Guardian

by Dan Gleed

  ***

  Mind you, I was becoming all too used to this nefarious way of life. Quite prepared to slip quietly away before anyone stirred in the nearby huts, whilst knowing that, at the very least, I owed them a thorough explanation and an apology for dumping them in the police mire that was bound to follow. Nevertheless, I had few feelings of regret beyond the almost overwhelming feeling of nausea that was to become my constant companion in the coming days as I left a certain cold body behind. Albeit, to my subsequent shame, entrusting them with Roz and all the difficulties that would present gave me scant cause for concern at the time. I knew I had lost her forever and nothing I could do would bring her back. Now all that concerned me, beyond my own inner turmoil, was revenge and the swifter the sweeter. In fact, before the grey dawn had even begun to diffuse its silvery light, vengeance had become my consuming thought. So it was that the early shadows cast by the swaying palms found me seizing the opportunity to remain well hidden until I was clear of the settlement and able to risk a turn down to the beach, from where I headed back towards the scene of the previous day’s debacle.

  Leaving a canoe on the far side of the creek would give a rather obvious clue as to my intentions, but even I couldn’t bring myself to cast it adrift, from where it would be pushed out to sea by the slow-flowing river. It represented a friend’s livelihood, probably his entire wealth. So I wasted some time swimming across the river, only just making it in the end. However, the couple of hours’ rest I’d managed to grab during the night buoyed me sufficiently and, travelling with just the spear and a light bag to weigh me down, I was able to move reasonably swiftly. Faster than I had the day before when, accompanied by Roz and devoid of care, we had together soaked up every tiny nuance of that brilliant and optimistic time, dawdling along our way. As my heart kept treacherously reminding me. But steeling myself, I hastened on to find the point from which our attacker had withdrawn so abruptly.

  His trail was easy to follow. Clearly, he had little knowledge of how to move without leaving a marker on the scale of an elephant’s highway and, with my knowledge of tracking, it was the easiest thing in the world to follow him. Naturally, the trail was cold, but I knew this would be the case and I also knew that unless he’d found an accomplice, or managed to steal a vehicle, it would only be a matter of hours before I caught up with him. Any extra weight I might have acquired while waiting for my leg to heal in those oh-so-far-off days was long since shed. Subsisting over the past few weeks on a healthy diet of fish, ugali(1) and love, I was now almost as fit as I’d ever been. So at an easy lope it didn’t take long to cover the miles heading directly inland on a westerly track, following a trail that seldom deviated and from which I deduced he was making for the higher ground beyond the limits of coastal habitation. Within a couple of hours I had pulled away from the only available sources of water and, by the time the sun was fully overhead, I knew I would be getting close.

  For some time, there had been little sound beyond the metronomic rhythm of my feet scuffing through the dust and the occasional plaintive bird calls up ahead, all subsumed by the sound of wind soughing through the low bushes. The palms were fewer now, spaced out and beginning to be replaced by the dense, thorny scrub of the inland wastes, thorns that continually tugged at my shirt and left long red welts on arms and legs. And of course, with the passing of the hours, the unremitting heat of the sun never ceased from striking down at me out of a clear, cobalt sky – albeit in my despondent anger and pain everything, even the sky, was coloured grey. Moreover, unrelieved by the friendly coolness of the coastal breeze and constantly drawing much-needed moisture from my sweat-soaked body, the heat was beginning to debilitate me. Although, frankly, I couldn’t have cared less. Carefully husbanded, I had sufficient water for a couple of days and the closer I got to my quarry, the less I was concerned about anything else. Furthermore, having discovered where he had stopped for a few hours to rest in his frantic dash for shelter from the hunters he assumed were following him, I now knew for certain that I had him. So he was right after a fashion. He was being hunted, but even his original pursuers would not have been as implacably focused as I was. Nor as intent on draining him of every last vestige of information and dignity. I was fairly sure he had neither eaten nor drunk much, if anything, in the hours since we had parted. Having left the immediate boundaries of the coast, we had passed no potable water whatsoever and, after a careful search of his previous night’s campsite, I had found neither trace of cooking fire, remains of food waste, nor even the pungent smell of human urine. All of which meant he, too, should be weakening rapidly and, with probably little or no water, would have to break cover and find human habitation or, at the very least, start quartering the terrain for traces of ground water before too long.

  In fact, I more or less caught up with him just before the sun went down, fortuitously spotting him about a mile ahead, purely because he was reckless enough to crest a rise, allowing himself to be outlined for a moment against the sinking sun. With the position of my quarry now certain, I was able to pick up the pace, drawing in close with the intention of waylaying him as he settled early for what he no doubt thought would be a quiet and unobtrusive rest. Nevertheless, I was under no illusion that, given half a chance, he would kill me on sight and, since he still had his rifle, despite the obvious relaxation, I made sure to work my way carefully round until I could lurk unseen within easy spearing distance. It wasn’t difficult, because for someone on the run, he was making an awful lot of noise and really wasn’t taking even the basic precautions dictated by bush craft. On the other hand, if I wished to remain alive, I had to remain supremely cautious. This being the case, it took me a while to close to within about six feet of him, all the while using the crumbling wall of what appeared to be an old Arab house to stay hidden. Clearly, part of a ruined and ancient settlement. This protection, coupled with a large baobab(2) growing out of those same walls, the base of which he had chosen as a campsite, provided all the cover required. So, coming from directly behind the wide trunk it was a simple task to step over the wall and pounce. And I noted with a certain grim satisfaction that, although not designed for the job, such was the anger and fear with which I had driven the fishing spear, it had gone right through his thigh, pinning him firmly to the ground. Notwithstanding which, I still had to hurriedly kick away the rifle as he tried to scoop it up from its resting place beside the fire he had been busy kindling.

  Chapter 62

  When they finally discovered my early and unexpected departure, there was consternation in the camp. Some argued for me, assuming I probably wasn’t very far away and simply wanting to be alone while I tried to come to terms with Roz’s shocking death. These ‘supporters’ assumed they could expect me back within a few hours. However, the more astute amongst them were quick to realise I wasn’t likely to be back anytime soon. Moreover, they felt they understood why. They knew I was keen to avoid the police, even if they didn’t know the precise details, but they also recognised instinctively that, as Roz’s lover and above all as a man, it was incumbent upon me to exact appropriate vengeance, whatever it might cost. So, given the problems to be expected in finding the culprit, I was unlikely to return in the near future. They only hoped I was after the slaver, the true cause of the troubles, and not the men from the next village down the coast to the south, some of whom they knew personally. In the meantime, it quickly dawned on all of them that they had a more pressing problem on their hands. A dead white girl, who clearly hadn’t died naturally. Which, as far as the police were concerned, would, almost by definition, involve a local. So without me around to exonerate them, they could already guess who was likely to get the initial blame.

  And then there was Bwana Lescal. Who was going to tell him that his only daughter had been murdered? Much more importantly, how were they going to tell him? There were no telephones available. And come to that, how were they going to report the matter to the local police in Malindi? Someone had to be volunteered for the job a
nd so, reluctantly, but in the tried and trusted way of the people, the elders decided to convene a meeting at which they would settle the matter before anyone else got wind of the affair and took it upon themselves to notify the police. Jelani, the youngest adult male, was duly volunteered and, despite his protestations, was furnished with their convoluted but pooled explanation of events and ordered to start walking.

  ***

  Fatih may well have lost his nerve when confronted by the double setback of a white girl’s death and the realisation that he was next on the list for a flight of arrows, but, as I soon discovered, he was no pushover, not even when asked for his name. And when it came to providing information on his employers and the whereabouts of Giuseppe, amongst others, he proved almost impossible to crack. However, while he was still incapacitated by the pain of my spear thrust, I had quickly bound his elbows and wrists with some of the bowstring I’d brought along, before frisking him thoroughly to ensure he was now unarmed. Which brought to light the usual curved Arab dagger, plus a small but wicked-looking hook. The latter was of unusual design, being flattened on the inside curve into a razor-sharp blade, leaving the handle in line with the hook, so it could be easily concealed in the hood of his burnouse(1). Undoubtedly carried as a useful ‘mischief-maker’, to which could be added the role of ‘tormenter’ when it came to hapless victims. And it wasn’t long after this that I decided to put a halt to the endless stream of invective being directed my way, by loosening my spear from the ground and giving it a couple of judicious twists while still impaled in his leg. This did the trick, managing to both wrench a satisfyingly abject moan from between suddenly compressed lips and at the same time silencing any further invective. Which didn’t prevent him from slipping me a murderous glare, a clear warning that I should not let him loose if I wanted to live. However, hoping to take advantage of the pain that was still washing through him, I immediately re-started the inquisition, but even after adding to the sum of his agony with a judicious pounding on his injured thigh, I still got nowhere. Which left me with something of a dilemma. I entertained no moral hesitation whatsoever over dispatching him, but, to do so, whilst no doubt providing an immediate degree of satisfaction, would simply squander the one chance I had of discovering something about the others responsible for my torment. And by the same token, indulging this need for retribution too early would put paid to any hope of extracting a fitting reprisal on the man I held directly responsible for my agony. I had no doubt at all that if those responsible found me first, or caught me at a disadvantage, I would not live to see the following sunset. I knew too much and had long since realised they would have to make certain I had no further opportunity to pass on information to the authorities. Which probably also meant they would be unable or unwilling to risk sending me north again, even as a slave. So death would be inevitable and if I knew anything about them, mine would not be an easy demise. Some thought was needed and as I wrestled with the problem, the ruined walls scattered around me reminded me of a story I had heard many years before.

  The Arabs who first colonised and built the coastal settlements had been known to use their wells as refined instruments of torture. I remember being disturbed to learn that when they wanted to punish a particularly obstinate prisoner, or break their spirit prior to execution, they would tie them to a plank balanced over a well with their head projecting beyond the end of the plank. That way the prisoner could clearly see and imagine his ultimate fate at the bottom of the well. Of course, for maximum effectiveness this required something of a skilled balancing act and so they would offset the prisoner’s weight with a heavy but cracked pitcher of water placed at the other end of the plank, thus initially achieving a balance in favour of the jar. However, a cracked pitcher leaks and grows inevitably lighter. Moreover, to refine the point, they would then sit around the well, telling the unfortunate captive how quickly the pitcher was leaking, or how long it was likely to be before his own weight would tip him sufficiently to send him hurtling into the depths to an often lingering, but otherwise certain, death. Of course, they didn’t always tell the truth and with judicious refills, the torture could be made to last for days. It would indeed have been a hard nut who was not reduced to whimpering insanity within a few hours of this treatment.

  And it now occurred to me that right there, in the old settlement, I was likely to find all that was needed to emulate those long-deceased tormentors. I was quite right. It didn’t take long to find an old well and although it was partially blocked, it was still deep enough and, of most importance, it still had the majority of its original wall forming a workable lip. Thus the only other major ingredient required was a plank, or its equivalent, and, amongst all the debris scattered around, I found exactly what I needed. A cracked pitcher wasn’t essential, because a pile of suitably weighted stones would do the trick equally well for my purposes and the nearby crumbling walls offered all the ammunition necessary. Thus, having gathered everything together and armed with Fatih’s rifle, I yanked him to his feet and ordered him to start walking towards the well. Once we arrived I pushed him sharply in the back so that he fell more or less along the length of the plank and, in his debilitated state, it was easy to lash him down before he could mount an effective protest. Then all it needed was for me to manoeuvre the plank up onto the surrounding wall and gradually slide him out over the mouth of the well, all the while adding rocks for balance. How long it took him to realise my intentions, I don’t know, nor did I really care. But it wasn’t long before he started arguing the toss in a belligerent, loud-mouthed but increasingly apprehensive way. At first, he didn’t believe me when I described exactly what I was about, but it didn’t take long to convince him. Simply kicking off one or two stones left him feeling a distinct sway whenever he moved and I hardly had to mention that it would only take the removal of one more weight to seal his fate. After that, he went very quiet. I left him in the dark for an hour or two while I lit a small, carefully concealed fire and heated the meagre rations I’d brought. Then I went back to question him and quench my thirst, making sure I did the latter within his sight. Still no co-operation.

  So, with the promise that there would be no drink that night, I bade him farewell, removed sufficient weight to ensure the plank would tilt if he so much as breathed too deeply and took myself off to find a suitable place to bed down for a few hours of sleep. I must have been tired, because the next thing I knew the rising sun was piercing my eyelids and bringing in the consciousness of a new day. And with that, I remembered Fatih. Leaping up, I discovered to my satisfaction that he hadn’t attempted suicide during the night, so I had him all to myself for as long as I wished. A matter that gave me no small satisfaction, as I was certain he would crack before the day was out. Actually, looking back, I realise that during that day I wildly overstepped the norms of civilisation, not to mention humanity. But at the time I simply didn’t care and in the end the pantomime produced the results for which I was searching.

  “Fatih, do you want some water?” His tongue, swollen and dust-dry was barely able to move in a mouth that must have tasted like the proverbial sumo wrestler’s jockstrap, ensuring he was totally unable to enunciate any words. Just nod his head wearily and with considerable difficulty, joint outcome of how tightly he was secured and how stiff he had obviously become during the long, cold night. Which meant he was exactly as I wanted him.

  “OK, you can have a little.” Deliberately, I rationed him to just enough to enable speech. Then I set the bottle down within his field of view. “Now, let’s hear what you’ve got to say. We’ll start with who sent you to look for us?” I gave him the benefit of an expectant and, I hoped, almost kindly look designed to encourage him into giving me what I wanted, but I strongly suspected he wouldn’t crack that easily. In fact, I fully anticipated the whole exercise would take most of the day and not a little persuasion on my part. But I was ready for that. Although I had remained emotionally numb over the previous thirty-six hours or so, there remained one
overriding mood. Suppressed rage. I seethed with it and was ready to embrace anything that might assuage the anguish. Which is why, utterly exasperated, I eventually lost count of the number of times I questioned him on the same subject.

  However, at this early stage I did at least hold my temper, until it was clear I wasn’t going to get through to him. He’d obviously decided I was less of a threat than those he was protecting. That is, right up until I produced the fishing spear with its wicked spread of three long, barbed spikes. The same tips that had already torn a considerable chunk out of his leg. That’s the advantage of barbs. They don’t come out easily. Not without ripping open the flesh they’ve pierced, as well as removing it in large chunks. So I began by merely scraping the barbs over the skin of his wounded thigh, making a less than subtle point. The action opened up the damaged veins again and also produced some curious sounds from Fatih. But not the words for which I was waiting. So, unbinding one of the prongs from the spear’s haft, I began to experiment with its sharp tip on his back and sides, discovering how easily it could be slid into human muscle and tissue. Which, whilst not inspiring him to talk, produced some noteworthy if restricted reactions, as he tried desperately to shrink away from the probing steel, without tipping himself down the well. And that was when I remembered how I’d once been threatened myself with the ‘death by a thousand cuts’.