Black Mischief (38 page)

She began. The voice was soft, but it filled every space in the room with a sweetness and power that cast a spell. Jane and Martha buried their faces into their mother's side and clung tight. For their young minds it was as if they were being carried off into some mysterious land where the safe familiar ways had deserted them. They did not utter a single syllable, afraid that they would be noticed.

This music went on and on until another sound pierced their ears. It was laughter, coming from close by. It was the melodious chuckle that they heard a thousand times. The healing was complete and their father had returned to them.

* * *

‘Not many people around at this time of night. But, even at this hour, I could not risk a meeting at your hotel. I would be recognised and, well, it would cause problems. You understand these things.'

‘Understand, yes, but I don't like it. My work is delicate in certain ways. My timing has to be perfect and I do not like showing myself around. You want value for money? Trust me. So, Mister Rubai, what gives? You have some special request. Tell me.'

‘Yes. This family, these McCalls, these opportunists, these robbers …'

‘These killers of your son, I understand. Revenge, a lot of my clients are into this.'

‘I want their punishment to hit hard, to hurt, no mercy.'

‘And the request?'

‘I want to be close enough to watch.'

‘Impossible! I work alone, always. I trust no one but myself.'

‘Work alone, of course. I have a very fine pair of binoculars. I would be a hundred, two hundred metres away.'

‘With half a dozen of your men around. It won't work.'

‘Absolutely alone.'

‘No. Perhaps it would be better if I went back to the hotel and get the first plane out.'

‘Not a good idea.'

‘Mister Rubai, are you threatening me?'

‘I don't see it that way. Patrick Uchome, you met him in this very place. He is desperate to get back on a good footing with me. I look on him as a kind of insurance policy. Only a fool would not look to protect his investment.'

‘Or I could shoot you right here and now. No, too noisy, but I never travel without my good friend, Mister James Bowie.'

Abel chuckled and held out his hand. ‘At last, we speak the same language!'

Alfredo did not accept the handshake. Instead, he gazed directly into his boss's eyes. It did not make pleasant reading. Rubai had him cold and was enjoying the experience. Alfredo's instinct provided him with his best plan to ensure that he would leave the country still breathing and with his payout.

The handshake was accepted.

‘You African bastard. They warned me about crooks like you before I took this job on.'

‘So I take it that you agree to my being a spectator.'

Alfredo leaned back into his armchair and contemplated the log fire that had been lit against the chill of the night. He was working his way through half a dozen possible scenarios while he was being scrutinised closely by his smiling employer. At that moment, life was very agreeable for Mister Abel Rubai, fixer in chief. He was about to get his wish to be present at the climax to his big project. An unexpected thought struck him. The raging anger that had been set off by a potent mix of grief, guilt and frustration had cooled. The thirst for revenge that had become an obsession that would not leave him alone was weakened. They were replaced by the excitement of anticipation. Thomas McCall and the rest of them would be part of history, he would be free with the bonus of being able to pick up the wreck of Londiani for a knock down price.

‘So, when do you go in?'

‘You insist on this, er, interference, then?'

‘Don't let's waste our breath on that any more. Give me a day and a time, and name a place with a view.'

‘Listen. When I'm ready, I will make a single brief call. Then it's up to you. To you this business may be some kind of crusade, but to me it's a job. I am a man who takes pride in his workmanship. I will deliver.'

* * *

Next morning, breakfast was late in the pink palace in Karen. Papa had slept on. Sometimes he was grouchy on the morning after. Today was different.

‘Abel, bacon and eggs, all that toast, a whole pot of coffee, you must have had much success on the screens last night.'

‘Woman, can't a man feel happy just to be with his family on a lovely morning?'

‘Papa, it's raining.'

‘Reuben, the fields will be happy, the trees will be happy, the animals will be happy. That makes me happy.'

He would have been even more pleased with life if he could have shared his news. Pembroke House, that ramshackle school, high up in the Rift Valley, the White Highlands, in that place a bad seed had been sown. That tiny seed had been big enough to carry a name: McCall. For years it had grown without him understanding the danger. When the truth of this ugly weed had revealed itself he had failed to cut it down in time to save his Julius. There was some regret that he had been obliged to bring in a stranger to finish the job, but soon …

‘Sally, I'm thinking of going into the flower business. Perhaps we could be lucky. When a farmer has lost his crop and many of his workers, he might lose his interest in the land.'

‘Londiani?'

‘Sure, Reuben, and with you as the man for Nakuru South in parliament, we would have somebody on the spot to make sure everything was in order.'

‘Abel, I don't like that idea. It would be like stealing.'

‘Stealing! I would offer double what the place is worth. I would not make the first move. I would be doing them a favour.'

‘I know those people better than you. They are tough. They will make that farm better than ever.' Sally was staring out at the rain. When would her husband be able to shake off this imaginary burden? Her hope was being carried in her belly.

* * *

The crowd around the village fire at the rondavels was the biggest anyone could remember. It was also the quietest. You could actually hear the sound of the newly placed logs as they crackled and spluttered in the leaping tongues of flame. No one from the village had been taken by the fire down in the fields. Six of the young women sitting in that crowd owed their lives to Bwana Kamau.

When the family left the Kamau home, their entrance roused the villagers and their other well-wishers. They stood as one, cheering and applauding. Rebecca was used to such receptions on stage, but here, amongst her own people, with Jane and Martha leading the way and she and her mother flanking her father, the positive emotions were overwhelming.

The release of pent-up feelings burst around them, sending the waves of screaming and wailing out into the lake and up the empty hillside towards the dark ridge of the Escarpment. Stephen himself showed little emotion. How could anyone know the feelings of the heart of a man who had left the world and been restored to life? As he moved along, he was still deep in a sense of wonder. ‘How can this be?' He had whispered these words a thousand times since he woke on a bed in that cool room and looked up into the eyes of those two smiling, weeping women. He had never experienced love of such intensity. The first word he mouthed was ‘angels'. When his strength began to return, he recognised the white robed figures and chuckled, and felt a sharp prickle of pain across his chest and arms.

* * *

‘Lazarus.' He did not want to get into that territory, but it was the name that Martha spoke just as they were cresting the ridge of the Escarpment.

‘Papa, I have been thinking. You are just like him, aren't you? Do you think that Jesus was helping you after the fire? We have read that story so many times.'

Angela watched her husband's reaction carefully. She thought she detected some discomfort, even embarrassment, behind his patient smile.

‘Child, you are asking me to claim a pretty big thing there.'

‘But if we are in trouble, you say that Jesus will always be ready to help us.'

‘That's true, Martha.' He nodded his head slowly, overwhelmed by the mystery that was still engulfing him. He drifted off into a long silence and peered down the long hillside as his beloved lake came into view. ‘To tell the truth, I feel a little funny in the head. Now, no jokes, please! There's a kind of emptiness, coolness up there. I cannot get a good hold on it.' His tone changed and he reached for his wife's hand. ‘Angela, why have I been spared? I've seen it over and over in my mind, the flames rushing along the tents like madmen, the screams of pain, smoke throttling the breath out of you. Next thing, everything goes quiet and I'm walking away, going home along a grassy path. And I feel so tired I take a little spell under an acacia.'

* * *

A wooden armchair, softened with blue cushions on the seat and back, is ready for Bwana, close to the heart of the gathering. Big-eyed children watch him pass along while their anxious parents, scarcely able to believe that their Stephen is back amongst them, stare and hope that all is really well and that this upright, dignified figure is restored in full. At last, his little family group reach the chair. Stephen grasps the back and looks around. After a brief pause, he begins to speak.

‘Agnes Kibet, Antony Wakamba, Mary Macharia, David Dalon, Thomas Koskei, Rita Koskei …' He continued to recite the names until the list was complete. His eyes were closed and he paused between each name. The deep baritone of his voice rang out like a heavy church bell. The long silence that followed was broken by the piping tones of little Sammy Koskei, youngest brother of the twins who had died as they searched for one another up and down the lines of different flower tents.

‘Bwana, is there a story tonight?'

Stephen, unruffled, reached into the crowd to lift Sammy out. He sat on a blue cushion and placed the child on his lap. The boy felt no fear, hoping rather that his hero had singled him out for special treatment.

‘How old are you, Sammy?'

‘I am eight, Bwana. I am going to school now. Sometimes the teacher tells us a story, but we like your stories better.'

‘I know that you are a very clever boy. Your brother told me, just a few days ago, that you told the people at home better stories than me.'

‘Oh, that is a very big whopper, Bwana!' Sammy's face was beaming with a naughty boy grin.

‘Yes!' Stephen reflected with a deep sigh. ‘A story. Sammy, you know that I love telling you stories.'

‘I know it. You tell a story and Rebecca sings to us. That is the best time for me.'

‘And you know that I have been away from the village for a few days.'

‘Thomas and Rita, they have gone away, too. On a long journey. Did you see them when you were away?'

‘You know, Sammy, I think that I just did. We passed each other. I forget where it was now.'

‘Mama said that you would. They have died, you know. Gone to be with Jesus, our teacher told us.'

‘She is a very wise lady.'

‘Mama said that things have changed. Papa and she were talking. What does it mean?'

Rebecca was standing behind her father. She began to sing, one of Toni Wajiru's songs and one of her favourites, ‘Hope comes with the dawn'. The cheering and the excitement were far behind them all now. A mellow tranquillity had settled over the gathering. The physical beauty of the singer and the poignancy of the words she sang soothed the pain, made it more bearable. There was a golden edge to the heavy clouds hanging over the village. Sammy slipped from Stephen's lap and returned to his mother and father.

And what did Sammy's mother's words mean? All those friends were laid to earth and he had returned. But why? He saw clearly that it was a mystery and would stay so.

Soon the crowd dispersed, satisfied that they had seen that Stephan Kamau was with them and he was well.

Later Stephen himself with Angela, his firstborn and the young bwana took the path to the flower fields. In the half light, he saw that the vast garden where he spent his working day had been returned to an expanse of dark earth. He bent to pick up a handful of soil. He sifted it with his fingers and lifted it to his nose.

‘Bwana, the land is ready for us again.'

* * *

Alfredo Rossi was brooding. This was a new experience for him and he did not enjoy it. The hotel room was everything he could ask for, but it had become just a comfortable prison cell. The best of it was the large window with a close view high above Uhuru Highway. He liked to look down on the traffic on the busiest road in the country. Not once did he step through the French window onto the balcony. He would not take the infinitesimal risk of being seen and recognised. He still had qualms about the night visit forced on him by his employer. The man was plain stupid and too used to being obeyed in his smallest whim.

On his normal jobs he made little contact with the particular rich person (he was popular with well-heeled widows) paying for the contract. He worked alone and was happy enough just to let his client know that his goods had been delivered and then fly out. No one ever took advantage of his absence to welsh on a payment. This time the vibes were bad. He saw himself as an artist. He was proud of the precision, the finesse he displayed. His studio was out of doors in a different location for every job, a factor that brought special problems, increased the risks. But this Rubai jerk was getting in his way. Alfredo was nervous, distracted. He needed to go to a good restaurant, have some conversation with intelligent people out there in the big world.

There was something else. He was in danger of allowing his emotions to interfere with his plans. When his parents decided to bring a touch of class to the Rossi family of New York, they worked it out that if they sent their smartest boy to the only fancy school in England that they had heard of, any rough edges in their son would be smoothed away. What they could not have foreseen was how hard it would be for him to settle in this alien environment. He was below average in size for a thirteen year old, he was not interested in the ancient Etonian traditions, his Brooklyn accent was a curiosity to his classmates. When one or two tried to imitate it, he was in with his fists to let them know that you did not make fun of a Rossi man. In time things worked out. In a matter of weeks, his speech was indistinguishable from the sophisticated patter of Dickie, the son and heir of some rich lord from the heartland of the aristocracy.