‘My two youngest were with me at home. Giselle was three years old, Isaac was seven. I took their hands and we ran to the hospital. I hoped Philippe would be there, and that he’d hide us. But when he saw me come running up with my children, he laughed. I begged him to hide us but instead he cried out to the gang. He shouted in a loud voice—Cockroaches are here! Cockroaches are here! And so they came, with such hatred in their eyes. Straight away they dragged Giselle from my hands. I tried to hold on but they brought down a machete, here.’ She touches her arm just below the elbow, where the long scar is hidden by her sleeve. ‘How could they hate a little girl so much? I think it was a collective insanity. They believed we were vermin, because they had been taught that we were. They all descended on Giselle with their machetes and their—’
‘My God,’ mutters Neil. ‘Mutesi, no. Stop. Stop.’
She shuts her eyes again, covers them with her hands, but she can never blot out her child’s screams nor the workmanlike determination on the faces of those killers. For a quarter of a century she’s been forced to watch the same piece of footage. She smells the burning, hears the screaming, is overwhelmed by the same grief and terror. She’s found no way to stop the film from running.
‘You don’t have to tell us,’ says Neil. ‘We know what happened. It was on the news.’
‘The news!’ Mutesi opens her eyes. ‘Yes, it was in your living room. But we couldn’t turn off the television and walk away. After they had finished with Giselle they threw her body into a pit. I held Isaac close and told him to close his eyes. We crouched down together and waited for our turn, for the blows of the machetes and the clubs. I didn’t even have time to pray. I hoped it would be quick for us, and that they wouldn’t rape me as they had thousands of other women. But then the gang was distracted by some other people who came out of the hospital, and in those few seconds we ran. We crawled into a garden full of cassava plants. We hid there. It was getting dark, rain began—it was the rainy season. The sun was low. Blood was pouring from my arm so I tied a cloth around it. They came hunting us. We were almost under their feet, but we lay very still among the leaves. I could hear their conversation while they were searching. I heard them calling out to us.’
She’s watching their feet pass by, sinking into the mud. She hears their laughter. They are having fun. Isaac’s face is pressed against her chest. He’s crying. She feels her own bladder give way, soaking her dress. She’s praying with all her soul that her last child will die quickly.
‘Maybe a guardian angel hid us with his wings,’ she says. ‘Maybe. But if that’s true, why us? There was no angel for the multitude who died. No angel for Giselle, for my husband, my sons, my parents. Why should Isaac and I be spared? Why did we deserve any sheltering wings?’
She looks from one shocked face to another. Sam has taken the barrel away from his chin. He sits upright, pressing his fist against his lips. Abigail is wide-eyed, shaking her head. Neil has been shedding tears as he listens to her story. Even Buddy lies flat, his nose on his paws, his tail still.
‘When it was dark, the men went away. They laughed and shouted to me that we couldn’t hide forever, they’d come back for us tomorrow and finish the job. We waited an hour in the rain and then we crawled very slowly to the house of a friend, a woman I hoped I could trust. She was a widow. I only asked for food and water but she hid us in a small shed at the back of her house. It was a long-drop toilet, full of flies. We could only lie down if we curled up on the floor one at a time. My friend was risking her own life. I heard she died last year. I hope she will rest in peace and rise in glory.’
Mutesi takes a moment, her head bowed in homage to the woman who saved their lives.
‘We hid for five weeks,’ she says at last. ‘Among a thousand buzzing flies, with just the filthy clothes we were wearing when we ran from our home. We had one book, which my friend brought to us. She found it on the ground outside the ruins of our house. Everything had been burned or stolen but she found this one thing. It was my book on anatomy, from my days at the nursing school. It was a very good book to have. By the end of five weeks we had no strength left and no muscles; we hadn’t walked in all that time. But Isaac knew all about anatomy! There were gaps in the wooden walls and sometimes we peeped out. That brave woman smuggled in food when she could, but she had to be very careful. There were spies everywhere. I felt our situation was hopeless—as you feel now, Sam. Every time the sun came up I was sure we would die that day. The worst thing was wondering what method they would choose. They were—’ she grimaces ‘—imaginative. We were saved when some soldiers from the Tutsi army arrived in the area and took us to a camp for displaced persons. I was thin by then! I had almost disappeared—can you imagine me thin?’
She tries to laugh at herself, but her listeners don’t smile.
After a long moment, Abigail clears her throat. ‘Where did you go?’
‘I had an uncle in Uganda. A teacher. We were able to get to him and then we were not homeless anymore. His wife had relatives in London so at last we came here. They didn’t recognise my nursing qualification but I was able to work as a carer. Isaac is a scientist now. That book was the start! You met his son.’
‘Emmanuel?’
‘Emmanuel! Yes! So, Sam. This morning when you pointed your gun at my head, I thought maybe you were just finishing the work that fate began. You were delivering what was intended for me all along.’
Sam draws a hand across his face. ‘Sorry.’
‘You don’t need to be sorry,’ says Mutesi. ‘It’s all over now.’
‘How did you manage to keep going?’ whispers Neil.
‘For Isaac. He lived, so I had to live too. Otherwise I would have wanted to follow my family. You know, to be one of eight kids, to have had five of your own, and to find yourself almost alone in an unfamiliar, cold country, using a language I didn’t know very well …’ She shakes her head. ‘Isaac and I were lucky to be alive, but at first it was hard to be a survivor.’
The kind cousins met her at Heathrow, embracing her with tears. She didn’t know them; she didn’t know anyone in this strange continent. She and Isaac arrived at the start of an especially bleak January, and for the next three months they shivered. Mutesi had never felt so cold in her life. She wouldn’t have believed it possible for a city to have such short days, to be smothered in grey skies for weeks at a time. Was there no sun here? She points to the table, where Emmanuel’s pencils are still scattered around his artwork.
‘But spring came in the end. And look—see that? The picture Emmanuel drew of his daddy. That’s what we survived for.’
‘And the nightwatchman?’ asks Sam. ‘The others? Don’t tell me those bastards got away with it.’
‘Many of them were imprisoned. Not all, but many. Philippe went to prison for a long time, but his wife and children stayed in their same house not far from the hospital. He returned to them. He lives there now. It’s a nice place, high on a hillside. I’m told that he has grandchildren, great-grandchildren. I haven’t forgiven him. I’m not a saint, I don’t want to kiss him and say it’s all forgotten. No! I remember it every day. I hated those people for a long time. I used to imagine cutting off their limbs if I ever had the chance. But then I realised that I was wasting my emotion on them, so I made the decision to stop hating. Perhaps God will reward them for what they did, or perhaps he will forgive. It’s not for me to decide. Many of them are ashamed—they don’t understand how they became such monsters. Many have tried to make reparation.’
‘Reparation!’ Sam looks incredulous. ‘What, with money? Seriously? Do they think they can buy their way out of that kind of guilt?’
‘They just want to show their remorse. There are peace clubs where people go and meet. Victims and perpetrators talk to one another.’
‘Jesus—they pulled your daughter out of your arms, they …’ Sam can’t say it. He can’t put the evil into words. People never can.
‘Yes.’
‘And y
our boys too.’
‘My boys too. But don’t forget, my friend risked her life for us. Perhaps she was the real angel. There are many such angels.’
Sam raises a hand to his forehead, fingering the wound. He seems dazed. His eyes aren’t focused.
‘When?’ he asks. ‘When did all this happen?’
‘In 1994.’
‘I was born in 1994. The tenth of May.’
‘Were you?’ She smiles at him. ‘Good! Then your life began when my children’s ended.’
‘I don’t know what to say.’
No. People never did, and that’s why very few have ever heard this story. She has learned from experience that it’s not something people want to hear. They avoid her once she’s told it, as though the horror of her past taints her. Years ago, Mutesi made a statement to the new authorities in Rwanda, and of course she told her uncle in Kampala what had happened to his family. But ever since then she’s kept this thing locked away. It’s constantly pacing, snarling, overshadowing her days, but she refuses to open the door of its cage. Even Isaac knows only the bare facts. Mercifully, his memories are patchy. The account she’s just given is heavily edited, the atrocities skimmed over. She saw more, heard more, felt more, smelled much more than she’s described. The video that replays in her head at night is a thousand times more harrowing.
But today is different. She’s told her story in the hope of reaching out to Sam. He’s lost. Perhaps she can help him find his way. She wants him to live. She wants him to have a tomorrow. Perhaps this is why the Lord brought her to Tuckbox today.
She leans closer to him. ‘Listen, Sam, please. The point is that your life doesn’t have to end here. That’s what I am trying to tell you. People survive. Human beings go on. They have a capacity for love and a capacity for evil, but they go on. Like you, I lost my home and my family, but I had other moments. There will be other moments for you too. Better moments. The law will take its course—’ she claps her hands, staring into Sam’s face to emphasise the point, forcing him to meet her eye ‘—and you’ll meet it, Sam, and you will survive it. Yes?’
‘I’ll get life for murder. Then there’s kidnapping you lot.’
‘False imprisonment actually,’ says Abigail. ‘But I think there’s a good chance you could avoid a murder conviction. If they’ll accept a guilty plea to manslaughter on the grounds of loss of control, you won’t get a mandatory life sentence. You could be looking at, say, twelve years, could be out after about six. Julia will still be a child! You can still be a dad.’
‘We’ll come and visit you,’ says Neil stoutly. ‘I’ll probably end up in there with you, the way I’m going. And the day you come out, Buddy and I will be waiting at the gates.’
Sam smiles down at the old dog. ‘He’d be about three hundred in dog years by then.’
‘Come with us,’ urges Abigail. ‘We’ll all stay right beside you so no trigger-happy copper shoots you. Come with us. Do me a favour—make me feel I’ve done at least something useful with my life.’
Mutesi says nothing more. It’s all been said, and she is so very tired now. It’s time for action.
Lord, she prays silently, give strength to my arm and courage to my heart.
Then she stands up from her chair, reaches both hands towards Sam, takes hold of his gun by that wicked barrel. He loosens his grip as she pulls it from his grasp.
She’s never held a gun before. Sam made it look easy to fling the thing around, but it’s heavy and cumbersome in her hands. It feels evil, like holding a snake. She’d unload it if she could, but has no idea how. She grips it with extreme care, making sure the barrel is facing the ceiling, and carries it to the counter. Then she lays it down full length, wincing as the metalwork hits the benchtop with a clunk.
‘There,’ she says, turning around. ‘Sam! You look like a very nice boy without that thing.’
He does look like a nice boy. A lonely, vulnerable boy. She wants to take him in her arms.
‘Can we stay for another few minutes?’ he asks. ‘Even just five?’
Abigail shrugs. ‘What’s five minutes? We’ve been here all day.’
‘Tea?’ suggests Neil.
THIRTY-SEVEN
Mutesi
In the end, it’s half an hour.
While Mutesi and Neil produce one final, ritual cup of tea, Abigail uses the phone to update Eliza.
‘We’ll be out soon,’ she says. ‘We’ve had a hitch, but it’s fine … yes, really, it’s fine … don’t worry. We’ll be out in a few minutes.’
Once she’s ended the call, Abigail swings into problem-solving mode. She sits down opposite Sam and delivers a crash course in the differences between murder and manslaughter. Mutesi listens with interest. This girl may not always be the most patient, but she’s useful to have around when you’re in trouble with the law.
‘Are you listening, Sam? Now’s the time for some damage limitation. The moment you step outside you’ll be arrested. You’ll be taken to a police station somewhere and I won’t be able to come along with you. First thing to remember: get a solicitor. Okay?’
‘Okay.’
‘Don’t say a single word until you’ve got one. They’ll have a list of solicitors on duty. And they have to make sure you’ve had enough sleep before you’re interviewed.’
Sam is rubbing his eyes with his knuckles.
‘Okay,’ he repeats wearily. ‘Get a solicitor.’
‘You’re guilty of manslaughter, at least. I can’t really see a defence to that. But you’ve got a run with a defence to murder. If you lost control—’ she draws a tick in the air with her forefinger—‘tick, on your own account you were off the planet—and if that was attributable to things said or done which were really terrible—tick, Robert royally fucked you over—and caused you to have … um, what’s the test? A “justifiable sense of being seriously wronged”, or words to that effect. Tick, tick. You’ve told us yourself: years of manipulation, losing your farm, your child, Nicola, your mother, not even knowing about her death or her funeral, then he makes out he’s dumped her ashes. I bet most juries would be sympathetic. They’d find your sense of being wronged justifiable. Got that?’
‘I think so.’
‘Now.’ She’s tapping the table. ‘The fact that you drove all the way to London with a shotgun and ammo in your car is a really big problem. Makes it look planned. You can’t argue loss of control if it wasn’t spontaneous. But you were just intending to threaten him, right?’
‘I never thought I’d shoot him.’
‘Right. So make that very clear in your interview.’
Sam doesn’t seem to be taking in much of this lesson. His arms have crept around the cardboard urn on the table, his gaze straying towards Robert’s body.
‘I killed him though, didn’t I? I did it. I’m guilty.’
She smacks her palm to her nose. ‘No! Manslaughter, yes, but maybe not murder. I mean, yes, you carried out the act, but that’s not all that matters. Look, here’s how it works …’
And off she goes again, patiently explaining details of the law to a man who doesn’t care at all. It’s very obvious that he doesn’t care. Mutesi suspects he’s not even listening, though he’s nodding at random intervals.
‘Does that make sense now?’ Abi asks, once she’s been through it all for the second time.
‘Okay.’ Sam gives her a thumbs-up, but his face is bloodless. ‘Got it. Thanks.’
A pause follows. Nobody seems keen to move.
‘I thought I’d be cock-a-hoop to be walking out of here,’ says Neil, fingering his tattered bobble cap. ‘But I’m not really. Dreading it a bit. Not sure I want to face the outside world. Dunno why.’
‘Because the rest of your life awaits you,’ says Mutesi.
‘You think?’
‘Oh yes. You’ve been given a second chance, and that is a daunting thing.’
Abigail is staring at Neil’s sore hands. His finger goes right through a hole in the cap.
&
nbsp; ‘Where are you planning on sleeping tonight?’ she asks.
‘Mutesi’s church.’ He winks at Mutesi, who smiles back at him. ‘They’re very hospitable, they don’t put spikes on their bench.’
‘Well, that’s not happening.’ Abigail’s tone is brisk. ‘You’re coming back to my place. We’ve got two spare bedrooms.’
‘Thanks, Abi, but I’d rather say no than have you regret it. It’s too much. I know in here, today, we’ve been in the same boat, but as soon as we’re back on that street I’ll be the rough sleeper and you’ll be the commuter who buys my Big Issue. And ne’er the twain shall meet. I’m not meaning to sound bitter, it’s just a fact. I smell. I’m a thief with a gambling habit. I’ve got an old dog who dribbles and eats from bins.’
‘I’m sure you’ll both scrub up.’
‘It’s not just the physical mess, it’s where I’ve been in my mind. Trying to get me to reintegrate into the mainstream of life is like trying to put a new patch on an old coat. It doesn’t work; the stitching pulls away and the patch falls off.’
‘You’re not an old coat. You’re a Neil.’
He’s still fidgeting with his hat. ‘I’ve been in and out of squats, bed and breakfasts, emergency shelters. A couple of years ago a nice family took me in. Born-again evangelicals. They got me a haircut and a trip to the dentist.’ He puts a finger to his jaw, wincing at the memory. ‘Actually the dentist was a lifesaver because I was in bloody agony with a broken tooth. Anyway, this family made me their project. They fed me up, helped me get a job-seeker’s allowance, put me on the list for a bedsit. They took me to their church and everyone laid hands on me and spoke in tongues and prayed the gambling demon out of me—abracadabra—just like that! I didn’t enjoy the experience at all, but I could hardly refuse, could I, when they were being so good to me?’ He turns the bobble cap inside out. ‘Yup. Nope. Took me ten days to answer the siren call of the bookie. I blew the money they’d lent me to buy second-hand clothes for interviews. I knew I’d do it again, and again. I knew I’d do to them what I did to Heather and the kids. So I upped and left. And, Abi, you know how I felt when I was walking away in the middle of the night?’
The Secrets of Strangers Page 30
