The Star of Simbako Page 5

  ‘Steady on there, old chap. We’ve been at the Grand Hotel, remember? Getting Sam’s suitcase.’

  ‘The plane arrived late. We had to wait for hours in the bar,’ added Sam.

  ‘And how was I supposed to know? You might have been in an accident.’

  ‘Sorry, mate. They told us it would be an hour late. I didn't realise it would take so long,’ said Ned.

  ‘Why didn’t you call me? I waited for ages to go to dinner.’

  A self-piteous tone had crept into his voice, like an abandoned child.

  ‘Sorry. We should’ve called, but we got drunk and forgot.’

  They stood together swaying. Fergus stood up and pushed Ned out of his way. Grabbing Sam’s suitcase, he lumbered up the stairs, muttering to himself. Sam caught Ned’s eye and mouthed, ‘Oops’. He raised his eyebrows.

  ‘Night, night,’ she said and grabbed the bannister, pulling herself up the stairs. Ned sat down on the bottom step and held his head.

  ‘I don’t want to sleep. I’m afraid of waking up with a massive hangover.’

  ‘Too late for remorse,’ said Sam.

  Fergus had dumped her bag on the landing and stomped off to bed. She hauled it into her room and left it on the floor unopened.

  ***

  The next morning Sam did not greet the sun with her usual glee. Some evil genius had invented a new form of torture while she slept, which involved poking the back of her eyes with a screwdriver. She could remember arriving at the house to a sullen reception from Fergus, who appeared to take their drunkenness personally.

  Her suitcase lay abandoned in the middle of the floor. She couldn’t imagine how it got there as she didn’t bring it upstairs.

  Did Ned put it there? Oh, God, she hadn’t invited Ned into her room had she?

  She had wanted to. That was the problem with drink. It made sex seem like an excellent idea. She hadn’t thought about Simon though and it was as if he had never existed.

  ‘This extinct boyfriend of yours? Why was he obliterated?’ said Ned

  ‘He took a fancy to my sister.’

  ‘Your sister? What a bastard! Mind you, your sister doesn’t come out of this with a halo either.’

  ‘No, and that’s the worst thing. Boyfriends are replaceable. Sisters less so.’ Her voice had caught at the back of her throat. He’d touched her arm in sympathy, brushing hairs desperate for contact which stretched up to meet his fingers.

  ‘Have you talked to her about it?’

  ‘No, not yet. I couldn’t face it and it would’ve been pointless. She’s always got a justification for her behaviour which changes as you argue so you’re never right. It’s just tiring.’ She sighed. ‘Truth be told. We were coming to the end of the road anyway, I just didn’t realise it. I don’t blame Hannah.’

  ‘You planned to break up with him?’

  ‘No, but I got it into my head that he planned to ask me to marry him and, instead of being excited, I panicked. Does that seem weird?’

  ‘No, not weird, sad maybe.’

  Sam had hesitated. Ned glanced at her fiddling with a beer mat, twisting it around in her long fingers.

  ‘I loved Gemma,’ he’d replied to her unasked question, ‘but we shouldn't have got married. We were too young and not suited.’

  ‘How long did your marriage last?’

  ‘Five years. It pottered along just fine until I worked abroad a lot. She didn’t last a year with me gone.’

  ‘I’m sorry.’

  ‘Me too. Want another?’

  All the hurt surrounding Simon’s betrayal with Hannah had seemed to evaporate up into the cupola as she talked about him. She hadn’t been sure about their relationship being finished until she’d said it out loud to another person.

  She was developing a crush on Ned. Empathy morphed into attraction by the time the luggage porter came for them. From the way he hung on her every word, the attraction was mutual.

  Then she’d remembered it was Fergus who carried the bag up the stairs and not Ned. No chance there. He assumed he was God’s gift to women and out of her league. Not that she fancied him. Well, not much anyway. Despite her hangover, she giggled at the idea. He might be nasty, but bad boys always interested her. She had landed in a box of chocolates. So many flavours to choose from. She was on a diet after the Simon fiasco, but no harm in looking if she didn’t touch. Professional to the last.

  She opened the suitcase with trepidation, but no one had disturbed the contents. Selecting a pair of khaki trousers and a linen shirt to wear, she sprayed them with repellent. The mosquito bites on her legs were raw with scratching, so she rubbed on antiseptic cream on them. She decided take everything she owned with her to Fona and leave most of Hannah’s gear behind in the house, but she threw the shorts into the big suitcase on a whim. William could store the overnight bag until she got back.

  The men were eating breakfast when she came downstairs.

  ‘You’re alive then?’ she said to Ned.

  ‘I’m not sure yet.’

  ‘Serves you right,’ said Fergus.

  ‘Haven’t you ever got drunk?’ said Sam, finding his assumption of the moral high ground to be irritating.

  ‘Not with the employees.’

  ‘Steady on there. Sam’s not an employee.’

  ‘I wasn’t talking about Sam.’

  There was an icy silence. Sam felt like she had walked in on a private conversation. Fergus had a smug expression on his face. Ned took a step towards him as William came in with a tray.

  ‘Tea, madam?’

  ***

  The atmosphere didn’t improve much during the day. They didn't speak to each other after breakfast, Fergus attended a meeting and Ned disappeared on one of his errands. Sam hung around the house, hiding from the sunlight and trying not to be sick. When Ned got back, she cornered him.

  ‘Why does Fergus treat you like that?’

  ‘Oh, that’s ancient history. Fergus comes from new money. His position in the world is very important to him. It’s hard to fit in at a public school when you have an Irish accent.’

  ‘Why does he pick on you?’

  ‘My family are nouveau poor, but we used to own whacking great country estates in Hampshire until the money ran out. Fergus associates me with the bad treatment he got at school, even though I didn’t go there with him.’

  ‘So how come you know him?’

  ‘My father, Dick Hunter, ran the racing stable for Fergus’ father so they brought me up there. The Dockrells got a lot of mileage from the way the tables had been turned against the old order. They lorded it over us to some extent. My father didn’t care but I used to get teased a lot, especially by Fergus.’

  ‘Where did you go to school?’

  ‘The local grammar. I got a scholarship.’

  ‘Brainy and well-bred, uh? No wonder Fergus is jealous.’

  Ned flushed.

  ‘I wouldn’t let him hear you say that if I were you.’

  ‘I was only joking.’

  But he had impressed her.

  ***

  ‘Hello?’

  ‘Hi Sam. How was your trip?’ said Bill. Her mother must be out as her father hardly ever answered the phone.

  ‘I got here safely, thank you. There was a slight detour before arriving at the house and my suitcase got left behind, but I’ve recovered it now.’

  ‘Lucky you had the overnight bag then.’ He chuckled.

  ‘I’m not sure Hannah thought it was lucky.’

  ‘I’m in the doghouse. She wasn’t pleased at my mix up.’

  ‘Tell her not to worry. I’ve stored it in Njahili until I get back.’

  ‘You’re too good. I’d have emptied it into the bay.’

  ‘Some of her clothes might come in handy.’

  ‘Ha! Well you know best, darling.’

  ‘We’re going to Fona tomorrow, so I doubt I’ll be able to call very often. If you don�
��t hear from me, you can always call Alex. Mummy has the number.’

  ‘Look after yourself, sweetheart.’

  ‘I will, Daddy. Love to Mummy. Bye.’

  ‘Bye.’

  Chapter V

  Nothing indicated that their transit though the suburbs would be delayed by anything worse than the usual traffic jams. Their car, a black Toyota 4 Runner, crawled along behind minibuses spewing black exhaust fumes. These buses stopped to pick up ever more passengers who disappeared into the back like stars entering a black hole with no apparent limit. Ancient taxis, tied together with electric cable and duct tape, their engines pinking with dirty fuel and firing with ear-splitting cacophony out of exhausts rendered useless with age and damage, weaved their way through the traffic. Every driver in a vehicle with a working horn tried to blast their way to the next junction.

  Sam shrank from the noise in the back seat of the car, intimidated by the battle for space on the street. Passers-by peered into the windows and shouted, ‘Pomwi!’ at them.

  ‘What does that mean?’ Sam asked, startled.

  ‘It’s Mende for a white man,’ said Fergus.

  ‘Racists,’ said Ned. ‘Can you imagine what would happen to us if we drove along shouting names at people?’

  ‘Steady on, Neddy,’ said Fergus. ‘I take your point. We’d get arrested if we shouted the equivalent in England.’

  Sam forced herself to stay silent. The rush hour had not improved Fergus’s humour and she did not want to be on the end of a tongue lashing from the sarcastic Irishman. They were heading to Fona where she would be independent of Fergus and Ned and doing her own thing. Their business in Fona was a mystery, but she would find out by osmosis, rather than prizing the information out of Fergus. He was far from forthcoming and seemed to have lost all interest in her after she stopped wearing Hannah’s shorts.

  ‘Why’d we come this way?’ said Fergus. ‘Couldn’t we have driven over the hills behind the town?’

  ‘It’s twice as far,’ said Ned. ‘I don’t think my hangover would’ve taken all the bouncing about on those gravel roads.’

  ‘And this is twice as slow.’ Fergus sighed.

  ‘We’ll be out of town soon. I’ll drive through Kanta and we’ll come out onto the main road to Fona, such as it is.’

  ‘Hurry up then. We only have a couple of hours of daylight left and it’s a bad idea to drive at night in the countryside.’

  ‘I’ll do my best to avoid the brigands,’ said Ned.

  ‘What sort of brigands?’ said Sam.

  ‘Oh, the usual, mostly unemployed ex-soldiers or rebels.’

  ‘That sounds dangerous.’

  ‘It’ll be fine. Trust me.’

  Ned followed a soft drinks lorry which rounded the corner into an open square in Kanta, meeting a sea of people in the road. It drove as far as the centre of the square and then stopped. Ned slammed on the brakes. Sam almost fell off the back seat and Ned’s rucksack slid into the footwell behind Fergus’ seat. The driver of the lorry came around the back of the vehicle. He unloaded crates without haste, while his assistant prevented people from stealing bottles from the open container.

  The Toyota was trapped behind the lorry in the middle of the crowd who moved closer, surrounding the car and staring at the occupants. A few chanted, ‘Pomwi’. Some of them carried machetes.

  A man pulled open the back door of the car. Sam was sitting at the far side and, before she could react, a large arm reached in and grabbed Ned’s rucksack. Sam lunged along the seat to rescue it, but it was too late. Instead, she grabbed the door and pulled it shut, almost amputating the fingers of another man who tried to steal her bag too. She scrambled to put the locks on both doors.

  Unable to open the doors, the crowd pushed at the car and banged on the bonnet, shouting for money to buy drink. People pulled at the door handles, trying to force them open, making the car rock. Petrified, expecting any moment for someone to drag her out and assault her or worse, Sam's heart beat so fast she was close to fainting.

  ‘Get us out of here,’ said Fergus. ‘I don’t care if you run them over. Just drive.’

  Ned gunned the engine, causing the people in front of the car to jump away. He stuck his hand flat on the horn. He pulled out from behind the soft drinks’ lorry at a snail’s pace, nudging people with the car’s front bumper. The crowd parted to let the car through. They complained as the car pushed them out of the way, but they did not stop it leaving. Several people banged on the roof of the car as it went past, demanding money and waving their machetes at Sam in the back, laughing at her terrified face. The Toyota inched out of the square and the crowd became thinner. Ned speeded up and soon they headed out of the suburbs into the countryside.

  They drove for about five miles at top speed, the car rattling with effort on the uneven surface. Then Ned pulled the car off the road. No-one spoke. Sam was shaking. She tried to drink some Fanta, but she dropped it into her lap, soaking her trousers in sticky soft drink.

  ‘Shit! I’m covered in Fanta,’ she said. ‘Can you get out of the car? I have to change.’

  This broke the silence and both men jumped out. Sam fumbled in her bag and pulled out Hannah’s shorts. It was not exactly what she’d had in mind, but she didn’t want to empty everything out looking for her spare trousers which lay at the bottom somewhere. She struggled into the shorts while lying along the back seat. The zip got stuck half way, snared in the backing material. She wrenched it free in frustration. Bloody Hannah.

  She got out of the car and shuffled over to where the men were standing.

  ‘You can’t stay out of those shorts, can you?’ said Fergus. ‘Whose rucksack did they steal?’

  ‘Mine,’ said Ned.

  ‘Anything important in it?’

  ‘Just some old clothes.’ His hand flew to his mouth. ‘My passport.’

  ‘This is your fault. We should never have driven through town. If you hadn’t got so drunk, none of this would have happened.’

  ‘I’m sorry. It’s a massive cock-up.’ Ned stared at his feet, avoiding Fergus’ accusing look.

  ‘You’ll have to return to the British Embassy in Njahili and ask them for a replacement.’

  ‘I know. I’m sorry, I’d no idea there was a festival in Kanta.’

  ‘It’s your responsibility. You should’ve checked.’

  ‘What about our meeting with the Paramount Chief?’

  ‘We’ll set it up for tomorrow and you can go back to Njahili the next day.’

  ‘OK.’

  Fergus reached inside the car and grabbed his cigarettes, fumbling to remove one from the packet.

  ‘Can I have one too please?’ said Sam, her heart still in her mouth.

  ‘Me too,’ said Ned.

  ‘But you don’t smoke,’

  ‘I do now. Sorry, Sam, that was terrifying.’ He touched her forearm and, despite the heat that still lingered in the late afternoon, the hairs stood on end.

  ***

  The drive to Fona took four hours. Small villages full of children lined the route, but it became empty as it got dark. Some hamlets looked long deserted, houses with no roofs and blackened shells for walls stood in bleak testament to the passage of the rebels. Clothes hung from the trees like tattered flags.

  ‘Why are those clothes up there like that?’ said Sam.

  ‘Those are monkey trees,’ said Fergus.

  ‘But what are they for?’

  ‘The human clothes scare the monkeys, preventing them from coming into the village.’

  ‘It didn’t work with the rebels,’ said Ned.

  The subdued group pulled into Fona close to midnight. Still shaken by events at Kanta, Sam pondered the consequences had someone pulled open the door of the car and dragged her out.

  ‘Are you okay, Sam?’ said Ned. ‘You’re very quiet.’

  ‘A bit shaken. I hate to think what could have happened.’

  ‘Doesn’t i
t put you off this sort of work?’ said Fergus.

  ‘Not really. The way the day turned from mundane into life-threatening and back to normal again fascinates me,’ she said. ‘This sort of incident doesn’t put me off my work, it makes me feel more alive.’

  ‘Or dead,’ said Fergus, but Sam was serious. The thrill of adventure kept her going in a profession that didn’t want her. The emotion of unexpected danger overcome and survived. This was something she didn't talk about without sounding pretentious or needy though, so she kept the idea locked inside. Hannah might have Simon, but she had her adventures.

  The town of Fona wallowed in almost total darkness. The hum of generators filled the air near the few houses with lighting. Small puddles peppered the surface of the damp mud road, the air redolent with wet wood and rotting vegetation. Choruses of frogs and crickets echoed in the dark night.

  ‘This is it,’ said Ned as they pulled into a walled compound behind a thatched bungalow. They got out of the car and unloaded their bags. The air was thick with insects blundering through their rapid life cycles and being swallowed whole by the bats which swooped down among the palm trees surrounding the house.

  The front door opened and a tall, prodigiously fat woman came out, stooping to avoid the doorframe and blocking out the light with her hugeness. She wore a traditional wax print dress with swirls of orange on a green background and a turban of the same materials tied around her head. Several plaits escaped from her turban and hung in a fringe over her face.

  ‘That lady’s our housekeeper. Her name’s Fatimata, but she’s also known as Auntie Fatou,’ said Fergus.

  ‘Why Auntie?’ said Sam.

  ‘That’s an expression of respect for older ladies. Fatou’s short for Fatimata, but don’t call her that until you are friends.’

  Ned snorted. ‘That’s a bit unlikely to happen.’

  Fatimata approached the car and they all got out to greet her.

  ‘Good evening,’ she said.

  ‘Good evening, Auntie Fatou. How are you?’ said Ned.

  ‘I am well. And you?’

  ‘I am well too.’

  ‘And Mr Fergus, how are you?’

  ‘Fine, thanks. Are the rooms ready?’