Guardian (14 page)

Below them, the incoming craft brushed lightly against the ship's hull and a shout brought two of the crew to the side. A rope snaked down and was quickly looped under my arms before being drawn tight by a sudden upward pull which, coinciding with the drop of a rolling wave, lifted me abruptly clear of the unstable canoe. I knew it was pointless to struggle. My arms were still pinioned behind my back and if for some reason I fell out of the rope, I would be in real trouble. So I contented myself with using my feet to keep away from the rough, weather-beaten planking that contoured the side of the ship. I still didn't know why they'd brought me here, but I had a feeling I soon would. And for sure I was right in that assumption. As I stepped over the low rail, an iron collar was snapped around my neck and in one practiced movement locked into place. Then dragging me by the chain attached to the back of the iron ring, one of the men led me straight down through the main hatch.

At once, the rising smell, combined with the ship's uncomfortable movement against the anchors, almost doubled me up as I fought to suppress the bile mounting in my throat. In front of me, barely discernible in the light of a single hurricane lamp, a line of bodies sat or lay – chained by the neck to a metal rail that ran the length of the hold on each side. Quickly, I noted they were mostly men, with a few women held a little apart. I didn't appreciate it then, but years later when I looked back, I realised that my overwhelming impression had been one of total isolation. Strange really, as the place was, in human terms, heavily overcrowded. But it was a place devoid of all compassion. A place of hopelessness. A place of death, where inhumanity reigned supreme. Only one of the slaves took any interest in my arrival and this was a fragile-looking black man secured at the far end of the starboard shackling pole. Despite his forlorn state, the nauseating smell and the foul conditions around him, there was something different about the man. A calmness and a peace reflecting from his face was what initially caught my attention. And unknown to me, he had also come to Israfel's notice.

At first, the angel had missed the obvious signs when looking through the hull, but now he gazed in frank admiration at the courageous young black man sitting bolt upright in the midst of real squalor and uncertainty. Ripped from his home, dragged like an animal to an uncertain fate and held captive against his will, his demeanour still spoke of strength and purpose as he sat staring quietly and without fear, looking straight at me and my gaolers. What I could not see, and Israfel could, was a slight iridescence, a delicate, almost imperceptible shimmer of light emanating like a halo from within the man. It wasn't much, but the demons had certainly noted it and they were keeping a prudent distance. Not one of them dared step within that pale glow, because they knew exactly where it originated. Feeble or not, it confirmed the presence of their arch-enemy. Or to be more precise, the Holy Spirit, being the manifestation of Jesus Christ, the humans' promised Saviour. Which amounted to instant death if they so much as laid a finger on the man without express permission. And not just because of the awe-inspiring angel with the forbidding look now standing well within striking range. To touch a favoured human at any time without God's permission was to invite instant retribution, no questions asked and no quarter given. Besides, heroics were never high on their list of ‘things to do' . Invisible, they contented themselves by watching, with some relish, as my body was forced down far enough to allow the crew to lock my chain onto the rail. Allowing them to dispense with my temporary bindings as I found myself kneeling right beside the man I had noticed whilst descending the gangway. Nevertheless, for a while sheer burgeoning, hopeless terror kept me quiet. I just knelt there, my breathing shallow and ragged, trying to control the horror rising like a tide within me. With complete awareness and awful clarity I now knew exactly why I was on board. I was destined to live a nightmare, something I'd only heard about once or twice in my life while at school, studying slavery as a footnote to history. Now I was an integral part of what I had mistakenly assumed to have been consigned to that very history and, what's more, I was definitely on the wrong side.

Shackled in a medieval slaving ship, totally alone and, to all intents and purposes, dead to everything I held dear, the world once more came crashing down on me. A life sentence of slavery, from which I sensed there would be no remission, stared me in the face, stretching out into darkness as far as the eye of prescience could see. And judging by events so far, there was little I could do about it. Despite the heat, I began to shiver deep within myself and before long I was shaking from head to toe. A mixture of the obvious misery surrounding me and the stinking bilge water that slopped about my knees, containing who knew what in liquid form? That, certainly. But it was more than that. Something far more profound was in the air. Lying like a pall over the ship's hold, it held the chill of utter hopelessness and abandonment. That brace of capricious creatures that creep into the soul, forcing one to contemplate both the present and the future with absolute honesty. And whichever way one looked at it, my destiny since leaving home had displayed all the hallmarks of disaster. Now painfully clear before me lay the full horror of the depths to which I had been dragged and, in response, I felt rising within me a desolating rage against the inhumanity of the men who had determined my every move since I'd first stumbled into that train carriage a full lifetime ago. Rage against a gang who had seen me only as a useful commodity to be sold for who knew what price? A round of drinks, another night on the town? At the same time, more miserably alone than I'd ever felt before, I sensed rather than heard a stirring beside me, followed by a sympathetic hand closing over my dangling arm. Mysteriously, with this stranger's hand came the first vestiges of peace in a long time, an unfamiliar tranquillity, something strange and exotic that stole over me like a warm blanket, quietening and stilling the trembling, leading me back from the fearful yet now familiar abyss beyond which lay insanity. Gradually, I remember becoming aware of a friendly voice speaking words in a dialect past understanding. The melodious sounds had an odd cadence, as though the speaker was talking to someone else I couldn't see, although somehow I didn't mind. From somewhere far beyond me I could sense a deep reassurance, as though someone actually did care about me. Strange. But who or what it was, I couldn't tell.

The demons could though. Even Arcturus, for all his posturing, was getting profoundly agitated. What I didn't realise, couldn't see and wouldn't have understood anyway, was that the young man sitting beside me had begun to pray to the Living God and in the unseen world around us, the weak aura emanating from within him had begun to strengthen until it flashed into a brilliant shaft of pure white light stretching straight up from the hellish hold to the highest Heaven. And to make matters worse, the group of angels encamped just off the ship had all leapt to their feet and begun to join in, their voices rising in a great shout of triumph and praise to the God of Heaven and Earth. As the rolling thunder of their proclamation and the swelling sound of intense prayer resonated throughout the dhow, demons came tumbling out of every corner like the proverbial rats leaving a sinking ship, frantic to get out of range. Diving out of the darkened hull straight through anything that got in their way, they rushed around, shrieking in abject terror, clutching their ears in a doomed bid to shut out the awful sight and sound of holiness.

Totally unaware of what was going on in the spiritual world around him, Abdel-Aziz was approaching in the ship's lighter, accompanied by his chief mate and a leather satchel that was never allowed to leave his side. A hail to the deck produced a rope ladder and Abdel swarmed up with surprising alacrity for a man of his size. Dawn was not far off and, with the tide on the turn, he wanted to make the most of the slight off-shore breeze, weighing anchor while the sea still favoured a dash for deep water. No dhow could tack much to wind – the lateen sail and shallow, flat-keeled bottom preventing anything approaching the closer hauled beats to windward available to even some of the old western square riggers. Nevertheless, he and his crew were competent sailors and would make the most of the ship's strengths to haul clear of the many reefs in the area. The intention was to head northeast, if they could make it, until they had blue water under the keel. Then turn north, running before the southerly monsoon some two to five miles off shore. From there he could be sure of clearing any coral outcrops, but still see enough of the land to ease the navigation of a route that had been sailed in much the same ships and much the same way for many hundreds of years. So it was that with the ship still swathed in early morning darkness, I was jerked from a fitful sleep by the sound of running feet overhead and the occasional shout of command.

All too soon, we experienced the inevitable change in rhythm and felt the bilge water slapping to and fro. My head suffered as though it was in a vice, splitting with pain from dehydration and the foetid air in which I sat incarcerated. But empty belly or not, it didn't take long for the stench of my renewed retching to join the general malodour. There was no privacy, no nod in the direction of dignity. I might as well have been a feral animal, for all the esteem I was likely to be accorded as a human being. At least they probably wouldn't let me die of thirst, even if it seemed as though we lay forgotten in the general rush to make sail. Beside me, my newfound friend, whose name I'd discovered was Fenyang, stirred and muttered in his sleep, a veteran already, having been brought aboard at Durban, far to the south.

Close to midnight following my arrival and with sleep no more than a distant hope, I had begun to question and to listen, to be interested in the extraordinary man beside me, drawing comfort from his presence, probing him and mulling over his story as he replied in occasionally awkward but usually understandable, if heavily accented, English. It seemed he had been rescued from the aftermath of a massacre and brought up as an orphan by white missionaries, who had also given him his more memorable, anglicised name: Adam. They had treated him as family, providing unsophisticated schooling from their rudimentary means, basic medicine and undoubtedly more food than he could have hoped for elsewhere. When, finally, he had reached the age at which most young men went their own way, he had been content to stay and work for his adoptive family, acting as a go-between with members of his own tribe, bringing them into contact, often for the first time, with the Christian Gospel embraced by his foster parents and which he had eventually accepted for himself. Which was precisely why he now found himself shackled in a slave ship.

His privileged background and acceptance of the ‘white' religion had angered some of his tribe, particularly the local witch doctors, who had encouraged tribal members to sell Adam into the sinister world of slavery. Not needing much encouragement to make a rand or two, they had come for him one night, just after midnight, and he hadn't stood a chance. Now all he had was faith and an absolute and intriguing trust that God would not abandon him. I have to admit, I was momentarily interested, despite myself. True, I'd never had much time for religion, particularly the sort peddled by the school chaplain, virtually the only time I'd come across such matters. As a result, I certainly didn't expect religion to play any part in my present predicament. Although I'll be honest, I couldn't help but notice the difference between Adam and the rest of the wretched cargo. He definitely had something, although what it was precisely, I couldn't tell. With the ship beginning to roll and wallow against the conflicting pull of southerly wind and westerly wave, it was sufficient just to be chained next to him and not alongside one of those who were clearly suspicious of my white skin, despite the shackles. In any case, at this point explanations were way beyond me. Although I couldn't help but remember what Adam had said about relying on God to carry you through adversity. And something about giving your life to His Son, Jesus, who had tasted death on our behalf and now extended a warm welcome to anyone who would believe in Him.

Roz slipped quietly down the stairs, desperate to keep out of sight, feeling suddenly wracked with guilt and acutely aware she had become part of what could almost certainly be construed as illegal – perhaps even a full-blown conspiracy against the forces of law and order. And it was now all spiralling out of control. Quickly, she threaded her way along the unfamiliar corridors, taking care not to follow the ‘way out' signs, just in case they led her straight into the arms of incoming police. For all she knew, there were plenty more of them waiting at the entrance for just such a dash. However, within minutes she had found her way through the labyrinth of corridors to finally step into the sun-fired heat brewing in the courtyard behind the kitchens. From there she turned left and made her way round to the car park, trying hard to look as though she was a member of staff who always approached the car park from the back of the hospital. Which was just as well, because there were a couple of Askaris sitting in the back of an open Land Rover, parked alongside the main entrance. Admittedly, they were leaning back in what could best be described as the supine position, but a young white girl on her own was unusual enough to be remembered. Particularly one with such striking good looks. It's the same the world over. Only really comatose men fail to notice a pretty girl.

***

By the time Roz arrived back at ‘
Kwetu'
⁽¹⁾
, the Jouberts' home, Jill was not only feeling decidedly uncomfortable, but was only too well aware of the choice she faced. She didn't like the way the rather sweaty individual now lounging in front of her was eyeing her legs either and, despite the heat, she was beginning to wish she'd worn something less revealing than the skimpy shorts guaranteed to produce admiring comments from Malcolm. Terence Foley, Superintendent of Police, Mombasa Division, leaned back in his chair and watched with interest the effect he was having on her. He had made it exquisitely clear. She could either co-operate, in which case he might put one of his better detectives on the case to see if they turned up anything on her husband's would-be assassin. Or she could continue to obstruct him by insisting she knew nothing, in which event he would ensure the full weight of the law was brought to bear on them in his own inimical fashion. Not to mention what he might do specifically to Malcolm when and
if
(the emphasis could hardly be missed) he got off the critical list. She was wavering, he could tell, but he kept his face a mask of indifference, keenly aware that in the game of bluff and counterbluff most women had an almost preternatural ability to sniff out prejudice and insincerity, particularly where he was concerned. And he was certainly prejudiced. He'd be the first to admit that – in the right, all male, company, of course. Quite proud of it, really.

Throughout his life he'd been rejected by women just like the one now standing in front of him. A trim body, especially the legs, he thought, the sort a man could take real pleasure over. Well spoken too, despite the accent. Probably more than enough money and no doubt at ease wherever she found herself. Except not when he was involved. He could depend on it. Five minutes after he'd started a conversation, offered to buy a drink, or tried one of his fatally flawed chat-up lines, women like her would be looking for a way out, an excuse to get shot of him. And he hated them for it. Looking back at middle age from the wrong direction and with the only girls available being the kind you bought, every encounter, every negative reaction, merely reinforced his misogyny. So much so, there was no longer anything he could do to amend his attitude, even had his long exhausted conscience managed to prick him. For years now, he had lived for each moment when he could play the ‘authority card' with a woman like this. Letting them out and reeling them in, like a cat playing with a mouse, until they became so desperate to get off the hook they almost begged his help. And that was what he waited for. The moment he could offer them hope. Off the record, deniable of course, but which would begin with a casual offer to ‘revisit all the facts'. Perhaps over a drink or a meal in a secluded bar he knew of, where he would listen outwardly, but inwardly prepare for the end game he knew was coming. It was all done with such an appearance of genuine concern. They never suspected he was the reason behind any lack of progress, preferring to grasp the straw of hope that, yes, there might be a successful conclusion to their ‘difficult' case. But it never ended there, not for either of them, and it wasn't until the victim woke up in some cheap hotel room with a splitting, drug-induced headache and no recollection of how she got there that the ‘price' was fully understood. And now Foley was once again on the prowl and intending to savour every moment. He could already feel the prurient excitement rising within him which, had Jill but known it, heralded an ugly prospect for her somewhere up ahead. However, even Foley hadn't bargained on just how high profile this story was going to get.

“So that's all I know. Paul was supposed to be staying with us and when he didn't turn up, we started asking around and finally discovered he was last seen in a truck driving towards that large white building near the old harbour, so Malcolm went over to talk to the owners. Although he tried a couple of times, he couldn't get anyone to answer the door, so he apparently took it into his head to climb over and have a look. Our houseboy tells me that's how my husband got shot and that he's the one who brought him to the hospital.”

Jill was only too aware that her on-the-spot concoction sounded pretty lame (well, lies usually do) and decided her only hope was to go on the offensive.

“Obviously, there has to be something pretty nasty going on in there and I don't know what it is, but I think you ought to investigate.” Every alarm bell in her head was sounding off as she faced Foley. Notwithstanding the sudden rush of loathing she felt for the creep (she had already begun to think of him in these terms), she was beginning to realise that with Malcolm so dramatically and convincingly out of the equation, they had seriously overrun their luck and were going to have to find some help, however reluctantly. Moreover, if she was going to keep Foley off the true scent, she had to make sure he didn't interrogate Malcolm, who would probably give something away in his disastrously weakened state. So, by the time both the cat and the mouse had stepped into Matron's office, mouse had already resolved not to mention Paul's surname, to be as vague as possible and not let on to any more detail than she could possibly help. Anxiety slipped a cold arm around her shoulders, but she was smart enough to use just enough truth, for now, to ensure neither the family nor the house servants inadvertently used a name with which the police were unfamiliar. Hence the use of ‘Paul', a name that had been bandied around sufficiently often for every one of the servants to remember. Finding out they had been given a wrong name was likely to have aroused immediate police suspicion.

If she could just get through this interview, there would at least be time to come up with an agreed story and maybe even an alternative surname for Paul. It was just possible that they could still find him without giving away his true identity. But she knew that wasn't the only problem. It was highly likely that Malcolm's assailant would come sniffing around the hospital to find out exactly who he had shot. She had been reluctant to mention it to Roz, but for some time now she had harboured a shrewd suspicion that I was a victim of the age-old but still quietly thriving slave trade. Young white men didn't usually just vanish and, if she was right, she knew they could all be in for a rough time. She had heard whispers of what happened to those who crossed the slaving gangs. All she needed now, she thought, was the ill-mannered lout still lounging arrogantly in front of her to give her a hard time. So it was with some irritation that his words, purring in her ear, brought her abruptly back to the present.

“OK. By your own admission, your husband was breaking and entering a house at night. And we both know perfectly well the owner is going to claim he was concerned for his own safety, and I can assure you the court will accept that. We seem to have a
prima facie
case against your husband, Mrs, ah…?” Foley slipped a pen and pad out of his bush jacket and sat poised. Reluctantly, Jill gave him her surname, address and telephone number, bridling when he went on to ask for her age. Finding it difficult to keep the anger out of her voice she dropped a few years (to forty-three) and then fell silent. “Mrs Joubert, your husband gets himself shot being stupid enough to break and enter at night and you want me to use up valuable police time just because you think something is going on in there? You want the law to start poking about in Prince Ahmed's house – yes, I know who lives there and believe me, he's well connected – simply because you think a friend of yours was taken there against his will?”

Jill was stunned, but tried desperately not to show it. She had met Ahmed on several occasions, but always at public events. Who had not heard of the sophisticated, urbane man in his flowing Arab dress, with a reputation for generous alms giving and a notoriety for expecting certain unspoken favours in return? “No, I don't want you to do your job because I think something's going on. I want you to do your job because my husband was shot and I know there's something going on. Something that this Prince Ahmed apparently doesn't want anyone to know about. And I don't care how well connected he is.”

Foley glowered at her for a moment, not sure how to react to the implied criticism, but certain he would make her pay for it. “Alright, suppose I send some men round there and they find nothing – which, quite frankly, is what I would expect to happen. Then what? You can hardly press charges, since your husband was acting illegally and burglary is still a crime, even if Prince Ahmed is as bent as a paper clip. And where would that leave me? There has to be a better reason for searching his house than just a feminine hunch.” Foley gave her a long, slow look and let his words hang in the air while he gauged her reactions. Had she but known it, Foley was already as certain as he could be that Ahmed was up to no good and something really was going on in there that the police weren't supposed to know about. Because he kept a tight hold on his ‘patch' he also knew Ahmed had recently absented himself, although annoyingly in this instant, he didn't know where he'd gone. But Jill didn't need to know that. Foley's real problem was that until now he'd failed to come up with a good enough excuse to merit the issue of a search warrant against Ahmed. However, if he played his cards right, this woman might provide him with the very justification he needed, particularly while Ahmed was away and probably couldn't interfere. Moreover, if it all went pear-shaped and Ahmed came up clean, he could always make sure Jill was the one left twisting in the wind.