It was as if she was trying to tell Richard that she was unhappy, that she was trapped and desperate to break free from her husband. How the hell did they get together in the first place? I thought. He’s short, bald, frankly quite ugly, and she, well she’s a goddess! How the hell did that happen in the first place? My thoughts were stopped by a dull ache coming from my bladder. I turned back to face Richard who was by then in a semi dream-like state as he watched her through the crowds.
“Do you have any idea where the toilets are, Rich?” I asked.
“Toilets, uhh yes,” he said snapping out of it, “they’re behind the stage in an ablution block. Can’t miss them, you go around that way..” He pointed out a route that led around the seating area and along the wooden railing.
“I'll see you shortly,” I said as I stood up and made my way through the tables. Before long I had passed the stage and in front of me was a dimly lit grassed area with a wide, single storey building on the other side. I crossed the grass and saw the building had two entrances, each had a metal sculpture depicting stick figures on the wall outside. The one on the left was clearly for the ladies while the one on the right nearest the wooden railing was the gents. The building was in keeping with the main house and was in a Mediterranean style with large rectangular, vertical holes set high up in the walls every metre or so to allow air to flow through. I made my way inside and noticed there were no urinals but there were three showers followed by three toilets to the far end of the building.
The building was empty so I chose the first and stood there gratefully relieving myself. When I had finished, I reached forward to flush the toilet but just before I did, I heard an unusual sound coming from behind the building. I paused to listen but there was nothing except the distant sound of the band playing and laughter from the crowd. Then again, just as I was about to flush I heard the sound again. It was very faint but it reminded me of a wounded animal. Something that was shot and unable to move. Something that was in fear for its life. I looked up and saw the rectangular air vent in the wall above me. I decided that I would hear the sound better if I could get up there so I put the toilet seat down and stood on top of it. By then, I was a lot closer and when the sound came again I knew it was from a human being. Then there were two voices, both speaking in Swahili. One in anger and one pleading in fear. Then there was the sound of a slap followed by more wailing and pleading. I looked up at the air vent again. I needed to get higher so I could have a look at what was going on. Quietly I put my right foot on the cistern and with my hands on the top of the walls of the cubicle, I hoisted myself up.
For a few seconds I only saw darkness through the vent but as my eyes became accustomed, it became clearer. Behind the building was a steep slope made up of grass and rocks. Far to the left beyond the ladies changing room was a well-lit stone staircase leading down the slope to what looked like an office or some utilitarian building. It was surrounded by trees and darkness and was certainly not part of the main house. A tall shadowy figure moved to the left and the right of a stationary seated figure. Then there was shouting followed by another loud slap that sounded like a gunshot. More wailing and pleading followed. It was clear that someone was getting a severe beating. I stood there, straining to see for a good minute but it was too dark and basically all I had was the soundtrack. I let myself down, wiped off the top of the cistern with some toilet paper and the faint sound was gone as I flushed the toilet. What the fuck was going on there? I thought as I washed my hands. At that moment, two guests entered the changing rooms, they were laughing and talking with each other and I passed them on my way out. They had clearly had a few too many drinks and I very much doubted they would hear anything. As I left the building and stepped onto the grass I looked to my left at the corner of the building and the wooden railing. Between the two was a half metre space and I realised that there was a good chance that I would be able to get around the back of the block and have a closer look at what was going on. Apart from the two men inside the toilet block, there was no one around. Curiosity got the better of me and I took the opportunity and dashed into the dark space between the building and the railing. To my right, beyond the railing, was an almost sheer drop of about five metres. Beyond that was the massive perimeter wall that surrounded the property. Feeling safe in the darkness I crept along the wall of the toilet block and out onto the grassy slope behind. Although I still couldn't see clearly, the sound of the beating was much clearer now. The pattern repeated itself. The deep voice shouting, the other pleading, the meaty crack of a slap to the face followed by terrified wailing. Although I couldn't understand the words, it was a sound I was familiar with. I had heard it many times before, years ago during the bush war. It was an interrogation and a brutal one at that. Crouching in the darkness and using the boulders for extra cover, I slowly made my way down the slope towards the noise. Finally I reached the bottom and it was then it became clear what was going on. The building was set in a dark space amongst trees and bushes. On the inside, behind iron burglar bars and a small window burned a paraffin lamp. To the front was a small area of concrete on which a tall dark figure paced from left to right. I could tell from the booming voice and the sheer size of the man that it was Tintin. In the dim light, I could make out the shape of a man sitting on the floor. As he squirmed and pleaded, I saw the glint of handcuffs attaching his right wrist to the metal bars of the doorway to the building.
There was no sea breeze down in that dark place, only hot, damp humidity. Beads of sweat formed on my brow and forearms. Then there was the squawk of a radio which coincided with a flashing red light on Tintin's belt. He removed it, put it to his ear and snarled something in Swahili to whoever he was talking to. When he finished talking, he lunged down at the crouched man and again there was the deafening crack as his huge hand struck the side of the other man’s head.
“Aaaaaaiii!” came the terrified wailing again. What in hell has this person done to deserve such a beating? I thought to myself. Suddenly there was movement to my left and I had to quickly move around the boulder in front of me for cover. Safely in the darkness again I saw a man trotting down the stone staircase I had seen from the toilet block. It was Carlos da Costa. There was no mistaking his short stature and white suit. When he reached the bottom he made a beeline towards the building with his duck foot walk. I was surprised he could move so fast but he obviously knew exactly where he was going and he was in a hurry. As he approached the concrete area where the other two men were, he quickened his pace even more.
“Filla da porta!” He growled as he picked up speed, “carralio!” I knew that what he had said in Portuguese was ‘son of a bitch, cunt,’ and as he stepped onto the concrete he kicked the sitting man square in the face with such brutal force I heard the dull clunk of the man’s head as it slammed into the rough brickwork behind. There was no more wailing from the seated man, only a dreadful moaning sound.
“You think you can steal from my party!?” Carlos screamed in a voice that sounded like he had been gargling crushed glass and caustic soda. “I give you fucking job here and you fucking steal from me?! Carralio! Put torch Tintin, I want to see this fucking thief!” The towering figure of Tintin pulled a torch from a pocket and shone it at the man’s face. What I saw shocked even me. The man sat with his head flopped to one side. Blood trickled from his right ear down his neck and onto his ripped collar. A mixture of blood and dusty sand covered his face and hair and his mouth hung open, dribbling, as the space between his teeth and his bottom lip slowly filled with dark liquid. His eyes were half closed from concussion, he was barely conscious. “I don't believe this fucking thief Tintin!” he shouted, “show me what he steal.” Silently, the tall figure of Tintin leant over and retrieved a dark coloured canvas bag. He unzipped it to reveal what looked like about six bottles of champagne and a pile of food wrapped in a white table cloth. Filla da porta!”screamed Carlos, as he saw the stash. “I pay you fucking good money and you steal this? From my party?! Carralio!”
I saw Carlos step back to prepare for another kick.
Not in the face, please not in the face again, I thought as I watched. Thankfully the powerful blow from his right foot landed in the sitting man’s stomach instead. The man jerked violently and let out a long low moan as half a cup full of blood and saliva poured from his mouth. The torch shone on the man’s face and at that moment the image was burned into my mind. “Give me torch please Tintin,” said Carlos in a surprisingly calm voice. Tintin complied and Carlos shone the beam onto his right trouser leg and shoe. “Fuck!” he shouted, “look Tintin, the blood of a thief spoil my clothes! I go to change now, we deal with this carralio later.” “Ok boss, no problem,” said Tintin. I sat silently and watched as Carlos made his way back towards the light of the staircase. Instead of going up, he disappeared around a corner. There was obviously another access point to the house and his private quarters where he would change his clothes. After he had gone Tintin continued walking silently back and forth on the concrete in front of the semi-conscious man. Realising it was time to move, I quietly made my way back up the slope in the darkness towards the building. Once there I slipped into the narrow space between the wall and the wooden railing and poked my head around the front. It was all clear and I walked out onto the grass checking my clothes for any grass or leaves I might have picked up whilst crouching in the darkness. My mind was numbed by what I had witnessed, and I found myself idly preparing an excuse for why I had been away so long.
The party was in full swing when I returned with the majority of the guests dancing to the band who were in the middle of a cover of a Buena Vista Social Club tune. There was no sign of Carlos da Costa but his wife was seated at our table talking to Richard. She sat at a respectful distance from him with her legs crossed and was laughing and sipping champagne. “What took you so long Jase?” Richard asked as I arrived.
“Oh I got talking to some people around the corner,” I replied. “How are you doing?”
“Fine, fine thanks. I was just telling Angelique about our fishing trip today.” She turned to me smiling. “And I was laughing about Richard falling down on the boat! I wish you had a photograph of that.” The sadness in her eyes had gone and the sparkle had returned. “Yes,” I said smiling as I reached for my drink, “it was quite a funny moment.” Then both of their eyes went to the staircase behind me. I turned to look and saw Carlos making his way down back to the party. I watched him as he reached the bottom and saw that he had indeed changed his trousers and shoes. He looked perfectly normal and happy as if nothing had happened and all was well.
As he made his way to the bar area, he gave a quick wave and a smile towards our table. The three of us reciprocated by doing the same. How can someone go from such extreme violence and furious anger back to this seemingly charming host in a matter of minutes? I thought. It's fucking bizarre! The Cuban music ended as he received his drink and I watched him as he made his way to the stage. I saw him have a quiet word in the ear of the lead musician and the revellers clapped as he took the microphone from the stand. “Looks like we’re going to get a song,” said Richard.
“Yes, I think so,” said Angelique with unsmiling eyes. I turned my chair slightly so I could watch the man. I found myself strangely fascinated by him. His shortness, his duck feet, the way his large ugly head seemed to fit onto his stout body with no visible neck. His dark eyes and his hairy hands. Ok, the bloke had clearly stolen from you but was that reaction really necessary? The band broke into a familiar Broadway tune. It was ‘New York, New York’ by Frank Sinatra and the horn section played it to a tee. The delighted crowd clapped away from the dance floor and Carlos began to sing. “Start spreading the news, I'm leaving today...” Like a true showman he blew kisses at the delighted crowd and walked back and forth along the front of stage. Although he sang with a pronounced Portuguese accent I had to give it to him, his voice was very good indeed. Gone was the rasping hatred he had been spitting out only minutes before. I sat there, still feeling somewhat numb, and a thousand questions I couldn't answer filled my mind. I turned to look at Richard and Angelique who were both staring at the stage.
“Pretty good isn't he Jason?” Richard said clapping along.
“Excellent,” I replied. Angelique was clapping as well although not with as much enthusiasm as Richard. The sadness had returned to her eyes and I felt a pang of sorrow for her. After a while, the song ended and to much applause Carlos bowed and left the stage. This was the cue for Angelique to leave. “Excuse me Richard, Jason I must go now, I will try to talk to you later,” she said with polite charm. Richard and I stood as she left. She made her way back the table where her and Carlos had sat previously and again, I was acutely aware of Richard's eyes following her as she went. I sat down feeling somewhat drained. I needed time to think. Time away from the music and the crowds of people. Time to process everything that had happened and try to make sense of it all. It was extremely unusual for me to feel so emotionally involved in what was after all, just another job. My usual formula of impersonal detachment seemed to be lost on this one. Maybe it's the unexpected bonus of the travelling? I thought, maybe you’re tired? Maybe you’re just getting fucking old Green.
I decided I would wait till I got back to my hotel. I would be alone to think things through once I was there. Richard and I sat there sipping our drinks and smoking for the next hour. We sat mostly in a comfortable silence, like old friends, talking occasionally.
The revellers were starting to leave and the party was winding down. “Shall we make a move Rich?” I asked. “Umm, yeah well I was hoping to have another word,” he paused, “with Carlos and Angelique. But maybe you’re right.” His eyes went again to the table where she sat with her husband. He picked up his glass and drained it. “Shall we go and say goodbye to our hosts?” He asked.
“Sure, let’s do that,” I replied. We both stood and made our way towards the table where they were sitting. Both of them turned to face us in their seats as we arrived. “Epa Richard!” said Carlos with wide eyes that flicked between Richard and myself. “We’re going to get going Carlos,” said Richard politely, “we just wanted to thank both of you for a brilliant evening.”
“I hope you and your friend Jason enjoyed,” he said with his gravelly voice. Both of them stood and I had to make a concerted effort not to look at Angelique for too long. I was afraid that the sadness I had seen in her eyes would return and betray her. I prayed it wouldn't.
“Very nice to meet you both and thank you very much for a great night.” I said. Handshakes and niceties were exchanged and I felt a deep sense of relief as Richard and I made our way across the lawn, past the pool and towards the wide staircase that led down to the wall. Richard spoke constantly as we walked down the stairs, across the bottom level of the mansion and down towards the large security gate near the beach. It was as if he too was somehow relieved to get away. The guard with the AK47 was sitting nearby and obviously heard our approach. He unlocked the gate and we stepped out onto the sand of the beach once again. We both thanked him and Richard got onto the waiting quad bike to start it. The engine roared into life, I jumped on the back and we sped off down the beach into the night. The air was warm and smelled of salt. It blew my hair back as we gained speed and eventually cleared the dark jungle to our left and passed Richard's hotel. A few minutes later we arrived at my hotel. Richard stayed on the running bike as I got off and went to say goodbye. “It was a great day Rich, thanks a lot,” I said shaking his hand.
“It was a pleasure Jase, I'll be in touch. Sleep well!” With that he was off and speeding back up the beach.
I made my way through the trees and down the pathway towards my room. I felt relieved to be alone. There had been an information overload and I needed to sift through it and sort it out in my mind. I unlocked the door to my room and stepped in to the breeze of the running fans. Feeling lazy, I brushed my teeth, poured a glass of water and flopped down onto the bed with the lights on. I lay there with my hands behind my
head and stared at the ceiling for a good five minutes before the knock on the door came. “Jason, Jason,” the soft voice said. “Are you awake?” It was Helen. I opened the door and let her in. Before I could even close the door, she lunged forward and kissed me, dropping her sarong to the floor. Aware of the presence of the guards outside I fumbled for the light switch, turned it off and led her to the bed. Afterwards she fell asleep quickly with her head resting on my right shoulder. I lay awake listening to the whir of the fans for ten minutes before I too drifted off into a restless slumber. The dream came quickly and it was not a good one. I was back on the grassy slope behind the toilet block at the big house. I was making my way down towards the sound of the beating, crouching in the darkness. The sound of the slapping and the wailing were more pronounced and louder in the dream. The stuffy heat and humidity were choking me as I moved closer. Then I saw the figure of Carlos da Costa approaching. He was raging, and he delivered the kick to the face of the seated man with the same brutal hatred I had witnessed. Again I heard the sickening thud of the man’s head as it hit the bricks and I heard Carlos rasping voice, “I give you fucking job here and you fucking steal from me?! Carralio! Put torch Tintin, I want to see this fucking thief!” Just like I had seen it the man sat with his head flopped to one side. Blood trickled from his right ear down his neck and onto his ripped collar. A mixture of blood and dusty sand covered his face and hair and his mouth hung open, dribbling, as the space between his teeth and his bottom lip slowly filled with dark liquid. His eyes were half closed from concussion, and he was barely conscious. But it was not the face of the waiter I had seen. In my dream, it was the face of Richard Lewer-Allen.
The Jason Green series Box Set Page 23
