Coincidence: A Novel (17 page)

‘Perhaps.'

‘So, what if I predict that he'll also be blind?' said Azalea. She pulled off one shoe and started on the other. ‘Blindness seems to figure in every story.'

‘Well,' said Thomas, trying to be encouraging, ‘details like that would certainly help.'

‘So the more predictions I make that come true, then the more likely it'll be that . . .' she tailed off.

‘That what?' Thomas asked her. She was placing her bare feet back on the dashboard.

‘That someone – or something – is fucking with my life,' said Azalea.

‘I'm glad,' said Thomas, ‘that you're using the technical term.'

‘Let's make it more interesting.' Azalea turned to look at him with a defiant expression. ‘You set up the website, and I'll post my predictions. And I'll add one more.'

‘And what will that be?'

‘That on 21 June 2012,' Azalea said, ‘Midsummer's Day, thirty years to the day after the death of Marion and twenty years after the deaths of Rebecca and Luke – I will die.'

18

June 1992

J
ohn Gropius Hall was fifty-one years old. He stood six feet one and a half inches tall in his heavy military boots, and he weighed sixteen stones. Most of that weight was muscle. He worked out. He had lost whatever hair he once had. In a lounge suit and tie you could have taken him for a nightclub bouncer. But he didn't dress like that. He wore loose camouflage trousers and a khaki T-shirt that struggled to accommodate his torso but allowed him to exhibit his muscles and his tattoos. John Hall was not the kind of man you would want to pick a fight with. You would avoid him if you saw him in a bar. He was a man who had flirted briefly with civilian life, but who now knew keenly where his skills lay. He was not made to stand behind a bar and splash gin into glasses; he wasn't born to wash out ashtrays or make polite conversation with drunken tourists. He was a fighting man, a soldier, a man born to bring about order through force. He was also a disturbed man, a morose man. He didn't smile a great deal.

John Hall was the man that Luke Folley met in the garden of the Acholi Inn on 21 June 1992. We, of course, have already met him. We know that he was one of the godfathers of Azaliah Yves; one of the
candidate
fathers. We don't know why he left the Bell Inn at Port St Menfre on the Isle of Man. Nor do we know what became of the forgiving wife. Perhaps she was less forgiving than first appearances suggested. Maybe Marion Yves was only one in a succession of barmaids to be pressed up in the cellar against boxes of cider, while the unhappy wife pulled pints in the bar above. Perhaps Mrs John Hall lost patience with her faithless husband. We don't know, but it doesn't really matter. We can construct any number of stories to account for John Hall's translocation from the comfort of a Manx village to a mercenary army unit in Uganda. It matters only that it happened.

The mercenaries travelled by night. The unit numbered six men, no more. They drove in convoy in two nondescript lorries of the type that belched black smoke all the way across Africa; they travelled three to a vehicle, and they crossed the Nile River on the ancient Laropi ferry on the last crossing of the day and made the border post into Sudan sometime after midnight, leaving the border guards rather wealthier than they had been before.

There were two South Africans, a Belgian, two former Ugandan army officers and a Manxman. The Manxman was John Hall. They carried enough ordnance to equip a platoon.

They did it for the money. In the safety deposit box of John Hall's hotel were the envelopes that Luke Folley had passed to him. Inside one was a string-bound package of two thousand American dollars; inside the other was a document duly signed and witnessed that would transfer to John Hall the deeds of ownership to the Folley house in St Piran.

John Hall had told Luke that speed was essential. ‘We need to do it,' he said, ‘while we can still smell them.'

‘How will you find them?' Luke had asked.

John Hall was checking the signatures on the deed that would make him the owner of an English Edwardian seaside home. Satisfied, he folded the pages and slid them into a long pocket in his trousers. ‘We already know where they are,' he told Luke. ‘Everyone knows where the bastards hide out.'

‘I see,' said Luke. ‘So why doesn't the Ugandan army just take them out?'

The mercenary feigned a look of indifference. The look said, ‘This is Africa – why do you need to ask?' But then he said, ‘There's a whole bunch of reasons why Museveni and his men might be perfectly happy to keep Kony alive. Kony's a madman. He captures kids, for Christ's sake. And the people up here think he's some kind of wizard. They're scared of him. They think he can do magic.' Hall spat carelessly on the ground. ‘But one thing Kony doesn't do is present any real Acholi opposition to the government in Kampala that the people here can identify with. Now
that
would worry Museveni and his thugs. All Kony has is a gang of trigger-happy kids and a load of home-made guns, so the Acholi are even more scared of Kony than they are of Museveni. That's a good position for the President. He likes that.'

Luke nodded. ‘So where are they hiding?'

Hall laughed. ‘Not in Uganda,' he said. ‘Kony rounds up kids from villages in Acholiland and takes them across into Sudan. President Bashir lets the Ugandan army chase Kony across the border, but only as far as a line that runs across the country about a hundred miles north of the border. So Kony has his camps just the other side of the line.'

‘Is that where they'll have taken Azalea?' Luke asked.

Hall looked off into the middle distance. ‘I knew a kid called Azaliah once,' he said. He let the thought float. ‘Is she your daughter?'

Luke hesitated. ‘Adopted,' he said.

Hall nodded slowly.

‘You won't put her at any risk?' Luke said. ‘Tell me you won't go in there with all guns blazing?'

The big Manxman surveyed Luke through narrowed eyes. ‘Everyone thinks our job is about going in and shooting people.' He paused. ‘Fact is, we hardly ever do that. If we did, we wouldn't live very long.'

‘So how do you intend to get her out?'

‘Well, we have three options. Option One, we start a big firefight. Lots of people get killed. Some of our guys get killed. Maybe even your . . . Azaliah . . . gets killed.' He was lost again in a reverie. ‘Mind you,' he said, ‘it would be bloody revenge, if that's what you want. If we go for Option One, it only works if we kill every one of them. It could come to it.'

Luke waited.

‘Option Two,' Hall said, ‘we try to break in under cover of darkness and steal the kids out. It could work, but it's bloody dangerous. Those child soldiers have no idea when to shoot and when to wait – they just shoot. That's what Kony wants them to do.'

‘And Option Three?' asked Luke.

‘Ahh,' said the soldier, ‘Option Three. We trade.'

‘You trade?'

‘Sure thing. We get there and we open up a dialogue.'

Luke nodded. He liked Option Three. ‘What do you use to trade with?' he asked.

‘Money,' said Hall, ‘guns. Ammo.'

Luke winced. The peacenik was never far away. ‘It would be good,' he said, ‘if we could avoid giving them more guns.'

Hall grinned. ‘Hell, if we give them money they're only going to spend it on guns. Why not make it easy for us both?' He laughed – a faintly cruel laugh. ‘Anyone who thinks we can take the guns out of Africa never sat on my side of the table.' He rose from his chair. ‘Are we done? Only we should get started.'

‘Yes,' said Luke weakly.

‘Final thing,' said Hall. ‘No one gets to know about our arrangement. No one.'

‘That's fine,' said Luke, ‘I understand.'

‘Good. Don't send anyone to look for us.' He lifted his eyebrows. ‘If we never come back then the whole thing's a bust. You get to keep your pretty house, but you'll be damn sure that I'm dead, my boys are dead and all your kids are dead too.'

‘I get it,' Luke said slowly.

‘We only get one go at this. If we screw up the first time, there won't be a second time. Kony is the most merciless motherfucker on either side of the equator. If we screw up, we're dog meat – all of us.'

 

When the nondescript lorry crept up the approach road to the LRA camp, it would have been breakfast time back in Langadi. In the LRA camps there was no breakfast time.

There were just two men in the lorry, John Hall and one of the Ugandans. They let the vehicle crawl up to the first barricade. The gaggle of guards looked terrified. Guns were waving. The Ugandan mercenary slowly wound down his window. ‘Tell your boss,' he said, talking in Acholi, ‘that we're here to trade with him.'

Guards began to gather round the truck. Most were teenagers. All were thin. Some wore flip-flops, but most had no shoes. All carried guns.

One man, who may have been the most senior, approached the lorry with hesitation. He stood a few feet away as if the whole vehicle might be a booby trap.

‘What are you wanting to trade?' he shouted.

The Ugandan mercenary looked supremely relaxed. ‘Two anti-tank guns and a box of grenades,' he said.

The LRA man looked doubtful.

‘And one hundred American dollars,' said Hall, in English. The Ugandan translated.

The guards conferred loudly. Their spokesman needed to look important. ‘Show me these weapons,' he demanded.

The Ugandan shook his head. ‘We don't have them here,' he said. He made eye contact with the LRA man. ‘But we have one gift for you. Just to prove our good intentions.' He nodded his head towards the rear of the lorry. One of the boys made as if to investigate but the lead guard yelled at him. He suspected a trap.

‘It is OK,' said the Ugandan mercenary. ‘He can get it.'

The LRA man was weighing up his options. Finally he yelled something to one of the boys, who disappeared into the back of the lorry. There was a moment of danger. Then the boy reappeared with a whoop of excitement. He jumped down from the tailboard carrying an American-made Barrett M82A2 anti-tank rifle. At thirty or so pounds, it was almost too heavy for the frail boy to handle. He swung it around at knee height with feigned menace.

‘Take it to your commander,' said Hall, while the Ugandan translated. ‘Tell him this is a token of our good faith. We have ammunition and one more of these. And other weapons.'

The LRA man still looked hesitant. ‘And what do you want in return?'

‘Smart boy,' said the mercenary. ‘You have some guests staying with you. Some guests visiting from a mission school in Moyo District.' He stared directly at the guard. ‘We want to take them . . . for a safari.'

For a few moments there was an impasse. The two men looked at each other. The boys around the lorry pressed in closer to share the excitement.

‘Go and discuss this with your commanding officer,' said the Ugandan. He leaned back in his seat and pulled his beret down over his eyes as if now was a good time to sleep. ‘We are patient men,' he said, ‘we can wait.'

They waited as the day grew hotter. They had brought water and food. The cluster of LRA boys thinned a little, and after a while some of the boys grew bored and sat down to watch for further developments.

Then a Toyota truck came heading towards them from the camp. An LRA commander in full military uniform climbed out of the truck. He was carrying the Barrett M82A2. He swaggered over to the lorry, aware of his audience. ‘Is this your gun?' he demanded.

The driver's window slid down. ‘No, sir,' said the Ugandan soldier. ‘This is your gun. It is a gift.'

The LRA man strutted round to the back of the lorry and tossed the anti-tank gun inside with a gesture of contempt. ‘You can keep your gun,' he said, and he offered a toothless grin. ‘We have no guests here to trade with you.'

The two mercenaries exchanged glances. Hall said something in English and the Ugandan soldier nodded grimly. ‘In that case,' he said to the LRA man, ‘we thank you for your time.' He ground the lorry into gear and started up the engine. The vehicle began to reverse awkwardly up the dusty track.

‘Wait!' The customs and tradition of negotiation are the same worldwide, and the LRA man fell into line. He approached the lorry.

The mercenaries didn't kill the engine.

‘We have just one guest,' said the LRA man. ‘We will give you this one guest for four of these guns.' He walked around the lorry and retrieved the Barrett. ‘And ammunition,' he said.

Hall shook his head. He held up two fingers. ‘We have two guns,' he said in English, ‘and twelve grenades. But we want all the guests.' He watched the LRA man's reaction as this was relayed to him. ‘We have to hurry,' he added, ‘before the army gets here.'

The LRA man laughed. ‘The army are not coming here,' he said.

Hall looked impassive. ‘Oh yes they are. The British are very angry. Very
very
angry. Museveni will do what they ask.' He let this sink in. ‘They are one hour away, so why not let us take the guests to meet them?'

The lorry engine ticked over.

‘Just the muna muna, then,' said the LRA man. ‘But we need to see the guns first.'

Hall bobbed his head rhythmically. ‘All of the guests,' he said, ‘including the Acholi children. But we will add one hundred American dollars and . . .' he acted as if this concession was a struggle, ‘one rocket launcher.'

This was translated. The LRA man's eyes were widening. ‘How many rockets?' he asked.

‘Six.'

‘Eight. We have eight guests.'

John Hall raised his eyebrows very slightly. Luke Folley had only mentioned six abductees. ‘We only have six rockets. I'm sorry.'

The man considered this. The crowd of boys was silent.

‘Ten thousand dollars then,' the man demanded, switching to English.

‘All of the guests,' repeated Hall very slowly and illustrating with his hands. ‘All eight. For two tank guns and ammunition, one launcher and six rockets, twelve grenades and two hundred dollars.'

The two men held each other's eyes.

‘Ten thousand dollars!'

‘I only have two hundred,' said Hall, managing to look sorrowful.

There was a moment of consideration. ‘What else do you have?' asked the LRA man.

Hall shrugged, ‘Nothing else.'

‘You have this lorry.'

‘We need this lorry to take the guests for their safari.'

The commander gave a loud laugh. He had him now. ‘You must have another lorry,' he said. ‘Or where are your guns? Where are your rockets?'

Hall shook his head. ‘We cannot give you the lorry.' He pulled a walkie-talkie from his pocket. ‘We can give you walkie-talkies.'

The commander looked at this.