Bite (12 page)

Professor Friederikson went to the refrigerator and removed a plastic jug labelled ‘equine concentrate'. He donned a pair of surgical gloves, decanted half of the thick crimson liquid into a measuring jug, tipped in half of the vial of precious infected blood and topped it up with water. The mixture he carefully poured into four ashtray-sized plastic receptacles until they were brimming. These he covered and sealed with a filmy membrane, then clipped on to each a small heating device.

The professor checked his watch. After two minutes each pot was body warm. He opened a drawstring on the long netting sleeve into the first of the four chosen mosquito tanks, and carefully slid in the warm, blood-filled receptacle. Then he pulled his arm out rapidly and closed the sleeve. Within ten seconds a dozen insects were poised on the membrane, thrusting their feeding tubes through the skin into the warm blood.

After repeating the process with the other three tanks, Friederikson fed the rest of his colony. Horse blood was fine for some mosquito species, but others would only draw blood from live prey. He picked a rat from the cage, anaesthetised the struggling creature and rested it on the netting of a tank. Within seconds scores of mosquitoes were poised on the underside of the rodent, sucking its life blood. This process he went through with three cages, returning the rats to their cage after five minutes.

Finally, he turned to a tank marked
Anopheles gambiei
. This mosquito species was the usual African bearer of the most deadly malarial strain. ‘Now, I have a special job for you little devils,' he muttered. He held one arm just above the netting, but out of reach of the insects. The blood-thirsty females shot up to the fine material like needles, straining to reach him, while the nectar-sipping males remained distributed around the tank. He put a long plastic tube known as a pooter in his mouth and inserted the other end through the drawstring of the netting sleeve. With a sharp inhalation he sucked a half dozen females into the tube, where they were trapped against a gauze filter. Still sucking, he withdrew the tube from the sleeve, closed it, and blew the insects out into a plastic jar before screwing on the lid.

The mosquitoes in the jar needed to stay hungry for a while. For the rest of these deadly but fussy creatures there was only one way they would feed. The professor rolled up his shirt sleeve and pressed his bare arm to the netting roof. Within a few seconds hundreds of ecstatic female mosquitoes darted and pierced his flesh, gorging themselves on his blood.

It was before dawn when I heard screaming and then shots. I jumped out of the hammock and grabbed my sarong. Tomas was already at the door with his camera, cursing as he tried to connect the flash unit. Amy was up and trying to rouse Georg.

More shouting and horrible, continuous screaming. Without time to find my contacts I grabbed for my old glasses and edged out of the door. In the half light I could see the silhouettes of men with rifles and machetes, running across the clearing. Where was the Zaireian Army when we needed it?

Tomas raised his camera, but I grabbed it. ‘Tomas, don't be stupid. They'll see the flash. Do you want us all to be killed?'

He pushed me away angrily. ‘This is why I'm here. Go into the bush. Hide. I'll find you later.'

Georg rushed past and into the darkness with Amy in tow. ‘Come on,' he hissed. ‘If you're coming. See you at the Land Rover!'

‘Tomas, please.' I tugged at his arm. ‘Don't be a hero. Wait until it's light, or until they've gone. Then you can get your pictures.'

He turned and gave me a quick kiss on the forehead. ‘Don't worry. I'll be fine. If you don't make it to the Land Rover I'll see you by the monkey tree. Hurry.' He ducked along the edge of the hut, past the volleyball net, and was gone.

I balled my fists and cursed him for his stupidity, then ran off after Georg and Amy. Behind me there was a low roar and one of the huts on the far side burst into flames.

Two men were ahead of me, facing away. They were standing over a dark bundle. One was pointing a rifle at it. The other lifted something shiny over his head and I saw reflected in its blade the first orange glint of morning. Then he brought the machete down hard. It struck with a soft, evil noise. The bundle moaned. Rising gently from it came an arm, a woman's hand opening wide like a flower to the sun. The man with the rifle laughed and lit a cigarette. Then the blade came, again and again and again.

I sprinted quietly away towards the bush. Behind me, against the fire, I could see men with guns. I crouched behind a stack of old truck tyres and watched. Some of the men were dragging heavy bundles. I heard the Land Rover engine start up. I prayed it was Georg and Amy, but within five seconds I knew was wrong. They would not have hung around, revving the motor crazily. A sustained burst of gunfire drowned out the engine. I could hear arguments.

It was getting light and hiding anywhere in Zizunga would soon be impossible. The nearest trees were thirty yards away. A hundred yards beyond was Jarman's hut and the monkey cage. Maybe the KPLA wouldn't find him. Even if they did, I remembered he had a gun.

I moved beyond the tyre stack and tripped over something. Lying on her back on the ground was a woman, brown legs akimbo, arms flung apart. Her long flower print dress reeked of urine, and had been yanked up over her head to expose her.

I couldn't bear to lift the dress to see her face, and I didn't need to. Where the delicate primrose print touched her torso and face, it had soaked in a crimson image of her excruciation. She was Cecile, the young bride of Etenzi. Raped, murdered and mutilated the day before her fifteenth birthday.

(Erica's Diary 1992)

* * *

The cops called her the sleeping beauty. Even by Dutch standards she was tall, mid twenties, long wavy blonde hair, perfect teeth, big brown eyes. On Monday she had been found unconscious in a toilet on the Amsterdam to Arnhem express. There were no indications of what had happened. She was fully clothed. There were no needles, no bottles, no pills, no wounds, no bruises. And no identification. If she had ever had a purse or handbag it was gone by the time the ticket inspector had found her, seated on the toilet, body slumped against the half closed door.

When she didn't come round they stopped the train at Utrecht and an ambulance was called. Maybe she had been robbed, but the police were happy enough she didn't seem to have been assaulted, and handed her over to the paramedics. In the hospital they didn't have time to worry about her name, they were more worried by a spleen, sitting in her abdomen hard as a pebble: that beautiful body was fighting something, fighting for its life. But when the blood tests came back negative for overdose of any kind, and the fever burned on, they wanted to know. Who is this woman?

Day one was hypoglycaemia and renal failure. The response was intravenous glucose, kidney dialysis and anti-pyretics. The doctors knew they were not saving her life, just keeping it in limbo. Several times she came close to consciousness, eyes flickering and lips moving. Soon though, doctors were using the word coma. Complications piled on: jaundice, electrolyte and acid-based disturbances, severe anaemia, fluid gathering in the lungs.

But it was only on day two, when her urine poured out black, that they knew. This was blackwater fever, a sign the woman's blood was dying in her veins. The overwhelmingly likely cause: severe malaria.

The Utrecht doctors looked at a thick film blood slide, but could not interpret the result. That was when they couriered off a sample to the Randstad Medical Centre. And that was how it got to Saskia Sivali, sitting at her microscope, to discover case two of what they began to call
Plasmodium five
.

But it needed someone else to find out who the sleeping beauty was.

Jarman didn't seem to be at his shack. When I called for him he hissed at me from a nearby bush. I wanted to tell him about Cecile but I didn't have the words. Instead tears welled up inside me and I clung on to him, trembling and sobbing. Jarman put his arm around my shoulder and patted my back, then led me away into the bushes. Eventually, I stopped crying and lay on my back, staring up at the billowing clouds. It was nearly time for rain. I had been there for an hour before Jarman spoke. He asked me whether I knew how to shoot.

‘No,' I replied.

‘You have the perfect chance to learn. I'm taking the Beretta because it is harder to aim. You can have that.' He pointed to a huge, heavy rifle in a canvas bag beside him.

‘I can't use that.'

‘It is up to you. It is a Short Magazine Lee Enfield 303. I admit it is old and heavy. But for fifty years it was the weapon of choice of the British army. Today it could save your life. And if we survive until tonight it could get us some supper.'

I lay down next to him and picked it up. He showed me how to balance the weight on my elbows, use the sliding bolt, and aim through the sight.

‘I didn't know you wore glasses,' he said.

‘I stopped years ago. These are for emergencies only. I need to go back in there to get my contact lenses and a whole lot of other things. Like some decent clothes for example.'

‘Not until tonight. Or whenever they go. They won't stay here long. This is a government village.'

Later I went to the monkey tree hoping Tomas had made it. I waited for two hours but he didn't come. Even the monkeys had gone. I tore a strip from the hem of my sarong and tied it around a low branch so that he would know I'd been there.

All day we could hear them in the village. Children were crying and there were some gunshots. By late afternoon it had gone quiet and no-one had yet come down the path to Jarman's hut. He ran back and fetched some dried fruit and beef jerky. He had plenty of rice and pasta, but what little water he had in his jerry can we decided to eke out for drinking.

We waited until it was dark and edged closer to the clearing. We smelt smoke. The guerrillas had made a big camp fire and were standing around it, laughing and joking. The sleeping hut was thirty yards away from the fire, but the entrance faced it. It was a risk, but I had to get some clothing. We also agreed the torch batteries, shortwave radio and a big collapsible jerry can were pretty much essential. Jarman offered to go alone, but I pointed out that he wouldn't be able to lug the water and the stuff I needed, and have his pistol in his hand.

He checked and loaded the rifle and passed it back to me. We moved through the bush around the perimeter of the clearing until the sleeping hut was between us and the fire. Keeping low, we sprinted across until we reached the shadows of the veranda. There was no sound, so we crept in.

I put the rifle aside and went ahead into the darkness. We couldn't risk attracting attention by using Jarman's torch. I found trousers and shirt and put them on. Spare underwear and toiletries I stuffed into my breast pockets.

On the floor next to my boots I found a polythene bag containing my diary and pen. I put them in my trouser pocket and was about to get up when I heard a sound, very close. There was someone here ahead of me. Jarman cocked the gun. I could hear breathing. It was fast and urgent.

‘Who is it?' I hissed.

There was no reply. Jarman decided he had to risk the torch. Its beam lit a terrified Salvation flat on the floor, hiding among the backpacks. I crouched down and kissed him on the forehead.

‘Salvation, I'm so glad you are safe. Have you seen Tomas?' My heart was beating hard as I asked.

‘Kaipelai took him. Smash camera. Beat him.'

I helped Salvation up, hugged him, and handed him his crutch. Jarman turned to the door. He had only taken one step outside before a huge blow from a rifle butt smashed him to the ground. I screamed as they came in for us. Salvation stood between me and two guerrillas hopping on one leg with his crutch held like a club. They swept him and his foolish bravery aside effortlessly.

I was punched repeatedly until I fell. Then an agony as a heavy boot smashed me in the mouth. I felt the blood and the last thing I remembered thinking was about my dentist in Dorchester, and how happy I would be to sit there in his waiting room reading magazines, until he was ready to fix this mess.

Someone was holding my hand as I awoke. It was dark but I could sense several people nearby.

‘Erica are you awake?' It was Tomas.

I tried to voice my relief, but only a low yowl escaped as I moved my jaw. Fresh blood seeped onto my tongue. I hugged Tomas close and heard his sharp intake of breath. He was hurt too. ‘Careful,' he said.

I touched his face. The wetness was more than sweat and I traced it back to his brimming eyes. Then I kissed his sweaty, salty neck. It was the best thing I had ever tasted. I flexed my mouth and breathed a low whisper. ‘Are Jarman and Salvation here?'