by Aubrey Flegg
Yola twisted the gaping skirt tight about her legs and dropped her head into her hands. When Fintan came in it was like a rush of wind and he was kneeling, holding onto her.
‘Are you all right? What did he do?’
Feelings of triumph, revulsion and bitter sweetness flowed through her. Birthistle reeling and crashing against the door was worth a lot, but had it been worth that awful pawing leer, this feeling of being dirty? She wanted to throw her arms about Fintan, to ruffle his hair, but she couldn’t now; she felt unclean.
‘Fintan, your Dad?’
‘I know, I know, I’ve got to see him. But I had to see if you were all right.’
‘I just feel dirty.’
21
Gabbin Needs You
Fintan was holding Yola’s hand as they emerged into the foyer, but he relinquished it as Hans and Judit came towards them. The foyer was nearly empty now.
‘Where did Birthistle go?’ Fintan asked.
‘Upstairs to bed, I imagine,’ Hans said. ‘Where’s your dad?’
‘Oh God, we’re not finished yet are we?’ A look of pain crossed Fintan’s face. ‘I told him what I had found out, and I left him looking at a pile of your landmines literature and the video of the operation Yola and I saw on that poor girl in the hospital yesterday. I’m afraid all his dreams have been shattered. I’ll go now.’
But Fintan did not go, because at that moment the swing doors at the foot of the stairs burst open, there was an enraged shout and Mr Birthistle backed into the room, waving his arms in a mixture of surrender and defence as a smaller and older version of Fintan advanced on him. Mr O’Farrell was in a towering rage, shouting and thrusting at the startled arms dealer. Blind to where they were going, Mr Birthistle was being backed into the alcove with the mirror that Yola had found earlier. His feet came up against the flowerpot, he toppled back and crumpled up against the mirror. Mr O’Farrell, thwarted by his fall, stood glaring at the heaving mass of dead flowers and waving legs.
‘Dad!’ Fintan called. ‘Over here!’
‘Come on,’ Judit said quickly to Yola, ‘let’s get this good time girl into the ladies and wash some of her warpaint off.’
It was a very sober group that sat in the deserted bar later. Mr O’Farrell glared at the table as if his gaze could burn a hole in it. His eyes flickered up and saw Yola watching him, a grim little smile flashed and he was gone. Hans took the walkman from her; they fell silent. He tipped out the cassette and carefully prised off the postage stamps so the tape could not be recorded on again by mistake.
‘This is as unnerving as defusing a mine,’ he said grimly. Then he put the tape back into the walkman and pressed rewind for what seemed an age. ‘Now for it!’
They all leant forward as he pressed the play button, they heard … nothing … not even a hiss. What had gone wrong? Was there nothing on the tape? Had the microphone become detached? Yola nearly cried … then she remembered!
‘Volume, Hans,’ she gasped, ‘I turned it down, it’s on the top.’
Hans span the small wheel. There, against the recorded rustle of Yola’s movements and the rapid patter of her heartbeat, was Birthistle’s voice. ‘… anything, boy, from peashooters to rocket launchers, M60s to tanks …’ There was a muted cheer from the gathering. Hands patted Yola on the back. They listened to the tape, but she had heard it all and dropped off asleep out of sheer exhaustion.
She woke to hear Mr O’Farrell saying, ‘My one regret is that he fell over that bloody flowerpot before I could hit him. You see all our talk in Murabende was technical. How to record particular sound patterns and transfer them on to the chip – they knew their stuff. That idiot Birthistle was just a nuisance, with his nodding and winking. I just said, yes, yes, yes – it’s the only way to quieten him, you know. In the end they got tired of him too and sent him off to the bar to get drunk. Look, can’t we just turn him over to the Kasemban authorities?’
‘I’m afraid he’s not the idiot he looks,’ Hans replied. ‘You can be sure that he is clean of anything incriminating. It is you he fooled and you who is carrying all the evidence.’
‘He fooled me because I didn’t want to know. Fintan said it, but I wouldn’t listen to him. But … I’m not carrying much evidence now. I left the six prototypes we brought in Murabende, and they only had test data on them.’
‘Do you realise what that test data is?’
‘No. It was just test sounds, bleeps and clicks and whines, all quite meaningless.’
‘No, Mr O’Farrell, not meaningless. Those are the recorded sounds of every known mine detector in the world, possibly. Those six ‘prototypes’ are enough to stop our work completely. How can I put my men into a minefield knowing that one of these may blow up in his face?’
‘Well, I must try to get them back … I’ll claim they need technical modification or something. They seemed reasonable people.’
‘Ya, ya sure!’ Hans was sarcastic. ‘They have wives and nice kids at expensive boarding schools. They perhaps think they do something good, ya? But I say they are more evil than any African that ever pulled a trigger. They will know that you have turned against them and will either get you arrested or kill you Mr O’Farrell, they are not reasonable people!’
Yola had never seen Hans really angry before. Mr O’Farrell didn’t wilt, as she would have done, but asked, ‘Should I go to the police here, then?’
‘No. Go. Go home now. If you stay around here you will either rot in prison, where you will be no good to anyone, or you will start an international incident – and in Africa that’s as good an excuse as any to start a war. The best thing you can do is take this tape – I will make a copy – and get home ahead of this Birthistle. There is enough on this to interest any police force, Interpol in particular. Get him stopped if you can, because his threat to the Dublin peace conference is real. The arms trade hates that conference and they’d give real money for proof that Ireland, the host country, is manufacturing landmines. My God, don’t you realise? Ireland was one of the first countries to sign the ban! Birthistle has probably already been paid for bringing you over here. Since you backed him into that flowerpot he knows this project is over, so why not make some dollars selling the story to the rivals.’
Mr O’Farrell nodded. ‘Ok, we’ll go,’ he said. ‘How can we get out of here ahead of him?’
Yola looked at Fintan; she hadn’t thought that he would have to go immediately. She managed a smile. He was looking at her, but his lips just narrowed. Hans was looking at his watch.
‘Let me see, the only flight out of Nopani tomorrow morning is one for relief workers, he won’t be allowed on that. If I can get you and Fintan on to that flight it will give you a head start. Go, pack, and get some rest, that flight leaves at eight.’
Yola stood disconsolately while everyone milled around. Fintan came up to her. And she said, ‘I won’t see you again.’
‘Yes you will if you get up early. Hans is going to copy the tape. We’ll pick it up on our way to the airport. I wish I wasn’t going now. I feel I should be trying to get those mines back, not running away.’
‘Back from Murabende? You must be joking! But I’ll come with you and see you off.’
Yola lay on her bed; she undid the valve on her leg but did not remove it. She didn’t want to be struggling to bandage her stump when the taxi came. She was exhausted, but strangely elated. She knew she would never get to sleep and so was surprised when Judit shook her and said, ‘Yola, wake up! The car’s come, don’t you want to see Fintan off?’ Yola was so deep in sleep that she might as well have been drowning. Judit slapped and cajoled as if she too realised that this should be an important moment for Yola.
The taxi stood silently in front of the office, not wasting petrol. Hans was talking to Mr O’Farrell through the front window. Fintan was standing at the back door. He was waiting for her to come and her heart was doing strange things inside her chest. She started towards the car, but at that moment a figure rose from the
watchman’s chair in front of the office.
‘Ehee, Yola!’ it called softly, ‘I’ve been waiting for you.’
‘Shimima – I see you,’ called Yola, but she was deeply confused. Why was Shimima here?
‘Yola, little sister, I have a message for you from Senior Mother.’
Yola’s heart sank. ‘Oh Shimima, can’t it wait? I want to go to the airport.’
‘Listen to the message, little one. Your Uncle Banda is returned. Gabbin is in trouble.’
‘Gabbin!’ Yola repeated. She looked desperately from Shimima to Fintan and back. She had to make a choice. She might never see … At this moment it meant everything to her to see Fintan off. She took a deep breath.
‘Fintan,’ she said, ‘I’ve … Shimima here tells me … Gabbin my … the boy who saved my life needsme … I must go to look for him.’ How could she make him understand?
When he answered it was with a slightly sad smile; he was very like his father. ‘Don’t worry, I know all about Gabbin, Catherine told me about him. Of course you must go.’
Yola stepped forward and put her arms around him briefly, but it was a formal embrace. They watched the taxi disappear, then Shimima took her hand and Yola buried her face in her shoulder.
‘I’m proud of you, little sister,’ her friend whispered.
He’s been waiting all along, hasn’t he, like one of King Arthur’s bloody knights waiting for the trump to sound! And I had begun to think that ‘Gabbin’ was part of Catherine’s imagination. Gabbin – it seeems a small name for a six-foot warrior. He clearly means a lot to her though. Hans wants us gone. We’ve messed up enough here. It’s time to go. We touch down in Simbada shortly.
22
The Child Soldier
Standing in the doorway, Yola surveyed the scene in Father’s room. Father was sitting formally in his great chair; his fly-switch lay on a small table to his right. Senior Mother hovered darkly behind his left shoulder. Uncle Banda sat skewed, half collapsed on a three-legged stool with his back to her. Father looked up.
‘Get out! This is a matter for Senior Mother only.’
Yola was taken aback. ‘Father, it is me, Yola. I thought I was called?’
Senior Mother bent forward and whispered in his ear. Father took his time, she could feel his mind reaching out for hers.
‘You may come in. Stand beside your Uncle Banda.’ He touched his fly-switch; it was a command. As she advanced, Uncle Banda seemed to shrink still deeper into himself.
‘Banda, in another time my daughter, Yola, had a special friend in your godson, Gabbin.’ Yola noticed the deep irony in her father’s voice as he said the word ‘godson’. ‘Now I am going to ask you the question you have avoided answering for me so far. Is the boy dead?’
Yola bit her lip. Uncle Banda stiffened for a moment, began to say yes, then dropped his voice and in a despairing whisper said, ‘I don’t know!’
Yola listened while Father took Uncle Banda back over a story he had clearly told once before. Father was in pursuit of details, while she was trying to piece the story together from fragments. There was a lull in the questions and suddenly Uncle Banda became aware of her standing beside him. He took her hand and began to caress it absently. His hands were cold.
‘As a boy I always wanted to be a soldier, Yola,’ he said in a low voice. ‘I watched the government troops, but they always seemed to be doing nothing or something boring. Then one day the rebels passed through our village. They came silently in combat gear, got food and water and were gone. Some of them were no older than me, and I was only ten. They told us about their cause and handed us leaflets with pictures, freedom from communism it was in those days, but to me it could have been anything with a long name. It was the excitement that got me. From then on, whenever fighting broke out I was part of it. I was with the KLA during the civil war, we lost, but we felt we were honourable. When it was over, your Father here was kind and took me back into our family. But I still felt an outcast here in the compound – I longed to have a cause again and to be off in the night, just to kill boredom. While you were away, Gabbin and me got on fine. He’s my godson, so I had a right. We were alive together. I wanted him to know what it is like to have companions and to share in a great idea. He is bright and clever and I knew he’d enjoy the danger and having friends, also I thought the training would be good for him, so …’
‘Tell her what sort of training you mean! It wasn’t school-work? It wasn’t training in wisdom, was it? It wasn’t how to herd cattle or plant crops?’ interjected Father harshly.
‘Yola, believe me, I didn’t think it would turn out as it did. There are … there were those of us who still felt we had an honourable cause. We wanted our young men to know what it is like to believe in something beyond themselves. We made a camp in the Noose, where the rebels are training again. We taught them how to carry messages, how to use a radio, how to scout and how to hide.’
‘Who?’ Father demanded. ‘Tell Yola about your “young men”. Do not lie, Banda, with half-truths. These are children, our children. They are not young men, they are child soldiers, just as you still are.’
Something in her father’s voice made Yola look up. He had taken up his fly-switch and was lashing it back and forth like the tail of a lion before its charge. Something frightening was happening. Uncle Banda seemed locked in silence, his breath was coming heavily. Then, with terrible certainty, Yola realised that Father was, even now, deep in her Uncle Banda’s mind, just as he had got into hers at the time of her trial.
Uncle Banda was pulling down on her hand like a heavy weight. She struggled to pull away. Her mind shrieked out for help. Did Father know? She was being pulled down and down through the turmoil of their battling minds. Then, there was silence; she had sunk below the waves, she was in another place and in another time.
Tall trees towered above her. Under one of these sat a small boy, happily oiling and caressing his rifle. The dappled light on his camouflage fatigues made him difficult to see.
‘Gabbin!’ she called, but he didn’t hear her. She shifted position slightly. No, it wasn’t Gabbin, it was – of course – it was the little Banda. He looked so innocent in his quiet enjoyment. There was a crash among the bushes a little way ahead. In a trice the boy had rolled off the path, cocked his rifle and was aiming down the path.
‘Don’t!’ she called, but of course he didn’t hear her. Then she experienced his terror. The boots of the man pounded the forest floor, he grew larger and larger; the little boy raised his rifle. Yola screamed as Father wrenched her mind back from the abyss, but he was too late to save her entirely – the sensations that the child Banda had experienced lingered like the smell of death in her mind.
Father held her mind firmly, and she sobbed and shook while the visions of what she had seen dulled. She could see it all: it was a trap, a gruesome cycle of violence supported by an empty dream. The child soldier grew into an adult, but with a child’s mind. Father had let her see the unspeakable.
As Yola came back into the present she felt Uncle Banda’s grip on her hand loosen. Rage welled up inside her until it consumed her completely. This was what Banda had been doing to Gabbin – her Gabbin! She lurched around so that she was facing him; her back was to Father. His eyes squirmed away from her. She raised her hand deliberately and slapped him as hard as she could across the face. His head jolted to one side; she hit him again. Then she turned to Senior Mother and Father to take her punishment; her head drooped and her anger was spent. Senior Mother nodded; Father touched his fly-switch – he approved of what she had done.
‘Your uncle has a wound, Yola. Tend to it.’
They were dismissed.
‘Where is he, Uncle Banda?’ she asked as she washed his wounds. Two holes: the bullet had gone cleanly through.
‘The Noose, the Hangman’s Noose.’
‘How did you get in there? There are hundreds of people who want to return to their land there but can’t because of the landmines. Ho
w did you get in?’
‘There is a way through the minefield, but it is guarded. There is a training camp for adults there. Food and guns come across the river from Murabende.’
‘And the children?’
‘They are orphans, abused kids, street kids, we gave them food, shelter, something to live for. Gabbin was a star!’
‘Of course Gabbin was a star!’ snapped Yola. Poor Gabbin, he would have loved it until … ‘What went wrong? Why are you here?’ She reached for a bandage.
‘It all changed.’ A chill seemed to seep into the room; Uncle Banda shivered.
‘How?’
‘A team of instructors came in from the advanced training camps in Murabende – white mercenaries for the adults and a so-called child soldier expert for the kids, the bastard!’ Uncle Banda shook his head. ‘It wasn’t necessary, they were good kids but this … this … expert, he said they needed to be blooded.’
Yola felt sick. ‘Blooded?’
Uncle Banda nodded and swallowed painfully. ‘Taught to fight hand to hand, even to kill.’ His voice wobbled. He cleared his throat to get it under control. ‘One of the instructors would pick on one of the weaker boys for punishment by the others. Gradually the punishments got worse and worse. I argued, but I was afraid it could make things bad for Gabbin. He was still the star pupil and had managed to avoid having anything to do with the beatings. The expert noticed this in the end. It was time for Gabbin’s pride to be pricked. They knew I was his godfather and they knew I hated their methods, so they denounced me, tried me and condemned me to be shot. The boy chosen to shoot me was Gabbin.
‘The boys who tied me up did so loosely; they risked their lives in doing that. Gabbin had no choice; the instructor had a gun to his head as he aimed. They stood me beside the river – no graves for traitors. I decided that, hit or not, I would pretend that I had been. The whole class had to shout, “Three, two, one”, it was that that gave me warning. The instructor could see if Gabbin aimed more than inches wide. I put on a good act. Poor Gabbin, he aimed to miss but he probably thinks he killed me. I was face down in the river when the instructor decided to finish me off; he missed, but put this bullet through my leg.’
