Guardian (6 page)

For once, the Moiben farmers had something else to chatter about beyond the usual problems – animal sickness and drought – faced by tropical farmers the world over. And the talk wasn't just about me. Alongside the scandalised assumption that I had gone from bad to worse, first, abandoning Matt to his fate and then killing two policemen, rumours abounded about my relationship with the new girl Roz. And with every telling, the assumptions got worse, rapidly outstripping any possible fact, despite the total lack of supporting evidence.

Not that Roz would have cared even if she had known what was going on. She was following the breaking story with every bit as much attention as the rest of them but, unlike the gossipmongers, she felt only relief that I might be alive, together with a complete certainty that I wasn't the killer I was alleged to be. Moreover, she refused to listen to anyone who thought otherwise. Even her family, who hovered uncertainly between wanting to support her in the implacable determination she had begun to display and their desire to prepare her for the worst, found they could not break through the defensive shield she had erected around her mind. Behind it, despite occasional raging doubts in the face of the conviction everyone else seemed to feel, her feelings for me had apparently strengthened with each passing day, until they blossomed into the kernel of an idea – find me before the police did. To warn me and prove to us both that she not only loved me but that somehow love could transcend the accusations waiting to pin me to the wall. She would prove I was not a killer – to herself, who did not need such proof – and to the world, which clearly did. How, she had not the faintest idea, but that she might not succeed was something she could not allow herself to contemplate. Even the following day, when the police released my photograph, a man now wanted for the murder of two Askaris, capped with news of a substantial sum for information leading to my arrest. And the first Roz knew of this development was when her father was refuelling the car and she saw a poster on the forecourt of the only garage for miles around, Hughes petrol station, which linked the top of Eldoret's two main streets, one set aside exclusively for whites, the other used by the local inhabitants.

Momentarily, the shock had drained her resolve, but not for long. Silent, she had sat next to her father on the drive home, oblivious to his efforts to draw her out, to engage her in conversation, any conversation, as she desperately tried to plan the next move, a move that might hold the seeds of success. She was certain the family would not willingly let her go, but she was equally sure that only by going it alone would she stand any chance of finding me, without risking a trail that even the police could follow.

“Roz, talk to me. You've not said a word since we left town.”

Turning slowly but determined not to let him see her uncertainty, she still couldn't stop a tear rolling down her cheek. Instinctively, Ted put out a hand to brush it away, his heart aching for her.

“Roz, you can't go on like this. I know you think he's innocent, but you've got to let the courts prove it.” She looked at him, loving him and knowing he wanted only the best for her, but afraid to show weakness, afraid to take him into her confidence until she was more sure of herself. Until the doubt and determination whirling in equal measures within her head were sorted out, she knew she had to keep things to herself and even then, she doubted if she could tell anyone what she really wanted to do.

“Dad, stop here, please. I want to walk a bit.” He glanced at her quizzically but allowed the car to roll to a gentle stop. It wasn't far to Moiben, but he was still hesitant to leave her and, for all that she was trying to cover it, he could see the shadows of turmoil chasing across her face, the pain darting in her eyes.

“Are you sure I can't help? You know I'm always here for you.”

“I know, Dad, I know. But I've got to sort this out for myself.”

He had nodded reluctantly as she stepped out onto the rich red murram
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of Moiben's only road. A road slashed straight from the bush that wound steadily towards the little settlement she now called home. With the car on its way, the warm silence of the African veldt had closed around her and with it, despite herself, her spirit had lifted a little as it responded to the vibrant life surrounding her. She could never stay low for long and was so attuned to the wilderness that she could hardly help her mind and emotions responding positively to the great blue canopy stretching overhead with its tufts of fluffy white stratus idling down the wind, and the rolling brown and yellow grass hiding the chaffinches as they called in serial competition all around her.

Strangely encouraged, she picked up the pace and began to stride purposefully towards the spot where the car had so recently vanished, soft sandals stirring puffs of fine dust, which quickly covered her feet and legs in a dense red layer. An hour saw her topping a rise to look down on the inland lake and she stopped to absorb the scene with its distant sails making the most of the light winds, and the dazzling reflections from one or two cars parked by the clubhouse twinkling back their random Morse. As her gaze wandered, she noticed again the small, grey church folded into the hill, almost as though it had sprung fully formed from the ground upon which it sat. Watching it, her thoughts fled back to Matt's funeral, the only time she had set foot in the place. The events of that awful day had been firmly thrust to the back of her mind, but now the details leapt forward again and, almost unbidden, her footsteps turned towards the tiny haven.

Hurrying now, she made her way round to the stone arch that sheltered the main entrance and, pushing on the dark wooden doors, discovered they were unlocked. A cool stillness welcomed her as she closed the door and stepped forward to sink into one of the short wooden pews. Dust motes danced in the coloured shafts of light striking through the stained-glass window behind her and an almost palpable silence settled over her. Hardly daring to breathe for fear of breaking the friendly calm, Roz leaned back and looked towards the altar with its austere brass cross flanked by tall, matching candelabra. Silently, she began to contemplate the jumbled events of the last week – was it only seven days since last she'd seen her love? – and found herself subconsciously running through her fears and intentions as though someone was actually there, able to read her mind. To empathise.

Startled by a great peace that flooded through her, almost like a living entity, Roz found her eyes drawn once again to the cross, only to discover that nothing had moved; nothing, seemingly, had changed. No voice responded to her intensely curious gaze, a fact she found momentarily disappointing. Nonetheless, her limbs felt wrapped in a warm embrace that anchored her to the spot and slowly but surely drained the hurt from her aching heart. For perhaps an hour she sat there, unmoving, reluctant to break the spell. And in waiting, she became submerged in a tranquil calm that engulfed her innermost being, impelling a determination to retain every nuance of the event. She knew beyond doubt the occasion was important and, after a while, with thoughts resolved, she understood with complete confidence that I could and would be found. How or why, she was unable to resolve but, in the hushed serenity, her diminishing fears were replaced, almost miraculously, by a full measure of assurance. She could no more explain this than put her finger on it, but her heart didn't need an explanation. It was just certain.

Eventually, she stood and withdrew quietly, latching the door softly behind her. Outside, as she set out on the last mile of her walk, the sun was beginning its steep slide to the western rim of her horizon and by the time she drew near to home, the rapidly lengthening shadows were calling time on the day shift. In the distance she could hear an experimental bullfrog tuning up for the nightly chorus. Just one at first, but gradually tens then hundreds joining in the fierce competition for females, the chaotic mix of calls blending swiftly into one harmonious whole that seemed to saturate the very universe. Until, right on cue, a hyena coughed out its hysterical laughter and the nervousness of night gripped both ends of the food chain.

“Mum, Dad, I'm home.” The companionable sounds of a family at ease with itself and the rich smell of an almost-ready meal greeted Roz as she stepped through the hissing light of a storm lantern suspended on the veranda just outside the front door. The light was a ritual, a familiar gesture that was as much a part of any frontier family as breathing. Wherever they were, as soon as the shadows lengthened, the welcome went up to beckon anyone still not home and to summon passing neighbours or strangers in need of a friendly face. And just as routinely, an army of mosquitoes, moths and sausage flies zinged, fluttered and thudded to their incandescent deaths, the fiery carnage only slightly diminished by the patrolling of random bats.

Vera appeared from the kitchen, arms spattered with flour and the cheerful sounds of the kitchen workers rolling about her like a comfortable mantle.

“Hi, darling, welcome home.” She rounded the plain oak dining table and gestured towards the heavy old sofa where most of the family business took place. “Dad told me you were walking home. Did it help?”

Roz looked at her Mum and, with courage gained from the still-fresh memory of what she had already come to regard as a profound and significant spiritual experience, decided she had to confide her decision and risk a possible confrontation. After all, without her parents' consent, she couldn't even raid her bank account and unless she could buy a train ticket, there was precious little she could do.

“Mum, I can't stop thinking about Paul. Why hasn't he contacted anyone – his family or even me? Suppose he's hurt and can't get to a phone? Suppose – suppose he really is dead?” With the dam broken, the words continued to pour out of her. “I've been so worried and Bob Moncton obviously won't do anything, and Paul's mum is too afraid. Someone has to try something – find him, or at least discover what happened. The police obviously think he killed those two Askaris and that's awful. I just know he'd never do anything like that. So it seems to me that if I don't do something, no one else will. I've got to find him, warn him, before the police get to him. What if he doesn't realise quite how serious they are and tries to run if they find him? The way they're advertising this crime, they might well shoot him. If that happened and I was just sitting here doing nothing, I couldn't live with myself.”

Vera looked carefully at her eldest child and saw in the set of her jaw and the force of her gaze something of herself at the same age and her heart went out to the grieving young woman, who at just nineteen was barely old enough to leave home, let alone antagonise the police. But it was clear she was already maturing beyond her years. Even so, she would have said something, but, with barely a pause, Roz rushed on.

“When I was walking home I stopped in the church for a bit. I needed to get things sorted out in my mind and it just seemed the right place to be. Mum, while I was sitting there I had the strangest feeling. I was sure someone good was there with me, watching and listening, even though I didn't speak out loud. I didn't feel afraid or anything, I just knew that whoever it was understood me. It felt so right. Anyway, I've made up my mind. Paul could be anywhere between here and Mombasa, but the chances are he's gone right down to the coast and so that's where I'm going to start. He told me once it's where he'd go if he ever needed to get away from everything and if I don't find him there, I'll work my way back up country to Nairobi. Somewhere, someone will know something about him. He can't just vanish into thin air. But, Mum, I need your help. I need you and Dad to let me go. I've got some money saved up, so I can pay for my ticket and it won't cost you anything. Please say yes.”

Vera sighed and reached her arm around Roz, knowing it was pointless to try to stop her. “OK. Your father won't be any happier than I am, but I'll fix that. We'll get you to the station in time for tomorrow morning's train. Now get on and pack while I talk to your father.”

The long drawn-out squeal of brakes and erratic banging of wagons as they caught up with each other brought me abruptly round from yet another exhausted catnap. Right through that long night beyond Nairobi I had drifted in and out of consciousness. Hungry, thirsty, I remained unable to find any relief from the increasing pain of my tightly bound limbs as they chaffed against the ropes restraining all but the slightest movement. Only twice was I allowed to stand and move my arms around in that entire nightmare journey. And then only to relieve myself over the edge of the open door. Any illusion I might have had regarding sympathy went rapidly out of sight, pretty much in the same direction as my arching urine; they just didn't want the reek of me on top of the foul, cloying odour that already permeated every recess, no doubt from the none-too-sterile ivory, never mind the mixture of dried Askari blood smeared all over me. So, along with the rest of the train, my mobile prison had suddenly jolted and barged its way to a juddering halt, leaving only a merciful silence, over which voices from the outside world alerted me once again to the near presence of strangers. And all I could hope was there wouldn't be a repeat of the senseless violence that had shattered the previous morning.

It didn't take long to clear the wagon and I was the last consignment to go, dragged across the wooden floor until my feet swung out over the door sill and I braced myself for a fall. The glitter of a knife blade swinging up towards my stomach didn't exactly help with the sphincter muscles, but, mercifully, it was aimed at my bindings, not my body. So, with feet liberated, I was shoved from behind and fell the last few feet to the ground, only to stagger in a wide circle before collapsing to the platform as my legs reacted badly to their newfound freedom. They were none too careful about how they picked me up either, before propelling me towards the leading pickup truck, one of several backed up around my erstwhile prison.

I remember trying to get my bearings and, by craning my neck, attempting to see where I was exactly, but there was nothing in sight that I recognised. That said, it was easy enough to guess we were at or near the coast, because of the many tall, green-fringed coconut palms swaying and rustling in the light morning breeze, accompanied by a slight waft of hydrogen sulphide from what I took to be rotting seaweed. The sprawling mass of buildings, what little I could see around the terminal, clinched it. It had to be Mombasa, the biggest station in the country, the beginning of the line. But we were well away from any passenger area, the only part I was even vaguely going to recognise.

What I could see up ahead were several armed men, all dressed in the loose, flowing robes effected by just about every man living in the stultifying coastal heat. Most of them surrounded the trucks, but two stood at a distance, alongside an Askari who fidgeted nervously whilst looking studiously in the opposite direction. Even had the gag not been firmly taped across my mouth, I instinctively knew that trying to attract his attention would do me little good and probably even earn both of us a beating. So, for the time being I gave up and let myself be forced into the cab alongside a skinny old African, his face covered with tribal tattoos. A guard, for that is what I took the only other occupant to be, was already squatting behind the driver and almost immediately after I was shoved unceremoniously into the front passenger seat, an order was passed down the line and the vehicles sprang to life. By straining my head around, I could just make out the rest of the men running to spread themselves around the four open-topped vehicles, guns now dropping down out of sight, but quite clearly not out of reach, as they took up their positions riding shotgun and we began to bump and grind our way out of the yard, heading for a dusty track leading into town.

Pretty soon the ochre murram gave way to tarmac and the vans picked up speed as they entered the almost deserted town, first, turning along the one thoroughfare I was sure I recognised, Princess Elizabeth Avenue. Thereafter, beginning to weave their way southeast towards the narrow streets and alleys surrounding the old harbour. Which was when I understood why they were using such small trucks. The walls of the overhanging houses closed in on either side and soon we were reduced to a crawl, passing between a colourful assortment of mud-spattered walls set with massive old mahogany doors, age darkened and often carved in intricate detail. Each one testifying to the owner's intention to keep a hostile world at bay. High above us, firmly shuttered windows completed the picture as each man assiduously guarded his wives and daughters against any hint of impropriety.

* * *

A whitewashed courtyard, just big enough to take the four pickups, signalled the apparent end of our journey, for now at least. Here the few shuttered windows were arranged high up on the mostly blank walls, their only major relief a straight staircase rising steeply to the top and an obvious walkway encircling the wall. That and a wood-framed entrance just wide enough to let the trucks pass carefully through completed its somewhat limited attractions. A houseboy with jet-black face and dressed in a long white kanzu
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, cinched at the waist with a broad red cummerbund, had latched back the heat-stiffened gates as we arrived and, just as swiftly, had drawn them shut again the moment the last truck was through. A few curt words were exchanged and Giuseppe, as I had since heard the men refer to their boss, hurried after the houseboy, disappearing swiftly through a low door I'd failed to notice as we turned in. I was incredibly tense, but could only sit, agonising about what might be going on. I had already exhausted any hope of gleaning something useful from the driver. The man was either dumb or defiant, because beyond a rather too obvious tightening of his jaw in response to my arrival, there had been absolutely no acknowledgement of the opportunity presented by the momentary departure of our guard to join his mates. Even the minder's single sharp command to keep the speed up had met with little more than an angry, almost dismissive wave of the driver's hand.

Behind us, all the guards had now brought their rifles into sight and were either leaning impassively on them, or picking their teeth with studied indifference. But, for all that, there was a palpable air of tension. I wasn't the only one with something to worry about. Some fifteen minutes went by and I could see the wariness translating into half-raised rifles and abruptly narrowed eyes scanning the tops of the sunlit walls. It occurred to me that down here in what was, effectively, a cockpit, we were totally vulnerable, painfully exposed to anyone who might wish to shoot down from behind the safety of the high white parapets. We couldn't even drive to safety. If things got out of hand, it would likely be carnage and I had a fair idea of who would be doing the bleeding. And it was clear the same thoughts were occupying a number of other minds as they waited with mounting unease for the boss to return. Whatever it was this lot were up to, it wasn't just about ivory, because poaching wasn't a particularly heinous crime by anyone's measure. It had to be something else to warrant this level of security and tense anticipation.

Time dragged, but just as we passed the twenty-minute mark, the houseboy returned and, in the mannered custom of African tribes, beckoned my now returned guard with a time-honoured palm-down motion. Immediately, this stalwart climbed off the truck and disappeared into the cool darkness of the open door, only to return within a few seconds preceded by a shout with which he clearly intended to galvanise the rest into some sort of action. Quickly, I turned to the driver, trying desperately to sign with my eyes and to mumble through the tape still firmly glued to my skin. But the driver merely stared back at me with almost pitying eyes before slowly opening his mouth. To my horror, I saw that behind the betel-blackened stumps
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that passed for teeth, the man's mouth was empty. A stub, all that was left of his tongue, moved jerkily as he formed a guttural noise somewhere at the back of his throat and shrugged helpless shoulders. His eyes slid towards the men streaming backwards and forwards behind us and I caught the look of pure hatred lancing outwards, momentarily darkening even that ravaged old face, before the mask of indifference dropped firmly back into place.

Stunned and impotent, I remember staring at the man, trying desperately to signal acknowledgement of a senseless crime with just my eyes, before turning slowly and heavily, in time to see the last box of ivory hauled down and carried out of sight. But it was what followed that really caught my attention. For the first time I spotted some tightly wrapped hessian parcels being dragged from beneath where the ivory had been. They were heavy, because the men were having difficulty as, two by two, they laboured across the courtyard into the inky blackness beyond the low door. Surprised at having missed what must have been obvious in the freight wagon, I counted some thirty of the large packages in transit before my guard returned to jerk me roughly out of the vehicle by the hank of rope trailing from my bound arms.