by Dan Gleed
Silkily, almost gently, I dropped down until my face was in line with Fatih’s. “Hello, Fatih. I have no doubt you remember that well-known expression, ‘death by a thousand cuts’? Yes, I can see from your face that you do. Well, since you don’t seem willing to co-operate, I’m going to have to use that hook of yours. It’s a very interesting shape and should provide a fascinating variation on the lacerations the average knife produces. But I think you know that. Anyway, don’t worry, you won’t die from this. I just want you to experience more pain than you ever knew was possible. I’ve got plenty of time and no one knows you’re here, so don’t expect any help. Oh, and I have a feeling it would be particularly interesting to watch you die at the bottom of the well if you don’t give me what I want. Of course, you could give me the names I want right now and then maybe none of this would have to happen.” I must admit, Fatih had courage. He flinched often and he moaned continually, but even after I’d started to slice into him with the hook, opening his flesh piece by piece and letting in the ubiquitous flies that had arrived en masse, he still managed to hold his tongue.
Until I found what might be termed his Achilles heel. Some while before reaching the hook between his legs, I had mildly put it to him that he was in danger of losing his manhood. Even so, there must have remained some hope that I might, after all, let him live. Some assumption borne out of the sheer indifference inherent in the cruelty and violence being perpetrated with such chilling gentleness that finally persuaded him to talk. There is, after all, something about a man who neither loses his temper nor raises his voice while unhurriedly reaching towards a pitiless goal that is intensely intimidating. Anger, even basic cruelty, can be stoically endured. Unhurried, cold-blooded and seemingly disinterested purpose allied to merciless brutality is another matter altogether. And I should know, having been well taught by the very man whose name was first revealed. Prince Ahmed. The Arab who had bought me for slavery. Ah, the frisson that gave me. Here was someone I could truly hate. Furthermore, he was rather like Fatih, who clearly did not deserve to live. A man who warranted anything and everything coming his way. Someone who really could begin to pay for the young life so unjustly snuffed out. And not just as an inadequate restitution for myself, but as revenge for all those other countless souls who had suffered at his hands without any means of redress. Slowly, I withdrew the hook from between his legs. Finally allowing the proverbial dam of information to break.
Almost perversely, as if, coupled with a desire to stop the pain, he really believed the claim that I might let him live. If only he would give me the information I craved. Out poured a torrent of the most damning evidence. Names, dates, actions, even addresses. It was as if Fatih finally needed to purge himself, to seek a sort of spurious absolution by giving me everything I’d asked for. It was all there and I had difficulty keeping up with it. But amongst the dross, were the names and places that I really needed to commit to memory in order to complete my revenge, or ‘crusade’ as I now preferred to see it. And perhaps, as a possible by-product, to put a definite spoke in the wheel of the vile trade that was going on under the very noses of the Kenyan police and the society they claimed to protect. Yet in all of this, I neither realised, nor even cared, that I was slowly but surely travelling beyond the very pale that I considered slavers and drug dealers alone inhabited. Simply by emulating their malevolent and heartless indifference to helpless individuals. Folk they exploited without mercy. Just as I was doing even if, at the time, I felt able to justify my actions by pointing to Fatih’s own activities. But that was a discovery for later times. Right now I waited under the shade of a nearby baobab until the sun had passed its zenith, had delivered its deadly heat and had begun to slide down the great bowl of a still steely blue sky. Then, with Fatih believing he was about to be set free (as if), I slowly removed one balancing stone after another, until the board ceased swaying and tipped decisively towards the well’s maw. With a final hideous and despairing wail, Fatih slid headfirst into the gaping hole, to land with a sickening thud about twenty feet below. A fall that didn’t kill him, because I could still hear the occasional moan. So I let the stones finish the job and, by sundown, had filled the well almost to its lip. Confident that no one would ever find the body, I proceeded systematically to clear the area of all trace of human activity. Which included carefully scraping up the patches of blood-soaked dust and filtering them down through the stones, there to lie hidden and, presumably, beyond even the reach of wild animals. Once satisfied with the results, I retrieved the spear and bound the missing barb back into place. Then, before leaving, I collected Fatih’s weapons, including his rifle. Which meant I’d not only obliterated all trace of him, as was my intention, but had found some use for his existence. Unfortunately, I hadn’t reckoned on the quite extraordinary sea change that was to overtake me mere weeks later, the direct result of a guilty conscience.
Chapter 63
Ahmed was concerned. Not for himself or his remaining businesses. No. He had those gripped firmly and, as ever, most were running like well-oiled machines. True, continuing to finance them was an altogether different matter, but this remained something to be considered later. Much later. For now his more primitive cravings were insisting on immediate attention and, with a new female slave immediately to hand, there was every reason to allow the less pressing problems to take care of themselves. Unfortunately, however, that failed to address the inconvenience of a certain Fatih. Fatih had been gone for over a week and should by now have reported back, but there had been no word. Instead, he had begun to receive some disturbing second-hand rumours and whispers about a massacre further up the coast. All bound up with reports of a white girl’s death. Which, given Fatih’s orders and intended quarry, almost certainly meant his men were involved and might well have achieved the aim. Ordinarily, getting word of them through the gossip mongers would not have bothered him, as Fatih was more than capable of looking after himself. Moreover, if things went wrong, Fatih would never reveal anything of his commission or its source, no matter what pressures were put on him. Or would he? Unfortunately, Ahmed was beginning to sense that something was amiss.
Nevertheless, if it wasn’t for his aunt’s persistence and unremitting irritation over Abdullah, he would long since have turned his full attention to his slaves and certain other, equally demanding, matters. It wasn’t as if he still retained any particular interest in the white boy. Bad things happened in business. Annoyances from which you recovered; moved on; put down to experience. Of course, if the boy showed up he would take considerable satisfaction in destroying him slowly and painfully. But there was still his aunt to appease and she would be far from happy that, yet again, the outcome of a promise had been delayed, no matter what the reason. Ahmed sighed and made a mental note to send one of his men to look into the problem of Fatih and get some answers. Tomorrow. Flicking his finger idly at a passing fly, he resumed his study of the human form. That of the girl appealingly naked and defenceless in front of him. His tongue flickered across his thin lips. His aunt would definitely have to wait. For the moment this slave was of far more interest.
***
Nearly 600 miles northwest of Mombasa, the Uasin Gishu’s District Commissioner was having a bad day. It was a regrettable part of his diverse job and one that he sincerely hated, but also one he simply couldn’t avoid. Whenever the police discovered the body of a ‘white’ who had died in violent or suspicious circumstances, it was required of the local Commissioner to be the conveyer of the bad news. Consequently and in this case, it was he who had to break it to the ‘nearest and dearest’. His was the universally dreaded, sudden knock at the door, often in the ‘wee small hours’, but always at a singularly inappropriate time. In this case, it was for the Lescal family, although at least the hour was halfway civilised. Nevertheless, this assignment had to be up there with the worst. A young, intelligent and evidently innocent white girl with a bright future in front of her, murdered by ‘person or persons’ unknown. And now
not only did she lack a future but, he rather suspected, so did her family. All it took was a terse telegraph from his counterpart in Malindi, setting out the bare facts, and a family’s world imploded. Moreover, for now there was precious little in the way of additional evidence. Just sufficient information to destroy a family, but not enough to help them in any way. And here he was, standing awkwardly in front of them, unhappily aware of his role in bringing such dire news.
As kindly as he could he had delivered the appalling facts and now, following the shock of his pronouncement, he waited within a tension that was palpable. It was as though their world had ground to a halt. Two taut, grey, tear-streaked faces, two violated spirits and only the sound of ragged breathing to confirm their continued survival. Yet not very far below the surface a storm was brewing and soon, he knew, it was likely to erupt in a maddened outpouring of grief. In his many years as a policeman, he had seen it so often; the initial, shocked response to whatever awful intelligence had been imparted; the struggle for breath in a suddenly alien and uncertain world; even the ability to speak rendered near impossible for the moment.
Warily, he watched and waited. He hadn’t known Ted and Vera Lescal long, but what he did know of them and their young son, he liked and respected and would have given anything not to be the bearer of such sad news. They seemed a quiet, hard-working couple who largely kept themselves to themselves. Just the four of them, only they were three now. Three in an altogether different sense than had been the case, when their daughter had left for the coast. New to the area, not long arrived from Malindi, they’d settled in quickly enough and were proving to be more than capable of overcoming whatever misfortune had robbed them of their previous life. But something had been tugging at the furthest recesses of his mind. And now he had it. A suddenly remembered fact about the girl, Rosalind. Something of a beauty, she had become mixed up with that young man Paul Moncton, the one who had apparently killed a couple of Askaris some months back. No trace of him or of his body had ever been found and he was now widely assumed to be dead. Perhaps somewhere out in the bush. Perhaps eaten by wild animals, as happened on occasion. He made a mental note to dig out the reports he knew were filed somewhere in the general office. A long, keening cry from Vera pulled him rudely back to the present. Perched on the sofa, to which she had involuntarily sunk on hearing the news, she was holding her body in tight-wrapped arms, rocking slowly back and forth, utterly isolated in her misery. His heart went out to her, just as her husband, Ted, his own eyes streaming with fresh tears, reached out to gather her into his arms, as though by this simple act he could eradicate reality and transport them back to a time that predated such anguish.
Gulping, she finally managed to mouth, “Are you sure?” Her eyes pleading with him to be wrong.
“I’m sorry, Mrs Lescal. I am sure of it. The District Commissioner wouldn’t have telegraphed me if he wasn’t absolutely certain. I’m afraid I don’t have many details yet, but I understand she was killed by archers. Which would point to someone from the coastal tribes. Her death was reported by some of the locals who had befriended her. As soon as I know any more, I promise you will be the first to be informed.” As a response, a reassurance, he knew it was totally inadequate. But it was all he could think of for now. He simply didn’t know any more. And already in his mind, he was beginning to wonder about Rosalind’s relationship with the Moncton boy, and what exactly she had been doing down at the coast alone and apparently living with natives. It was unusual, to say the least, for a young white girl to be on her own, so far from home. And asking for trouble, in his opinion. But then, what did he know? Long divorced and with no children of his own (his love for the job had been largely responsible for the current state of affairs), he suddenly felt inadequate and supremely unqualified to judge what was right and wrong when it came to young girls and their headstrong ambitions.
Chapter 64
For Israfel, embarrassment had turned to deep unease. He had watched me first torture and then casually jettison Fatih, before interring his still living body under the layers of rock with which I had choked the defunct old well. However, it was not what I had done that was the nub of the problem. Israfel well knew that humans seemed almost naturally inclined to kill each other and, given the right circumstances, would do it quite often and with little compunction. Moreover, he was well aware that Fatih had effectively brought this calamity on himself and would have been just as summarily dispatched had any one of a half-dozen associates, or victims, from his past caught up with him while he was vulnerable.
No, the killing was not what disturbed him. Rather, it was the rapidly hardening attitude that was impelling, almost overwhelming me. Admittedly an attitude driven by anguish over Roz. But a distorted mind-set nevertheless and not altered for the good. In particular, it was the palpable lack of emotional response to anything I was doing that concerned Israfel. He knew that, given true remorse, even a Stalin or a Pol Pot – for all their slaughtered millions – could still seek and, if genuinely remorseful, obtain forgiveness from the Son of God who had loved them enough to embrace death on their behalf. But he was equally aware of the danger that a human soul could grow too callous to care, too sure of itself to ever want, or ever think of accepting forgiveness. Leaving the human in question (me, in this case) faced with eternal condemnation, come the final Judgement Day. Not necessarily because of murder, or some equally reprehensible crime, but simply because, in general, the human psyche prefers to go its own way, without being bothered by God. And God, being entirely reasonable, always honours such desires (and ensures his Guardians do, too). The inevitable and effective result being self-conviction and an immutable sentence that has the human in question joining the horde of demons. And as far as he was concerned, that was an inconceivable end for his charge. It wasn’t that I didn’t deserve such a fate. I did, just like all humans. However, I had not only been assigned a rising star for a Guardian, but one who had been promoted specifically for the job. So, as far as he, Israfel, was concerned, it simply couldn’t end with a whimper. In any case, he had been given specific insights into my likely future, which meant Heaven had more than a passing interest in the outcome. And it was a future that needed him to use his specialist knowledge and Angelic powers wisely. Which also meant that, pretty soon, he had to come up with a strategy that would turn matters around, without violating the principle of free choice. Favoured or not, I still had to be left entirely unhampered, able to make my own, unfettered decisions.
And right then I was facing a dilemma, feeling duty-bound to tell the Lescals what had happened, who had been responsible and why. However, I was equally adamant that I wasn’t going to present any opportunity whatsoever to the police, who would no doubt arrest me on sight. At least not before I had caught up with certain adversaries and exacted suitable vengeance. Problem was, that still left a dilemma. Should I first visit Malcolm and Jill Joubert, who had been so good to Roz, to sound them out, perhaps even enlist their help and practical, common-sense guidance? Or should I just telephone Roz’s parents out of the blue? Not to put too fine a point on it, such an impromptu call could prove less than helpful, and might even end in a shouting match, or one of the parties breaking down mid-conversation. In any case, this was a discussion that, to say the least, I was dreading. More practically, from what Roz had told me, the Jouberts could be relied upon to hold their own council until I was once again beyond the reach of the law. Which, to my mind, settled the matter.
* * *
Having erased all sign of Fatih, I had retraced my steps to the coast, but, with the urgency of pursuit now gone and my meagre rations long since consumed, it took me a couple of days fighting slowly ebbing strength and escalating thirst before I finally reached ‘our’ settlement. But I made it and, to the intense satisfaction of my hosts, I was able to reassure them that Roz had been suitably avenged. Moreover, I avoided compromising their position by consciously withholding the ‘how and where’. Just assuring them they were no longe
r obligated, as kith and kin (which they had come to consider themselves), to exact their own revenge. A night’s sleep in my old hut with its almost unbearable memories and I was ready to set out again. But not before the villagers had revealed to me that they’d had to inform the police about Roz, with the inevitable result that a number of Askaris and their officers had spent the previous day crawling all over their huts, questioning everyone, even the youngest toto and taking the usual reams of notes and photographs. Necessary, but an action that had done little to endear them. Eventually, towards evening, they’d left, taking poor Roz with them and, by great good fortune, I hadn’t reappeared until the following day.
So now I could rest assured official wheels were turning and Ted and Vera would have been informed, which meant, in turn, that I was glad for them in a way and relieved for myself, even though it did nothing to let me off the family hook. They would still want to talk to me, especially when they heard that I’d been with Roz when she was killed. As they surely would, although our friends had withheld all but the barest details from the police. Enough to trigger the dispatch of another patrol along the coast to collect a number of corpses, in what was fast becoming the stuff of police nightmares.
