Out of Shadows

by Jason Wallace

  I eased myself up. He was squatting uncomfortably on the rafters, gun against the wall. His line of sight was through ventilation bricks. Even with just my head and shoulders pushed through I could feel the instant heat. Klompie was having to wipe sweat and keep his fringe out of his eyes, and when he realized I was there he squinted several times to make sure he wasn’t seeing things.

  “What are you doing here, Jacko?” He sounded worried. Then, angrily: “What are you doing?”

  He leaped. There was a hollow sound as his head connected with the beam directly above him and he went straight back down. The gun slid and fell, and with a stretch I grabbed the end of the barrel.

  Too late, he saw what was happening and reached for the butt with panicky hands. We wrestled briefly for control, and for one terrible moment I saw his fingers snatching close to the trigger, but I managed to kick out, and when he tried to regain balance his foot slipped and punctured the ceiling.

  He looked stupidly at what he’d done. Unbelievably, even for him, he pushed the other foot down to try and get himself out and made the hole even bigger. His face melted into a look of absolute dismay as he sank to the waist.

  “Hey, man . . .”

  His clothes were caught and snagged so he couldn’t go up or down. He was helpless. Trapped. Like a movie villain in quicksand he gasped and struggled, as I emptied the gun’s chamber and took out the magazine.

  “You’re crazy, De Klomp,” I said, actually feeling sorry for him now. “You let him talk you into something you could never get away with.”

  He grunted. “We knew we were never going to get away with it, you idiot. Not at first. But maybe one day, when our guys take over power again . . .”

  He laughed at me.

  “And even if they kill us we’ll be heroes.”

  “That’s lies. How can you believe that?”

  He suddenly stopped squirming and looked at me squarely. Because it was Klompie, the sincerity and intelligence of his response startled me.

  “If you were in front of Hitler with a gun, wouldn’t you squeeze the trigger? Why wouldn’t you? I’ll tell you why: because you’re a coward. You’re a coward who doesn’t even belong here. You’re not one of us. You don’t understand.”

  For a moment I did nothing, just stared, then I smashed the rifle into the wall.

  “Why don’t you piss off back to Pommieland,” he growled. “This is our country.”

  I climbed back down.

  “That’s Ivan talking.”

  “So what if it is?” he shouted after me. “He was right. And Mr. van Hout was right, too. Can’t you see? Kaffirs will destroy our country. Ivan’s not the liar. Mugabe is. He’s the one who has to be stopped. He’ll destroy us all.”

  From inside the study only Klompie’s legs were visible. He started to kick.

  “No! You can’t. You’ll ruin everything. Everything.”

  “If anyone’s going to ruin anything it’s Ivan. I’m only trying to make things right.”

  Only some might say that that never happened: I did ruin it. I screwed up big time.

  Limping slightly, I ran out and toward the chapel. The bell had started to ring—I had to hurry.

  THIRTY-EIGHT

  The prime minister’s cars were taking up the entire space outside the Admin Block. I knew he was up in Bully’s study because six bodyguards were posted around the building while another three stood on the stairs. Boys and parents and masters were answering the call of the bell and filing into the chapel.

  The bodyguards began to jostle nervously. The prime minister must have been ready. It was only about ten meters to the chapel entrance and the area was too open. Ivan and Pitters had to have been inside.

  I pushed my way forward and went in through one of the side entrances. A quarter of the pews were already full while sixth-form boys were taking their places up in the gallery. I looked hard. Where were they? Behind me the choir had taken all available positions around the altar, the only vacant seats there belonged to Bully, the prime minister, and his entourage.

  Where were they?

  Mr. Hodgson came in and settled at the organ. After a few seconds, the towering collection of pipes wheezed into life, and Mr. Finklater had to come over and tell me to stop loitering and get up to the gallery. Parents were looking at me like I was going to make an announcement.

  I moved slowly, still scouring faces. Mr. Hodgson’s prelude continued, and it was difficult not to notice his slightly erratic performance because he always prided himself on perfection. I let myself be distracted by it and watched Mr. Hodgson’s face crease with agitation as notes slipped from his fingers. One note in particular, in fact, and each time he glanced up at the culpable pipes.

  Something was wrong. Something, I wondered, or someone?

  Mr. Finklater made a grab but I was too quick, darting across the altar to the vestry door. The choir watched with mild confusion as I passed. I’d never been up to where the organ pipes were. If you got caught up there it was instant expulsion. I figured that didn’t matter anymore.

  The steps were narrow and near vertical; the higher I climbed into the lightless room the harder the music pressed.

  Pittman was waiting for me at the top, emerging like a ghost. He grabbed me and pulled me up and threw me further into the room of tubes and pipes. I bounced between the unmoving metal and skidded to the floor. Ahead, I could see Pittman’s gun lying flat.

  “Ivan should never have trusted you.” Swinging his shoe into my ribs. “Who cares if you’re a crack shot; you’re still only a Pommie.”

  He landed on my spine and drove the air from my lungs. Then he turned me over and leaned forward.

  “I hope I only injure him and get the chance to make him die slowly.”

  I tried to push his face out of mine. His teeth bit into my hand. With an agonized thrust I pushed forward so that my finger went all the way in and scraped the back of his throat and he fell off me, eyes bulging. He made a retching sound as I quickly faced forward and crawled. All I could see was the gun. All I had to do was get the gun.

  Pittman came again.

  I grabbed the rifle in both hands, quickly pulled the bolt without him seeing and swung. Pittman stopped, the barrel digging into his stomach.

  “It’s over, Pitters,” I told him over the music.

  “What are you going to do? Shoot me?” He grabbed the barrel and stuck it under his chin. The trigger strained dangerously against my finger. “Go on—shoot! Do it.”

  I did nothing, of course.

  “You’re such a poof, Jacko. You would never have done it. I knew that. You might be good but all you can slot are squares of cardboard on a range.”

  He whipped his fist and I caught it on the cheek. Fire erupted.

  A second swipe and the world slipped away. My eyes rolled.

  Help . . .

  I could only think the words as my mouth slurred something vague and incoherent.

  Please . . .

  Even if I’d called it no one would have heard, and as my dark cloud descended I sensed movement out in the main chapel. The sound of the main doors. I heard a wave roll through the congregation, from front to rear, and through small gaps between the organ pipes I saw heads turn and bodies stand. Mr. Mugabe had entered and was walking down the aisle.

  And there, on the end of the last pew right at the back, was Ivan, watching with more intent than most and with a distinct grin on his lips.

  THIRTY-NINE

  He probably saved my life. That’s the irony of it.

  By coming in when he did, Mr. Mugabe inadvertently made Pitters rush back into position instead of finishing me off. Maybe Pitters thought he’d done enough, or that Ivan would somehow know he wasn’t getting on with the job. Either way, Mr. Mugabe saved me by making himself the target.

  The organ rose, a forceful heroic piece of music, which I’m sure the prime minister had insisted upon. He wasn’t a big man, in fact he was dwarfed by the giants behind that were h
is bodyguards. True as that was, there was a something that made him impossible to ignore. He wore an impeccable light gray suit, and he came slowly, in his own time, his face high and unflinching as he looked out from behind those TV-screen glasses at the sea of mostly white faces.

  What was everyone thinking? In hindsight, I’ve often asked myself this. Whatever it was, he met their gaze with the unwavering tenderness we’d only seen on posters, across television screens, in papers. Paternal, almost. He was their ally, it said. Their guardian. Once an enemy of the white government, true, but now an equal friend to black and white alike. They had nothing to fear because he meant no harm; he wanted what was good for them and the country. It had been over seven years since the end of the war, so surely they could see that by now?

  Pittman could see everything that was going on, staring at it down the barrel of the gun as he kneeled on one knee like a soldier. Mugabe grew steadily larger in his sights. He had a clear line, he could take the shot at any time, but he wanted to be sure. He also wanted it to look good. He’d let him get right to the front, turn, face the congregation, then . . .

  “Pittman.”

  Pitters blinked like he was coming out of a dream: had he heard something?

  He lowered the gun.

  He turned to me, or to where he’d left me. And then, realizing, to where I actually was, right over his shoulder. His eyes widened with genuine surprise, his mouth forming a silent O. Quickly, quicker than I thought he could, he moved to regain firing position but already my arm was in motion. It arced though the air, followed by an abrupt stop.

  Pittman’s head bounced against the wall. He snarled like an injured animal, pulled the trigger, slumped, and finally collapsed forward without resistance.

  The prime minister’s head bowed as he went down, one hand flashing the shape of the crucifix across his chest.

  Pause.

  Then he was up again, his Catholic duty in front of the altar fleeting. Bully showed him to his seat.

  Behind the pipes, I bowed my own head to the bullet still in my hand. If Pittman had seen me take it from the chamber, all it would have taken was a quick back and forward of the bolt to bring the next round up. But he hadn’t realized, and so with those few seconds of extra time I’d managed to return the favor and save Mr. Mugabe’s life right back.

  I took the rifle from under Pittman’s inert body, removed the rest of the ammo, damaged the firing pin, and left him to wake up in his own time into whatever nightmare he would find.

  I slid out of the vestry door and made room for myself at the edge of the choir stalls, sorting out my shirt and tie and cleaning my face. The boys there stared though they didn’t say anything as Bully worked his way into the proceedings.

  “. . . and it is of course with extreme pleasure and gratitude that we welcome our esteemed guest today . . .”

  I eased forward to snatch a daring peek at Ivan. His face was buried under an impatient frown as he peered up to the organ pipes. His lips moved soundlessly.

  Come on, come on . . .

  His eyes dropped to me, and it must have been written all over me because he seemed to understand exactly what had happened. His face transformed, but for the first time I wasn’t scared. I was shaking loose.

  His mouth flatlined, hard and straight.

  “. . . I know I speak on behalf of everyone here when I say we are—truly—thankful, Prime Minister, that you have been able to find time in what I know must be an extremely busy and important schedule . . .”

  Ivan looked lost for a moment. Like his world was falling away from beneath him. But then, slowly, the corner of this mouth started to rise again and any uncertainty on his side had gone. I tried to pretend it hadn’t but I could feel it happening. My own self-assurance ebbed. What could he do? I wondered. There was no one else.

  Was there?

  Ivan’s smile was broad. For one last time, he seemed to know what was going on in my mind and peeled open his blazer enough to reveal the handle of an automatic pistol sticking out of his pocket, no doubt the exact one he and I had fired a million lifetimes ago on his farm. He’d held it back, stolen it from his old man . . . He’d planned this day for too long to let it slip him by.

  “. . . So without further ado I now call upon Head Boy, Ivan Hascott, to start the speeches and officially welcome our special guest.”

  Bully moved aside and ignited the applause.

  The prime minister uncrossed his legs and stood.

  Ivan pulled his blazer tight, buttoned it, and finger combed his hair.

  I had no time to think. I’m not even sure it was a conscious decision to jump to my feet and walk forward, I simply did it.

  Bully was the first to notice me coming and his expression suddenly became a very different one, somewhere between surprise and extreme annoyance, but he kept on clapping because the prime minister’s bodyguards didn’t know better, and nor did Mr. Mugabe himself, who was looking at me with his arm outstretched. I could see Bully wondering what to do about this but already it had gone beyond that as I accepted Mr. Mugabe’s hand.

  His fingers enveloped mine, his hold firm, and as he took control of the movement, pushing my arm down subtly yet surely, he noticed the state of my clothes and face. Even so, his stance was unwavering, and without letting go he spoke under the applause.

  “I have heard many great things about you,” he spoke softly. “I am told you are the son of a farmer.”

  I nodded.

  He leaned in closer and smothered my hand with the both of his as he smiled. And I winced.

  At the far end of the chapel, a cry permeated the air. Soft at first, growing louder. The clapping petered out until there was only the cry, rising from the depths of Ivan’s hell.

  Everyone turned.

  Ivan was running down the aisle, one hand reaching into his blazer as the word resonated.

  “Nooo!”

  He came quickly and aggressively, shouting. My mouth went dry as I took an involuntary step in front of Mr. Mugabe, but now the bodyguards were spurred into action and closed a tight circle around Ivan before he even had a chance to reveal the gun. They grabbed him with rough hands and managed to bustle him back and out of the main doors without his feet touching the ground.

  All the while, Ivan shouted and kicked and screamed.

  “Get your filthy hands off me. Let me go. Don’t you see? Put me down, you black . . .”

  The exit was shut and his voice cut off. There was the noise of a scuffle, the bellow of one of the bodyguards, then nothing.

  A mutter gradually filled the chapel. Robert Mugabe brushed down his suit, discarded me and returned to his seat. He managed to appear as though nothing had happened, yet I caught him blaze a look at Bully that could have melted rocks.

  Mr. Bullman broke out into a sweat.

  “Ladies and gentlemen.” He raised his hands, shaking visibly. “Please, ladies and gentlemen, everything is under control,” he said, because he thought it was.

  They dragged Ivan down the chapel steps, across the sun-bleached grass and away. They’d already vanished from sight before I managed to get outside. I only knew where they were from the disbelieving gazes of all the juniors.

  I raced after them, not knowing what I was going to do, only that I had to.

  Behind the library I found two of the bodyguards crouching while the third lay panting in the dust, clutching his groin. He groaned and yelled, and the other two yelled back. None of them seemed worried about Ivan, only I was as he darted across the lower playing fields. He was getting away.

  I kept on chasing. He didn’t get far, though, because a soldier was running from the other direction to cut him off. He made Ivan kneel in the middle of the grass. When I caught up I saw it was the same soldier who’d confronted me earlier, already jabbing the Kalashnikov at me, too, as he tumbled from whatever he’d been smoking and into a swirl of paranoia.

  “Down! Get down!” His hands didn’t know who to point the gun at. Then h
e seemed to remember my face and settled on me. “Do as I say, do as I say!”

  I obeyed without hesitation.

  “He’s got a weapon,” I tried.

  The soldier looked confused and split his guard between us. Ivan grabbed his chance.

  “He’s lying. He’s got the gun. He tried to kill the prime minister. He did it.”

  “No, he’s the liar. Check his pockets if you don’t believe me.”

  “Don’t believe him. Look, they’re all after him.”

  From one. To the other. To the other. In the end the soldier chose me and shouted.

  “I am watching you.”

  “No, I’m not the one . . .”

  “I will shoot.” He raised the Kalashnikov. “I will shoot and kill you dead.”

  Ivan began to stand.

  “Both of you. Stay still.”

  “But I’m innocent.” Ivan raised his hands. “You’ve got the right guy there.”

  “I am warning you.”

  “But . . .”

  “Stay!”

  Ivan turned on me. “This is all your fault.” He took a furious step, coming between me and the soldier. “I could have done it by now.”

  Behind him, the soldier hopped to keep me in his sights.

  “Why did you stop me?” Ivan thrust a finger in my face. Was all this another ruse? No, the anger was genuine, he couldn’t have faked that.

  “Out of the way,” the soldier ordered.

  Ivan ignored him.

  “Well, I’m not giving in. I have to do it. I have to go back and get him. Don’t you see? It’s what everybody wants,” he told me. He took a deep breath, and then the smile returned. He gave me the Ivan Hascott wink and I saw his hand reaching into his pocket. His fingers wrapped around metal. “But first this stupid Kaffir deserves a hole in the head, don’t you think?”