was little I could do about my body bu
t, to my surprise and moderate satisfaction, I discovered that my spirit remained unbowed, ready to fight back, albeit in its own particular way, and any onlookers could have been forgiven for missing the signs. But something of the gritty, determined attitude that had marked out the early years, before my father had all but broken me, was clawing its way out of hibernation. The earlier moment of defiance had itself surprised me. But it gave me a modicum of comfort to know I’d given faint notice of my presence, even if only to myself. For one fleeting second I’d taken the initiative. For all the searing agony, that was at least something to cling to. I wasn’t always going to be the dumb animal they could simply ignore. But I must admit I was growing more apprehensive by the minute. Why had the beating been ordered by the Arab and not Giuseppe? The dynamics of what I had seen in those brief moments were enough to tell me this had been a meeting of equals. Well, Giuseppe obviously thought so and, equally clearly, he was providing the Arabs with something important and – judging by the number in the room – he was providing something they all wanted. Which wasn’t likely to be just ivory. Ivory simply wasn’t that valuable.
And then cutting through the fog of the beating, an image of hessian-covered parcels came into focus. Together with something I had seen in the East African Standard. Pictures of police crouching over similar packages, several torn open, with gouts of some white substance spilling out. The melodramatic headlines screaming ‘drugs haul’ in a bold and outsized font right across the front page. And, in rather smaller print, speculation that the drug runners were not averse to a little slavery on the side. As for the drugs, who knew what they were or where they were destined? Far more chilling in the circumstances was my recollection of the line about slavery. And this was a thought that was beginning to make rather more sense. True, my captors had brought drugs right through the country, just as the newspaper articles had suggested. Equally true, narcotics were nothing new by way of trade from West Africa, where Congolese rebels were growing vast quantities of hashish and opium in the fertile lands they had occupied since well before confronting their Belgian colonisers. Even I had heard about the hard-to-find, lonely farms hacked out of the raw forests of the Congo where, it was generally believed, the bulk of the narcotics were being grown. First shipped across country to the East African coast, then by sea to Ceylon, then out across the world.