Something to Hide (22 page)

One of the men squeezes in next to us. I can smell his fear too, or maybe it's the excitement of the chase. We're animals, trapped. The other one gets into the driving seat and, after a few false starts, fires up the engine.

The weird thing is, I'm more angry than frightened. How dare they! What impertinence – I'm
English
. They're just a bunch of silly boys, and they're all more frightened than me. Well, somebody's got to stay calm and that's what we British are good at.

Or maybe it's just the ludicrousness of the situation. I can't get a grip on it – that I'm in the middle of nowhere with four men, two of whom are possibly murderous, in a minibus paid for by an adulterous love affair, and we're driving to the headquarters of an international ivory-smuggling operation where I might be shot dead.

Like the elephants.
They can take out a whole group of tuskers at a time. Kerpow!
I remember that photo of Bomi, collapsed on his knees, his legs folded on either side and his face missing. How could they?
How could they
?

The tro-tro jerks to a halt outside the building. It looks like a warehouse. Various men have stopped their work and stand around, staring at us. The driver orders us out; there's a proprietorial swagger to him now he's back amongst his mates. Actually I
am
afraid – of course I am – because my bowels have turned to liquid.

‘I need a toilet,' I say loudly. ‘
Toilet.
'

Nobody responds. I'm gripped with panic; they're just standing there haplessly. Oh God, it's worse than fear – much worse. What am I going to do, pull down my knickers and squat in front of them?

Clarence comes to my rescue. He says something in Ngoti and one of them must understand because he jerks his head for me to follow him. He's very thin and wears a stained khaki shirt and trousers. We go round to the back of the building and he points to a small privy made of breeze-blocks. It stands well away from the building, next to a heap of rubbish and a trolley piled with boxes.

I stumble inside and pull the door closed. The stench is overpowering. In the gloom I can make out a portable loo. Averting my eyes, I open the lid and wrench down my jeans. As the shit streams out of me I feel around for some paper.

There's none. Once my eyes get used to the dark I spot an empty cardboard roll lying on the floor.

I sit there, frozen with horror. What the hell am I going to do? I break into a sweat, my whole body blushing with shame. It's funny, isn't it? One day I'll be able to laugh at this, if I ever get out of here alive. For I'd gladly slaughter an elephant if I could only wipe my bum.

And then I remember a little pack of Kleenex I bought at Heathrow Airport. Rummaging in my handbag, I find it. Never has my hand closed around anything more precious. As I tear it open I'm actually humming
Jesu, Joy of Man's Desiring
.

I emerge from the toilet, spitting on my hands and wiping them on my jeans. When I look around I see that the man has gone.

The laden trolley is nearby. Its boxes are tethered with netting – ready, no doubt, to be loaded onto the plane. They're printed with M & B EXPORTS and their lids are nailed down.

I see two more boxes, however, stacked against the back wall of the warehouse, next to a humming generator. The lid of the top one is loose. A hammer lies on the ground; maybe someone stopped work when we arrived.

I step over to it and lift the lid. At first I see nothing but a thick layer of straw. I plunge in my hand and rummage around, as if I'm in a hen-house searching for eggs.

And then my fingers touch something smooth. It gives me a jolt. Feverishly I push back the straw.

It's odd, isn't it? However much you imagine something, it still gives you a surprise. The tusks are bigger than I expected, and dirtier. They're stained nicotine brown, like a smoker's teeth, and lined in a curved row, spooning each other. For a moment I can't connect them to elephants at all.

I hear footsteps approaching. It's Clarence.

‘Look at these!' I whisper.

He doesn't react – maybe because he knew about it anyway. He's breathing heavily, his lungs wheezing. ‘The boss wants to speak to you,' he mutters.

We enter the warehouse. It's cavernous and largely empty. In the harsh strip light I see some dismantled plane parts – a wing and fuselage – and a heap of tyres and rusting machinery. More boxes are stacked against the wall, half-draped in tarpaulin. Various men are standing around, Chika amongst them. He gives me a beseeching look whilst running a hand through his luxuriant locks. How very young he is, the poor boy, trembling like a gazelle in his Keep Calm and Carry On T-shirt!

A corner is partitioned off to make an office. Behind the window sits the man who's presumably the boss. He's Chinese, and wears gold-rimmed glasses and a shiny city suit. His briefcase sits on the desk; I suspect he's just flown in, on that plane.

He's squat and ugly and talking on his mobile. For a while he takes no notice of me. Don't you hate it when men do that? As he jabbers away he beckons to me to come in and sit down. I don't move.

I try to picture Jeremy behind that desk. I have no idea what his role was, of course, or what he actually did here. Now I'm in this place I can't connect it to him.
But you were here, weren't you?
Sitting behind that desk?
He's vanished from my head, however, and I can ask him nothing.

My bowels are growling, yet again. To keep my nerve I silently recite the names of my classmates in primary school – Janie Simpson, Toby Littlejohn, Jackie Adams – willing the Chinese man to admit he's beaten and get to his feet.

And he does. It's a small triumph but a triumph all the same. He rises from his desk and walks over to me. He's tiny! A waddling, pugnacious little frog. No wonder he didn't want to stand up; he only reaches my chin.

‘Good afternoon, madam,' he says. ‘May I ask your business here?'

‘May I ask yours?'

He doesn't respond. Suddenly my hatred explodes. Hatred for him and his obscene trade; hatred for Jeremy; hatred for myself and my pitiful little life. Nobody knows I'm here and nobody cares. I'll die alone with nobody's arms around me. And who cares about the elephants? They're being slaughtered in industrial numbers and soon there'll be none left. My grandchildren will only know them from picture books. What's the point of being in this world?

‘I'm going to report you!' I shout. ‘I'm going to report you to the police!'

Behind me, the men shift. That's a word they recognize.

‘The police, dear madam?'

‘They'll come and put you in prison!'

‘I beg your pardon, but you're obviously unacquainted with this country.'

‘I'll report you to the authorities,' I splutter. ‘I'll report you to the British Consul! I have friends in the highest places and I've already phoned them, they'll be here soon!' I'm shouting at him but the truth hits me: I'm really shouting at Jeremy. ‘What you're doing is criminal! I'll get you all put in prison where you'll be sodomized and serve you fucking right!'

Behind me, the men are murmuring uneasily. They seem to understand what I'm saying.

Does their boss look unnerved? If he does, it's passed in a flash. ‘My dear lady, I have no idea what you're talking about.'

‘Yes you do. You're poaching elephants and selling their ivory.'

‘I beg your pardon?'

‘I'm a friend of Mr Payne and I know what you're doing.'

‘My Payne?'

‘Mr Jeremy Payne!'

‘I've never heard of a Mr Payne.'

‘Oh yeah? Expect me to believe that?'

‘It's the truth.'

‘You're a liar and you're selling ivory. I've seen a whole bloody box of it.'

‘Madam, you're mistaken. I'm a businessman, working hard in a legitimate enterprise to bring prosperity to this country.' He turns to one of the men and says: ‘Bintu, be so good as to show the lady our product.'

Another very thin, very black man turns to one of the workers and barks out an order. The man goes over to the boxes and heaves one down.

I walk over and he pulls off the lid. Inside there's a layer of straw. I push it aside. Beneath it nestles a row of bananas. They're packed tightly, spooned together.

‘As I said, you're mistaken,' says the Chinese man, his glasses glinting. ‘But I do suggest you take care. This is a dangerous place for a lady like yourself – these tribal people are not to be trusted. Now, would you and your companions care for a Pepsi-Cola before you leave?'

‘I'm going to report you!' I shout, turning away. As I walk off, accompanied by Clarence and Chika, I take out my phone and punch in a random number. The men gape at me as I shout into its silence. ‘Is that the President's office? I want to report a criminal gang, please call out the army!'

It's ludicrous; I feel like an actress in a bad melodrama but I don't care. We're getting out of here alive. And I
will
report them. When I get back to Oreya I'll phone the British Consul and tell him about this place. It's too late to punish Jeremy but not too late to arrest the Chinese man.

And I've certainly spooked his workforce. They looked pretty nervous to me. As we bundle ourselves into the tro-tro I hear raised voices and shouting.

Then Clarence starts the engine and we drive off at speed, bumping over the grass and scattering the herd of goats.

I'm thinking about Jeremy pushing that car into the river. Afterwards, he said, he couldn't believe he'd done it. That moment of impulse lived in its own bubble, disconnected from his normal life.

I feel the same way. Who was that woman, shouting at a bunch of elephant poachers like the headmistress of Cheltenham Ladies College? I'm utterly exhausted. There's no question of returning to Oreya tonight. It's already dark when we get back to Manak; we'll have to postpone it until the morning.

There's nobody around. When darkness falls, Africans melt back into their unknowable lives. The sky is thick with stars, however, in the limb-loosening desire of the ambrosial night, and its beauty suddenly pricks my eyes with tears. How wonderful it is, to be alive! What a miracle life is, and how fragile! I'm swept by a wave of euphoria that includes my trusty companions, Clarence and Chika, in its embrace. We're an unlikely threesome, to put it mildly, but we're bonded for life; nobody in the world will know what we've been through.

Not surprisingly, the two of them are shaken by what's happened. I've tried to explain about the box of tusks, the whole poaching racket, but they haven't taken that in; it's the guns that have freaked them out.

And I can't speak to Jeremy – not just now. I can't bear to hear his voice, his blustering explanations and excuses. He must be feeling the same way because he has faded into the ether like a lost radio signal.
You coward.

Chika fetches some bottles of beer and we sit in the darkness knocking it back. They both express admiration for my alcoholic intake and ask if all Englishwomen are the same. Pretty soon, due to our empty stomachs, we're pleasantly inebriated. Chika talks about his past clients; the Japanese, apparently, have the most bizarre demands, a fact that doesn't surprise me. He also mentions that they're poorly-endowed. Clarence is so drunk that he doesn't shrink away in horror; in fact he lolls against the comely rent-boy and is soon snoring. This extraordinary day seems to have melted all sorts of barriers – globalization in action, fuelled by Lion Lager.

Hassan appears and summons us to dinner. We eat in a spartan dining hut with the other helpers – Sindy, a silent pair of vegetarians from Norway, an ageing hippie from Scunthorpe and a blonde French girl who's just arrived and who's suffering from sunburn. There's an idealistic glow to them that makes me feel withered and cynical. Hassan himself used to be a banker – aha, this explains the Range Rover – but he chucked it in to devote himself to this charity. Like Jeremy, he had a Road to Damascus moment.

That was genuine in Jeremy's case too, I'm sure of it. He truly believed that Zonac was behaving immorally; that's why he stepped over to the other side. At what moment did he become corrupted? He was involved, I'm ninety per cent certain. There was a flicker, behind those gold-rimmed glasses, when I mentioned his name.

We eat a leaden vegetable lasagne. I've decided not to mention today's discovery and I've urged Clarence and Chika to do the same. I'm not sure of my motives for this. Maybe I don't want to open up the festering wound that is Jeremy. Maybe I don't want to embroil them in something that's beyond their control. They need to concentrate on their work; this is challenging, to say the least, seeing as most of the Kikanda men have disappeared back into the bush. They're fighting a losing battle but have to keep up a front, not only for their own morale but to secure future funding. Hassan must be aware of the poaching, and it's his business whether he's told them about it or not. No doubt it's safer to turn a blind eye. I've done what I had to do and tomorrow I'll be out of here.

Clarence sleeps in the tro-tro. I've told him this is not a good idea; our vehicle is only too recognizable and those men surely know where we are. I've realized that the emptiness of this landscape is an illusion; there are people living and hunting here who know every inch of this area. They're as invisible, however, as the animals.

I share a room with the French girl, who's called Marie-Louise. She talks in excitable broken English about her first impressions of Africa – the poverty, the costumes, the sunsets! She says how cheerful the children seem compared to European ones, how you never hear them crying. She even loves banku, the tasteless local porridge made from fermented cassava. Her enthusiasm makes me feel like an old hand. She's impressed by the enormous burdens that women carry around on their heads.