Out of Shadows (29 page)

And there, on the end of the last pew right at the back, was Ivan, watching with more intent than most and with a distinct grin on his lips.

He probably saved my life
. That's the irony of it.

By coming in when he did, Mr. Mugabe inadvertently made Pitters rush back into position instead of finishing me off. Maybe Pitters thought he'd done enough, or that Ivan would somehow know he wasn't getting on with the job. Either way, Mr. Mugabe saved me by making himself the target.

The organ rose, a forceful heroic piece of music, which I'm sure the prime minister had insisted upon. He wasn't a big man, in fact he was dwarfed by the giants behind that were his bodyguards. True as that was, there was a something that made him impossible to ignore. He wore an impeccable light gray suit, and he came slowly, in his own time, his face high and unflinching as he looked out from behind those TV-screen glasses at the sea of mostly white faces.

What was everyone thinking? In hindsight, I've often asked myself this. Whatever it was, he met their gaze with the unwavering tenderness we'd only seen on posters, across television screens, in papers. Paternal, almost. He was their ally, it said. Their guardian. Once an enemy of the white
government, true, but now an equal friend to black and white alike. They had nothing to fear because he meant no harm; he wanted what was good for them and the country. It had been over seven years since the end of the war, so surely they could see that by now?

Pittman could see everything that was going on, staring at it down the barrel of the gun as he kneeled on one knee like a soldier. Mugabe grew steadily larger in his sights. He had a clear line, he could take the shot at any time, but he wanted to be sure. He also wanted it to look good. He'd let him get right to the front, turn, face the congregation, then . . .

“Pittman.”

Pitters blinked like he was coming out of a dream: had he heard something?

He lowered the gun.

He turned to me, or to where he'd left me. And then, realizing, to where I actually was, right over his shoulder. His eyes widened with genuine surprise, his mouth forming a silent O. Quickly, quicker than I thought he could, he moved to regain firing position but already my arm was in motion. It arced though the air, followed by an abrupt stop.

Pittman's head bounced against the wall. He snarled like an injured animal, pulled the trigger, slumped, and finally collapsed forward without resistance.

The prime minister's head bowed as he went down, one hand flashing the shape of the crucifix across his chest.

Pause.

Then he was up again, his Catholic duty in front of the altar fleeting. Bully showed him to his seat.

Behind the pipes, I bowed my own head to the bullet still in my hand. If Pittman had seen me take it from the chamber, all it would have taken was a quick back and forward of the
bolt to bring the next round up. But he hadn't realized, and so with those few seconds of extra time I'd managed to return the favor and save Mr. Mugabe's life right back.

I took the rifle from under Pittman's inert body, removed the rest of the ammo, damaged the firing pin, and left him to wake up in his own time into whatever nightmare he would find.

I slid out of the vestry door and made room for myself at the edge of the choir stalls, sorting out my shirt and tie and cleaning my face. The boys there stared though they didn't say anything as Bully worked his way into the proceedings.

“. . . and it is of course with extreme pleasure and gratitude that we welcome our esteemed guest today . . .”

I eased forward to snatch a daring peek at Ivan. His face was buried under an impatient frown as he peered up to the organ pipes. His lips moved soundlessly.

Come on, come on . . .

His eyes dropped to me, and it must have been written all over me because he seemed to understand exactly what had happened. His face transformed, but for the first time I wasn't scared. I was shaking loose.

His mouth flatlined, hard and straight.

“. . . I know I speak on behalf of everyone here when I say we are—truly—thankful, Prime Minister, that you have been able to find time in what I know must be an extremely busy and important schedule . . .”

Ivan looked lost for a moment. Like his world was falling away from beneath him. But then, slowly, the corner of this mouth started to rise again and any uncertainty on his side had gone. I tried to pretend it hadn't but I could feel it happening. My own self-assurance ebbed. What could he do? I wondered. There was no one else.

Was there?

Ivan's smile was broad. For one last time, he seemed to know what was going on in my mind and peeled open his
blazer enough to reveal the handle of an automatic pistol sticking out of his pocket, no doubt the exact one he and I had fired a million lifetimes ago on his farm. He'd held it back, stolen it from his old man . . . He'd planned this day for too long to let it slip him by.

“. . . So without further ado I now call upon Head Boy, Ivan Hascott, to start the speeches and officially welcome our special guest.”

Bully moved aside and ignited the applause.

The prime minister uncrossed his legs and stood.

Ivan pulled his blazer tight, buttoned it, and finger combed his hair.

I had no time to think. I'm not even sure it was a conscious decision to jump to my feet and walk forward, I simply did it.

Bully was the first to notice me coming and his expression suddenly became a very different one, somewhere between surprise and extreme annoyance, but he kept on clapping because the prime minister's bodyguards didn't know better, and nor did Mr. Mugabe himself, who was looking at me with his arm outstretched. I could see Bully wondering what to do about this but already it had gone beyond that as I accepted Mr. Mugabe's hand.

His fingers enveloped mine, his hold firm, and as he took control of the movement, pushing my arm down subtly yet surely, he noticed the state of my clothes and face. Even so, his stance was unwavering, and without letting go he spoke under the applause.

“I have heard many great things about you,” he spoke softly. “I am told you are the son of a farmer.”

I nodded.

He leaned in closer and smothered my hand with the both of his as he smiled. And I winced.

At the far end of the chapel, a cry permeated the air. Soft at
first, growing louder. The clapping petered out until there was only the cry, rising from the depths of Ivan's hell.

Everyone turned.

Ivan was running down the aisle, one hand reaching into his blazer as the word resonated.

“
Nooo!
”

He came quickly and aggressively, shouting. My mouth went dry as I took an involuntary step in front of Mr. Mugabe, but now the bodyguards were spurred into action and closed a tight circle around Ivan before he even had a chance to reveal the gun. They grabbed him with rough hands and managed to bustle him back and out of the main doors without his feet touching the ground.

All the while, Ivan shouted and kicked and screamed.

“
Get your filthy hands off me. Let me go. Don't you see? Put me down, you black . . .
”

The exit was shut and his voice cut off. There was the noise of a scuffle, the bellow of one of the bodyguards, then nothing.

A mutter gradually filled the chapel. Robert Mugabe brushed down his suit, discarded me and returned to his seat. He managed to appear as though nothing had happened, yet I caught him blaze a look at Bully that could have melted rocks.

Mr. Bullman broke out into a sweat.

“Ladies and gentlemen.” He raised his hands, shaking visibly. “Please, ladies and gentlemen, everything is under control,” he said, because he thought it was.

They dragged Ivan down the chapel steps, across the sun-bleached grass and away. They'd already vanished from sight before I managed to get outside. I only knew where they were from the disbelieving gazes of all the juniors.

I raced after them, not knowing what I was going to do, only that I had to.

Behind the library I found two of the bodyguards crouching while the third lay panting in the dust, clutching his groin. He groaned and yelled, and the other two yelled back. None of them seemed worried about Ivan, only I was as he darted across the lower playing fields. He was getting away.

I kept on chasing. He didn't get far, though, because a soldier was running from the other direction to cut him off. He made Ivan kneel in the middle of the grass. When I caught up I saw it was the same soldier who'd confronted me earlier, already jabbing the Kalashnikov at me, too, as he tumbled from whatever he'd been smoking and into a swirl of paranoia.

“Down! Get down!” His hands didn't know who to point the gun at. Then he seemed to remember my face and settled on me. “Do as I say, do as I say!”

I obeyed without hesitation.

“He's got a weapon,” I tried.

The soldier looked confused and split his guard between us. Ivan grabbed his chance.

“He's lying.
He's
got the gun. He tried to kill the prime minister. He did it.”

“No, he's the liar. Check his pockets if you don't believe me.”

“Don't believe him. Look, they're all after him.”

From one. To the other. To the other. In the end the soldier chose me and shouted.

“
I am watching you
.”

“No, I'm not the one . . .”

“I will
shoot
.” He raised the Kalashnikov. “I will shoot and kill you dead.”

Ivan began to stand.

“
Both of you
. Stay still.”

“But I'm innocent.” Ivan raised his hands. “You've got the right guy there.”

“I am warning you.”

“But . . .”

“
Stay!
”

Ivan turned on me. “This is all your fault.” He took a furious step, coming between me and the soldier. “I could have done it by now.”

Behind him, the soldier hopped to keep me in his sights.

“Why did you stop me?” Ivan thrust a finger in my face. Was all this another ruse? No, the anger was genuine, he couldn't have faked that.

“Out of the way,” the soldier ordered.

Ivan ignored him.

“Well, I'm not giving in. I have to do it. I have to go back and get him. Don't you see? It's what everybody wants,” he told me. He took a deep breath, and then the smile returned. He gave me the Ivan Hascott wink and I saw his hand reaching into his pocket. His fingers wrapped around metal. “But first this stupid Kaffir deserves a hole in the head, don't you think?”

He turned quickly.

“
No!
” I yelled.

The bullet hit the soldier with enough force to knock him down, his arms spinning. His Kalashnikov flew through the air. He wasn't dead, though, and he rolled onto his front and started to drag himself with eyes bulging. He made short gasping noises.

Ivan stood over him. Over on the edge of the field I was aware of people running, getting nearer.

“You see?
Kaffirs
: too stupid. If he was white I'd quite rightly be dead by now.”

He pointed his gun at the back of the soldier's skull and braced himself for the shot.

I'm not sure I remember actually picking up the Kalashnikov
from the grass, just that it was in my hands with smoke drifting from the barrel. The echo of an explosion was in my ears, and Ivan was staggering backward as though he had been yanked by something invisible.

He gazed at me stupidly with a thousand and one questions in his face. Then at the small hole in the shoulder of his blazer. A second later, a small spot of dark appeared on the blue material, expanding slowly.

“What the”—the pain started to creep in on him—“
fuck
?”

My head spun. The metal of the Kalashnikov was searing and cold against my fingers.

“I can't let you do it,” I told him.

“But . . .” he grimaced. The pistol hung limply from the end of his lifeless arm, he grabbed it with his left hand and waved it about to make his point. “Don't you get it? After everything I've told you?”

“Yes, I get it. I get everything. You're the one who doesn't.”

He let my words sink in, then twisted his mouth and pointed his pistol straight at me. I could see right down the barrel. It was deep and black. Sweat ran into my eyes.

“I almost admire you, Jacko. But you're fighting for the wrong side.”

“There are no sides. Not anymore. Can't you see that what you're doing is all wrong?” I said. And I remembered what a friend of mine by the name of Nelson Ndube had once told me. “Wars should be about putting an
end
to a wrong, not making a new one.”

His head shook from side to side. He reasserted his grip around the butt of the gun and held it steady.

“Stupid Pommie bastard.”

A second crack punctured the air.

I stumbled, expecting pain yet finding none. I looked up, and it was Ivan who was tottering on his feet. His mouth was
wide-open. He blinked slowly, looking at me, though I think he'd worked out what was happening before I had, a glimmer of sadness drowning in frustrated, undiluted anger. Because that's all it ever was: anger, with no place to put it.

“You . . .” he started.

The bodyguard shouted as he charged near. Ivan swung the gun that way, and the bodyguard dropped and fired another shot. Ivan folded at the hips as a flash of red flew out of the back of his blazer. Now there was only disbelief in him. He turned, barely in control yet managing to get upright.

“You . . .”

The bodyguard readied himself again, one eye closed, but his gun clicked harmlessly onto a jammed chamber.

Ivan landed his sights on me.

The Kalashnikov jumped in my hands and the final bullet punched into Ivan's chest. He fell backward and landed on the ground as if at the top of a sit-up, with legs straight and arms limply by his sides.