Burning Angels (32 page)

The tarmac gave way to a rutted track, the vehicle kicking up a trail of dust. The surroundings had changed utterly now. The concrete and glass office blocks of downtown were no more. Instead, they were driving through a mass of rickety wooden hovels and stalls.

Figures squatted at the dusty roadside selling their wares: a heap of tomatoes, blood red in the fierce sunlight; piles of puce onions; mountains of dried fish, scales shimmering golden brown; an avalanche of worn, dusty shoes – battered and down-at-heel, but all still for sale.

A view opened before Jaeger: a vast shallow valley filled with the choking haze of cooking fires and smouldering heaps of refuse. Wood and plastic shacks rose one on top of the other, scattered in hopeless confusion, narrow alleyways slithering amidst the chaos. Here and there he spotted a bright patchwork of colour – washing hung to dry amidst the rank, toxic smoke. He was instantly fascinated, and somehow also unsettled.

How did people
live
here?

How did they survive amongst such lawless deprivation?

Their vehicle overtook a man running along pulling a handcart, gripping wooden shafts worn smooth by the passage of the years. He was barefoot, and dressed in ragged shorts and T-shirt. Jaeger glanced at his face, which was glistening with sweat. As their eyes met, he sensed the gulf between them.

The carter was one of the teeming hordes of the slum-dwellers, who fed the insatiable hunger of this city. This wasn’t Jaeger’s world, and he knew it. It was utterly alien territory, and yet somehow it drew him to it like a moth towards a candle flame.

Jaeger’s all-time favourite terrain was the jungle. He thrilled to its ancient, wild, primordial otherness. And this place was the ultimate urban jungle. If you could survive here, with its gangs, drugs, shacks and
changa’a
– illegal drinking – dens, you could survive anywhere.

As he gazed out over the sprawling wasteland, sensing the raw ebb and pulse of the place, Jaeger heard the ghetto’s signal challenge. In any new and hostile environment, you had to learn from those who knew how to fight and survive there, and he would need to do the same. This was a place of unspoken rules; unwritten hierarchies. The ghetto had its own laws, to protect its own, which was why outsiders steered clear.

Back at their hotel, Dale had briefed them extensively. The more affluent Kenyans were never to be seen in the ghetto. It was a place of shame, to be kept strictly hidden; a place of hopelessness, brutality and despair. Hence how Simon Chucks Bello and his fellow orphans could disappear without trace – sold for a few thousand dollars.

The vehicle drew to a halt at a roadside bar.

‘This is it,’ Dale announced. ‘We’re here.’

The ghetto-dwellers stared. They stared at the vehicle, for there were few smart new Land Rover Discoveries in this part of town; in fact, few vehicles at all. They stared at Dale – this moneyed
mzungu
who dared to stray into their territory – and the others who dismounted from the Discovery.

Jaeger felt so alien here; so set apart; more different perhaps than he had ever felt before. And strangely – worryingly – vulnerable. This was one jungle in which he had never been trained to operate, and one terrain in which no camouflage was ever going to be possible.

As he, Narov and Dale moved towards the roadside bar – stepping over a putrid open drain-cum-sewer made of cracked and flaking concrete – he felt as if he had a target pinned to his back.

He passed a woman squatting on a wooden stool at a rickety roadside stall. She had a charcoal-fired stove at her feet, and was deep-frying small fish in a crescent of seething oil. She gazed out at the riot of life, waiting for a customer.

A distinctive figure waited on the sidewalk: squat, broad-chested and with massive shoulders. Jaeger could tell that he was immensely powerful and battle-hardened; a born street fighter. His face was flat and scarred, yet his expression was strangely open; an island of calm amidst the chaos.

He wore a T-shirt with the slogan:
I FOUGHT THE LAW
.

Jaeger recognised the line from his teenage years. Back then, he’d been a big fan of the Clash. Momentarily, the lyrics flashed through his head:
Breaking rocks in the hot sun, I fought the law and the law won . . .

He had few doubts who this was.

It was Julius Mburu, their passport into the slum.

66

Jaeger’s fingers curled around the cool bottle, tight with tension and unease. He ran his eye around the bar, with its battered plastic furniture and greasy, smoke-stained walls. A rough concrete balcony opened on to the noisy, fume-filled street below.

Figures clustered around the tables, gazing at the TV with something approaching rapture. The voice of the commentator boomed out from the tiny screen set above the bar, where racks of bottles sat behind thick metal mesh. It was showing some game from the UK Premier League. Football was massive in Africa – even more so in the slums, where it was close to a religion.

But Jaeger’s mind was all on Simon Chucks Bello.

‘So, I have found him,’ Mburu announced, his voice deep and gravelly. ‘It wasn’t easy. This kid had gone deep. Real deep.’ He eyed Dale. ‘And he’s scared. After what he’s been through, he’s not inclined to warm to
mzungus
.’

Dale nodded. ‘That’s understandable. But tell me, do you believe him?’

‘I believe him.’ Mburu’s gaze flicked from Dale to Jaeger and Narov and back again. ‘Despite what you may think, kids here know the difference between right and wrong. They don’t lie – not about shit like that, anyway.’ His eyes flashed defiantly. ‘There’s a brotherhood here in the ghetto. It’s like nothing you will ever find outside.’

Mburu had clearly had a tough life. Jaeger had sensed it in the hard, calloused hand that had gripped his in welcome. It showed in the lines of his face and the smoky yellowing around his dark eyes.

Jaeger gestured around the bar. ‘So? Can we meet him?’

Mburu gave a faint nod. ‘He’s here. But there is one condition. What the kid says goes. If he doesn’t want to play ball – if he won’t come with you guys – he stays.’

‘Got it. Agreed.’

Mburu turned and called into the shadows. ‘Alex! Frank! Bring him.’

Three figures emerged: two older kids – big, muscled teenage boys – steering a smaller one between them.

‘I run a charity – the Mburu Foundation – doing education and development in the slums,’ Mburu explained. ‘Alex and Frank are two of my guys. And this,’ he gestured at the smaller figure, ‘is one of the Mburu Foundation’s smartest kids. Simon Chucks Bello, as you may have figured.’

Simon Chucks Bello was one striking-looking dude. His dusty, wiry hair stood out at crazed angles, as if he’d just been electrocuted. He was wearing a red T-shirt displaying a print of the Eiffel Tower, with the word
PARIS
emblazoned beneath it. It was several sizes too big and hung off his sparse, bony frame.

A big gap between his two front teeth gave him an even cheekier, more streetwise look than he would have had otherwise. Below his ragged shorts his knees were scuffed and scarred, and his bare feet sported cracked and broken toenails. But somehow it all seemed to add to his indefinable charm.

Yet right now, Simon Bello wasn’t exactly smiling.

Jaeger tried to break the ice. He glanced at the TV. ‘You a Man U fan? They’re taking a beating today.’

The kid eyed him. ‘You want to talk football ’cause you think football’s the key. I like Man U. You like Man U. So suddenly we’re friends. It makes us seem the same.’ He paused. ‘Mister, why not just tell me what you came for.’

Jaeger held up his hands in mock surrender. The kid sure had attitude. He liked that. ‘We were told a story. First off, we just want to know if that story’s true.’

Simon Bello rolled his eyes. ‘I told this story a thousand times over. Again?’

With Mburu’s help, they persuaded the kid to give them a potted version of his tale. It turned out to be exactly as Falk Konig had related it – with one notable exception. The kid talked a lot about ‘the boss’, as he called him – the
mzungu
who had called the shots on the island, overseeing all the horrors that had unfolded there.

From the description, Jaeger figured it had to be Hank Kammler.

‘So Kammler was there,’ Narov muttered.

Jaeger nodded. ‘Seems like. I guess we shouldn’t be surprised that Falk glossed over that detail. It’s not exactly what you’d want in a father.’

Jaeger outlined to the kid the deal he was proposing. They wanted to take him away from the slum, just for long enough to ensure that he was safe. They feared that those who had kidnapped him might come again, especially if they learned that he had survived.

The kid’s response was to ask for a soda. Jaeger ordered them all some drinks. He could tell by the way the boy fingered his cold bottle of Fanta what a rare treat it was.

‘I want your help,’ Simon announced, once he’d drained his bottle.

‘That’s why we’re here,’ Jaeger told him. ‘Once we’re out of this place—’

‘No, I want your help now,’ the boy cut in. He eyed Jaeger. ‘You do for me, I do for you. I need your help now.’

‘What d’you have in mind?’

‘I got a brother. He’s sick. I need you to help him. You’re a
mzungu
. You can afford it. Like I said: you do for me, I do for you.’

Jaeger glanced at Mburu questioningly. By way of answer, Mburu got to his feet. ‘Come. Follow me. I’ll show you.’

He led them across the street to a roadside stall. A young boy, maybe nine years old, was seated alone, half-heartedly spooning up lentil stew. He was stick-thin, the hand that held the spoon shaking horribly. A black Mburu Foundation T-shirt hung from his skeletal frame.

From the way Simon Bello talked to the boy and comforted him, Jaeger figured this had to be his brother.

‘He’s got malaria,’ Jaeger remarked. ‘Has to be. I’d know that shaking anywhere.’

Mburu related the boy’s story. His name was Peter. He’d been sick for several weeks. They’d tried to get him to a doctor, but he couldn’t afford the fees. His mother was dead and his father was addicted to
changaa
– the illegal, lethal knockout brew they fermented in the slums.

In short, Peter had no one to look out for him, and Jaeger could tell that he was in desperate need of help. It didn’t escape his notice that the boy was about the same age as Luke had been when he had disappeared.

He glanced at Simon Bello. ‘Okay. Let’s do it. Let’s get him to a doctor. Where’s the nearest clinic?’

For the first time, the kid cracked a smile. ‘I’ll show you.’

As they went to leave, Julius Mburu bade them farewell. ‘You’re safe with Alex and Frank. But come say goodbye before you go.’

Jaeger thanked him, then he, Narov and Dale followed Simon Bello, Peter and the Mburu boys into the maze of narrow, twisting alleyways. As they pushed deeper into the slum the stench of raw sewage assailed them, plus the noise – so many human souls crammed in so close together. It was hugely claustrophobic, and Jaeger felt his senses reeling.

Here and there their progress was barred by a heavy gate made of beaten corrugated iron, nailed to whatever waste wood the ghetto-dwellers could scavenge. They were covered in graffiti.

Simon Bello held one open so that they could pass. Jaeger asked what they were for.

‘The gateways?’ Simon’s face darkened. ‘To stop the cops when they do round-ups. Like when they grabbed me.’

67

By Western standards, the Miracle Medical Centre was a dirty, run-down dump of a place. But to the people here, it was clearly about as good as it got. As they queued to see the doctor, Jaeger, Narov and Dale got some very strange looks. A crowd of kids had gathered, peering in and pointing.

Alex went to fetch some roast corncobs. He broke them into fist-sized lengths, offering the first to Jaeger. Once they’d stripped off the juicy maize grains, the kids took turns using the cores to juggle, laughing the whole time. Simon Chucks Bello turned out to be the biggest joker of all. He finished his juggling act with a mad shuffling dance that had everyone in stitches. In fact they were making so much racket that the doctor had to lean out of his window and tell them to keep it down.

No one seemed overly concerned about Peter. It was then that it struck Jaeger that getting sick like this – practically on the brink of death – was normal for these guys. It happened all the time. So you had no money for medical fees? Who did around here? And what were the chances of some white guy pitching up to whisk you off to hospital? Pretty near zero.

Having run some basic tests, the doctor explained that most likely Peter had malaria
and
typhoid. They would have to keep him in for a week, just to ensure that he pulled through. Jaeger knew what the doctor was also driving at. It would be costly.

‘How much?’ he asked.

‘Nine hundred and fifty Kenyan shillings,’ the doctor replied.

Jaeger did a quick bit of mental arithmetic. That was less than fifteen American dollars. He handed the doctor a thousand-shilling note, and thanked him for all he had done.

As they left, a young nurse came running after them. Jaeger wondered what was wrong. Maybe they’d decided to add on some extras, as he’d seemed so easy with the fees.

She held out her hand. In it was a fifty-shilling note. She’d come to give him his change.

Jaeger stared at the note in amazement. Mburu had been right. That kind of honesty, in the midst of all of this – it was humbling. He handed the money to Simon Bello.

‘Here. Treat yourself and the guys to another soda.’ He ruffled the kid’s hair. ‘So, are we good? Are you okay to hang with us for a while? Or do we need to go seek permission from your father?’

Simon frowned. ‘My father?’

‘Your and Peter’s dad.’

He gave Jaeger a look. ‘Duh. Peter – he’s not my
brother
brother. He’s my ghetto brother. Me – I don’t have anyone. I’m an orphan. I thought you knew that. Julius Mburu is the nearest I got to family.’