Running Shoes

It was one simple phrase that made his stomach flip. It was the last one in the bullet pointed list under the heading ‘required’, in bold and double underlined for added emphasis: 'Good shoes suitable for running.' It invited questions, all of which filled him with apprehension.

It was hard enough already. Edward didn’t want to go to Angola; he was content here in London. He’d tried to wheedle his way out but Howard was adamant: “The company needs you there Eddie..” (He hated being called Eddie). “... This visit’s key to our future.  We don’t get this right and...” Howard looked out of the window as the rain lashed down, “Stormy times Eddie, stormy times. Besides, the guys will look after you. And you deserve some R&R.” Howard had grinned, a wide salacious grin, which Edward didn’t get.

Edward peered over his ample belly at the scuffed, worn, sensible brogues: they weren’t running shoes.  Uncomfortable memories of school, his general ineptitude at sport were there along with unease about this trip. He thought he’d escaped such ignominies. As his mother was prone to saying, he was built for comfort and not speed.

 

The plane hopped, skipped and lurched to a standstill, only then did Edward feel able to open his eyes.

            “Hey Eddie, you alright?  Bit pale, mate.” Gareth sitting opposite was already out of his seat fumbling with the overhead locker, “Three sick bags Eddie. Impressive.”

             The others were out of the plane before he’d assembled his things. He paused at the exit, blanching in the limp sunshine. A gentle breeze made him shiver and he was glad of his pullover. Holding the rail he walked down the stairs his legs stiff from the flight. With each step they were there, two white boats on his feet, large clumpy, alien things, their whiteness shining in the sun, apart from the specks of puke.

            They were eased through customs and directed to a black mini-van. Edward was last squeezed in next to the luggage.

            “Hey Eddie, nice shoes,” they laughed.

 

He’d desperately tried to avoid buying them but the call of the list had been too great.  There’d been one item not ticked off and in the end this had goaded him into action. He’d taken himself to town and made his way to John Lewis. He was shocked by the row upon row of garish shoes, a long way from his plimsolls that he’d religiously whitened each week at school. He’d left 20 minutes latter with the least monstrous pair the snotty youth had picked out.  It had made a serious dent in his wallet. He’d put them in the corner of his bedroom and he dreamt of them – fleeing from ferocious animals, men with guns, and when he woke it was always in a sweat, breathing heavily.

 

He was surprised how modern Luanda was; you almost could’ve been in London. The route into the city was lined with tall buildings and building sites. The road was smooth. It swung down to the sea, tree lined beach front on one side, corporate life on the other. They turned back into town as they reached the bay area, a thin peninsula curved away to the left. The sheltered bay was dotted with all types of yachts.

By the time they pulled up to their hotel the day had cleared, the sun was strong and the sky was the blue of a five year olds picture. The hotel could have been anywhere in the world. He was disappointed to find that his room looked out on a jungle of chrome, glass and steel. Not what he’d expected to find in Africa.

            Richard, tall, wiry and fit; the team leader; his shoes were battered but then he did run three miles each morning. He’d been a regular visitor here, as he was constantly reminding them, when it was a frontier country for oil exploration. From their first orientation session he’d told tales, the other two, Gareth and Toby hung on his every word, Edward, well it made his stomach twist.

            “What do you think of your rooms? You guys don’t know you’re born – twenty years ago. Tin shacks, that’s what it was and that was luxury, I can tell you.”

            They were sitting in another air conditioned room, plate glass windows, tinted against the glare. Below  the beach front hummed with a surprising amount of traffic, all bright shinny new vehicles, beyond the Atlantic. Edward stood sipping Buxton mineral water watching the rollers run up the beach.

            “It will be alright,” she paused, “Edward. Is that right? You don’t want to be called Ed?”

            “Edward please.” She came up to his shoulders but seemed so large and colourful. Her smile was welcoming.

            “Have you any questions? You’ve been quiet.”

            The orientation session lasted most of the day.  They’d been joined by others from the company. Some big wig had glossed over what they already knew, then she’d stood, smiled and talked. She was Serenity, their liaison manager for the next three months (Edward had caught a few lewd comments about liaising with her), she talked warmly about her country, then unfaltering she talked about prostitutes, drink, drugs, HIV. She looked at each one in turn. Edward had ducked her gaze. Then they’d been broken into their work teams and Edward had found himself on his own, which suited him.

            “You will love my country,” her hand rested on his sleeve, a butterfly touch. “And I’ll be there to help.”  

 

Edward surprised himself at how quickly he established a routine, one not a million miles from life in London. Of course there were differences; the chauffer driven car to the office was certainly easier than the Northern Line. He found his Angolan hosts welcoming and eager to learn. His innate shyness and their courtesy aligned perfectly. It didn’t take long for the good reports to make it back to head office.

            He was happily office bound, stuck in front of is PC; (and yes, it could’ve been done remotely but over time he appreciated working directly with the locals), the others were away in the Northern province, Carbinda where the major oil deposits were. They’d leave in conveys of SUVs, black tinted glass, flak jackets packed. They’d return, sit in the bar swapping stories, bemoaning the slower pace of the Angolans themselves. Out of loyalty Edward would listen secretly yearning for sanctity of his own room, knowing that he was the butt of their jokes.

            He’d been gulled twice. Once, a beautiful woman in a red dress, that pulled tight across her chest and dropped vertiginously at the back, a deep ‘v’ that stopped as the curve of her buttocks folded into her back,  had sauntered up to him. She’d looked him up and down, leant into him and whispered soulfully: “I like your shoes.” He’d panicked, hearing the boys’ laughter as he fled. The woman had breakfast with Gareth the next morning, in the same dress.

            The second time they’d persuaded him that he needed to see the oil terminals. They’d trussed him up in a bullet proof vest and loaded him in the darkened SUV. They’d snaked for hours until they’d ended up at their destination. Richard had given a security briefing, and with hindsight Edward could see the sniggering but how was he to know that the gun shot wasn’t for real? Richard had screamed, Gareth had writhed and he had run, pell-mell away. They’d found him quivering behind the vehicles, a sticky, sweaty mess. And they’d laughed, “Glad to see those shoes work Eddie!” The journey back took 30 minutes; turned out they’d barely broached Luanda’s city limits let alone the bad lands to the North.

            The third time Serenity had rescued him. Richard, stir crazy from a long weekend in the sterility of the hotel had persuaded one of the local guards to take them drinking. Edward was cajoled into it though he was sure some humiliation awaited him. Somehow Serenity appeared. She’d dexterously steered him away, taking him for ‘muemba’, chicken stew and then a walk along the long finger of the peninsula. She’d insisted that they take the Atlantic side, not the bay, it was wilder.

From that point on things changed; she was there to rescue him. Gradually, he was cut loose from the pack; they didn’t expect him to be part of the drinking games or impromptu expeditions. And he was happy.

 

Serenity slipped her arm through his. The evening was turning and she pulled herself closer. The sun was a giant red orb; the sea ran from a fiery orange to deepest amethyst. The sand was warm beneath his feet. The boy with the widest smile Edward had ever seen ran up and pulled at his arm.

            “Come Mr Edward, play.”

            “No, too old, too fat Kesh.”

            “Play, Mr Edward, play.” Kesh tugged and Edward gave in. “My team.”

            Edward ran and chased, fell and flopped. The two dozen children laughed as the raced and sprang around the beach. The football was harried between the makeshift goals until it was too dark and the game ended with all agreeing they had won.

            Serenity drove the mini-van taking the kids back into the muceque and then weaved back to the hotel. They’d sat in silence. Finally she’d reached over and kissed him.

            “You’ve made a difference Edward”

            “Yes, Head Office...”

            “Not that, the children...” she paused and Edward longed for her to fill the vacuum, “Will you be back?”

            It had been there in his heart and now his head agreed, “Yes.”

            She kissed him again. There was no need to worry about the vacuum.

The first time she’d taken him into the muceque he’d been shocked by the squalor which Serenity ignored. This wasn’t what she wanted him to see.

            The lights in the hall were jerry-rigged. There were an assortment of chairs and tables which gradually filled with children. They limped, hobbled, dragged themselves through the door. Each was maimed, eyes blinded, limbs truncated, one had a fearsome scar which crossed face and torso ending below the elbow where her right forearm should’ve been.

            Serenity taught them. They chanted and sang in English. A slip into Portuguese or Kimbundu produced a rebuke. She dragged Edward to the front for Q&A. The class dismissed they sat together.

            “Mines,” she answered the unspoken question. “My beautiful country is where we keep the world’s mines. There are programmes to clear them but even now over 10 year since the civil war ended...” She looked sad. “Of course some are domestic – guns are easy to get, a machete even easier.”           

“This is what you do?”

            “Yes, I was helped, made sure I had a schooling. English helps. So I give back.”

            The door creaked and Edward felt Serenity tense.  A crutch appeared and a boy, tall, stick thin appeared.

            “Kesh?”

            He hesitated, worried about trespassing. Serenity smiled and beckoned him in. He levered himself round the furniture with a dexterity that surprised Edward.

            “What do you want?”

            “Mr Edward you like football? Me I support Barcelona” he pointed to the blue and red stripped shirt he was wearing, “Yes? Messi. He is god.”

            Football was an opaque subject to Edward. He managed a few words and a grin and Kesh grinned back. Somehow it had got round to his big white trainers. And it seemed so obvious.

Kesh left the hall, his single left trainer glowing, matched only by his smile. Edward had made his way back to the hotel in stocking feet holding Serenity’s hand for the first time.

 

Next morning, he loped to the plane with a smile, his feet slapping the tarmac in his flip-flops. He paused at the top of the steps looking back to the airport terminal. He couldn’t see Serenity but she was there and beyond that Kesh and the children.

He would be back, not for a visit but for good.