Guardian

by Dan Gleed

  “Next time, I’ll be sticking this to both feet, not brushing over them, and by the time I’ve finished, you’ll be crippled for life. Do I make myself clear?” Kareef nodded. “OK then, let’s try again.” Slowly, hesitantly, Kareef began to spit out the details of where I could find Ahmed that day and, perhaps more importantly, the number of guards involved and the guidelines by which they operated. Only if I knew how to circumvent them could I hope to get near enough to Ahmed to finish him off, as I fully intended. By the time Kareef paused for breath, having once again denied knowing anything of Giuseppe’s whereabouts, I was sure he was telling the truth and that I now had all I could expect to learn. Satisfied, I grabbed him quickly by the hair, jerked his head back and ran Fatih’s hook across his throat. It took all my strength to hold him tightly until he stopped jerking and the blood had stopped spurting, the product hissing as it sprayed across the fire. Then, with the life drained out of him, I removed the tape from his wrists, pulled him away from the wall and placed his own knife back in his hand, wrapping the fingers tightly in place. Then, standing back and already appalled by what I had just done, I threw the hook into the fire before beginning to tremble deep down and uncontrollably. Somewhere in my conscience I had caught a glimpse of what I had become and I didn’t like it one little bit. I was no longer a safe person to be around, because brutalised cruelty wasn’t really my line and yet it was clear this was the way I was developing. Only after several minutes of violent shaking was I able to regain control and gather sufficient strength to call Malcolm in to give him the news of Ahmed’s whereabouts. As to the rest, I lied easily, telling him that Kareef had broken free, forcing me to kill him before he got the better of me and escaped. Whether or not Malcolm believed this, his face gave little away, merely accepting that at least we now knew Ahmed was still on the island and, as far as I was concerned, could probably be approached by a determined assassin.

  Chapter 67

  In his warped and prejudiced way, the malevolent devil Arcturus really couldn’t have been more satisfied by the latest turn of events. To all intents and purposes, he had the field to himself and was once again acting as the main opponent of a specific human being. More than that – a human on Lucifer’s ‘hot list’. Me. But much better as far as he was concerned, there had been little hint of reprisal from the normally ever-vigilant Heavenly host. Not even when he’d taken a chance and crossed what had been cited as Heaven’s ‘line in the sand’. The one he’d been specifically warned about. He’d not even admitted to himself how apprehensive he’d been to start with, especially when he’d incited me to kill, knowing I might well die first. However, with Israfel apparently missing from the scene, Arcturus had finally convinced himself that the only reasonable explanation lay in said angel having been forced to acknowledge he’d met his match. Although this would also have had to mean Heaven downgrading its interest in me, a fairly unlikely possibility. But then Arcturus was no chess player.

  Most importantly, as far as he was concerned, there had been no sign of a Guardian for days now and with those infuriating angels apparently well out of the way, everything seemed to be on course to achieve his own venomous aim. All accomplished with only one slight glitch – one that had admittedly caused him a smidgeon of momentary doubt – the awkward but tiresome detail that I actually had recognised and now appeared to loathe what I was fast becoming. Nevertheless – and here was the clincher – as far as he was concerned, I continued to respond well to the monstrous advice being dripped unobtrusively into my subconscious ear. Satisfying proof of which, as far as Arcturus was concerned, was the bloody and totally unnecessary death of Kareef. And so, placing it within Hell’s warped context, all that had to be done was to keep the venom trickling into my co-operative mind until, in due course, he would reap certain rewards.

  Actually, to Arcturus, the raw, violent and bloody death of any human was like pornography to the sex obsessed. So every time he had a moment to reflect, his mind would inevitably direct its gleeful thoughts back to my contretemps with Kareef. Before turning, with some pleasure, to ponder the likely course of future events (conveniently overlooking the slight embarrassment of my momentary foreboding). His daydream climaxing in a mouth-watering, vicarious thrill that ran through every fibre of his being. And at the very least, he thought, this latest venture had to be good for several more gory deaths. The more brutal, the better. Moreover, if it all went to plan and I was also killed, he could then present Hell’s hierarchy with a fait accompli, which, in its consequences, should far outweigh the disgrace of his past failings. And then perhaps it might really be time to bring Josephus to account. To drop him well and truly into the proverbial, with just a hint in the right quarters about how Josephus had been rather too swift to consign two particularly useful senior devils to Abbadon (they having submitted a joint report showing Josephus for the incompetent he really was. Only to have him intercept and dispose of this analysis). Brilliant. Could there be a more effective, a more suitable demon to take over than himself? After all, looked at from his own, obviously unbiased view, it was clear that his overall game plan would present a model of excellence. Why, the Directing Staff at Demon Command School might even consider using his tactics and ideas at their abortion of a college, citing them as an example of how experts achieved their goals. He could already see himself as their idol. But then, as always, miserable reality set in and he knew, deep down in what passed for a heart, this would never happen. Only those at the very top of the hierarchical tree were deemed worthy of having any notice taken of their schemes and a fiend like him, even one with proven warrior status, was currently as low on the scale of satanic merit as it was possible to get and it was hardly likely that matters would improve, or that he would aspire to any greater heights (or was it ‘depths’?) given the commuted death sentence still hanging over him. Still –even an excrescence could dream.

  ***

  If at that point I’d had the least inkling of what was going on in the spiritual realm far beyond sight or comprehension, I still wouldn’t have considered turning aside from the path upon which I was resolved. As far as I was concerned, every last one of the men connected with my loss deserved to die and I fully intended to be their nemesis, even if it really did turn out to be the last thing I ever did. With Kareef in the bag and some concrete information on Ahmed’s whereabouts and strength of personal protection, I felt there was little point in pursuing any other informants at this stage. Consequently, I suggested to Malcolm we return home, prepare to weather the inevitable storm from Jill and put together a game plan for executing the elusive Ahmed. Before he had time to discover what had happened to yet another of his henchmen and reassess his security – in which case, I might lose him entirely.

  Jill was the relatively easy bit. Working out how I could get through the comprehensive security ring surrounding Ahmed and get close enough to have any real hope of killing him was a problem of a completely different order. But, having discovered his location, we were at least able to drive unobtrusively past the address before returning to consider the problem at length. By evening we had a plan, but I was certain what was intended had to be done alone. Especially as I wasn’t prepared to risk Malcolm’s life again. After all, I could hardly forget he’d put it on the line when he thought I was in Ahmed’s other address. Moreover, unlike my darling Roz, I was in no mood to risk going against the, by now, implacable Jill. Plus Malcolm had a pressing private matter to take care of regarding a certain Superintendent Terence Foley. So it was that with a slight heaviness of step, but a determination beyond my years, I began to prepare for what would prove something of a turning point in my odyssey. There was no doubt confrontation had to be engineered that night, because if it wasn’t, it would probably never happen. I wouldn’t get another chance once Ahmed had any inkling of the way the wind was blowing, so intervention would have to be swift and conclusive. Hurriedly I prepared the one weapon Malcolm possessed that would withstand a soaking. His elderly spear gu
n, after I’d adjusted the trigger mechanism, one of Jill’s knitting needles furnishing the essential tool.

  ***

  Given the tight confines of suburban Mombasa, it was never going to take very long to arrive outside Ahmed’s exclusive residence on the eastern edge of the island. The opulent building’s longest, low-lying flank faced out to sea and was thus exposed to the best of any on-shore breeze. My problem was the whole complex was surrounded by a high wire fence, complete with arc lights that blazed outwards across a deliberately cleared strip of ground. No doubt to provide a free field of fire to the guards. Which did not bode well for any land entry, although I had no doubt I could quickly put paid to the lights, even if crossing the barbed wire was likely to prove rather more of a hurdle. So our earlier and unobtrusive reconnoitring of this obstacle to progress now proved its worth. Having obtained the requisite information, I had bought some heavy-duty, insulated wire clippers and it didn’t take long to trace the power line from a nearby distribution point to where it approached the compound, deep though it was buried. And it was then that I began to really understand how much I had come to rely on my well-built friend. As I contemplated what lay ahead, Malcolm’s absence, his huge and bluff company, suddenly seemed rather important to my peace of mind. However, it remained but the work of minutes to uncover the main house cable (as Ahmed was about to discover, if you want real security in Africa, always oversee the plans and their implementation yourself) and with a heartfelt prayer that there was no immediately available generator to take over, I plunged the compound into sudden but instantly animated darkness.

  It was like stirring a hornet’s nest, but there was little time to linger to contemplate, or even appreciate, the results. So hefting my only serious weapon, the already cocked spear gun, I hurried down to the sea’s edge as quickly and quietly as possible, trying to keep low, with real fear wrenching at my guts. Wading rapidly into the gentle swell, I tried hard to put the rather too fresh thoughts of sharks and their ilk out of my mind. Then, steeling myself, I swam out for about a hundred yards until certain I was well clear of the barbed-wire fencing that marched steadily seaward on ever longer posts. An obstacle specifically designed to deter unwanted guests from joining the owners in what they considered to be their well-deserved privacy. At last able to turn back and careful to avoid any splashes, I drifted towards the private, but deserted beach, that now lay exposed in front of me. At least I could rest assured there would be no fixed obstacles underwater from this point, because their presence would pose owners and guests alike unnecessary danger.

  Chapter 68

  There’s one genuine problem with phosphorescence. Well, if you’re trying to stay under the radar, that is. Even if the little critters aren’t in the mood to flash while you’re moving through their liquid home, they can certainly wake up when you surface and they realise you’re leaving their natural habitat. As your body streams with the last vestiges of salt water heading south, on a ‘good’ night you can look for all the world like the proverbial ‘pillar of fire’. And this was one of those ‘good’ nights. Hoping against hope that any guards on the beach side of the building weren’t under the impression they were being visited by one of Africa’s countless ghouls or, worse still, an unwanted intruder, I dashed up the beach towards a shadowed corner of the house, where I could just make out a couple of shuttered windows. Fortunately, in the blacker shadows just below the roof, this European-style house signalled conformity with its contemporaries by revealing evidence of the gap that was so often found along the top of such walls. A breach designed to encourage the passage of cooling air, but one that was usually just wide enough to allow a relatively slim body to roll through without hindrance.

  With my ragged breathing back under control, there were few other noises to be heard at my end of the house, but I was aware of quite a lot of distant movement. Someone, somewhere, had begun thinking sufficiently clearly to organise the handing out of lighted candles, with order being gradually restored and rooms checked for intruders. Consequently, there remained little time if I was to reach Ahmed before his bodyguards got back to their designated posts. So, assuming he would be in bed by this time of night and perhaps even distracted by some companion or other, I made my way stealthily past the preoccupied guards, until reaching the far end of the house, away from the brightly lit rooms I’d noted prior to cutting the power. In essence, the more discreet end, where I fondly hoped I would find Ahmed’s lair.

  I was not disappointed. Arriving in front of a heavy, carved door set into a wall that ran the whole width of the house (it had to be the owner’s), I could just catch the occasional burst of muffled laughter. But no candlelight flickered from under the door so, with any luck, Ahmed had not yet been alerted to what was going on. Actually, I hoped the guards were too afraid to bother him after he’d retired, particularly if it was only to tell him bad news. Hopefully, that would be his (and their) undoing. However, expecting the door to be locked from the inside, I had already decided that boldness was the only feasible way to gain entry. So, stepping forward with my heart lurching unsteadily, I knocked forcefully on his rather substantial door and, with my hand cupped in front of my mouth to mute the sound, called urgently for audience in Arabic. Which produced exactly the reaction for which I had hoped. An impatient demand to know why he was being disturbed ‘at this time of night’. A second, equally muffled call preceded the impatient clicking of a key and the sound of a heavy bolt being drawn back. Seconds later the door was jerked open and in the darkness I could just discern the outline of a surprisingly lean body. Nervous anyway and frightened by the speed of his appearance, I whipped the harpoon up, aiming for somewhere just above the centre of the figure and loosed the only spear I had, knowing the needle-sharp, weighted and barbed missile would do its work. Although I must confess even then, at the far recesses of my mind, I was still hoping it wouldn’t act too quickly. Until I caught the explosive exhalation of breath, followed immediately by a distinctly female shriek of shocked pain.

  Unnerved by what I immediately realised was a fatal mistake (probably fatal for both of us, actually), I dropped the weapon, turned and fled, bouncing off walls, slamming into doors and generally creating mayhem with individual pieces of furniture, acting for all the world as though pursued by the hounds of Hell. Beyond blind panic, I don’t remember much of that exit, except that as I scrambled back up the wall, several poorly aimed bullets drilled chips off the plaster around me and some rather better aimed shots passed altogether too close for comfort as I sprinted for the safety of the sea. There to begin a dialogue with myself on what exactly I was supposed to be doing. And that, surely, didn’t include indiscriminate killing? Or simply antagonising a very dangerous enemy, if he should ever get even a hint of who was involved.

  * * *

  It didn’t take me long to retrace my footsteps and get back to Malcolm and Jill, but although I arrived well before dawn, both were already up and neither was in the mood to hear any excuses concerning the failure of my latest bout of organised mayhem. It turned out that far from obtaining satisfaction over Jill’s harassment, Malcolm had been read the riot act by Superintendent Foley, who was now certain the Jouberts knew more than they were prepared to divulge. Someone, somewhere, had clearly spilled the beans, or been forced to confess as to who it was using (abusing?) their hospitality. Which meant that henceforth, Kwetu was off limits to me. Whether I liked it or not. And I was very clearly back on the run, because the police were in no mood to listen to anyone regarding my innocence or otherwise. Particularly now I had stupidly added to the sum of my offences, without gaining anything.

  ***

  Ahmed was incensed. Not only had his personal security been blatantly breached, but one of his favoured slaves was probably beyond use. And it has to be said that, whilst he wasn’t overly bothered about the girl, he was very concerned over the inevitable loss of face. Calling first for his chief of personal protection, he informed him in considerable depth and at ex
tremely high volume of his fury concerning the incident. Added to which, as of that moment, the man was out of a job. Then he started yelling for the man the staff feared most, next to himself. His resident ‘fixer’. A weasel of a man, with the dry and dusty manner of an undertaker, but one whom you misjudged at your peril. A quiet word in his ear and the departing chief never made it past the back door. Instead, like so many others, he disappeared swiftly into an anonymous lime pit, kept specifically for such purposes. Then and only then did Ahmed summon his personal physician who, knowing the financial value attached to this particular slave, set about the task of trying to resuscitate and repair her with an alacrity not commonly observed in his performances. Had I known of his success that night, I might not have been quite so circumspect over making myself visible to the police during the succeeding months. But hindsight is a wonderful thing. For now, Ahmed contented himself with terrifying the staff and ordering a thorough search for the culprit. A positive result to be with him by sun-up, latest. And, with those same staff fully aware of their former chief’s fate, the intensity and enthusiasm of their hunt couldn’t be faulted. Which was why, having finally discovered who was involved, they caught up with the Jouberts late that afternoon. How they did, I do not know to this day. All I do know is what I read in the following day’s papers. Two whites murdered, reasons unknown, but with evidence of underworld involvement. And, of course, in my misery I knew exactly who was responsible. And thus, by implication, whose fault it was. Mine. I remember beginning to shake as I read through the article, and then to weep. To weep for the friends I had endangered and now lost, to weep for vanished innocence, to weep for what I had obviously become and, above all, to weep for the unbearable presence of a dark, drear and growing void in my life. An injury from whose wound I felt I was unlikely to recover. A void that was at once ethereal yet solid, dead yet growing. An awful, bitter, but inescapable burden. A reservoir of despair that flourished for want of love, for want of Roz. Yet how unutterably relieved I was that she was not there to witness what I had begun to regard as my ultimate degradation. For, in those days of vengeance, this was exactly how I viewed the reasonable assumption that I’d killed a slave (albeit inadvertently), a woman who had no doubt been through much the same anguish as I had endured and who was definitely a sister in adversity.