Rift

by Beverley Birch

  Otaka put a hand on her shoulder. ‘My friends, something happens!’ Quickly he passed the binoculars to Murothi.

  Beyond Chomlaya, the dark insect shape of a helicopter was rising, circling, dipping again. And from the trees shrouding the camp, three figures could be seen running forward on to the open ground where the Land Rover had parked only half an hour before. And what Otaka had seen, and what Murothi saw now, was that all three were waving. Something white, in long high sweeps. Signalling and signalling and signalling. As though somebody’s life depended on it.

  3 p.m.

  ‘It’s Matt, Matt, Matt!’ Joe was yelling, careering in a demented jig round the Land Rover as it slewed to a halt, and swinging a laughing Ella with him. ‘I heard him, I heard him, I heard him . . . ’ and the two of them plunged back into a knot of jubilant students.

  At sight of Murothi, Constable Lesakon rushed towards him. ‘Sir, you have seen us signal! We hoped you will see us!’

  ‘What does Joe mean? Are they found?’

  ‘Ah, no! Just Matt,’ emphatically the constable shook his head. ‘The helicopter, just now, it sees him. He lies on the ground. Now the helicopter will lift him up, and they will go to the hospital.’

  ‘The others?’

  ‘No, Sir. No one else.’

  Murothi breathed deep, relief and disappointment warring in equal measure. He climbed out of the vehicle. ‘And what does Joe mean – this I heard him?’

  The constable waggled his head and looked at Samuel for help.

  ‘The boy thinks he heard Matt play the pipe.’ Samuel sighed. ‘Inspector, it cannot be so. Matt is unconscious. It is true that he clutches a pipe – the pilots have told us this. But Matt is very weak! How can he play this pipe and be heard here? It is more than two miles away! Across the rock? It is impossible. Joe has heard a bird! Or it is the voice of hope in our young friend; I see this.’

  ‘This may be true, Samuel.’ Murothi slammed the vehicle door and moved towards the milling crowd, scanning for the sergeant. He took in the presence of Ian Boyd, the other teachers. And Miss Strutton. She stood to one side.

  ‘Constable Lesakon, do we know if the climbers are still on the rock?’

  ‘Sergeant Kaonga tries to reach them on the radio – the reception is very troublesome. But he has talked to DC Meshami in Nanzakoto. The DC is very happy! He has ordered a repeat search of all . . . ’ He flung his arms wide, denoting the length and breadth of Chomlaya. ‘We will discover these others!’

  ‘And Matt was found where Joe was found?’

  ‘Ah, no – it is on the top, a mile away. And it is that way. That is why we search all over there again.’ The constable pointed to their right along the rock, beyond the camp, beyond the dark cross-cut of the ravine, etched hard in deepening afternoon shadow.

  That stopped Murothi in his tracks. He pondered the information. One boy near the bottom of the northern cliffs of Chomlaya, coming down the gully of a dried-up river. The other, three days later, on its summit. Neither one on this side, on the southern face that might be reached direct from the camp.

  It made no sense.

  ‘And, Sir, I have this,’ continued the constable. ‘Joe and the clever little sister of the journalist, they find them for us.’ He took a bundle from under his arm and presented it proudly to Murothi. ‘It is the journalist’s writings, Sir, and –’

  ‘Oh!’ interrupted Véronique, starting forward. ‘That is Anna’s sketchbook, the one Charly showed to me – I told you, Inspector!’

  Murothi took the books. He did not open them. His mind fizzed. He struggled to think calmly. The hullabaloo from the students was infectious. He wanted to dance with Joe and Ella. He wanted to leap up the cliff and find Charly and Anna and Silowa, now, this minute, alive and well . . .

  ‘It will be night.’ Across the clamour of voices, Mungai’s deep, unhurried tones floated clearly. He was standing nearby, his eyes ranging backwards and forwards along the rock. ‘If two are there, it is that all are there.’ He gestured to the lengthening shadows, the already dipping sun in the west. ‘But night will come.’

  ‘Mungai, they can go on with these big helicopters,’ Samuel told him. ‘It is the army. They have giant lights.’

  ‘Inspector, Otaka and I will stay for the night,’ Véronique announced briskly. ‘We will help in whatever way we can. Now you are busy. We talk later?’

  They did not wait for an answer, climbing into the Land Rover, rattling some way across the bumpy ground before stopping. Among the low scrubby bushes, the battered old vehicle merged like the tired brown hulk of an animal settling for the night.

  Sergeant Kaonga’s words tumbled out in excitement: ‘In a few minutes the helicopter will depart with Matt. The DC will receive him in Nanzakoto, and go to the hospital with him. There will be someone with good English with Matt through all the night. We will know the moment he wakes up, Sir. Straightaway! We must remain here. We must encourage Joe. It is very odd that he says he hears something and then the same moment the helicopter soldiers call us! It is very surprising! I think this boy has these things hidden just here,’ he tapped his forehead, ‘just wanting to come out! This talking, this walking about, it is all helping! It is hopeful now! But we must be quick, quick to find the others . . . ’

  Murothi was watching Joe and Ella, surrounded by Tamara, Janey, Zak and Antony. Everyone was talking exuberantly. He imagined Matt, as he had first seen Joe, bruised and battered in the hospital. Matt would be weaker than Joe, because three more days had passed. But perhaps with memories, knowledge . . . It is hopeful. It is, it is.

  Beyond the students, Miss Strutton turned away. Murothi saw she had not entered into the jubilation, merely watched, without expression. Noting the direction of the inspector’s gaze, the sergeant remarked, ‘I have to report, Sir, I fail to get these student writings. She says they are “not important . . . you have no right . . . it is an invasion of our privacy.”‘

  It was a clever mimicry of the teacher’s tart tones, and Murothi could not help a smile. ‘We could instruct her. But it is a false trail, I think, and there is nothing there that we should not freely see. I am sorry to make you waste your time.’

  ‘She says no, because it is in her nature to say no,’ commented Samuel darkly. ‘She becomes a teacher because children are smaller than her, and she can say no more often.’

  This time Murothi laughed, and the constable laughed, and the sergeant clapped Samuel on the shoulder, the relief at Matt’s rescue, all the renewed hope it brought, becoming for that moment an interlude from serious business. It was interrupted only by the teacher, Ian Boyd, appearing suddenly in their midst.

  ‘Inspector, Sergeant, anything I can do – we can do – the teachers, I mean? Or the students?’

  ‘Ah,’ Murothi blurted, ‘you are the first teacher of these missing children to ask!’

  The man flushed deep red, and looked away. And Murothi wished he had kept his mouth shut: now a door that had been opening would be slammed shut again. But then Ian Boyd volunteered, ‘Yes . . . well, point taken, Inspector. Miss Strutton insisted she must handle everything. Everyone else to stay away and not confuse matters.’ He cleared his throat. ‘With what’s at stake, that is plainly ridiculous.’

  ‘I do not mean to be impolite,’ Murothi apologised. ‘To tell you the truth, Mr Boyd, I have been told that you have frequent disagreements with Miss Strutton.’

  A frown creased Ian Boyd’s face. ‘Well . . . difficult to explain. Some teachers measure intelligence by how well the tasks they give are performed. Curiosity, exploration, initiative, experiment – they see these as indiscipline and disobedience.’

  ‘Are you saying Miss Strutton is like that?’

  ‘She’d probably be shocked if you said that to her, but, yes, that’s the effect. The thing is, normally I wouldn’t challenge another teacher in front of students. Certainly not in these circumstances, when running the camp with clear lines of authority is so important. Safety – a
ll that – don’t need to explain it to you, I’m sure, Inspector.’

  The teacher stared away, and Murothi had the impression he was not going to say more. But he suddenly switched his gaze firmly back. ‘If you can imagine, these weeks here are to encourage the students to be curious about things beyond themselves – to look outward. That’s what we meant it to be: Helen and Keith and me. That’s why we contacted Charly, to get her to document the experience for her magazine.’

  ‘And . . . ?’ urged Murothi, because to his immense frustration, Ian Boyd had fallen silent again.

  ‘It’s also meant to be about fostering team work, real team work. Team spirit. Leadership. That’s the theory. Trouble is, in our leader’s mind “team spirit” is “competitiveness”.’ He laughed sourly. ‘And leadership means, “I’m right, you’re wrong, don’t argue!”‘

  ‘We all get a dose of this medicine,’ Murothi observed drily, and the teacher gave him a direct look, almost of relief.

  ‘Well, Elisa Strutton’s a Deputy Head of the school – one of three – it’s a big school. Headteacher puts her in charge of this trip to Africa – bingo, she’s not one of three any more! Big fish, small pond –’ He caught sight of the books in Murothi’s hands. ‘Anna’s book!’ he exclaimed. ‘I thought it was lost.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Oh – Anna said she didn’t have it when we collected them in.’

  ‘It will be instructive?’

  ‘I haven’t seen what’s in it. But maybe. You probably should know Anna is a casualty of resisting Miss Strutton.’

  ‘Explain.’

  ‘Oh, well, not much to say. Miss Strutton teaches technology. Last term she humiliated a boy whose work wasn’t very good. Threw some piece into the corner, so it smashed, couldn’t be marked. Anna objected, complained to the head of year. Fireworks! Now Anna’s A Class One Troublemaker. Elisa even opposed her coming here . . . ’ A horrified expression came over his face. ‘You don’t think it has anything to do with their disappearance, do you? I really don’t –’

  ‘No, Mr Boyd, not directly. But I need to understand the “mood” here. I find it strange. You are not able to influence it?’

  ‘Well . . . ’ Discomfort was now visible in a shift of stance and hunching of Ian Boyd’s shoulders. ‘Elisa’s difficult to persuade, even at the best of times! Here, you get a backlash, when you’re not looking. Usually against one of the students. Makes you pull your punches, if you see what I mean. Anyway, arguments about the way the camp is run, too often a bit public . . . not good for general morale . . . ’

  This man has run away from the problem, thought Murothi. And he knows it, and now he is ashamed.

  There was a sudden throaty roar, and from beyond the ridge a helicopter cleared the summit in an ear-splitting acceleration. It veered across the camp, the chop of its blades deafening, swirling dust into miniature tornados. It zigzagged in a final jaunty signal which raised a cheer from the watchers. Then it swung away, setting course towards the south-west and the hospital at Nanzakoto. Rapidly it dwindled to a tiny black speck in the sky.

  From the north-east a distant droning became steadily stronger. Within minutes two new helicopters could be detected heading towards them, growing larger and larger by the minute.

  ‘I really just wanted to say,’ asserted Ian Boyd, ‘we’re here, if you need us for anything . . . ’

  ‘It will be a long afternoon, perhaps a long night, Mr Boyd, while these searches continue. We look for anything, anything that will help direct the helicopters. We wait and hope for information from Matt. We try to help Joe’s mind to open a little more.’ Murothi found himself looking up at Chomlaya. ‘We look for help from any quarter it comes.’

  nightfall

  ‘What’s happening?’ asked Tamara. ‘We thought maybe something more’s happened.’ She came further under the awning of Ella’s tent, into the light of the paraffin lamp.

  ‘They just heard from the hospital,’ said Ella. ‘They’re rehydrating Matt, but he’s very weak, and he’s still not conscious. And Sergeant Kaonga’s spoken on the radio to the helicopters too. He says they’ll be going all night, and he promises to say if anything happens.’

  ‘Oh. OK.’ The other girl looked round curiously, unwilling to go. ‘Where’s Joe?’

  ‘There.’

  He sat a little way out, watching the darkness, the shadow of a herd moving beyond the ring of yellow thrown by the powerful camp lamps. If you stared hard enough you caught the curve of an antler, the gleam of a zebra’s stripe, and Ella could almost believe she heard the tearing of grass, the shuffle and knock of hooves on beaten ground. The moon was rising, hard and bright in a clear sky, and with it, as if drawn from the earth by the moon’s climb, the chorus of crickets and frogs.

  Joe didn’t move at Tamara’s enquiry. He was cross-legged, elbows on his knees, hands plucking absent-mindedly at spiky grass.

  Tamara gazed at him for a minute. ‘You should come to the fire, Ella. You and Joe. We’re all there. You should come.’

  Ella looked across at the inspector’s tent. No light inside: he wasn’t back from the police tents. Nine hours till first light. The night stretched, long and dark, ahead.

  ‘Joe, let’s go,’ she urged.

  As if returning from somewhere, he looked at her. But at once he leapt up. Since nightfall, the heady exhilaration at Matt’s rescue five hours ago had given way to a jumpy, fretful edginess. He needed something to do, like she did. To ward off unbearable pictures that sneaked in whenever she let her mind fall idle.

  A scatter of loose groups spread around the central space. Some played cards under the canteen canopy where lamps reflected strongly off the white canvas. Most sprawled round the fire, and there was an immediate general shuffling to make room for Joe and Ella. Tamara gave a few quick introductions for Ella: people smiled, a hand raised here and there in greeting, but nothing was said, directly. Conversations carried on, punctuated only by a yelp and nervous laughter as bats sped low across their heads and into the night.

  The darkness crowded in, a thousand eyes glittering in the firelight. She could hear, too, the insistent throb of the helicopters on the other side of Chomlaya, though it was dulled by the height of the rocks and split by the spasmodic screams of hyrax. Then from somewhere behind, she heard, ‘No, but it is. It’s like that time, in that film, when these people disappear on a rock and they never find them!’

  ‘Don’t say that! Don’t say never!’

  ‘I saw that film – Picnic at Hanging Rock. My sister’s got it.’

  ‘Wait, wait, it’s not the same – we’ll find them!’

  ‘It’s a story, that Picnic film.’

  ‘No, it’s true!’

  ‘Not! It’s a story – from a book, I saw about it on the internet.’

  ‘Well, Matt and Joe have come back already, so the others –’

  A loud laugh stemmed the flow. Ella, already jarred by the talk and now by the laugh – strident, scornful, meant to be heard, meant to interrupt – swung round to see who it was.

  The girls discussing the film sat a little way off. At Ella’s glance, realising she’d overheard, one flicked her an apologetic glance. The others were glaring, annoyed, towards people sitting away from the fire. It took just a brief survey for Ella to detect the laugher: Sean, propped on one elbow, cards splayed in his hand. But his mind was not on the card game. His eyes scoured everyone near the fire, coming to rest first on Joe, and then on Ella.

  Ella looked away.

  At her side, Tamara said, ‘You stay clear of him.’ She was looking at Sean.

  ‘What’s going on with him, anyway?’ Ella asked. ‘What’s he got to do with Joe?’

  Tamara looked down. There was a long, disquieting silence, and Ella had the impression that now everyone was listening, except perhaps Joe, who just plucked at the grass in a maddening, restless twitch.

  ‘Dunno,’ Tamara muttered finally. ‘Dunno what Sean’s got to do with anything . . . Y
ou stay clear of him though. Hear what I’m saying?’

  ‘He thinks he’s bad,’ put in Janey. ‘You know, thinks he’s really bad. Thinks he can do anything.’

  ‘Well, he came to Joe’s tent . . . ’ began Ella.

  Joe’s head snapped up.

  ‘When you were sleeping,’ she said. ‘You know, before . . . ’

  ‘You should’ve said!’

  ‘It was OK. I just want to know why . . . ’

  ‘You know what?’ Janey broke in. ‘At school he wasn’t this way. He’s something else, now. Sean. It’s that Strutton. Her and all that. I tell you, here, he thinks no one’ll say no to him any more. Ella should just stay clear, that’s right, hey, Joe?’

  Joe wasn’t hearing. Around him, others peopled the night – another night, not so long ago: Silowa walking from the darkinto firelight and Anna shrieking, Silowa, don’t spook me! Don’t do that! Silowa chuckling, holding the bundle out, Matt, my good friend, I will make a presentation to you, and Matt unrolling the cloth, the reed lying, gleaming, slender, burnished by the fireglow . . . Matt’s face splitting ear to ear with a grin; he lifts it, fingers the holes, blows a soft, whispery note, takes a breath and blows again – the note thin, building, opening, swelling, singing suddenly on the full high note of a bird; Silowa folding his long bony legs and sitting down beside him, It is my friend Ndigi that has made it for you! He will come tomorrow to hear you play it!