Cause Celeb (62 page)

We ordered a dozen prints each of the good ones, and set off to find André at the UNHCR. As we were driving there, I started thinking about the implications, here, of the explosion. I didn't know how much trouble we were going to be in.

“What did I say to you?” André said, when we walked into his office. “Don't go there yourself. Are you OK?”

I handed him the photos.

“My Gaaad.”

“Ten days till the ship, then?” I said.

“I wish,” he said grimly.

“What, you mean it isn't coming?” said O'Rourke.

“It's coming, but not in ten days.”

“When, then?”

“Mother of God, I wish I knew. They say another two to three weeks.”

O'Rourke handed André a cigarette, and lit his own. The delay with the ship wasn't the worst of it. There had been arrivals in other camps farther north along the border.

“I'm sorry, guys. I just don't know what to say.”

This was no longer the reassuring André I knew, the man with the invincible light touch. This was a man with a quarter of a million people running out of food on his hands.

“I know it's not your fault,” I said. “But I just can't understand how these government organizations can go through so much, be publicly humiliated, like they were in Ethiopia, and still fuck up.”

André just put his hands in the air and rolled his eyes.

The conversation moved on to the Security forces. Apparently Abdul Gerbil, the Security chief in Sidra, was apoplectic about what we had done. He was an insanely bossy man, who always wore Blues Brothers–style sunglasses with his djellaba, and sported a Coco the Clown hairdo.

“It's not the fact of the trip itself, it's the fact that he didn't find out about it first,” said André.

“The problem will be if it gets in the press,” said O'Rourke. “That will really piss him off. Has anyone picked it up?”

“No. I think it's fine,” said André. “I've told everyone to keep their mouths shut.”

“And what about Malcolm?” I said.

“Haven't heard anything.”

“Only a matter of time, I suppose,” I said.

We decided we had to go to the Security office. But the heavens were smiling upon us, and Abdul Gerbil had gone north for the day. We made very certain that everyone of note knew we had come, and we left a formal letter for Gerbil saying that we had come to discuss the most unfortunate events with him. Then, trying not to break into a run, we jumped into the Land Rover and got the hell out.

We dropped André back at the office and he promised to send a report, and the photographs straight to El Daman. “I'll see if I can
get a message to Malcolm before he causes too much trouble, calm him down a bit.”

“Thanks,” I said. “Do you think he knows about the Toyota?”

“Probably not. I didn't know.”

“Good. Don't tell him, then.”

“Oh, sure, I'm going to tell him. OK. Look, if you're stuck you can take one of ours, we've got a couple of spares, OK? Do you want to do that?”

Unbelievable that they had spare vehicles hanging around. “Yes, please.”

That was much better than driving around in a KPLF Land Rover, even if it was unmarked. I knew where the KPLF had their base in Sidra, though it was unofficial. So we took the Land Rover back to them and set off to Safila in the UN pickup.

*

“Knock, knock, anyone at home?” Betty was tapping playfully on the top of my head. I looked up, startled, at Henry, Linda, Sian, Debbie and O'Rourke sitting round the cabana table with the remains of dinner in front of them.

“Sorry, sorry. I'm just a bit shell-shocked.”

“Literally, poor old sock,” said Henry.

“You should get an early night,” said Debbie.

It was good to be back in the warmth of the cabana chat. Fungusman was still there, but he had decided he wanted the leg cut off now. Henry had got drunk and dyed one of the dogs purple using iodine. It was all very amusing, but underneath we were all taut and nervous. In the camp a third of the children were below eighty-five percent, weight for height. There had been three hundred more arrivals since we left, and the daily deaths were rising.

“I think if you don't mind I'll get an early night,” I said. “I need some sleep.”

O'Rourke, seated nearest the door caught my hand on the way out. “You OK?” he whispered.

“Yes, fine, just . . . tired. I'll see you tomorrow.”

I wondered if the others noticed anything odd.

*

The next day was not good. I overslept: it was eight o'clock when I eventually got myself up and showered. I emerged, wet-haired and wrapped in a towel, to find the giant horse head of Gunter Brand staring across the compound at me. Gunter was being harassed by Fungusman, who was making sawing motions across his leg, jerking his chin up and shouting. Gunter had evidently struck him as the perfect man for the job. Meanwhile Psycho, the dog Henry had dyed bright purple, was barking and running round the two of them in a circle. What was Gunter doing here? And where was everybody else?

I shot into the hut. If Gunter was here this was our big chance to get something done. I dressed in two seconds flat, and came out again, sporting a confident smile.

“Gunter, how nice to see you. Psycho, sit!” I said authoritatively, as if it would be a completely normal, everyday occurrence for Psycho suddenly to sit down. “Phew, I was just having a little freshen-up, it's been a long morning! Would you like a drink? Come on in.” I motioned him towards the cabana, placing myself between him and Fungusman, who stuck out his leg at me and mimed a chopping action. “Shut up and go away,” I hissed, gesticulating at him. “Go away. Go away.”

Psycho was following Gunter into the cabana, rushing at his ankles and barking. Gunter, clutching his briefcase, did a little dance to avoid the dog.

“Why is this dog purple?”

“Haha,” I laughed merrily. “Now. What can I get you? Cold drink? Cup of tea?”

Kamal the cook wasn't there and the kettle had disappeared.

“A cup of tea would be nice, thank you.”

“Ah. Actually, I'm not sure where the kettle is. Would you like a Coke while I have a look for it?”

As I opened the fridge two packets of Brie fell out into my hands. The interior looked as though it had been filled by a wealthy, dipsomaniac mother of twelve who had just been to the
hyper-
marché.
Bottles of O'Rourke's Pouilly-Fuissé, raspberry vodka, boxes of Lindt chocolates, tins of pâté and quarters of Stilton were crammed onto the shelves. I stuffed the Brie back in quickly, and shut the door, turning round to find Gunter staring. The sound of a vehicle coming up the road reminded me of the UN pickup which André had loaned us. Gunter must not be allowed to know about it or the blown-up Toyota. He might just overlook the fact that we'd been to Kefti, but not if he knew about the mine. It could turn into a diplomatic incident.

“Shit.” Gunter was looking down now, furious, shaking his leg. Psycho had decided to shag Gunter's foot.

“Psycho! Stop it.” I grabbed his collar and tried to restrain him. “Would you mind just popping into the other room?” I said. “He seems to have taken a fancy to you, I'll get rid of him.”

I dragged Psycho out, flung him towards the edge of the hill and ran out into the road to flag down the UN pickup. But it wasn't the UN pickup, it was one of our Toyotas, driven by Debbie.

“Gunter's here from the UNHCR,” I hissed. “Can you go down and tell them to hide the UN pickup?”

“OK,” she said cheerfully. “I've just got to stop off at the store on the way but I'll tell them.”

Back in the cabana, Gunter was striding irritably around the sitting area. I opened the fridge a crack to get out a couple of Cokes and took them to him, out of breath.

“I'm sorry no one was here to greet you when you arrived.”

“It was a somewhat unusual reception.”

“So André isn't with you?”

Shit. The end of a joint and a packet of rolling papers with a square torn out lay in an ashtray on the table.

“No, he has gone up to the port.”

I put my hand over the roach and the rolling papers and picked up the ashtray. Had he seen? He showed no sign.

“Oh, really? What's he doing there? Why don't you sit down? I'll just have another scout around for that kettle!”

The drug paraphernalia disappeared into the bin. The kettle had not returned. Unaccountably I picked up a grapefruit and took it
back to Gunter, who was now sitting down. He looked at me oddly. We had a somewhat strained conversation. He appeared to be on a whistle-stop morale-boosting tour. I started to tell him about the problem. Then there was the sound of a vehicle again. I prayed it would be O'Rourke or, at least, not Betty.

“So, you see,” I was saying to Gunter, “we're really only OK for three more weeks as we are.” There were slamming doors. A female voice. A male voice. O'Rourke's voice. Good. Except that the female voice sounded angry. They were heading for the cabana, getting louder. I realized that if Debbie had missed them while she was at the store, nobody would know that I was still up here.

“You're sleeping with Rosie, I just know you are.”

It was Linda. They were outside the cabana. I looked at Gunter with horror. He was staring straight ahead.

O'Rourke's voice came again: quiet, reasonable; but what he was saying was indistinct. “Just because . . . Kefti with Rosie . . . sleeping with Rosie.”

“I don't know how you can say this. I don't know how you dare!” shouted Linda.

“But . . . what . . . to do with you?” I still couldn't quite make out what he was saying.

“Everything.” They were heading into the cabana, now. I was frozen to the spot.

“But you're not my girlfriend. I don't have a relationship with you. I never said I was coming here to be with you. This isn't right.” My mind was racing. They were entering the kitchen area.

“You've slept with her, haven't you? Admit it. You have.”

“Linda. Don't do this.”

“All my instincts tell me that you have been fucking our administrator on your reconnaissance trip to Kefti, and given my past relationship with you, and given that I have to work with both of you, I have a right to know whether or not this is true.”

“You don't.” They were heading for the sitting area, where we were.

“You've slept with Rosie. I know you have. When did you do it? Where?”

“All right. Have it your way. Yes, I slept with Rosie. I slept with Rosie, two nights ago. In the desert. On a piece of tarpaulin,” he said, as they appeared in the doorway, to find Gunter and me staring at them, open-mouthed.

O'Rourke tried to get us out of the situation by pretending it hadn't happened. It wasn't a bad try.

“Hey, a visitor. Hi! Pleased to meet you. My name is Robert O'Rourke, I'm in the process of taking over as MO for Safila. This is Linda Bryant, nurse and nutritionist.”

“O'Rourke. Linda. This is Gunter Brand,” I joined in valiantly. “The UN High Commissioner for Refugees for Nambula.” O'Rourke's eyes met mine, horrified. “Gunter, this is Robert O'Rourke, our new doctor, fresh from the States, and Linda Bryant. Linda's been with us for two years now. Has anyone seen the kettle?”

I was trying to get either Linda or O'Rourke to follow me into the kitchen so that I could tell them to get rid of the UN pickup, but Linda seemed on the verge of bursting into tears and was rooted to the spot, and O'Rourke was doing some sort of maniacal old boy's act with Gunter. I had never heard him talk so much. He was holding the keys in his hand, jangling them. I brought them drinks. I wondered if Gunter was going to go berserk. I went back to the kitchen. Did this mean there was nothing going on between them, after all? Were we still going to be able to work together? I came back to the living room. Suddenly I heard another vehicle. Henry was out of it and in the cabana bellowing before I could do a thing. “Hi. I've brought the UN pickup up as ordered pronto. Is this our visitor? Bloody nice of you to lend us the truck. Bloody good of you. Thanks a lot.”

It was O'Rourke who took the initiative and told Gunter the truth about Kefti. Funnily enough, he seemed more impressed than angry. He listened to us, looked at the photographs and the figures with some concern and asked a lot of questions. He clung to the view that the locusts were in limited areas and disputed our estimate of the numbers heading for Safila. But the very fact of his presence showed that he was acknowledging a problem on some scale.

*

Down in the camp Gunter's tour was going well. We were in the feeding center. The mothers were sitting in ordered lines spooning something into their children's mouths out of orange plastic cups. We were standing at the back, behind the cooking pots, when I heard a voice behind us, clear as a bell. “Are you sleeping with Rosie?”