Guardian (9 page)

It was nearly evening by the time Malcolm and Roz arrived at the railway station and little was happening. Certainly, all the porters were gone and only the occasional cleaner could be seen doing anything at all in the waning heat that still struck fiercely from the flagged surfaces of the platforms. Quickly they found and followed a sign which indicated the way to the Station Master's office, but even he seemed to have called it a day. However, they could hear someone in the adjoining office, boasting the name ‘Mr Hasim' on the door, so, without hesitation, Malcolm knocked and walked in. Mr Hasim was sitting at his desk with the air of one who knows he is indispensable but, to his later regret, Malcolm simply did what he always did – strode over to the front of the dilapidated piece of furniture that passed as a desk and looked the man squarely in the eye.

“Evening, I'm Bwana Joubert,” he said, trying to sound positive.

Hasim looked up, startled by the unexpected intrusion, the unmistakeable air of command. However, unusually for a local Government official, he didn't rise, simply motioned to the only chair. And even more ominously, he appeared totally unmoved by their sudden and somewhat late appearance. “I'll try to overlook the fact that you've barged in here uninvited. So what do you want?”

Nonplussed, Malcolm nevertheless responded hurriedly: “We're looking for a porter we met here about a week ago. He was loading mailbags into a train over in the freight area and we'd like to speak to him quite urgently. I don't know his name, but presumably we can find out from your work roster? I'd be grateful if we could have a look at it, find his details and discover when he's next due in to work.” With their earlier mistake very much in mind, Malcolm was watching particularly closely and his early suspicions seemed instantly confirmed by the response. The moment he'd talked about a meeting with one of the staff, the secretary's frown had frozen and his features darkened. Almost as though a switch had been thrown.

When the reply came, it was peremptory and defiant: “So, who are you and why exactly do you want to speak to one of my men?”

Taken aback by the man's hostile attitude, Malcolm instinctively reached for his wallet and, in expectation of the usual reason for making things difficult, swiftly extracted a sheaf of twenty-shilling notes, sliding them across the table towards the secretary. Who ostentatiously left them where they were, before looking straight past Malcolm.

“Obviously you aren't from the police.” The cold delivery of this masterpiece of deduction was accompanied by a dismissive flick of the finger, scattering the notes back across the desk towards Malcolm. “You should be more careful with your money. I might think you're trying to bribe me and the police would take a very dim view of that.”

Realising he'd made a fundamental error, Malcolm began to back-pedal as fast as he could. “No, we aren't the police, that's true, and I'm not here to cause you any trouble, but I would like to talk to your man, because he might be able to help us.” Things seemed to have gone from bad to worse and Malcolm wasn't quite sure why. Clearly, he'd got off on the wrong foot and in doing so, had managed to lose the initiative. Moreover, he wasn't particularly happy with the openly lascivious way in which the man was beginning to eye Roz. Making an instant decision he determined not to tell Hasim what he clearly wanted to know – the date, time and place when they'd talked to his man. Sufficient information from which to work out who it was for himself. Malcolm might get it wrong from time to time, but long experience with people had made him something of a connoisseur of character and it had, above all, taught him to deal with individuals on the basis of what he saw and heard. Now his instincts were clamouring for attention, telling him in no uncertain terms that Hasim was bad news. Why, he didn't know, but something clearly wasn't right and it was time to retreat.

“So I'll ask you again and failing an answer, I may have to ring the police. Who are you and who's this?” he said, indicating Roz with his chin. The tone had hardened and the voice taken on a barbed edge, but by now Malcolm had no intention of responding and with the question still ringing in their ears, he beckoned to Roz and strode out of the room. Not until they reached the Jeep did he speak and then only to urge Roz to get in as fast as possible. Quickly he drove away, trying to get out of sight before Hasim thought to record the number plate.

A mile down the road and safely out of sight, he drew into the side and cut the engine. “I don't know what it is, Roz, but there's a lot about that man that really worries me. Did you notice how quickly the whole atmosphere changed as soon as I mentioned interviewing one of his staff? He's definitely hiding something and I'm pretty sure he knows why we want to see his man.”

Roz looked at him, one delicately arched eyebrow raised in uncertainty. “So what do you think we should do?”

“I think we should try again, but this time wait until Hasim's gone and then have a look at the noticeboards – we can try the staff rooms. I'll bet there's a list of duties somewhere and if we can glean the name, we stand a better chance of finding our man, even if someone tries to keep him out of sight. Hopefully, they won't work out who we're interested in and he'll be back at work sometime tomorrow. But we'd better be sure. So first, we need to get off this road, or Hasim might spot us and then the proverbial could really hit the fan.”

The station was long dark and almost silent when they slunk back in, only the occasional pale security light providing visual cues, whilst somehow accentuating the inky blackness that gripped the bulk of the sprawling yards. As they had expected, the night watchmen were nowhere to be seen, probably already hunkered down, well out of sight, for the night's ‘work'. It didn't take them long to find what was obviously a staff room, cluttered with battered old chairs and strewn with dirty cups. Pinned to the wall were several well-thumbed pieces of paper, but in pride of place was exactly what they were looking for. The only problem was there were quite a few names listed under the previous Saturday morning's porter roster, but it was clear that the same crew were in most mornings and the coming dawn should be no exception. That was all Malcolm needed to know. With the names of the porters hastily scribbled down, the pair of them left as swiftly and silently as they had come, glad to be out of it and on their way home. But by four o'clock next morning, Malcolm was back, loitering alone, screened behind an enormous bougainvillea that had draped itself along the ticket department wall, almost custom-made for anyone needing camouflage. From there he could watch for his man and keep a weather-eye out for any unwelcome sign of Hasim.

Sure enough, it wasn't long before the men began to drift in to work and that was when he got his first lucky break. The man he was looking for was one of the first and Malcolm recognised him the moment he ambled into view. He let him saunter past and followed quietly round the back, towards the workers' entrance. It was darker here and less obvious. Malcolm didn't want to startle him unduly, but he didn't want anyone else around while he was asking questions either, because he had a pretty shrewd idea the porter would be less than forthcoming. Precisely the sort of situation where his superior height and weight could be used to intimidate the opposition. And he was right. The moment the porter saw Malcolm he bolted, but in two enormous strides Malcolm had him by the arm and nailed him against a wall.

“Quiet, or I'll break your neck! I just want answers to a few questions. Answer and you'll be OK.” He might as well have told the man to fly. His eyes rolled wildly, desperately searching for help, but there was none to be had. “Don't even think to call out or I'll break your neck and the sooner you answer me, the sooner I'll let you go. Now, you obviously remember me and I'm willing to bet you remember me asking you about a ginger-haired white man. I'll ask you again and this time, I want the truth. Did you see my friend?”

There was no mistaking the reaction and Malcolm wondered what it was that was scaring the porter enough to clam up, despite being faced with immediate violence. Surely it couldn't just be Hasim? Anyway, this was obviously going to take longer than he had anticipated and gripping the man hard, Malcolm pushed him further into the shadows and away from the entrance where he could hear the sound of others approaching. There was no time for the niceties now, so he twisted the man's arm hard behind his back and forced his chin up with an arm round his throat.

“Start talking, or I really will break your neck.”

He could feel the man's Adam's apple bobbing wildly and released the pressure slightly, letting him take in a great gasping breath, but keeping sufficient pressure to emphasise the threat. It was patently clear the man believed Malcolm meant what he said, because as soon as the pressure eased, the words poured out of him.

“Bwana, it's nothing to do with me. I just do what I'm paid to do and keep my mouth shut. If I don't, they'll kill me. I have no choice.” The agonised voice trailed off in a whisper.

“Right, well now you do. Five seconds from now you'll be dead anyway if you don't tell me who you are, what you know and who you're afraid of.” Fortunately for Malcolm, his man had no idea he was bluffing and had no intention of doing him any serious harm.

“I saw your friend, bwana. He was with the slaver who controls the drug trade. He comes here often, but I don't know his name. Hasim tells us when they're coming and your friend was with them last time. He was tied up and they took him away in a gharry
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, but I don't know where.” Almost as if pleading for his life, he continued. “One of the drivers is a friend of mine and he drove the gharry your friend was in. It was about a week ago. That's all I know.”

“So tell me your name and the name of your friend and where he lives.”

“Jelani, bwana, I'm Jelani,” he groaned. “But please, you'll get us both killed if I tell you my friend's name.” The sudden crack of stretching ligaments settled the argument. “Jomo, bwana. Jomo. He lives down by the creek behind the Muslim Institute. But he can't speak to you. His tongue was cut out for talking too much.”

Satisfied he was at last getting something of the truth, Malcolm relaxed his grip again. “This had better be right or I'll be back for you. In the meantime, if you say anything about me, Hasim will get to hear that you implicated him in drug running. And I have friends in the police.”

Released, Jelani stumbled away, shoulders hunched, fear evident in the whites of his startled eyes as he backed rapidly towards the platforms and the rest of his crew.

Quickly, Malcolm found the row of dilapidated huts perched in front of the mangrove swamps at the head of the northern creek. Reeking of poverty, they stood forlorn, a little above high-water mark and almost ephemeral in their fragility. Around them the deep holes of massive red coconut crabs peppered the ground, homes to crustaceans that could crack the bones of an unwary foot as easily as they penetrated the bounty of windfall coconuts.

Jelani's directions, although meagre, had been surprisingly exact and in fluent Kiswahili Malcolm questioned the first child he came across, slipping him a summuni
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as he played in the early morning light outside the entrance to his home. Such unexpected riches for a five year old quickly unlocked the little fount of knowledge and it was the work of but a moment to escort the tall white man to the right hut.

A spiral of smoke rose lazily through the woven banana leaf thatch of the selected shelter and the smell of cooking vied unsuccessfully with the overriding stench of nearby open drains. Malcolm rapped the mud and wattle wall and waited in front of the dingy length of cloth serving as a makeshift door. He registered the sudden halt to domestic sounds and sensed the occupant's puzzlement over such an early morning caller, the silence growing rapidly into a loaded question. Finally, renewed shuffling indicated that apprehension had succumbed to curiosity and Malcolm got ready to prevent a repeat of his encounter with Jelani. “Jambo, Jomo. Abari yako?
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” The lilting cadence of the ritual Swahili greeting hung in the air unanswered, vocal reaction being the one response beyond the capability of an aphonic man. Lifting a corner of the hanging cloth, Jomo came to an abrupt halt, suspicion hijacking the moment. In his eagerness to get started, Malcolm had forgotten Jomo was maimed, unable to speak, until the silence had stretched out to embarrassment. Mortified, his words tumbling over themselves, he began to explain how he had found the place without dropping Jelani in it and barely pausing before going on to outline, as succinctly as he could, the reason for his visit. His reluctant host merely stood stock still until Malcolm drew to an uncertain close. The lines on Jomo's face spoke not just of the vagaries of being poor, which were obviously many, but of special hardship. The suffering and particular horror that accompanies mutilation. On the other hand, the eyes gave little away, but as another awkward silence began to loop its coils around the two men, Jomo finally relented, stood aside and beckoned. Stooping to pass through the low opening, Malcolm stepped into the smoke-charged atmosphere and was grateful when Jomo signed him to sit by the open fire.

No sooner was he seated, mercifully below the thick fog of pollution hanging suspended in slowly moving tendrils down to almost waist height, than Jomo hitched up the kikoi
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draping him from waist to heel and left. Minutes later he reappeared, leading a young man with the finely chiselled features of the Giriama tribe. It was clear the youth was to be Jomo's spokesman and, relieved, Malcolm began again by renewing his greeting, a salutation returned this time, as the two Africans conversed, using a form of rapid finger, hand and arm touching. Gradually, line by line, Malcolm stitched together the full story behind his search. He explained Roz's part in it and her love for me, their fears for my life, his own wariness over Hasim and his conviction that time was running out. Why, he didn't know, but there was something about the wizened old man sitting mute in front of him that compelled honesty and openness. Jomo listened in stillness, nodding his head occasionally and stirring the fire until Malcolm got to the part where he had allegedly driven me from the station. At that point Jomo grew suddenly animated, vocal, if that was the word, his hands flying over the interpreter's as he spelt out his reply. Fascinated, Malcolm watched the young Giriama carefully assimilating what was being expressed before turning it into the Swahili language.

“Yes, I saw the red-haired white man of whom you speak, but I know nothing of his fate. Even if I did, why should I tell you? Simply by being here you put me in danger of my life. Am I the first to whom you have spoken? Will I be the last? One word to the right person is all it takes and a hornets' nest will be stirred up and when hornets are angry they look for trouble, attacking anything that moves. You know what has already been done to me, so you will understand when I tell you that if I give anything away, it is to invite trouble. Yet it is true, I hate the men who have ruined my life and care nothing for what they have done. No one leaves their service and lives but, given one chance, I would mutilate them myself or flatten them as carelessly as a cow swats a fly. They are ruthless and have their spies everywhere. If you cross them you must be prepared to kill, or they will surely kill you. Are you the man to do this? I don't think so. You are not like them. You have the appearance, but your eyes tell me you are not a violent man. Men like you do not kill quickly or easily. And that will be your downfall. What if they discover you have been here? They will always find me, no matter how long it takes, because I know too much. Suppose, then, they torture and kill me, what is that to you?” Jomo paused and looked at Malcolm through the thickening haze, waiting for a response. Testing him.

Struck by his candour, Malcolm hesitated, wondering what would convince the old man that he was sincere and trustworthy.

“Mzee, I perceive you are Giriama and you come from a time when loyalty was the measure by which men were judged. When men lived or died by their word to their friends, to their fellow warriors, to their tribe, no matter what the cost. Thus I know you will remember Mtoro. He is of an age with you, a Giriama to his fingertips, much hated by the Government because he was not afraid to demand from them the land he believed they had stolen. Only one other trusted friend has heard this from my lips.

I knew Mtoro well and knew him to be a man of his word, who never made any secret of his commitment to the old ways, or his contempt for the little men to whom a bribe was the only way and who, day by day, inch by inch, stole the reins and trappings of power from their rightful owners. For years he was like a thorn on the path to their bare feet, ridiculing and exposing them wherever and whenever he could. Always, they tried to trap him, to catch him with some falsehood, but they never succeeded. One day during the war, when there was unrest amongst the tribes over conscription, the Governor called a grand conference of all the tribal elders, assuring them their safety would be guaranteed for the course of the meeting. Mtoro went, only to be arrested and detained in gaol the moment the gathering ended. Later he was tried secretly for crimes he did not commit and found guilty, the punishment being death. Word was brought to me and although I stood to lose everything if discovered, I bluffed my way into his cell the night before his execution. With the help of a sympathetic guard, I arranged a suitable distraction and gave Mtoro the opportunity to break out. He fled into exile and had it not been for the war to which I was soon called away, my part in all of this would have been exposed, with inevitable consequences. As it is, the authorities seem to have forgotten and I have not seen Mtoro in many years. However, I believe he is still in contact with the tribal elders in Malindi. Send to them and ask. They will testify that I am to be trusted.”

Back home and slaking his thirst with lime juice fresh from the garden, it didn't take Malcolm long to recount all that had passed that morning. What did take the time was explaining to Roz why he had thought it necessary to go without her. Still, Roz could hardly be anything but placated when it was pointed out that since Jomo was taking the trouble to check with the Giriama elders in Malindi, he obviously did have information for which it was worth waiting. The problem would be biding their souls in patient acceptance of the rather slower beat that defined the Giriamas' uniquely African sense of time. So, for three days Roz sat kicking her heels while Malcolm went back to work, catching up on lost hours.