Girl with the Golden Voice (17 page)

The next four days were ocean delight. There were no rules, no set plans beyond following the fancy. Breakfast and lunch were on offer to anyone who was within range of the house and its tropical garden. Bertie kept regular hours for Ewan's sake. His most regular other companion was Rafaella. She divided her day between searching out damaged corners of the garden and bringing them back to glory and reading nineteenth century novels she hadn't looked at since her days in the University of Verona.

At five-thirty pm on the sixth day the evening breeze was beginning to move in from the sea on its evening business of making the mosquitoes uncomfortable. The older generation was still out to afternoon tea at the Buckle villa just down the road when Tom drove down the dirt track. He had been out to the Diani shopping centre to stock up on wine. He could hear Lucy's shrieks a hundred yards away. Clearly the twins were giving her a hard time. Their tricks usually involved water in some way.

He announced his arrival with a few loud notes of his tuneless whistle. Surely they had heard the car though. Swinging his sisal baskets with their cargo of clinking bottles, he breezed brightly through the open front door.

Even his recollection of it a few hours later was played back to him in slow motion.

He saw the pool of blood before it registered that the motionless body lying in the middle of it was Eddie. Lucy was kneeling off to one side with her hands over her face, covering her eyes. Her whole body was shuddering with the force of her sobs. Rollo was at the table shouting frantically down the telephone at his mother.

‘But, Mum, he's so still … Please be … Oh, thank God, Tom's back.'

He fell to his knees and reached out towards his twin brother without really trying to touch him for fear he might discover an awful truth.

‘Rollo, what the hell's been going on here?'

Lucy began to pour out a stream of words. ‘There were two of them … that boy at the duka … at the end of the track … that place where you stop to buy sodas.'

‘You mean Joe Sagana?'

‘I don't know his name. It was the other one who had the gun.'

‘Gun!' Eddie's blood felt warm to Tom's bare knees. In his panic he was trying to do two things at once — take a pulse and find the wound or wounds. The pulse was there, but it was weak.

Rollo, still managing to hold back the tears, was slipping into a state of shock.

‘Tom, Eddie was holding his hands out like he was surrendering. Honest, Tom. He didn't do anything, did he, Lucy?'

‘We've got to stop the blood, Rollo. Grab his shoulder. Gently!'

With his brother's help Tom lifted Eddie until the heavy, rubbery weight of his trunk was resting on his thigh. The blood began to seep through his shorts. He found the single hole, a clean penetration of Eddie's shirt. But only one wound, he was sure. It was in the lower back, a long way from the heart. His first idea was to press his finger into the red, raw opening. ‘Blanket! Blanket! And boil some water!'

Lucy ran off to the kitchen.

‘Rollo, a doctor!'

‘Yeah, Mum said …'

The finger in the opening was achieving nothing.

‘Oh, Christ, this is no good. Ice! Bloody ice! Quick! And a bag. Anything clean. Please, God, make it stop! Make it!'

Tom had his face pressed against Eddie's hot, wet cheek. Holding his own breath, he tried to pick up the faintest sound of air passing in or out of his brother's mouth or nose. He pressed the bag of ice against the wound. He was holding the trunk upright in an awkward, twisted embrace. It soon became an agony, but he was determined not to let go for a second. He would push beyond any pain, anything as long as it was something.

One great comfort from the pain was that, grasping his brother so tightly, he could detect a tiny, rhythmic movement in Eddie's diaphragm.

There was the distant sound of a kettle boiling and soon afterwards of a vehicle approaching quickly. Racing footsteps and a hall full of noise and activity.

Tom felt himself being eased away from his brother's body. He looked up and saw his mother and father holding Eddie forward so that some stranger could move in close to set to work.

Tom slid on his bottom until his back was pressed against the wall. Seeing the blood on his hands, he pressed them against his face and into his scalp. The stickiness soon dried, leaving his skin hard and slippery.

‘There's only so much I can do here, Alex.'

The accent was Italian, maybe Spanish. Tom whispered a prayer, ‘A doctor! A doctor! Thank you, God, thank you!'

Benedict Santos, Bolivian born, Kenyan wife, on holiday after a six month stint in the Aga Khan, Nairobi.

‘Can we get four into your plane?'

‘Easily. And I can take stuff out.'

‘Take pillows, blankets and a small mattress. You go ahead and I'll be along with my nurse, Maura here. Ten minutes.'

‘I'll drive.' Bertie hurried off to kiss Ewan goodnight, in case he was back late.

‘Mombasa first. He needs blood. Perhaps we'll have to risk Nairobi later. Okay for night flying?'

Rollo was not taking in any of the exchanges. His mind was fixed on the one basic issue. ‘Is he going to be all right? I was afraid …'

Santos turned to look Rollo full in the face. His smile was wan. ‘We'll take good care of him.'

Half an hour later the household, or what was left of it, was shutting down into a kind of numb torpor. Bertie had gone upstairs to be with Ewan. He had returned quickly from his mission of driving the group of four to the airstrip. All the news that he could give was that Eddie had not recovered consciousness and that he had watched the little white craft take off and disappear from sight on the short journey to the hospital. Rafaella tried to persuade Tom, Lucy and Tim to eat something. She and Tom talked briefly about bringing in the police. Very briefly. Their experience with the lawmen of Kenya had rarely been anything but unpleasant. Traffic problems, burglaries, trouble on the farms, drunkenness, vandalism, the men in blue rarely solved anything. They had a gift for making a bad situation worse with their petty bureaucracy, their bloody-minded incompetence and their aggressive indifference.

The four of them agreed that they should write down everything they could remember of what had happened in the hallway in the late afternoon on that sixth day of their holiday. The effort of recall would fall mainly on Rollo and Lucy. Rafaella had volunteered to be scribe. It would be a distraction and it would be worth the pain to relive those brief, terrifying moments before the memories became vague and confused.

There were two black youths involved. Lucy and Rollo agreed on that. Joe Sagana and a stranger. Tom was incredulous and furious. ‘This is crazy. Joe and I used to swim together, dive, play football … He used to come to this house often.'

‘Tom, there's not a lot more to say. They were high on something. You know how it is around here. Wouldn't speak English. And the Swahili was so slurred.'

‘Fedha! Fedha!'

Joe didn't say much. Kept looking down.

Eddie came in from the garden. That's when the other guy pulled out the gun. Started screaming, “Fedha! Fedha! Sasa! Sasa!”'

Eddie opened his arms wide. “No money! No money!” Those were the last words he spoke. He went to pull out the pockets of his shorts. I tried to warn him. Two bangs. Eddie went down and they … staggered off. Next thing, you were here.'

There was silence except for the scratch of Rafaella's pen and the movement of her hand across the page. They were in the grip of a deep helplessness that sapped their energy. They were desperate for the phone to ring and dreading it just as much.

Footsteps crunched along the driveway, measured, confident. Perhaps someone had informed the police after all. The steps reached the patio. Two people, one a woman.

The door creaked as it was pushed open. Abel Rubai stepped inside. His eye took in the huge red stain on the stone floor. His wife hurried towards Rafaella with her arms outstretched.

Abel spoke quietly without emotion. ‘There's been trouble in this house. I've come to help. First, I need information.'

bel and Sally Rubai were immaculately turned out. They were sipping an iced soda on the terrace of their villa, half a mile down the coast from Villa Simba and waiting to be driven to a reception at State House. One of Abel's boys appeared on the steps leading down to the garden and the beach. Abel rose from his chair, expecting to be told that the car was ready. But the young man had news that he thought might interest his boss.

‘There's been a shooting down at the McCall place. One of the boys.'

‘Which?' Abel's mind switched in an instant from bored to fully alert.

‘One of their twins. Our boys know who did it and where they are hiding.'

Abel took his seat again, and for a whole five minutes was lost to his companions. The quick movement of his eyes told them that he was working out a response to the news, weighing his options, mentally trying out scenarios. Straight away he realised that there was some kind of opportunity for him here. Perhaps how he acted in the next couple of hours would help to bring him the chance to get hold of the McCall farm, in a year or two. It was an investment situation. If he was careful this one could bring him big dividends. He loved pressure situations. He was at his best when he had to work fast. All his big killings, financial and otherwise, had come about this way.

He was on his feet again and strode off towards his study. The decision had been made. Yes, he would get involved. No, he would not call in the local police. He hoped the McCalls had not already done so. He did not trust policemen unless he was paying them. And there was a good chance that some Diani inspector would mess up his own situation. His own boys could deal with this little business. So, when he returned to the patio, he passed on instructions to his boy, out of the hearing of Sally, and set off down the driveway to wait for the car. He was feeling very pleased with himself. The important first move was to let the McCalls know that he was involved. That would give him the chance to reveal himself as the powerful man with the magnanimous nature, the man who bore no grudges. Personally he wasn't too concerned whether the kid lived or died. It was a pity it wasn't the eldest one, the arrogant one who down the years had caused Julius, and by extension, himself a lot of problems.

He and Sally stayed no more than five minutes with the distressed family. He had told Sally nothing about his plans. He rarely did. That way she could be a sincere, tearful neighbour while he could give them a quick glance at his polished armour. They were not late for the reception. Several guests noted that Rubai was in sparkling form that evening. The president himself was pleased with the way his special financial adviser charmed the people from Europe and America with his witty chat and his uproarious tales of shamba life.

No telephone calls had come through to Villa Simba by midnight. Tom decided to go to the hospital and see for himself what was going on. Anything was better than this hanging about. Rollo insisted on going with him. The roads were quiet and they were lucky with the ferry.

The night staff in casualty were baffled by their inquiries about their brother. ‘McCall? Dr Santos?' Blank looks even after persistent questioning and requests to contact other parts of the hospital. The duty nurse refused to phone the two big Nairobi hospitals after it had dawned on Tom that Dr Santos must have decided to fly Eddie straight to the capital. And the brothers could not work out whether this was a good or a bad thing.

When they arrived back in the villa, Angela was scrubbing the hall floor. She was on her fifth attempt to remove every trace of red from the shiny surface.

Just before dawn the phone rang at last. By the time everyone had come down to the hallway, Tom was well into a conversation with his father. Yes, they were in Nairobi Hospital. The doctor had decided that one journey and one landing was the most that Eddie could take.

‘And, Dad?'

‘Stable but serious. That's all they'll say. He's still unconscious. They've given him six pints of blood. His own bleeding stopped just as we took off from Diani. That's why we came straight here. Benny Santos was fantastic. He's handed him over now. English surgeon, David Daniels. Been in Kenya since before Mau Mau.'

‘That's over fifty years ago! Is he the only one they've got?'

‘Tom, listen. Your mother and I think that Eddie is going to, we think, mind, that he's going to make it …'

‘Oh, thank God!'

‘Just a minute, Tom. There's a big, big problem. The bullet is lodged very close to his spine. Daniels says that we were crazy to move him like we did. The bullet could, should, have shifted. But Daniels is the man. I was in the Muthaiga a year ago and the conversation turned to doctors. Remember Phil Stevens, a lawyer? Anyway, Phil said Daniels has the stillest hands in East Africa. And a cool nerve to go with it.'