Rift (4 page)

Murothi dropped the papers back on the table. He thought, DC Meshami was made angry by Elisa Strutton. By that peculiar complacency of hers. Is it this woman’s ignorance that has produced this disaster?

Suddenly the closeness of wall and roof in the stuffy little room was insufferable; Murothi pushed out, trying to halt the rush of dread and dismay that threatened to cloud his brain.

A sudden breeze lifted the flag, brought the acrid smoke of a charcoal fire, the aroma of maize porridge, the chirp of a child’s voice. Life on the compound, after all! Tinny music from a transistor radio floated on the air, and now Murothi spotted the handful of huts behind a sisal hedge at the rear of the compound. Where the families lived, he guessed. A child was
peeping through the hedge. At sight of Murothi he ran back, calling. A moment later he emerged, chickens scattering ahead of him, all concentration on carrying a mug without spilling. He handed it up solemnly and scurried back, and Murothi could hear more voices: the woman’s and the answering deeper tones of several men.

He sipped the tea, grateful for its hot sweetness, and freshened by the breeze playing swiftly through the yard, humming in the wires of the dog enclosure, rattling dry fronds in the roofs. He watched a man rush from the huts, pulling on the uniform shirt of a constable, saluting Murothi army-style, grinning, hurrying towards the office. And then the child again, in baggy school shorts, cloth bag bouncing on his back, shouting eagerly to other children waiting by the road. Yesterday Murothi had spotted the school on an expanse of dusty grass by the landing strip. Several miles away. An hour’s walk: the small green-clad children were running now. It was already hot, and the sun was still low in the sky –

Children
missing.
Children.
That is the task.
Children.
And a young woman. Except for Silowa, they knew nothing about this land, could not possibly walk even a mile in such heat without becoming ill. If they had survived till now, how much longer could they? He could not even picture this
Chomlaya
– a
long brown snake on the map, high rocks rising from the paler cream of the surrounding terrain.

Nearly three days
now since the first alert from the camp at its base. The youngsters could have been gone as much as eight hours by then. Perhaps more!
Nothing
seen of them since, except the miraculous reappearance of Joe, in a place he should not be, a place he almost could not be.

I do not know how the boy could reach the other side of Chomlaya without help,
DC Meshami had said.
He could not climb over the ridge – it defies belief. The rocks are ten miles long, in parts very wide across, in parts like a knife edge. Only experienced climbers with ropes and equipment could scale them. It is difficult to travel on foot round the base of the ridge. Our air searches have covered 1,600 square miles, in case these students travelled by vehicle. But we found no vehicle tracks near the north face of the rocks
–

Murothi jumped as, from inside the office, windows were flung open and the telephone rang, shrill and emphatic. Swiftly he drained the last of the tea and, in his room again, sifted through the files and other things taken from the camp by the DC’s team. Photos. A large notebook with a red plastic cover decorated with drawings.
The Book Of Days
was printed across the cover. It was the students’ camp journal. He had already
read it, but he picked it up again and flicked through, stopping at the last entry, the day of the disappearances,

24 February. Nathan (Antelopes).

Stuck in camp. No one gets to move! Anna, Matt, Joe NOWHERE! S is blaming everyone else (surprise surprise). Really BIG argument with B. B wants to call for help on radio – S says he’s making a fuss about nothing! B won (for a change). Good thing he came back with the Buffalos from the hot springs, so there’s more of us and maybe NOW they’ll let us go and look.

Everyone’s calling! More later . . .

There wasn’t. After that,
The Book Of Days
was blank. There was no mention of the disappearance of Ella’s sister.

He turned back a page to the entry on the day before. Different writer.

23 February. Tamara (Buffalos).

We all had to get up in the dark for breakfast at first light and the Buffalos were supposed to be ready to leave for the trip to Lengoi Hot Springs but then Guess Who? got thrown off at the last minute! Miss Strutton picked out Katra and Andy and Phil from the Antelopes to go instead, and they hadn’t got packed, so we hung about, played cards, got bored, got more bored, played more cards. When they were ready eventually it was them and the rest of the
Buffalos plus Mr Boyd and Miss Milton and Mr Derby and Tomis, to guide us. Mr Derby’s got to help the driver, David, by driving one of the trucks, so I hope he knows what he’s doing! It’s going to take five or even six hours to get there and it’ll be very bumpy because we aren’t going on any road and we have to cross the river and there’s no bridge or anything so we have to find the right bit or we’ll get stuck in the river sand, and we had to pack lots of extra rope and shovels and sacks and planks in case we need them for pulling us out. I’ll write all about it when we get back.

There was no record of who had given this to the police. But it must have been a student: this was definitely not for teachers’ eyes. Murothi glanced further back through several pages, and a name stopped him. Anna.
The vanished girl.
He hadn’t registered the entry before, and was at once annoyed with himself.

He read it now, with extra care.

Second night: bat alert in our tent. The way Candy and Janice shrieked you’d have thought it was an attack by lions. Tomis got it out, and in the morning there were bat droppings all over, poor thing must have been terrified. Then C and J fouled up the stream with a bathload of SHAMPOO AND SOAP. Mr Boyd told them to clear it up. Miss Strutton said it was INTERFERENCE WITH HER
PLAN FOR THE DAY. So the froth sat there drying in the reeds, filthy and grotesque. Mr Boyd was volcanic! He stomped off to do it himself. Charly went to help. So a few of us gave them a hand. Miss Strutton said it was a BREACH OF INSTRUCTIONS and went round with a face like a squashed tomato. She’s plotting PUNISHMENTS now. For Mr B too.

Murothi reread it several times. Then he flipped through the pages, looking for any other comments from her. None.

None from Joe or Matt, either.

He was getting a picture of something prickly and unsettled that he had not felt so strongly before. But there was nothing tangible, nothing he could grasp as a direction to follow.

There was another book, black, hardback, written tersely and methodically and always in the same handwriting, called
CHOMLAYA LOG.
It detailed the members of the Antelopes and Buffalos respectively, their activities and whereabouts each day.

He checked it for the date of
The Book Of Days
entry by Tamara – 23 Feb:

BUFFALOS

Leaders: Ian Boyd, Helen Milton, Keith Derby.

Departure 0700.

Overnight camp at Lengoi Hot Springs. Return due 24/2, 16.00.

ANTELOPES

Leaders: Elisa Strutton, Kathleen Hopper, Lawrence Sharp. Remain at Chomlaya Camp. Writing up last week’s activities. Preparations for archaeological field trip and Burukanda Competition.

It was always signed ‘ES’. Elisa Strutton. Also presumably the ‘S blaming everyone else’ mentioned in Nathan’s entry who had the ‘really big argument with B’. B would be the teacher Ian Boyd. In the Chomlaya Log, Murothi noted, there was no mention of any swapping of people on the Buffalos’ trip to Lengoi, or the later-than-planned departure. This was less than accurate, in fact
careless
, from a person who claimed to be so concerned about record-keeping and responsibilities. There was also nothing at all noted in this book on the day of the disappearances itself, 24 February –

Unexpectedly came a glimpse of a trail across the surface of all these other people’s words. Urgently, he must find a way to hold it, like setting the plaster cast of a footprint in sand! He shuffled books and folders together, making a quick mental list. First, back to the hospital, speak to Joe. Yesterday, when DC
Meshami tried to question him:
Did you leave together? Did you cross the stream?
not a single question was answered. The boy, it seemed, did not even remember leaving the tents! What could dig such a hole in a youngster’s memory?

Next, tackle the DC: if these lost people were to be found – found
in time
– he and DC Meshami must share ideas, not peck and tear at the mystery from rival sides, like vultures –

He stopped.
Why
did his head bring him these pictures, with their mood of death and decay?

A plan
was
taking shape: suddenly he felt heartened. Rapidly he washed and changed his clothes. Next target: get to Chomlaya. It struck him with the force of sun breaking through cloud that he should take Joe back with him. The sight of Chomlaya again – could this loosen the boy’s mind?
If
the boy is well enough,
if
the doctor agrees.

Get the DC’s approval. Murothi did not need his permission, but it would be polite,
respectful
, to get his approval.

Finally, he came to thoughts of Ella again – to her small, pale, obstinate face, to her probable terrors at this place, Nanzakoto, which he himself, an African, found strange and alarming enough.

How will I ever be able to tell her, if I have to, that her only sister will never return?

Ella marched furiously down the corridor.
We are not a hotel!
It wasn’t so much the nurse’s scalding tongue that upset her; mostly, she was angry at herself. Why did she flee from Joe like that? Squandering the chance to talk to him on her own – probably the only chance she’d get.

Around her, doors banged, water gurgled, half-heard conversations in unknown languages floated down passageways. She reached the end of the corridor and a door held open with buckets of mops and disinfectant bottles. Through it, and she was in a large, paved yard; the clanks and clinks of kitchen work drifted through open windows to one side. Ranks of sheets hung on drying lines and a woman was pegging them out, making a sing-song whistling though her teeth as she moved. She smiled at Ella, bending to her task in a calming rhythmic flow: bend, lift, peg; bend, lift.

This side of the hospital’s a better place to wait, Ella thought, looking west towards the mountains: away from sight of the ridges of Chomlaya and the helicopters flying over them.

She stepped out from the shade of the doorway. The air had
lost its moisture. In the fields behind the hospital there was the shimmer of heat – a rippling wrinkle in the bright air – and the rising shrill of insects. The land spread flat and yellow-brown and unchanging until in the far distance it climbed into the mauves and purples of the mountains. From the little plane she’d seen them clearly, fold on delicate fold on the skyline, their peaks circled by pale cloud, their toes deep in forested foothills.

On the other side of those mountains was the border, Inspector Murothi said. Hundreds of miles away. The taxi driver in Ulima said some people believed the vanished foreigners had been kidnapped by soldiers from over there –
that country where terrible, terrible things are happening, just to think of it is enough to make a man lie shivering in his bed.

Suddenly Ella wanted to run back to the room with Joe, the only person who could say whether Charly’s absence was
anything
to do with his own. She couldn’t believe they weren’t connected, after seeing that photo of them all in the camp.
What’ll I do if Joe doesn’t remember?
The inspector said the others probably went off for some reason, had an accident, and Charly maybe went looking for them. But alone? Charly? She never took risks that weren’t calculated.
Charly
leaving without warning? Telling no one? Not a
single
message?

The sun burned. She could feel it pulsate like a live thing on her shoulders, scorching bare skin at her neck. Sweat trickled below her shirt. She was badly prepared for this, dry-mouthed already. She backed towards the doorway, into shade narrowing with the sharpening angle of the rays.

She was still clutching her sister’s letters and emails. She’d told the inspector she had them and he’d asked to see them. But when would he get here? Half past eight at the latest, he’d promised – twenty minutes to go. Then I’ll
make
him help me get to Chomlaya. Today. Now.

For perhaps the hundredth time since she’d left London, she unfolded the bundle of papers and lost herself in her sister’s words.

From: [email protected]

To: el[email protected]

Sent: Tuesday, 14 February, 2006 16:40

Subject: Notes from Chomlaya

Hi Elly! Amazed to get this? Made some good friends in the archaeology camp at Burukanda – offered me use of their internet connection through Ulima Uni. They see me worrying about Little Sister! So, get to use their computer at Burukanda, put stuff on disk – gets emailed from Ulima when they go for supplies. I’ll try and write something every few days or so –
letters will be slower – I posted one the day before yesterday.

EMAIL BACK, ELLY, SO I KNOW EVERYTHING’S OK?

Here’s the game plan: this first week, mainly getting acclimatised (the heat’s ferocious). Some trips along the ridge of Chomlaya + to see the archaeology at Burukanda. Over next 2 weeks there’ll be overnight expeditions further afield, and to where we’ll be staying to do the labouring work in the 2nd half of the trip. Tomis (he’s a ranger here) has been filling me in on the background to it all. Apparently there’s serious conflict between herders + their goats and cattle on one hand, and wild animals on the other. They’re in competition for the plains – antelope, zebra, buffalo, giraffe etc munch up all-too precious grass, predators threaten people and livestock. So the whole touristy thing with wild animals isn’t too popular for people who make a living in the areas (+ Big Money to be made in poaching). Enticing prospect when you’re regularly going hungry, as people do here, particularly if the rains fail again. Kasinga (where we’re going) is one of the places trying to find an answer. Local community runs tourist things itself for itself, earns income from it, has a stake in conserving animals. That’s how it’s SUPPOSED to work. In Kasinga they’ve
earned enough to build a small secondary school (two classrooms and an office – there’s already a primary school), sink wells, dam part of the river, put in irrigation to nearby fields. Which is where we come in – helping dig foundations for the school and the wells.

Most of the kids are keen, though a few are expending enough energy to sink 10 wells arguing that not everyone should do it + impressively imaginative on alternatives – like a spell on the coast ‘researching’, no doubt by the sea under palm trees.

So, we’ll be spending 10 days hard labour in Kasinga later on, beginning of March (don’t know if I’ll be able to email from there). Then back at Chomlaya for the final week.

We’re SORT OF getting into gear for life in the wild – slowly! Whole day spent sorting out ‘toilets’! Digging long trenches, leaving soil piled up behind. When you’ve used ‘toilet’, you tip soil over with a spade – the ‘flush’ system! We dug the 1st trench too close to the stream (Our Leader knew exactly how to do it – she Has Views on Such Matters, even when she’s out of her depth, literally! Wouldn’t listen to advice from Tomis and Likon – he’s the other ranger). Surprise surprise – trench fills with water from below! Had to start again, already tired, got slower and slower, finished too late in
dark, still had to erect tents over it. Endless groans from kids (some) and teachers (some) about the labour. Wonder what they thought they’d be doing here?

There was a rumble of wheels, and Ella looked up from her reading. A man trundling a trolley stacked with large metal urns from the kitchen: breakfast for the wards, she guessed. She checked her watch: nearly twenty past eight, Inspector Murothi might be here already –

She stuffed the emails into her pocket and hurried back down the corridor, through the side-door and into the main hospital. And there she halted suddenly, mid-stride, facing a framed newspaper cutting on the wall. ‘Minister Opens New Health Centre’, was the heading.

She’d seen it last night. The memory brought a sharp flush to her face: on the way to Joe’s room, the young nurse, Pirian, scornful, tapping the glass.
Aha! Smart picture, hey? Smart Minister at very smart new hospital. Beautiful new building!

Startled, Ella had paused, mesmerised by Pirian’s emphatic finger,
Tap-tap, tap-tap
: See here? Aids! Measles!
Tap-tap
. Tuberculosis, malaria, burns, snake bites, buffalo-goring, children crushed by an elephant! We can deal with everything, the Minister says!
Tap-tap
. No problem, he says! We have no money, antibiotics, ointments, vaccines. Of course the Minister of Miracles
does nothing about this (he is a very busy man). But he leaves us a nice picture to show that he came all the way to Nanzakoto to say there is not another hospital like this for hundreds of miles.
Oh yes, we are very much open
!

Now Ella took a deep, steadying breath. All this, yet a region-wide search was needed for four lost tourists! She had a painfully vivid picture of how she must look to Pirian and the other nurses, wandering vacantly round a hospital that had big problems to deal with. How unbearable to spend even one more hour here, useless, and in the way!

Decisively she turned away from the newspaper cutting, dodged past the wards and into the waiting-room.

Already people sat and leaned and lay on every bench, between the benches, against every square of wall; children played in spaces in between. A single, slow ceiling fan barely moved the air. Dust, sweat, and antiseptic-smells mingled, and Ella was assailed by the astonishing scene around her: trousers and dresses, shoes and handbags mingling with spears and sticks and pouches, blanket-cloaks and beaded braids, neckcollars and lip-plugs, armcoils and anklets. People chatted and called to each other, even laughed. Yet in one corner a woman lay on a blanket, listlessly fanned by a child, and an old man stood in the middle, erect and gaunt, one bony foot propped on the
other knee, eyes closed, as if he’d remain there, unmoving, for ever.

The buzz of conversation slackened as Ella entered. On all sides eyes turned towards her. Then the room seemed to absorb her existence and the hum resumed. She was alone again, on the edge, with no visible corner to wait in.

She glanced round. No sign of the inspector yet. Through an arch was the clinic treatment area: tables, wash-basins, curtained cubicles, a nurse emerging from one, fetching a bowl, returning. Nearer, a baby lay in the scoop of a weighing machine. Another nurse was busy adjusting the weights, while a young woman watched with such a look on her face that Ella’s passing gaze was caught. The baby was silent, moving little. The nurse worked with one hand, propping a small boy on her hip. He was small and thin and naked, and at that moment he writhed fiercely, letting out a yell of such pain, the distress so palpable and frightening that, without thinking, Ella started towards them.

The nurse turned and looked up. It was Pirian.

‘If you are idle,’ she said, ‘you can take the child.’

‘I don’t know how –’

‘He has stomach pain. Bad water. But he is not very ill, and this baby
is.
I must fetch the doctor.’ Insistently Pirian held the
boy towards Ella. ‘He is mainly frightened because his mother is with his sister in the ward. That one is very sick.’

Ella had never held a child before. She was panicked by the wiry strength of him as he arched, pushing away from her, and she nearly dropped him.

‘Give him other matters to think about,’ Pirian said. ‘It will be better for him, and better for me – I can do my work here properly. There is no one else.’

‘I –’ Ella began, but snapped her mouth shut because Pirian was talking to the young woman, who had lifted her sick baby and was listening with large, still eyes.

The boy twisted again. Ella jiggled him desperately, swung him to her shoulder, pointing at bright magazine pictures tacked to the wall. A brief, hiccupy pause. She moved on, pointed at more pictures. Another sob, but quieter. The tautness of the little body slackened and his head lolled against her shoulder. She rocked him tentatively, seeing Pirian take the woman and baby out of the room, reappear, soap her hands carefully, glancing at Ella as she did so.

‘I am sorry for your troubles. For your sister, and for you.’ She rinsed and dried her hands, and came to take the boy from Ella. For a second Ella was reluctant to release the small, warm shape snuggling against her. For minutes there had been
nothing but the child to think about.

‘But you know,’ Pirian went on, adjusting the boy against her own shoulder, where he seemed to be asleep, ‘people are very strong. Your sister may be very strong. People can endure many surprising things. We see them every day in this place. You should hope – hope is the strongest force there is. Hope gives courage. Truly, I know this.’ She went to put the sleeping boy in a cot and Ella followed, working out how to pull up the side and lock it for her. The child lay splayed out in damp exhaustion on the sheet.

‘I can stay with him, if you like. I mean, I could help some more till Inspector Murothi comes . . . ’

For answer, Pirian only jerked her head towards the waiting-room. ‘There is much talk out there. Much, much talk. People tell each other that the English girl should not be so afraid, because Chomlaya is the place of birth, not the place of death. The great rock is the place of life. The place of
life
, you hear me say this? That is the meaning of Chomlaya. It is an old name, of course, but . . . ’ She did not finish, shrugging slightly and sucking air through her teeth in a soft, thoughtful clicking sound. ‘Now, the doctor is seeing your friend, and the policemen have just come. Go now – go, go! You must hear what they say. If you are here later, it will be kind if you will
help. We will all still be here.’ She grinned wryly and waggled her head. ‘We can find many, many things to make you busy! Go!’

Joe eyed the policemen. The two men filled the hospital room. One was short, but broad and powerfully built, in a dark grey uniform. He was doing all the talking. The other, the younger one, did not wear a uniform, and was very tall, stooping slightly as if afraid he would hit his head on the ceiling. Though he said nothing, he seemed to listen carefully, and Joe could feel his eyes on him all the time.