Place of Bones (29 page)

              I waited for a target.

              The sun drilled into my head and shoulders. It was vicious. I hated equatorial Africa and everything in it. And I waited. And waited.

              Kom
o’
s voice:
 “
See them, boss..
.
” His tone seemed to rise to the question.

              I called
,“
No
!
” seesawing the sight gently over the rocks over there.

              There was a momen
t’
s puzzled silence.

              Then, from Komo again, a petulant
,“
Yes, I can, boss
.
”

              I realized he had been telling me, not asking. Syntax, inflection and the odd missing verb. A potentially lethal combination
.“
Where
?
”

            
 “
High up now
.
”

              I looked higher up. Nothing
.“
Shoot at them, for chrissakes
!
”

            
 “
Too far, boss
.
”

              I looked higher up still, up at the top of the jagged slopes. Komo was right, as usual. There had to be an extended draw over there. Now the two figures were almost at the top, well out of effective range - a fact they obviously realized, because they were no longer looking for cover. I called down to Komo
.“
Just the two of them? Tha
t’
s a question, Komo
!
” To myself I added
,“
For chrissakes
!
”

            
 “
Yeah, boss. Think so
.
”

              I toyed with the idea of going after them. Then I toyed with the idea of not bothering. Not bothering won. I stood up. I put the Enfiel
d’
s scope on full power and squinted up at the two scrambling figures. They were now barely more than tiny moving specks. The most I could distinguish about them was that one seemed to have on a red shirt. The other might have been naked. I pulled off a round just for the hell of it. The man in the maybe red shirt turned and waved, then both of them disappeared.

              What the hell was
that
all about?

              Komo called
,“
Bandits, boss. We scared them off
.
”

              I was pretty sure he was wrong on both counts.

              I picked my way back down the mangled slope and found Komo idly throwing stones out over the drop at nothing in particular. Over his shoulder, he said
,“
Old women, boss
,
” and he tossed out another stone.

              I forearmed sweat and dust from my face
.“
Old women, eh?

              He shrugged
.“
They did
n’
t wannna hit us, did they
?
” He couched that in his special close-of-subject tone of voice. He picked up his Savage and started back up the track
.“I’
m hungry
.
”

              I was too shattered to argue.

              We checked the Land Rover to make certain it had
n’
t taken any fatal hits. It had not been touched.

              Why was that?

              If it had been me up on that escarpment and
I’
d opened a firefight for whatever reason,
I’
d sure as hell have gone for the transport. We could have been bottled up for a very long time indeed. I could not figure it out. But there are times when inquests are indicated, and times when they are not. This seemed to be the latter case, and mainly because of the debilitating heat. So I forgot the questions.

              While Komo got the stove going I climbed down to the river to get more water. While I was at it I stripped off and had a swim. The dust and the filth of the countryside trailed after me. But the water was cool and fairly slow moving at that point, and I enjoyed myself.

              As far as it went.

              Oddly enough, despite the detonators and the wasted time and effort, and the rock up there, and the chicken-hearted sharpshooters, I was enjoying the whole useless endeavor. The past years of my life - the recent past, that was - had been one unfulfilled project after another. And it had been, it
was
, pure bliss.

              I did not think it could last indefinitely.

              The black spots in my life were the memories of how I had come by my money in the first place. Memories of blood, dead friends and wasted life. Of guns and bombs. Of ambitious men and stupid ones. Of other peopl
e’
s struggles which never came to anything. Of  well-paid butchery.

              But time was passing and the memories were getting weaker, less tangible. Dimming into a kind of obscurity. But tenaciously mnemonic for all that.

              My hands, like the basic pigment of peopl
e’
s skin, would always be the same color. Blood red.

              And Komo, apparently, was due his lucky day...

              I was out there in midstream, floating idly on my back and looking up at a sky that was so blue-white it would take your breath away, when:

              Crack!

              I knew what it was.

              I could never mistake the yap of the Savage. And I could never mistake the slap as the bullet hit the rock. I had heard that same sound too many times.

              Komo was taking another stab at being a long-distance, human detonator.

              I looked up at the overhang of the ridge, and at the mountain towering high above that, the whole shivering nervously under the pounding of that merciless sun, and I thought
,“
Komo, yo
u’
re wasting ammo
.
”

              Then I thought
,“
But what if..
.
”

              There was a second shot.

              Crack!

              Milliseconds later, if there was any separation at all, there was this anvil-clap of thunder and the ridge blossomed in a shooting cloud of dust, chippings, smoke and rock. I had time,
just,
to mouth
,“
Oh, shit
!
” before it all rained down on me.

              I flipped over and dived deep at a speed I had never achieved before, nor have since, nor ever will again. I touched muddy bottom and tried to keep on going, and all the time I was being struck by chunks of Africa. True, the smaller stuff was robbed of a lot of its velocity by the depth of water, but there were boulders out there that laughed at anything less than an ocean.

              A rock the size of a football took me on the shoulder and I was knocked all to hell. Another monster fell so close to my head that I actually heard the PLOOP! as it buried itself in the mud.

              And it kept coming.

              And coming.

              Then I ran out of puff.

              I came up at an angle, away from what I figured to be the centre of the fall. My head broke surface and I gulped down a lung-refill. I could
n’
t see because my eyes were clogged with mud. Something hit me hard over my right ear and I saw shooting white dots inside my head. I swam like hell, swooshing my face in the water to clear the mud. The stuff tasted like nothing
I’
ve ever tasted. I hit the bank and scrambled blindly up it until the cliff would not let me go any further.

              When I finally managed to get my eyes clear it was all over.

              I looked up.

              The mountain was still in place, when it should by rights have been over in Chad someplace. The overhang was there, too. And there was Kom
o’
s face peering over the ledge.

              He called
,“
You okay, boss
?
”

             
Was I okay!

              I spat out the remnants of that foul-tasting mud
.“
Komo, you bloody murderer!
I’
m going to skin you alive when I get up there
!
”

              He looked down at me
.“
Okay, boss
.
” He added
,“
You owe me the bottle
,
” and his head disappeared.

              I sat there and waited for the shivers to go away.

              We polished the bottle off between us.

              Then we spent the remaining daylight hours filling in the hole vacated by one very surprised rock. We finally got around to food pushing nine-thirty that night. Komo built and lit a fire because you need a source of heat at night out there. The heat of the day just does
n’
t seem to stick around for long. Komo was a wizard at building fires that stayed in most of the night.

              First thing next day we negotiated the Land Rover around the now not-so awkward bit and pushed on. We met a Fulani tribesman who was chivvying a couple of threadbare cows down the track to God knows where. We waved hello and he just watched us bump up past him. He had an impassive expression on his pockmarked face. I hoped that the rock was not a favorite resting-place of his.

              Then we hit the high plains.

              The high plains are just like the low plains, only higher. They are just as boulder-strewn, though perhaps not quite as hot and dusty. We saw tire tracks, wide enough to be those of a truck. They were fresh. Komo said they probably belonged to our bushwhacking rebels. We discussed that subject for a while, then forgot about it.

              We passed one village, then another.

              People came out to watch us go by.

              They waved, and we waved back. All very friendly. Like on holiday.

              At last we reached the flatlands, and grass.

              We headed south singing some inane song or other.

              Komo said that if it was okay by me h
e’
d just as soon give the plains a miss next time. I said it was okay by me.

              The rain forests came up to meet us.             

THREE:

North-east of the plains, high and low, the land is desert and stretches way over to Chad. Fall south of the plains and you are in a different world altogether. Here are the rain forests, which catch the moisture-laden air off the Bight of Biafra and the south-west coastals off the Gulf of Guinea. In these forests the natives raise their cattle, goats, maize, pigs and chickens.

              The pigs and the chickens are a hazard to driving.

              And with the kind of roads the
y’
ve got in south-east Nigeria you do
n’
t need more hazards.

              It was raining as we passed through Bell and turned west.

              Bell has a railway station, a small refinery, one or two stores and a military base of currently indeterminate provenance, that I had once lobbed mortar shells at. Aside from the military presence, it is actually quite a nice little town set in rolling countryside. It even has a vineyard. I can't remember why I was lobbing mortar shells at it. It was very early on in my mercenary career, back when I did
n’
t give a damn who, what, why or where. I had never mentioned it to Komo because I didn't think he'd understand. Besides, as it was several administrations ago in any case, it wasn't relevant. Mind you, I'm not certain it was relevant even back then

              It would be trite to say that life is one big circle made up of lots of little ones. Nevertheless, it would be true.

              We left Bell behind us and the rain stopped. There may have been a connection, I do
n’
t know. Nigeria rains when it feels like it. I do
n’
t think it gives a toss for anyone.

              Komo said he thought our bushwhackers might have been a couple of kids looking for a giggle. I did
n’
t go a bundle on that suggestion either, but I still could
n’
t come up with one of my own. The topic whiled away the time. If nothing else.

              At Gida we hit a roadblock and the soldiers made us unload the Land Rover. Then they let us load it up again. They laughed when Komo told them w
e’
d been up on the plains looking for gold. Luckily they did not ask to see his papers.

              Komo had papers, but these were not strictly legal papers. Come to that, they were
n’
t even
loosely
legal papers.

              Komo had been deported from Kenya for killing a lion with a spear. In Kenya it was illegal to do that, whether or not you did it to prove your manhood to your tribal peers.

              Like me, Komo had just sort of drifted into Nigeria.

              Unlike me, he had never so much as raised a finger against that country. Yet Komo was considered illegal. Yo
u’
ve got to stay up all night to figure this world out. Best not to bother.

              We headed southwest again.

              I was driving.

              Komo, who had been abnormally quiet since the roadblock, said
,“
You still gonna pay me, boss
?
”

              We hit a pothole and everything rattled and banged.

              I said
,“
What the hell does that mean, Komo
?
”

              He studied a broken finger nail as if h
e’
d only just noticed it
.“
You know, boss
,
” he said
,“
No gold nor nothing
.
”

              Komo had been with me for the best part of a year, and though I did
n’
t figure I knew all his angles - the Masai have this distant, unreachable streak - I thought he should have known me. With me, what you see is what you get. I gave up trying to impress people, especially friends, long ago. I took out my wallet and tossed it over to him
.“
What has no gold got to do with no wages? Take it
.
” I could
n’
t figure out why he thought he would
n’
t get his wages.

              Komo did
n’
t take it. He sat there fiddling with the wallet and mouthing the occasional word without saying anything. Another Masai trait is that they hurt easily, and for no apparent reason. Though I don't think
hurt
is the word I'm after. The thing was, you could kick Komo in the crotch and h
e’
d laugh it off somehow. Other times a blink in the wrong place would set him off. It was a hereditary thing, cultivated over a million years of tribal history. And you do
n’
t wipe that out with a few well-intentioned diatribes on the ways of the modern western world.

              I said
,“
So
?
”

              Komo shrugged
.“
What you gonna do now, boss
?
”

              Then I had it. Komo was off on his tangent again. The uniforms back at the roadblock had done it. I should have known they would. I said
,“
W
e’
ll take a few days off, then w
e’
ll see. But first we pay a visit to Freddy Garrant, eh
?
”

              I thought that last bit would cheer him up.

              I suffer from obscure depressions myself - I guess everyone does - so I had every sympathy with Komo.

              I had hired Komo to help me in this repair-shop business
I’
d started. Autos and stuff. Down in Port Harcourt. As a business venture it had been a sound enough idea, I guess.
I’
d figured to catch the white ex-patriot trade. For sure I was the only non-black in that line down there. W
e’
d done pretty well, too, at the start. It could have been a little gold mine in itself if w
e
– well,
I
- had
n’
t pratted about so much.

              We did a couple of punctures, one or two brake jobs, some electrical rewiring, even a big-end replacement that actually
worked
afterwards. Plus odds and ends. And w
e’
d had a lot of fun in the process.

              The repair shop had as many empty bottles scattered around as spanners and wrenches. What was lacking was any kind of serious effort on my part and the customers had just drifted away.

              I could
n’
t blame them.

              So
I’
d bought the Land Rover and w
e’
d spent many happy hours fitting it out for rough country. We figured to become gold miners. Which, on paper again, was not as hare-brained as it might appear. There was still gold to be found in Nigeria. People were coming in with small finds all the time.

              It was a guy called Ponce who directed us to our little slab of granite. Ponce was a Belgian who did
n’
t have any legs any more. H
e’
d lost them using questionable dynamite. Probably - but this is only a guess - supplied by Freddy Garrant. Garrant did
n’
t take the small prospectors seriously enough. He had eyes only for the big boys, the ones who dig deep and sell globally.

              We had promised Ponce a share in any finds.

              Ponce lived the best way he could down in Harcourt... (I was going to sa
y“
bumming aroun
d”
, but that could be misconstrued as some kind of a sick joke). What he did was he lived mostly off handouts from the five hundred or so French and Belgians working for Forcados Oil. He played a fair piano, so it was
n’
t all one-sided. The only thing Ponce could
n’
t hack on the piano was the pedals, so everything came out the same shade.
I’
m no great music lover, but when yo
u’
re several sheets to the wind, you do
n’
t need to be. And Ponce did his playing in places where they served the hard stuff, so that was all right.

              Yes, Ponce did okay, and he seemed happy enough despite his losses. For sure he did better than Bonny River Repairs.

              Bonny River Repairs.

              That was what Komo and I called ourselves when we were
n’
t out shooting at dynamite.

              Komo was still deep in thought.

              I once did not have a desperately high opinion of purebred Africans; probably because I never bothered to look further than the end of my nose. Komo, on a personal level at least, and by some kind of strange default, changed that. He was sure as hell my style, moods or no moods. Currently, that was. Perhaps at another time in my life he wouldn't have fitted at all, and who knew how long the current situation would last. But for the time being  we could generally laugh at the same things and the same things made us mad. And if I forgot something, Komo would not. And it could be a toss-up -
so
long as I cheated
- as to who could drink who under the table.

              Komo, like most Masai, was a vegetarian.

              I do not know their reasons.

              These people can drink milk by the gallon.

              Komo could get through 12 liters a day and still find room in there for beer and whisky. I shudder to think what chemical forces were at work in his stomach with that mix.

              Anyway, against all the odds, or because of them, we had hit it off from the word go.

              I guess it happens sometimes.

              I said
,“
What is it, Komo
?
”

              He lifted his massive shoulders
.“
I think maybe you pack up and leave now, boss
.
”

             
I’
d thought that was it. I said
,“
I already told you, you great ape. In any case, where would I go, for Chris
t’
s sake
!
”

              Komo said
,“
I dunno, boss. Back fighti
n
’ maybe
.
”

              I sighed. That was it, of course.

              A hundred years ago
I’
d been a mercenary. It was what had brought me to Africa in the first place. Direct from Bosnia.

              But a hundred years is a hundred years.

              I was not a mercenary anymore.

              Which was what I liked to think.

              I guess Komo knew me better than I knew myself.

              The big problem was
I’
d still get the occasional visit from some clown who thought I was merely taking an extended rest from the killing grounds.

              Another problem was that
I’
d been good at it.

             
I’
m not proud of that, I merely state facts.

              So they kept coming out of the woodwork. Like a few weeks ago, for instance. This guy with red hair who wanted to pay me two hundred thousand dollars for a job down in Namibia. I have to confess that I did give this one some thought. Namibia was unfinished business for me. I lost a lot of good friends down there.

             
The Keetmanshoop Retreat.

              But more about that later.

              Anyway, I told the man with red hair that I was
n’
t interested. We were on our way up to the plains in any case, which was perhaps just as well. To keep things out where they can be seen, I had told Komo about the man, the visit and the offer. He had looked at me long and hard, and I guess he saw in my eyes what I had yet to realize in my own mind. The seed was sown. And seeds germinate, wherever you throw them.              But, off we had traipsed.

              Being a mercenary had done several things for me. It had jaundiced my outlook on life in general and people in particular. It had robbed me of any real sense of purpose and direction, and it had made for me a lot of money.

              Tainted money that did
n’
t mean a whole lot.

              But money just the same. I wonder if ther
e’
s a single cent out there that
is
n’
t
tainted.