Guardian (28 page)

When they finally discovered my early and unexpected departure, there was consternation in the camp. Some argued for me, assuming I probably wasn't very far away and simply wanting to be alone while I tried to come to terms with Roz's shocking death. These ‘supporters' assumed they could expect me back within a few hours. However, the more astute amongst them were quick to realise I wasn't likely to be back anytime soon. Moreover, they felt they understood why. They knew I was keen to avoid the police, even if they didn't know the precise details, but they also recognised instinctively that, as Roz's lover and above all as a man, it was incumbent upon me to exact appropriate vengeance, whatever it might cost. So, given the problems to be expected in finding the culprit, I was unlikely to return in the near future. They only hoped I was after the slaver, the true cause of the troubles, and not the men from the next village down the coast to the south, some of whom they knew personally. In the meantime, it quickly dawned on all of them that they had a more pressing problem on their hands. A dead white girl, who clearly hadn't died naturally. Which, as far as the police were concerned, would, almost by definition, involve a local. So without me around to exonerate them, they could already guess who was likely to get the initial blame.

And then there was Bwana Lescal. Who was going to tell him that his only daughter had been murdered? Much more importantly, how were they going to tell him? There were no telephones available. And come to that, how were they going to report the matter to the local police in Malindi? Someone had to be volunteered for the job and so, reluctantly, but in the tried and trusted way of the people, the elders decided to convene a meeting at which they would settle the matter before anyone else got wind of the affair and took it upon themselves to notify the police. Jelani, the youngest adult male, was duly volunteered and, despite his protestations, was furnished with their convoluted but pooled explanation of events and ordered to start walking.

***

Fatih may well have lost his nerve when confronted by the double setback of a white girl's death and the realisation that he was next on the list for a flight of arrows, but, as I soon discovered, he was no pushover, not even when asked for his name. And when it came to providing information on his employers and the whereabouts of Giuseppe, amongst others, he proved almost impossible to crack. However, while he was still incapacitated by the pain of my spear thrust, I had quickly bound his elbows and wrists with some of the bowstring I'd brought along, before frisking him thoroughly to ensure he was now unarmed. Which brought to light the usual curved Arab dagger, plus a small but wicked-looking hook. The latter was of unusual design, being flattened on the inside curve into a razor-sharp blade, leaving the handle in line with the hook, so it could be easily concealed in the hood of his burnouse
⁽¹⁾
. Undoubtedly carried as a useful ‘mischief-maker', to which could be added the role of ‘tormenter' when it came to hapless victims. And it wasn't long after this that I decided to put a halt to the endless stream of invective being directed my way, by loosening my spear from the ground and giving it a couple of judicious twists while still impaled in his leg. This did the trick, managing to both wrench a satisfyingly abject moan from between suddenly compressed lips and at the same time silencing any further invective. Which didn't prevent him from slipping me a murderous glare, a clear warning that I should not let him loose if I wanted to live. However, hoping to take advantage of the pain that was still washing through him, I immediately re-started the inquisition, but even after adding to the sum of his agony with a judicious pounding on his injured thigh, I still got nowhere. Which left me with something of a dilemma. I entertained no moral hesitation whatsoever over dispatching him, but, to do so, whilst no doubt providing an immediate degree of satisfaction, would simply squander the one chance I had of discovering something about the others responsible for my torment. And by the same token, indulging this need for retribution too early would put paid to any hope of extracting a fitting reprisal on the man I held directly responsible for my agony. I had no doubt at all that if those responsible found me first, or caught me at a disadvantage, I would not live to see the following sunset. I knew too much and had long since realised they would have to make certain I had no further opportunity to pass on information to the authorities. Which probably also meant they would be unable or unwilling to risk sending me north again, even as a slave. So death would be inevitable and if I knew anything about them, mine would not be an easy demise. Some thought was needed and as I wrestled with the problem, the ruined walls scattered around me reminded me of a story I had heard many years before.

The Arabs who first colonised and built the coastal settlements had been known to use their wells as refined instruments of torture. I remember being disturbed to learn that when they wanted to punish a particularly obstinate prisoner, or break their spirit prior to execution, they would tie them to a plank balanced over a well with their head projecting beyond the end of the plank. That way the prisoner could clearly see and imagine his ultimate fate at the bottom of the well. Of course, for maximum effectiveness this required something of a skilled balancing act and so they would offset the prisoner's weight with a heavy but cracked pitcher of water placed at the other end of the plank, thus initially achieving a balance in favour of the jar. However, a cracked pitcher leaks and grows inevitably lighter. Moreover, to refine the point, they would then sit around the well, telling the unfortunate captive how quickly the pitcher was leaking, or how long it was likely to be before his own weight would tip him sufficiently to send him hurtling into the depths to an often lingering, but otherwise certain, death. Of course, they didn't always tell the truth and with judicious refills, the torture could be made to last for days. It would indeed have been a hard nut who was not reduced to whimpering insanity within a few hours of this treatment.

And it now occurred to me that right there, in the old settlement, I was likely to find all that was needed to emulate those long-deceased tormentors. I was quite right. It didn't take long to find an old well and although it was partially blocked, it was still deep enough and, of most importance, it still had the majority of its original wall forming a workable lip. Thus the only other major ingredient required was a plank, or its equivalent, and, amongst all the debris scattered around, I found exactly what I needed. A cracked pitcher wasn't essential, because a pile of suitably weighted stones would do the trick equally well for my purposes and the nearby crumbling walls offered all the ammunition necessary. Thus, having gathered everything together and armed with Fatih's rifle, I yanked him to his feet and ordered him to start walking towards the well. Once we arrived I pushed him sharply in the back so that he fell more or less along the length of the plank and, in his debilitated state, it was easy to lash him down before he could mount an effective protest. Then all it needed was for me to manoeuvre the plank up onto the surrounding wall and gradually slide him out over the mouth of the well, all the while adding rocks for balance. How long it took him to realise my intentions, I don't know, nor did I really care. But it wasn't long before he started arguing the toss in a belligerent, loud-mouthed but increasingly apprehensive way. At first, he didn't believe me when I described exactly what I was about, but it didn't take long to convince him. Simply kicking off one or two stones left him feeling a distinct sway whenever he moved and I hardly had to mention that it would only take the removal of one more weight to seal his fate. After that, he went very quiet. I left him in the dark for an hour or two while I lit a small, carefully concealed fire and heated the meagre rations I'd brought. Then I went back to question him and quench my thirst, making sure I did the latter within his sight. Still no co-operation.

So, with the promise that there would be no drink that night, I bade him farewell, removed sufficient weight to ensure the plank would tilt if he so much as breathed too deeply and took myself off to find a suitable place to bed down for a few hours of sleep. I must have been tired, because the next thing I knew the rising sun was piercing my eyelids and bringing in the consciousness of a new day. And with that, I remembered Fatih. Leaping up, I discovered to my satisfaction that he hadn't attempted suicide during the night, so I had him all to myself for as long as I wished. A matter that gave me no small satisfaction, as I was certain he would crack before the day was out. Actually, looking back, I realise that during that day I wildly overstepped the norms of civilisation, not to mention humanity. But at the time I simply didn't care and in the end the pantomime produced the results for which I was searching.

“Fatih, do you want some water?” His tongue, swollen and dust-dry was barely able to move in a mouth that must have tasted like the proverbial sumo wrestler's jockstrap, ensuring he was totally unable to enunciate any words. Just nod his head wearily and with considerable difficulty, joint outcome of how tightly he was secured and how stiff he had obviously become during the long, cold night. Which meant he was exactly as I wanted him.

“OK, you can have a little.” Deliberately, I rationed him to just enough to enable speech. Then I set the bottle down within his field of view. “Now, let's hear what you've got to say. We'll start with who sent you to look for us?” I gave him the benefit of an expectant and, I hoped, almost kindly look designed to encourage him into giving me what I wanted, but I strongly suspected he wouldn't crack that easily. In fact, I fully anticipated the whole exercise would take most of the day and not a little persuasion on my part. But I was ready for that. Although I had remained emotionally numb over the previous thirty-six hours or so, there remained one overriding mood. Suppressed rage. I seethed with it and was ready to embrace anything that might assuage the anguish. Which is why, utterly exasperated, I eventually lost count of the number of times I questioned him on the same subject.

However, at this early stage I did at least hold my temper, until it was clear I wasn't going to get through to him. He'd obviously decided I was less of a threat than those he was protecting. That is, right up until I produced the fishing spear with its wicked spread of three long, barbed spikes. The same tips that had already torn a considerable chunk out of his leg. That's the advantage of barbs. They don't come out easily. Not without ripping open the flesh they've pierced, as well as removing it in large chunks. So I began by merely scraping the barbs over the skin of his wounded thigh, making a less than subtle point. The action opened up the damaged veins again and also produced some curious sounds from Fatih. But not the words for which I was waiting. So, unbinding one of the prongs from the spear's haft, I began to experiment with its sharp tip on his back and sides, discovering how easily it could be slid into human muscle and tissue. Which, whilst not inspiring him to talk, produced some noteworthy if restricted reactions, as he tried desperately to shrink away from the probing steel, without tipping himself down the well. And that was when I remembered how I'd once been threatened myself with the ‘death by a thousand cuts'.

Silkily, almost gently, I dropped down until my face was in line with Fatih's. “Hello, Fatih. I have no doubt you remember that well-known expression, ‘death by a thousand cuts'? Yes, I can see from your face that you do. Well, since you don't seem willing to co-operate, I'm going to have to use that hook of yours. It's a very interesting shape and should provide a fascinating variation on the lacerations the average knife produces. But I think you know that. Anyway, don't worry, you won't die from this. I just want you to experience more pain than you ever knew was possible. I've got plenty of time and no one knows you're here, so don't expect any help. Oh, and I have a feeling it would be particularly interesting to watch you die at the bottom of the well if you don't give me what I want. Of course, you could give me the names I want right now and then maybe none of this would have to happen.” I must admit, Fatih had courage. He flinched often and he moaned continually, but even after I'd started to slice into him with the hook, opening his flesh piece by piece and letting in the ubiquitous flies that had arrived en masse, he still managed to hold his tongue.

Until I found what might be termed his Achilles heel. Some while before reaching the hook between his legs, I had mildly put it to him that he was in danger of losing his manhood. Even so, there must have remained some hope that I might, after all, let him live. Some assumption borne out of the sheer indifference inherent in the cruelty and violence being perpetrated with such chilling gentleness that finally persuaded him to talk. There is, after all, something about a man who neither loses his temper nor raises his voice while unhurriedly reaching towards a pitiless goal that is intensely intimidating. Anger, even basic cruelty, can be stoically endured. Unhurried, cold-blooded and seemingly disinterested purpose allied to merciless brutality is another matter altogether. And I should know, having been well taught by the very man whose name was first revealed. Prince Ahmed. The Arab who had bought me for slavery. Ah, the frisson that gave me. Here was someone I could truly hate. Furthermore, he was rather like Fatih, who clearly did not deserve to live. A man who warranted anything and everything coming his way. Someone who really could begin to pay for the young life so unjustly snuffed out. And not just as an inadequate restitution for myself, but as revenge for all those other countless souls who had suffered at his hands without any means of redress. Slowly, I withdrew the hook from between his legs. Finally allowing the proverbial dam of information to break.

Almost perversely, as if, coupled with a desire to stop the pain, he really believed the claim that I might let him live. If only he would give me the information I craved. Out poured a torrent of the most damning evidence. Names, dates, actions, even addresses. It was as if Fatih finally needed to purge himself, to seek a sort of spurious absolution by giving me everything I'd asked for. It was all there and I had difficulty keeping up with it. But amongst the dross, were the names and places that I really needed to commit to memory in order to complete my revenge, or ‘crusade' as I now preferred to see it. And perhaps, as a possible by-product, to put a definite spoke in the wheel of the vile trade that was going on under the very noses of the Kenyan police and the society they claimed to protect. Yet in all of this, I neither realised, nor even cared, that I was slowly but surely travelling beyond the very pale that I considered slavers and drug dealers alone inhabited. Simply by emulating their malevolent and heartless indifference to helpless individuals. Folk they exploited without mercy. Just as I was doing even if, at the time, I felt able to justify my actions by pointing to Fatih's own activities. But that was a discovery for later times. Right now I waited under the shade of a nearby baobab until the sun had passed its zenith, had delivered its deadly heat and had begun to slide down the great bowl of a still steely blue sky. Then, with Fatih believing he was about to be set free (as if), I slowly removed one balancing stone after another, until the board ceased swaying and tipped decisively towards the well's maw. With a final hideous and despairing wail, Fatih slid headfirst into the gaping hole, to land with a sickening thud about twenty feet below. A fall that didn't kill him, because I could still hear the occasional moan. So I let the stones finish the job and, by sundown, had filled the well almost to its lip. Confident that no one would ever find the body, I proceeded systematically to clear the area of all trace of human activity. Which included carefully scraping up the patches of blood-soaked dust and filtering them down through the stones, there to lie hidden and, presumably, beyond even the reach of wild animals. Once satisfied with the results, I retrieved the spear and bound the missing barb back into place. Then, before leaving, I collected Fatih's weapons, including his rifle. Which meant I'd not only obliterated all trace of him, as was my intention, but had found some use for his existence. Unfortunately, I hadn't reckoned on the quite extraordinary sea change that was to overtake me mere weeks later, the direct result of a guilty conscience.