Guardian (29 page)

Ahmed was concerned. Not for himself or his remaining businesses. No. He had those gripped firmly and, as ever, most were running like well-oiled machines. True, continuing to finance them was an altogether different matter, but this remained something to be considered later. Much later. For now his more primitive cravings were insisting on immediate attention and, with a new female slave immediately to hand, there was every reason to allow the less pressing problems to take care of themselves. Unfortunately, however, that failed to address the inconvenience of a certain Fatih. Fatih had been gone for over a week and should by now have reported back, but there had been no word. Instead, he had begun to receive some disturbing second-hand rumours and whispers about a massacre further up the coast. All bound up with reports of a white girl's death. Which, given Fatih's orders and intended quarry, almost certainly meant his men were involved and might well have achieved the aim. Ordinarily, getting word of them through the gossip mongers would not have bothered him, as Fatih was more than capable of looking after himself. Moreover, if things went wrong, Fatih would never reveal anything of his commission or its source, no matter what pressures were put on him. Or would he? Unfortunately, Ahmed was beginning to sense that something was amiss.

Nevertheless, if it wasn't for his aunt's persistence and unremitting irritation over Abdullah, he would long since have turned his full attention to his slaves and certain other, equally demanding, matters. It wasn't as if he still retained any particular interest in the white boy. Bad things happened in business. Annoyances from which you recovered; moved on; put down to experience. Of course, if the boy showed up he would take considerable satisfaction in destroying him slowly and painfully. But there was still his aunt to appease and she would be far from happy that, yet again, the outcome of a promise had been delayed, no matter what the reason. Ahmed sighed and made a mental note to send one of his men to look into the problem of Fatih and get some answers. Tomorrow. Flicking his finger idly at a passing fly, he resumed his study of the human form. That of the girl appealingly naked and defenceless in front of him. His tongue flickered across his thin lips. His aunt would definitely have to wait. For the moment this slave was of far more interest.

***

Nearly 600 miles northwest of Mombasa, the Uasin Gishu's District Commissioner was having a bad day. It was a regrettable part of his diverse job and one that he sincerely hated, but also one he simply couldn't avoid. Whenever the police discovered the body of a ‘white' who had died in violent or suspicious circumstances, it was required of the local Commissioner to be the conveyer of the bad news. Consequently and in this case, it was he who had to break it to the ‘nearest and dearest'. His was the universally dreaded, sudden knock at the door, often in the ‘wee small hours', but always at a singularly inappropriate time. In this case, it was for the Lescal family, although at least the hour was halfway civilised. Nevertheless, this assignment had to be up there with the worst. A young, intelligent and evidently innocent white girl with a bright future in front of her, murdered by ‘person or persons' unknown. And now not only did she lack a future but, he rather suspected, so did her family. All it took was a terse telegraph from his counterpart in Malindi, setting out the bare facts, and a family's world imploded. Moreover, for now there was precious little in the way of additional evidence. Just sufficient information to destroy a family, but not enough to help them in any way. And here he was, standing awkwardly in front of them, unhappily aware of his role in bringing such dire news.

As kindly as he could he had delivered the appalling facts and now, following the shock of his pronouncement, he waited within a tension that was palpable. It was as though their world had ground to a halt. Two taut, grey, tear-streaked faces, two violated spirits and only the sound of ragged breathing to confirm their continued survival. Yet not very far below the surface a storm was brewing and soon, he knew, it was likely to erupt in a maddened outpouring of grief. In his many years as a policeman, he had seen it so often; the initial, shocked response to whatever awful intelligence had been imparted; the struggle for breath in a suddenly alien and uncertain world; even the ability to speak rendered near impossible for the moment.

Warily, he watched and waited. He hadn't known Ted and Vera Lescal long, but what he did know of them and their young son, he liked and respected and would have given anything not to be the bearer of such sad news. They seemed a quiet, hard-working couple who largely kept themselves to themselves. Just the four of them, only they were three now. Three in an altogether different sense than had been the case, when their daughter had left for the coast. New to the area, not long arrived from Malindi, they'd settled in quickly enough and were proving to be more than capable of overcoming whatever misfortune had robbed them of their previous life. But something had been tugging at the furthest recesses of his mind. And now he had it. A suddenly remembered fact about the girl, Rosalind. Something of a beauty, she had become mixed up with that young man Paul Moncton, the one who had apparently killed a couple of Askaris some months back. No trace of him or of his body had ever been found and he was now widely assumed to be dead. Perhaps somewhere out in the bush. Perhaps eaten by wild animals, as happened on occasion. He made a mental note to dig out the reports he knew were filed somewhere in the general office. A long, keening cry from Vera pulled him rudely back to the present. Perched on the sofa, to which she had involuntarily sunk on hearing the news, she was holding her body in tight-wrapped arms, rocking slowly back and forth, utterly isolated in her misery. His heart went out to her, just as her husband, Ted, his own eyes streaming with fresh tears, reached out to gather her into his arms, as though by this simple act he could eradicate reality and transport them back to a time that predated such anguish.

Gulping, she finally managed to mouth, “Are you sure?” Her eyes pleading with him to be wrong.

“I'm sorry, Mrs Lescal. I am sure of it. The District Commissioner wouldn't have telegraphed me if he wasn't absolutely certain. I'm afraid I don't have many details yet, but I understand she was killed by archers. Which would point to someone from the coastal tribes. Her death was reported by some of the locals who had befriended her. As soon as I know any more, I promise you will be the first to be informed.” As a response, a reassurance, he knew it was totally inadequate. But it was all he could think of for now. He simply didn't know any more. And already in his mind, he was beginning to wonder about Rosalind's relationship with the Moncton boy, and what exactly she had been doing down at the coast alone and apparently living with natives. It was unusual, to say the least, for a young white girl to be on her own, so far from home. And asking for trouble, in his opinion. But then, what did he know? Long divorced and with no children of his own (his love for the job had been largely responsible for the current state of affairs), he suddenly felt inadequate and supremely unqualified to judge what was right and wrong when it came to young girls and their headstrong ambitions.

For Israfel, embarrassment had turned to deep unease. He had watched me first torture and then casually jettison Fatih, before interring his still living body under the layers of rock with which I had choked the defunct old well. However, it was not what I had done that was the nub of the problem. Israfel well knew that humans seemed almost naturally inclined to kill each other and, given the right circumstances, would do it quite often and with little compunction. Moreover, he was well aware that Fatih had effectively brought this calamity on himself and would have been just as summarily dispatched had any one of a half-dozen associates, or victims, from his past caught up with him while he was vulnerable.

No, the killing was not what disturbed him. Rather, it was the rapidly hardening attitude that was impelling, almost overwhelming me. Admittedly an attitude driven by anguish over Roz. But a distorted mind-set nevertheless and not altered for the good. In particular, it was the palpable lack of emotional response to anything I was doing that concerned Israfel. He knew that, given true remorse, even a Stalin or a Pol Pot – for all their slaughtered millions – could still seek and, if genuinely remorseful, obtain forgiveness from the Son of God who had loved them enough to embrace death on their behalf. But he was equally aware of the danger that a human soul could grow too callous to care, too sure of itself to ever want, or ever think of accepting forgiveness. Leaving the human in question (me, in this case) faced with eternal condemnation, come the final Judgement Day. Not necessarily because of murder, or some equally reprehensible crime, but simply because, in general, the human psyche prefers to go its own way, without being bothered by God. And God, being entirely reasonable, always honours such desires (and ensures his Guardians do, too). The inevitable and effective result being self-conviction and an immutable sentence that has the human in question joining the horde of demons. And as far as he was concerned, that was an inconceivable end for his charge. It wasn't that I didn't deserve such a fate. I did, just like all humans. However, I had not only been assigned a rising star for a Guardian, but one who had been promoted specifically for the job. So, as far as he, Israfel, was concerned, it simply couldn't end with a whimper. In any case, he had been given specific insights into my likely future, which meant Heaven had more than a passing interest in the outcome. And it was a future that needed him to use his specialist knowledge and Angelic powers wisely. Which also meant that, pretty soon, he had to come up with a strategy that would turn matters around, without violating the principle of free choice. Favoured or not, I still had to be left entirely unhampered, able to make my own, unfettered decisions.

And right then I was facing a dilemma, feeling duty-bound to tell the Lescals what had happened, who had been responsible and why. However, I was equally adamant that I wasn't going to present any opportunity whatsoever to the police, who would no doubt arrest me on sight. At least not before I had caught up with certain adversaries and exacted suitable vengeance. Problem was, that still left a dilemma. Should I first visit Malcolm and Jill Joubert, who had been so good to Roz, to sound them out, perhaps even enlist their help and practical, common-sense guidance? Or should I just telephone Roz's parents out of the blue? Not to put too fine a point on it, such an impromptu call could prove less than helpful, and might even end in a shouting match, or one of the parties breaking down mid-conversation. In any case, this was a discussion that, to say the least, I was dreading. More practically, from what Roz had told me, the Jouberts could be relied upon to hold their own council until I was once again beyond the reach of the law. Which, to my mind, settled the matter.

* * *

Having erased all sign of Fatih, I had retraced my steps to the coast, but, with the urgency of pursuit now gone and my meagre rations long since consumed, it took me a couple of days fighting slowly ebbing strength and escalating thirst before I finally reached ‘our' settlement. But I made it and, to the intense satisfaction of my hosts, I was able to reassure them that Roz had been suitably avenged. Moreover, I avoided compromising their position by consciously withholding the ‘how and where'. Just assuring them they were no longer obligated, as kith and kin (which they had come to consider themselves), to exact their own revenge. A night's sleep in my old hut with its almost unbearable memories and I was ready to set out again. But not before the villagers had revealed to me that they'd had to inform the police about Roz, with the inevitable result that a number of Askaris and their officers had spent the previous day crawling all over their huts, questioning everyone, even the youngest toto and taking the usual reams of notes and photographs. Necessary, but an action that had done little to endear them. Eventually, towards evening, they'd left, taking poor Roz with them and, by great good fortune, I hadn't reappeared until the following day.

So now I could rest assured official wheels were turning and Ted and Vera would have been informed, which meant, in turn, that I was glad for them in a way and relieved for myself, even though it did nothing to let me off the family hook. They would still want to talk to me, especially when they heard that I'd been with Roz when she was killed. As they surely would, although our friends had withheld all but the barest details from the police. Enough to trigger the dispatch of another patrol along the coast to collect a number of corpses, in what was fast becoming the stuff of police nightmares.

Fortunately, the Jeep started at the third attempt. It had seen little use since Roz had arrived at the coast, but the hot weather had kept the battery in reasonable order. And now it was going to be needed as never before. I had no other means of transport, and I was going to have to move quickly. It didn't take a genius to realise that Fatih's failure to report back would, sooner or later, alert those in control of the slaving and drugs partnership. ‘Sooner' being rather more likely than ‘later', given the caution inherent in those notoriously jittery trades.

So it was that, early the next day, I set out with little likelihood of ultimate success, but an utter determination to see through this, now full-fledged, one-man mission to destroy Ahmed, Giuseppe and any associate who might chance to get in the way. A sober assessment of my predicament would have seen me switching off the engine and dismounting the vehicle there and then. But I was in no mood for such defeatism (realism?). The police had lost track of me. I had a gun. I probably still enjoyed an element of surprise and, above all, I harboured a burning sense of injustice, which was feeding an insane desire to kill or be killed. The final outcome being largely a matter of indifference, as I'd either wreak havoc and destroy the perpetrators of the foul trade that had created my personal Hell of the past few months or, after what I hoped would still be a suitably ferocious and successful act of revenge on my part, those same activities would end my own miserable existence. And of course, trapped in my private Hell, unreachable in the profound torment that drove me and utterly lost in the misery that comes with deep grief, I cared not one whit for how the world might perceive my proposed behaviour.

However, like everyone else who drove the coastal road and was thus beholden to the ubiquitous chain ferries and poor roads, I had no option but to endure the several hours it took to reach Mombasa, even at the sometimes reckless speeds I employed. And nor did it help to have to circumvent some irritating hold-ups behind endless processions of old and rickety African buses. Which meant that, by the time I arrived, the sun was already drawing close to the western horizon. Still, the monotonous hours had produced a bonus, in that they had allowed me time not just to think, but also to cool down, metaphorically speaking. To edge towards rationality and start to map out a halfway sane strategy for dealing with the problem, in so far as I could determine. Anyway, by the time I crossed from the mainland onto Mombasa Island, I had decided to waste no further time in procrastination, but go straight to the Jouberts, tell them the whole story and throw myself on their mercy. With that decided, I quickly navigated my way across the island, finally merging into the lane that led to their long, low house with its wrap-around veranda and comfortable sofas shrewdly placed to avoid the direct sun. Fortunately, they were both in, so I didn't have to tell my story twice. They greeted me warily enough, almost as though anticipating more bad news, but, for all that, their hospitality was impeccable. Anyway, who could have blamed them had it not been so? I wasn't going to be anyone's flavour of the month. So, whilst my arrival drew some heartfelt tears from Jill, her husband Malcolm, of whom I'd heard so much, welcomed me civilly enough. Moreover, between the two of them, I was soon ensconced on one of the sofas with a chilled beer in one hand and a welcome plate of hurriedly prepared food in the other.

It wasn't easy. It was never going to be. But in the end, I convinced them that whilst I was entirely to blame when it came to the two of us dropping out of sight, I was far from being the villain of the piece. I wasn't even close to being the architect of the terrible calamity that had overtaken us. Moreover, I was able to explain, at some length, the relationship Roz and I had developed since she'd rescued me. Something I was determined to confirm, because not only did I feel absolutely beholden to Roz, not only did I remain utterly in love with her, but she needed to be decisively vindicated in her friends' eyes. I had to admit that we had become so completely engrossed in each other, that I had done little more than encourage a fleeting contemplation of family and friends, only realising too late just how much this must have hurt all concerned. With some degree of shame I now admitted essentially preventing Roz from making any outside contacts, despite her protests. So in this respect, but in this respect alone, any fall from grace was entirely my fault. Which involved me in a number of profuse apologies, coupled with a heartfelt acknowledgement of guilt that went some way towards mollifying their reaction. After all, not only had the two sitting in front of me been more or less forced to accept an esoteric responsibility for Roz, they'd then had to acknowledge to their friends, the Lescals, that they'd lost all contact with their charge and didn't have a clue as to where she might be, search though they had. I marked with a certain grim humour that there was no one quite like our native friends for clamming up once they had undertaken to keep a secret.

But I also discovered that because my action, or lack of it, had instigated a particularly diligent, if ultimately unsuccessful search, the undertaking had produced an encouraging effect on Malcolm's injuries. Within a couple of weeks or so of Roz going missing, Malcolm had dragged himself back onto his feet and, despite what must have been some pretty intense pain, had managed to get the raw wound in his side and the flayed muscles of his back working in approximate harmony again. Even managing to return to some semblance of fitness, although he was by no means the Malcolm of old. Nevertheless, as he listened to my explanation, I could see his eyes beginning to light up and his mind to revolve around my proposals. He, too, had every reason to loathe the same people. Both for what they had done to him and for what they had done to Roz. In fact, once I'd covered most of what had happened in the days since I'd first been captured, I could see I had made a good and useful ally. It was clear that I'd been right to start with the Jouberts. Malcolm even offered to call the Lescals and fill them in on the latest details, but for all my appreciation of his gesture, I knew I had to make that call myself.

Just two days later I'd put the Lescals completely in the picture, having decided to confide fully in them. Consequently, and despite their heartache, they had agreed to keep my whereabouts secret. For his part, Malcolm was as ready as he was ever likely to be, given the lack of sufficient time to heal properly from his bullet wound; Jill's repeated protests had finally been silenced and I was recovering physically, if not emotionally, from the events of the past few days. Thus it seemed appropriate to put our hastily sketched plans into action.

Very early on the Wednesday morning, long before there was even a hint of light in the eastern sky, Malcolm and I sneaked out into the cold night air. Making sure we didn't wake Jill, we rolled out his old Jeep and made our way swiftly back to Mombasa. Only this time we drove directly to the square outside the old harbour, where we intended to park up before pursuing the hunt on Shank's pony. The time for pussyfooting around was over and we were each armed with a knife and a Colt 45, the rifle having been left behind as of little use in the close confines of the streets and homes we intended to visit. Always provided Fatih had stuck to the truth, the intelligence I had gained from him would be invaluable, so we were first going to call on two of Ahmed's principle collaborators, both of whom were, by all accounts, to be found in the harbour area. Which meant the time for testing the validity of Fatih's material had finally arrived. Not only that, but also the time for assessing the rationality of my somewhat unorthodox methods for extracting that information. Albeit we were rather too late to do anything about it if he'd been lying, just to stop the pain. And there lay the problem. If he had, we could be frustrated before we'd even begun. A point not worth dwelling upon.