EBOLOWA 29

 

    

 

 29

     Douala, Friday

     Candace pulled up opposite the jail.  The dawn was thick with warm mist and water was dripping on the thin tin roof with annoying regularity.  Somewhere she’d read about prisoners being tortured by a dripping tap.  So much garbage filled her head, she thought, all second-hand hearsay but now she was in the real thing.  She looked at the paper:  Harry filled the headline, “THE WRONG MAN”, and underneath, “SUSPECT Hertz Car”.  Hans was featured too, holding his hands up in protest, and her heart stood still at the sight of an old picture of Annie with the caption, “A Ghost Returns”. 

     She groaned and fumbled in her purse for a cigarette.  She hadn’t really slept and a jumble of memories came back: Harry being dragged away, him telling her “it’s not safe”, and Hans phoning late because he’d heard about M Robert. 

     “It's pretty damned fishy if you ask me,” Hans had said after apologising for the late call, “and I don’t mean like my car.”

     She knew what he was saying but had played dumb.  He was in full Marlowe mode and she had enough on her plate already, but he didn't take the hint and rubbed it in.

     “Two of your sister’s old friends dead before we could talk to them about Nkumbé.  Come on Candace, you've got to say it looks mighty suspicious.”

     He meant well, and maybe she would need “protection” after Harry had gone, but he was getting off on the PI act and it bugged her.

     “I was there for God’s sake Hans!” she’d said.   “I’m a medic.  His nurse was expecting it to happen any day.”

     She banged the steering wheel in frustration and tried blocking the memory by turning to the newspaper instead and how Cameroon had “flopped out” of the World Cup against the Congo.  On the inside page there was a picture of a mob burning the French tricolour titled “Riots in Niger: Gaddafi Blamed" and she had just reached the name Messmer when there was a sharp rap on the window.  Her heart leapt into her mouth and was about to scream when a grinning face appeared with a camera and flashbulb. 

     She swung the door open and the man jumped back.

     “What the hell d'you think you’re doing?” 

     “Apologies Madame - - ”  He was holding something out.

     It was a battered press card: she wanted to push him over.  “Did you follow me?”

     “No no, Madame.  They sent me to get a picture of Chicago Man.”  He looked at his watch.  “Supposed to be coming out any time.”

     “It’s supposed to be confidential.” 

     “Confidential.” His tone sounded sad.  “Madame hasn’t been in Cameroon long - - ”

     “Long enough,” she snapped.

     The man looked at his watch again and shook his head.  “Maybe he won’t be coming out today.”

     “Of course he will.  He’s booked on the 8.30 flight - - ”

     “Grounded,” he interrupted with infuriating composure, “Air traffic control strike.  No flight, no Chicago Man today, that’s what I heard.”

     “Jesus - - “ She folded the paper and hurled it into the car.   Why the hell hadn’t Logan called to tell her?   “Bloody waste of time."  She moved to shut the door.  “Move please.” 

     “Wait Madame,” he said, “I hear other things too, about the guy they call Bamenda fixing things for Chicago Man.  Looking out for him.”  He took a step towards the gate.  Something seemed to be happening.

     The name Bamenda flooded her with another wave of thoughts - - big hitters, Messmer, and Annie at the beach with Victor Castile.  She tried to block them out and was counting on Miss Fleming at the Mission coming up with a different story.

     Keys rattled, a bolt was pulled, the gate clanged and somebody called, “regards to Al Capone.”  The photographer jumped forwards and Candace’s instinct was to kick him over but it was too late.  A bulb popped and light flashed and Harry smacked the man in the chest.

     “You’re lucky to get out today,” he said scrambling up.

     “I already heard,” said Harry and looked at her with a smile.  He had dimples.  “Thanks for meeting me.”

     “My pleasure,” she said.  “You’ve got twenty-four hours reprieve."

      "So I heard.  I got a message from Bamenda telling me to go dance on his grave - - "

      "Will you?"

      "Maybe."  He took the keys from her.  "What about you?"

      She got in.  "The beach," she said, "I don't want to go on my own, and we've got an appointment at the Mission at 10.30."

      "OK.  We've got time."  He started the car and looked at her hard.  "But I meant what I said yesterday, it's not safe for you to stay on."

       She gestured with the paper and tried to laugh it off, "the press will look after me.  And Hans."

      They drove back into the city in silence.  She stared out as another new day started, people waiting for buses and buying breakfast with the air laced with charcoal and coffee.  She glanced at him.  The side of his head was bruised and there was dried blood below his ear and she had to stifle an urge to wipe it away.  In the port district the coffee and charcoal gave way to seaweed and dried fish.  The Wouri Bridge emerged from the mist, leaping low and flat across the river with dark jungle on the far side.  The air seemed chilly with foreboding but half way across she got a grip and asked him to stop.  She got out and leant over the railing.  The water was as grey as pewter and a tangle of debris had caught up around the pillar.

Where they’d found her. 

Her mind was invaded by horrific pictures and she tried to close her mind and gazed upstream instead.  Two pirogues were so low in the river that the fishermen seemed to be walking on water.  The thin mesh of their nets shimmered like fine mist in the morning light.  Three men were dragging a boat along the shore and they stopped as a grey car pulled off the track, but nobody got out. 

“I’ve been thinking about what you said,” she said turning back to Harry, “and I still can’t believe it. Pierre Messmer is Prime Minister of France for God’s sake.“

“What about Nixon and Watergate.“

“That’s different.  No one was killed.”

“It’s the same dynamic.  Conspiracy and cover-up.“

“But it’s insane, like pulp fiction.“

“So was Watergate.”

“I still can’t believe it," she said leaning back on the rail.  "He just doesn’t look the type.“

“Do they ever?”

“Nixon did.  Anyhow, all the more reason to find Nkumbé.“

“Have you got the photograph?”

She got it out and watched him turn it over.  He was frowning. 

“You can't be sure this is for Annie.”

“It’s obviously for her.”  She felt defensive like he’d caught her out.  The thought had crossed her mind but she hadn’t been in the mood to entertain doubts.  She and Karen had the man in their sights. “It was in her things and they climbed the mountain together.”

“It doesn’t mean it's for her.”

“Sometimes you have to go with your hunch.  You said so yourself.”

He shrugged, unconvinced.  "Well maybe the Mission will know.  Did you show it to Robert?"

"I didn't see him."  She stalled.  "He died, a coronary just before I got there - - " 

She'd been expecting a reaction but it was worse.  "Jesus Christ Candace," he shouted turning on her, "I told you!  Another homicide.  It's not safe."

"It wasn't a homicide.  He had a heart attack."

"Bullshit!  That's why they framed me, so I couldn't talk to him, like Castile."

She knew it didn't look good but Fitz had been expecting another attack any day.  Robert was a wreck and still smoking  "Talk to his nurse then.  We can go up there later."  She looked around and shuddered.  "Can we go please.  This place gives me the creeps."

"Sure, sure."

She out a hand on his arm.  "It's going to be tough enough for me."

His face softened.  "Sure, sorry," he said again but his expression clouded.  "But this stuff is serious."

On the other side of the river the jungle gave way to ranks of palm oil and a road of smooth asphalt.  They passed a bunch of men on bikes and a ramshackle factory of corrugated iron surrounded by a tattered chain link fence.  A metal stovepipe spouted black smoke, and heaped at the gates was a pile of palm nuts like huge red porcupines.  A mile or so further on the road turned into a pitted track and the oil palms gave way to the monstrous tangle of jungle.  Vines whipped against the hood and in the distance she could hear the ocean crashing on the shore.  Her mouth went dry and she tried to calm herself.

“This is it,” Harry muttered as the car pushed through the creepers into a small clearing.  Beyond them stretched the beach, a bleak expanse of coarse red sand strewn with spirals of seaweed, uprooted trees, and a rusty oil drum bearing the Shell logo.  The jungle crouched at the edge, a huge malevolent force poised to leap forwards. 

     “Welcome to Cameroon's answer to St Tropez,” he said and cut the engine.

     It wasn't funny and she barely nodded.  Her stomach was in knots, but she pulled herself together and got out.  “I won’t be long.”

The ocean was an unwelcoming grey in the early light, an undulating sheet as far as the eye could see, and she pulled her jacket tight and set off with her head down.  At the shore she kicked her shoes off and watched the waves trying to conjure up some connection with Annie, anything, but nothing came except a screeching gull and the flow of the water around her feet.  She looked back for Harry, but there was no sign of him.  She’d felt so wretched on the bridge that she’d nearly put her head on his shoulder, just for once to have someone take the load, but how could she?  She barely knew him.

Suddenly a surge of water came out of nowhere with torrent rising rapidly above her knees.  She gasped with shock and turned back to the beach but it was no longer there.  The riptide had turned a stretch of the ocean into a boiling cataract of white water tearing the shingle from under her feet.  The current surged round her thighs, the sheer force pulling her legs and feet from under her.  She struggled for a grip, too terrified to move for fear of falling, but she was being dragged down.  She drew in a breath, her chest tight with panic, and screamed.

 

*    *    *    *    *   *

 

     He was leaning against the car and the scream ripped right through him.  He tore his jacket off and ran across the beach.  He caught sight her but by the time he reached the shore there was nothing to be seen but a raging river of angry water.  He stood frozen with indecision with Hans’ words in his ears “- - let it take you“ and then his own telling him that he was a poor swimmer.  His body strained forwards but his feet were rooted to the spot, head and heart pulling him in opposite directions.

     He was still paralysed when she broke the surface again, her hand thrown up in a desperate grasping movement and his screamed name cut off short.  He kicked off his shoes and strode into the surging water.  Within seconds his feet were torn from under him and he was being swept out to sea.  He used the strength in his arms to hold his body up and his legs like a rudder.  He rode the current to where he’d seen her and swivelled round to face the shore.  The full force of the water crashed into him and it was all he could do to keep his head above water. 

     There was no sign of her and he couldn’t hang on.  His arms and legs ached and his heart close to bursting.  All he could see were the whipped crests of the tide and the vast ocean beyond.  The car looked toy-like in the distance and he felt his willpower dip.  He told himself he’d been in worst fixes, but none of them had been in water and suddenly he was sucked down and dragged under.  Bubbles burst around him.  He looked up at the light above and thrashed out but something heavy was hanging onto his ankle.  His lungs were bursting with pain and his ears thudded.

     He kicked again and the weight on his leg fell away.  Roaring noise filled his ears and as he twisted round to make one last thrust for the surface his hand smacked into a body.  Candace.  She materialised in front of him, her body at first eerily loose but then jerking into life and grabbing at him crazily with both hands.  His heart pounded and his lungs screamed but he took hold of her and kicked out with all his strength. 

     Together they moved towards the light and soon he could make out her face and mouth and he wanted to shout.  Her arms and legs moved with his and the light came closer but it seemed an age before they burst through the surface.  His lungs filled, his head cleared, his ears stopped thudding, and he held her up.  The expression in her eyes was dark and deep, intense as if she wasn’t ready to be beaten.  Her mouth sucked in air and he felt her breast fill against him.

     “Let it take you,” he gasped, the words a hoarse croak whipped away on the water, “don’t fight it,” and he pushed her out to sea.  The water powered them from behind with terrifying force, but his panic was fading and his arms and legs were strong with new life.  He struck out with a smooth breaststroke and turned towards her.  “It’s okay,” he mouthed and thought he saw her nod.

     They swam together, letting the rip take them until it weakened and finally faded away.  Then he called her and they made a wide turn back towards the shore.  The swell carried them and gathered up into waves and rushed them ever nearer to safety and his heart filled with the relief.  In the final stretch his feet touched the rough shingle and he dropped down and crawled out and rolled over his arms akimbo and his head spinning.  Above him the sky was still a leaden grey but it felt as if the sun was beaming down.

     His heart was still beating fast but his body was so still and heavy that he felt as if he was sinking deep into the sand.  A wave slapped up against him and pulled the shingle from under his head.  He opened his eyes and Candace’s profile took shape.  She was lying on her side with one arm thrown out.  Her face was pale and still. Her skirt was caught up around her thighs.  She sighed and drew her legs up like a foetus.  He could feel her seek him out with her eyes.

     “You saved my life Harry,” she said, her voice weak and husky like a whisper.

     The sound of his name touched him and he remembered how close he’d been to giving up himself. 

     “You saved yourself,” he said.  “You grabbed my leg.”

     “Instinct.  I saw you diving in.”

     “That’s strange,” he said, “I never dived. Nothing so decisive.”

     “That’s what I saw.”

     Maybe it was, but he’d stumbled in, half hearted, but it would do.  He had saved her life even if he hadn’t known much about it.  They lay together in a silence wrought by a shared brush with death, a kind of intimacy new to him and he wondered if it was why the French called making love la petite mort.