The Twain Maxim (17 page)

Jim was woken by someone rattling the tent from outside. “Time to wake up,” said Man Bites Dog’s voice. Jim clambered out. He went to the rucksack that was covered with rain from a downpour, opened it and took out a clean shirt, some pants and socks. He changed into them and stowed the old ones in a plastic bag. Then he took out a map from a side pocket and sat down to study it. Man Bites Dog was brewing coffee. It was eight thirty.

“Let’s go west for a couple of miles,” he said. “We’ll look for Terry as best we can, then come back here for the night and go back to the kimberlite tomorrow afternoon so they can pick us up.”

Man Bites Dog nodded. “We not find nothing,” he said, with certainty.

“But I need to look.”

“Sure,” said Man Bites Dog, “we look. Maybe we find your friend.” He handed Jim a dented tin mug. Jim took a mouthful of coffee. It was hot, sweet, and like any instant he would have drunk at home.

Man Bites Dog swigged his from the small billycan he’d brewed it in. “What happened to your side?” he said.

“I got blown up.”

“Blown up!” echoed Man Bites Dog, clearly impressed.
“By a bomb?”

“A grenade.”

Man Bites Dog’s eyes lit up. “A grenade? So you are a soldier?”

Jim had run with soldiers. He’d helped them stop the catastrophic detonation of nuclear warheads. “Not really. I was just the right guy in the right place at the wrong time.”

“So you are a warrior?”

“If you like,” said Jim. “And now you know who I am, you can tell me who you are. What’s your real name?”

Man Bites Dog looked at him. “Dog Bites Man,” he said slowly.

“No,” said Jim, “the name you were born with.”

Man Bites Dog sat back. “What happened to the people that blew you up?”

“They died,” said Jim.

“You killed them?”

“Not all of them.” He fixed Man Bites Dog with a stern look. “So, I’ve told you my secrets, what about you?”

“My name is Pierre, but do not use it with others near.”

“Pierre, I’m Jim. Nice to know you, Pierre.” He offered him his hand.

Pierre shook it. “You in very big danger, Jim,” he said. “Very big danger.”

“What from?”

“From Dog Bites Man.”

Why had he said his war name backwards? “What do you mean, Pierre?”

“In the camp I am Man Bites Dog, but with my boss I’m Dog Bites Man. Dog Bites Man and his boss are very
dangerous, very dangerous to you and to everybody. He keeps me for my English and my eyes.”

“Who is your boss?”

Pierre scanned the trees around him. “The prophet of Christ Reunion,” he muttered.

“Who’s he?” said Jim.

“I pray you will never find out,” said Pierre. He suddenly smiled. “But now I am Pierre we can play in the forest and be happy.” He jumped up. “Let’s find your friend. He must be waiting for us somewhere.”

Jim lifted up the map and drew a ring around a spot about two miles away. “Let’s walk there and come back lower down.”

Pierre looked doubtful. “OK…”

“What’s wrong?”

“Just small men.”

“Pygmies?”

“Around there, I think.”

“How do you know?”

“I’ve hunted here,” he said, tapping the map between the mine and the zone. Then he circled a whole area around the mountain to the east. “We have to be careful here. Pygmies hate everyone.”

“Why?” Jim was mystified.

“Bush meat.”

“People take their game?”

“Mai-Mai take them for bush meat.” Pierre spat on the ground. “They eat them for black magic.”

Jim was horrified. “No wonder they’re hostile.” Jim shook his head.

“If I suddenly run, run after me.” 

“OK,” said Jim, “that’s a promise.”

“The further we go, the quieter we must be.”

“Understood,” said Jim. “You lead and I’ll follow.”

Jim had emptied the rucksack of everything he wouldn’t need on the trek into the tent. He was carrying just two packs of rations, the medical kit and the water – he’d had enough of lugging thirty kilos on his back and now the pack felt as light as a feather. He fixed the GPS to his jacket by the strap and put the unit into his pocket. Unlike the sat phone, it didn’t seem to use much battery.

“This way,” said Pierre, and strode up the incline.

After about half a mile the canopy broke apart and they were in an area of low lush greenery. Pierre walked through it as if he knew exactly where he was going. The sun beat down and Jim thanked his stars he hadn’t left his canvas hat in the tent with the rest of his clothes. This place, he thought, was like a proud bastion of a world without man, a final defiant gesture against the smart monkey that had conquered all before it. Not far ahead he could see another tree-line, and between the great trunks to the massive walls of the Nyamuragira volcano, which rose like a titanic chimney. Occasionally, further in the distance, he glimpsed the brooding Nyiragongo, with its plume of smoke spewing into the sky.

Jim kept drinking and refilling his bottle whenever he could. He was sweating as much as if he was in a steam bath. He actually enjoyed the heat, but it made the going tougher than the terrain warranted. Four miles hadn’t seemed very far when he had planned the route, but now he realised it was an ambitious target.

Not surprisingly Pierre wasn’t bothered by the stifling atmosphere, and Jim was thinking idly how strong the boy must be in comparison to himself, when Pierre caught his arm. Something whistled past his ear, and then Pierre was dragging him and he was running behind the boy.

Pierre was fast and Jim was having trouble keeping up, his wounds jarring as he stumbled over hidden tussocks.

Eventually Pierre pulled him behind a tree and, panting, started to rustle in his bag. He pulled out a pink piece of cloth, covered with large white and yellow flowers, and tugged it over his head. It was a dress. He grabbed bullets from his bandolier and started to thread them quickly through his tight curls. “Let’s go,” he said jumping up and grasping Jim’s hand again.

They were running downhill as fast as Jim could manage until they burst through another bush and Pierre hauled him behind another tree.

“Pygmies,” Pierre said. “They warned us off.”

Jim was looking at Pierre, the dress and the shiny brass shells in his hair.

Pierre returned his stare defiantly. “This battle dress saved me many times,” he said. “Now listen.” He closed his eyes to concentrate on the jungle sounds. After a few minutes he said, “Let’s go further away.”

Jim was just getting his breath back. He took a look at the GPS and pointed in the general direction of the camp.

Pierre nodded. “I think so.”

Dog Bites Man, child soldier, Congolese insurgent, hardened killer, was wearing a little pink dress. He was the most frightening thing Jim had ever seen.

An enemy would gun down a kid with a Kalashnikov, but
the second’s hesitation that a girl with spangles in her hair caused was all the time Dog Bites Man needed to blow you away. This was real-time evolution, Jim thought, forced on souls clinging to the edge of an abyss.

His side was aching badly now. They were not going to find Kitson and the sooner he could get out of the jungle and back to civilisation the better.

“Pierre,” he said on impulse.

Pierre stopped and turned.

“Thanks for saving me back there.”

“No problem.”

Jim shuffled in his pocket. “I’ve got a present for you,” he said, and held out the giant uncut diamond. He handed it to him. “It’s yours.”

Pierre was mesmerised by the stone. “I don’t think the little men wanted to hurt us,” he said vaguely. “If they’d wanted to they could have hit us with their arrows for sure.”

“It’s yours anyway.” Jim smiled.

“This is big money,” said Pierre.

“Yes,” said Jim, “and that’s why I’m giving it to you. It’s the Étoile Pierre –
étoile
is star in French, right?”

“Yes,” said Pierre, holding it up to a ray of light that had punctured the canopy above them. “
Étoile
Pierre.” He laughed. “You’re crazy.” He put it into his pocket. “Let’s go, Jim, before the pygmies change their minds.”  

Jim switched on the sat phone and called Baz.

“Hi, Jim, have you found him?”

“No,” said Jim.

“Shame,” said Baz. “Didn’t think you would, though.”

“Can you come and pick us up tomorrow at about midday?”

“No, mate,” said Baz. “The chopper’s out of commission.”

“Really?” Jim was appalled.

“Yeah, you’ll have to come out on foot.”

“That’s about eight miles!”

“Shouldn’t take you more than a day or so.” Baz sounded as though he was grinning. “Just walk downhill and you’ll pop out by the camp. You’ve got GPS so you won’t get lost.”

“Bloody hell,” said Jim. “I’ve had about enough already.”

“Yeah, it’s pretty harsh in there, isn’t it?” he said. There was a slurping noise. Jim guessed he was sipping a cold beer and was overcome by the desire to join him. “Don’t worry there’ll be a nice reception laid on for you when you get back.”

Baz wanted to laugh. With luck the insurgents would hack Jim to pieces and a nice RNS to the market would crash the stock. Then he would pick up his lovely mine for pennies in the pound.

“I guess I’ll see you in a couple of days,” said Jim.

“Mind how you go.”

He called Stafford. “I’ll be stuck in the jungle for a couple of more days than expected. I’ll call you when I’m out. Out of batteries.”

“Ri–”

He hung up.

The sat-phone screen advised, “Low batteries.” Fuck, he thought. “We’re going to have to walk out,” he said to Pierre.

“Easy. You going home straight?” asked Pierre.

“Yes,” said Jim. His companion was so much less terrifying out of his battle dress. “You want to come away from here?”

“No,” said Pierre, “I can’t.”

“Why not?” said Jim.

“This is my fate.”

“But don’t you want to go home too and be Pierre again?”

“I can’t,” said Pierre.

“You can’t leave?”

Pierre looked down at the ground.

“Can’t we change your fate together?”

“No,” said Pierre, “not even a big man like you.”

Pierre was out of the tent and making breakfast by the time Jim woke up and remembered with a jolt that he hadn’t switched the phone off. He rummaged for it among his clothes and pulled it out. He switched it on and it went live. Thank God for that, he thought. He had switched it off after all. Then it flashed and switched off again. Jim moaned. He hadn’t and now the battery was flat.

They ate breakfast and broke camp, Jim loading his rucksack with all the clobber. It would be a long walk, even though it was all downhill. They would finish the day about two miles from the mine and Jim calculated they should get back by about midday the next day. He was longing for the air-conditioned cool of a five-star hotel. Wherever Kitson had fallen, it was unlikely anyone would ever find him.

The terrain going down the mountainside seemed to change every few hundred metres. Even though he was weary of the jungle it was still a place of constant amazement to him. He saw a bird that looked like a vulture eating fruit from a tree while tiny birds flitted around him like flashing blue darts. All the time he could hear running water but, as they descended the mountain, the heat grew and the sun beat down through the canopy.

Pierre seemed almost part of the forest, always alert but happy and relaxed, sauntering through the undergrowth as if it was his own garden. Jim was happy enough, chewing salty snacks and topping himself up with water. The rucksack was a formidable weight but he pushed on behind Pierre as the hot day dragged by. When they reached the four-mile point, they stopped for a breather. Pierre brewed some coffee and Jim wondered about pitching camp there. If they did, he thought, they’d have gone four miles with four more to go the next day, which would put back the glorious moment of arrival by several hours. Five down with three to go would feel much better than four down with four ahead.

The distance ticked down slowly, a long stumbling ramble through increasingly challenging terrain. Pierre had no difficulty with it, but Jim’s pack got heavier and heavier and even felt wider as they wove in and out of the undergrowth.

“Five miles,” he called to Pierre.

“We camp over there.” Pierre gestured forwards to a point Jim couldn’t distinguish. He pressed on and followed Pierre to a tall, broad tree. It was a nice spot and Jim heaved off the pack, with a groan of relief, and slumped on to the ground. He drank some water and rubbed his forehead with his soaked sweatband.

“I’ll put up the tent,” said Pierre.

“Thanks,” said Jim. “I’m going to rest my bones for a few minutes.’ He checked his side with his hand. It was holding up fine. What an idiot he was coming out here with an injury, he thought. He’d got away with it, but only just.

The tent exploded in Pierre’s hands and he shrieked with joy. It would be a tight smelly shelter, but welcome for all that.

Jim was on his last change of clothes and he stank, but by midday or thereabouts they’d be back at the camp and he could luxuriate under a shower, even if the water was warm. He examined the sores on his side. Remarkably they seemed to be healing faster. Maybe it was the heat – or maybe the months of antibiotics were finally finishing their work. Encouraged, he washed and dressed them.

A couple of hours, and he’d be back at the mine. From there, he’d get a chopper to fly in from Goma – or a jeep or any kind of transport – and soon he’d be back in London, looking at the river.

Once he’d got back to base he’d ask Pierre again if he wanted a hand out of his predicament. He had so much money and so little to do with it: why not try a few good deeds? In fact, helping just a few people seemed suddenly
like a pretty pitiful gesture.

He would ask Davas about philanthropy. The old man was certain to know what to do and how to do it. Congo’s poverty had shocked him; it was almost too terrible to contemplate.

The Garmin GPS was a magic piece of equipment. Its simple black LCD display told him where to go, and it had lasted on a couple of AA batteries the whole three days. Without Pierre or the GPS he would have been in terrible trouble. The screen said they had about three miles to go.