Guardian (2 page)

Rosalind was bewildered, her comfortable world disturbed. Her father, Ted, the man she had idolised since earliest memory, who always seemed so certain of everything, so powerful and dependable, now sat hunched forward in his favourite chair, hands gesticulating in futility, shoulders drooped and a look of despair etched across his rugged face. On the other side of the room Vera stood crying quietly, the soft sound carried away by the whirring of the ceiling fan, their only means of keeping cool in the baking heat that gripped the thirteenth-century coastal port of Malindi year in and year out. The Lescals' sprawling, single-storey, ranch-like home with its wrap-around veranda stood apart from the languid Arab settlement, surrounded on all sides by luxurious hibiscus, frangipani and bougainvillea. Rustling groves of tall coconut palms completed their seclusion. Each tree with a line of footholds chopped into the length of its trunk, mute evidence to its owner's chosen means of harvesting the prized green fruits from their lofty perch.

Just north of the house, clustered around the port that was already ancient when Vasco da Gama came visiting in 1498, the town's close-packed, dreaming houses provided austere reminders of the Arabic influence that had left its centuries-old mark all along the East African coast. Barely into their thirties and desperate to get away from war-torn Europe, the young Lescals had gone to ground in this forgotten, exotic corner of the world, content simply to wrest a bare living from the teeming azure blue waters of the Indian Ocean. Vivid, sparkling, it surged and murmured not twenty yards from their front door. Neither Ted nor Vera had ever needed anyone else to populate their idyll. From the moment they met they had fallen passionately in love, each knowing that not only would their very existence be barren without the other, but together they could face anything fate might throw at them. It was a deep, soul love and it had become like a precious jewel held firmly yet lightly between them. Mutually supportive, the years had been kind to the couple and, as they matured, their little family had grown. First, with flaxen-haired Rosalind, then her younger brother, Ben. And together Ted and Vera had revelled in life, content to raise both children alongside their African friends, the Giriama
⁽¹⁾
, a tribe which divided its time between subsistence farming and fishing.

Immersed in their unassuming way of life, the two adults had been almost unable to grasp the enormity of their loss with the news that their recently acquired sixty-foot fishing launch had gone swiftly to the bottom, just outside the entrance to Mombasa's Kilindini harbour, far to the south. Her bow ripped wide open on an uncharted head of brain coral, the uninsured ‘
Marlin'
had taken all their charter business hopes down with her. But not only those. Far from being able to simply forget their ill-starred venture into the commercial world and return to the undemanding existence of daily fishing trips, the proceeds of which had, until then, kept them financially afloat, they now faced what was almost certainly an insurmountable barrier of debt.

Just three months earlier – was it only that long? – Rosalind's world had appeared complete. Her father had finally found buyers for his two old fishing smacks and, together with the help of a loan grudgingly arranged through the Bank of East Africa, had acquired the newest and most powerful sport fishing launch on the coast. Rich Americans were already hunting the fierce barracuda, wahoo, sail fish and abundant shark life, and the lure of a more secure future had taken Ted, quite literally, into uncharted waters. For which the family was now about to pay an unintended but enormous price. His trusted captain, Jumah, had barely escaped with his life. But with no hope of salvage and the bank now threatening to foreclose on the loan, Rosalind had listened in mounting distress as her dejected parents debated their only recourse. Rent out the house, pack their meagre belongings and head up country to the other side of the Rift Valley, beyond the Mau Hills and out to Moiben, a small settlement twenty miles north of Eldoret.

Here a distant cousin was farming tilapia in a large natural lake and, faced with a rapidly increasing demand for this popular fish, Uncle Joe was in need of a manager. If nothing else, Ted knew fish and, as he was saying, he was lucky to have any job to go to. Anything that would help repay the loan. But Rosalind barely heard him. From the moment she could walk, the stunning blue of the deep ocean, shading to translucent aquamarine over the sandy shallows, had been the loadstar around which she had built her whole life. Even when she had been sent up country to a boarding school in distant Limuru, not far from the capital Nairobi, her focus of attention had seldom strayed far from home. Now the thought of leaving, possibly for good – and not just her childhood friends, but all that she lived for – was threatening to choke her with a sense of loss beyond anything she had ever experienced. At eighteen, on the threshold of life in late fifties Kenya, untouched by failure, full of the confidence only a loving family can generate, Rosalind was totally unprepared for the cold winds of reality.

Peter Cryer was checking through the tack room when two of his horses came thundering side by side into the paddock. Glancing up in surprise, one look told him trouble was afoot. Tangled reins hanging limply from their lowered heads, Blue and Star stumbled to a trembling halt, their sweat-stained flanks heaving, white foam flecking bits and curbs. Alarmed, Peter strode towards them, trying not to spook them further.

“Steady now, steady,” he crooned, his voice controlled to what he hoped was a reassuring cadence, while he reached out to pat their necks and grab the dangling reins.

With the horses secured, he turned to yell for Peta, who came running from the house, her face reflecting the alarm she had heard in her husband's voice.

“Peta, the horses are back without the boys. There must have been an accident.”

Peta shivered despite the heat. She was strong, a seasoned ‘frontier' woman, not given to nerves, but lately she had become uneasy as her only son and I roamed further and further afield, revelling in our newfound release from the old disciplines of school life and the more recent pressure of exams. True, we were young men now, with all of life in front of us, and she knew she had to let Matt go. But it wasn't easy, although she trusted us both and knew we were as safe as anyone could be on the surrounding plains. Even the unlikely threat once posed by far-ranging gangs of marauding Mau Mau was long since over. But this was the first time such a thing had happened and her imagination was swift to run riot.

“Syce
⁽¹⁾
!” Peter's command rang out loudly and two young Africans came running to take the restless horses. “John, saddle Prince for me, take Hawk yourself. Get Mzee
⁽²⁾
Mutuku and tell him to ride Talon. Nia, saddle two more horses for Matt and Paul and when we've gone, I want you to rub these two down and make sure they're OK. We're going to have to search for the boys.”

The slow, almost lazy, yet strangely mellifluous tones of Kiswahili, the Afro-Arabic dialect, floated back as John ran off, calling over his shoulder, “Ndiyo, bwana
⁽³⁾
.”

“Peta, call Lynn and let her know what's going on. If Bob's sober, tell him we may need his help.”

Peta nodded and ran back into the house to ring the Monctons on the party line shared by most of the Moiben families. It wouldn't be long before everyone knew the score.

* * *

Twenty miles to the south, Lynn Moncton was having one of her routinely awful days. Wary, on edge, she spent most of her waking hours waiting nervously for her unpredictable husband to suddenly decide she was once again getting on his nerves. Which usually led to physical violence. Not enough to bring her to the doctor's attention. Just enough to make life hell. Bob's fierce and unpredictable temper was legendary and very few would willingly cross him. Certainly none of his family. Short, built like a tank with broad shoulders and a neck as thick as most men's thighs; about the only thing Bob could be relied upon to do with any certainty was hit the bottle at regular intervals. The outcome of which was inevitable. A cursing, swearing rant backed up by two ham-sized fists that lashed out at anyone who got in the way. His few friends were the dregs of Eldoret society, but amongst them he was something of a legend. He could drink like a fish, but, long before he had taken a bellyful, the alcohol would have released every last shred of inhibition. Allowing his talent for fighting to come to the fore. The local chief of police, the District Commissioner, regarded him as a walking disaster zone; his distaste for the usually out-of-work engineer bordering on downright loathing.

Lynn, however, had rather more cause to dread his moods. She lived on shredded nerves, jumping like a scalded cat at any unexpected noise. Terrified not only for herself, but much more for me. The son to whom Bob had never taken, never liked and now, with this same scion poised on the edge of manhood, simply regarded as one more male threat, treading where he had no right to be. A target to be destroyed whenever the mood took him. Bob had long regarded me as a wimp, too close to my mother by half, a boy who needed whipping into shape. So, along with the ever-present physical threat, my dad took a perverse pleasure in telling me exactly what he thought of me, regularly and at colourful length. And now the phone was sounding. Two ‘short' rings, followed by a ‘long', telling Lynn the call was for her; – something she always dreaded. The intrusive jangling that inevitably cut straight through any reverie, destroyed any temporarily good mood and jerked her back to reality with all the finesse of a striking cobra.

* * *

I remember hearing myself groan. It was the first sound that penetrated my world as I surfaced. For a moment I couldn't place where I was, but then, suddenly, and with terrifying clarity, the whole nightmare scythed through the fog of my awakening mind. And with the sound came the searing pain of that broken leg. Trapped. And far above me I could hear a perverted snuffling, accompanied by the sound of something wet being torn. I just couldn't help it, my stomach heaved and vomit forced its way out between my clenched teeth like a projectile, spurting all down my chest. Fear, overwhelming dread, filled me once again as I realised the smell of vomit would quickly drift upwards to where I could hear the nature of the lion's restless movements beginning to change. The sun was well down to the west, so it was hardly surprising to discover I had started to shiver. It wasn't just the approaching night cold though. It was the stark reality of death's proximity, coupled with the knowledge that if I escaped the lion's attentions, it would only be to face an exposed night in agony. And I was under no illusion about surviving that, either. With my right leg caught fast at an unnatural angle, preventing anything much more than a gingerly shove upwards to relieve the pressure, I would be easy prey to whatever might pass, unless I could reach my rifle, lying tantalisingly out of reach.

I was just trying to stretch for it without detonating a new wave of pain, when the muffled sounds of a heavy but lithe body descending the slope above caused me to freeze, not even daring to look up, lest any movement attract the fast-descending lion. A heavier thump off to my right was followed by silence. Ominous silence. Unable to bear the suspense, there was nothing for it but to risk a glance and, when I did so, my blood ran cold, as I found myself staring straight into a pair of golden yellow eyes not fifteen feet away. The lion that had so recently killed and, no doubt, eaten all the good bits of my friend stood there, staring at me, its bloody jowls shut for once, its gaze focused, as only that of a big cat can be. However, this time the intensity was gone and the unblinking inspection was laced with indifference. It had fed. It didn't need me. I was to be spared. Slowly, almost haughtily, it had turned and paced out of my line of sight. And as it did so, for the first time I could see one of its back legs dragging slightly. The departure left me no option. With other predators now free to approach, I had to make the one supreme effort left to my broken, pain-racked body. I had to get hold of the only means of defence and survival available. Gritting my teeth, I recall listening to my ragged breath as it whistled between now nerveless lips. It was harsh and unnaturally loud in my ears and it told me I was nearing the end of my tether. But I snagged the rifle.

It didn't take old man Mutuku long because, as he was fond of saying, even a child could backtrack the trail of two maddened horses. Peter, for whom Mzee had worked for over twenty years, believed him, even though at times he was hard pushed to pick out what the old Nandi could apparently see so clearly. Within an hour, the grizzled, white-haired old man was pointing to a large, broken branch dangling over the edge of a donga, mute evidence of the fight to tear free that would have been the wild prelude to the stallions' bolt for home. And it was quickly evident why. Fresh lion tracks showed what had spooked them, although they must have sensed the cat coming and pulled away from the picket long before it got there, or at least one of them would have been killed and eaten.

“Matt and Paul walked from here, bwana, and the lion followed. It's a large male and it's lame in a back paw.”

A vein had begun to thump in Peter's temple as a terrible premonition took hold of his mind. Jacking a round up the spout of his hunting rifle, he had urged the restless Prince forward, but the horse had caught the taint of lion on the wind and wasn't happy. Nevertheless, in response to the rake of spurs he had surged forward behind Talon as Mzee quietly followed up on the boys' trail. An injured lion was the last thing they needed to encounter. Silence had descended as all three peered around, tense and alert, knowing that danger could be very close.

“Huko, bwana, huko
⁽¹⁾
.” The old man had pointed off to the left, not far from the western end of a granite outcrop rearing up several hundred yards ahead. Just in time the other two had caught a fleeting glimpse of a large male lion, its tawny flank disappearing rapidly into the scrub behind a stand of flame trees.

“That's Cat Hill.” The others had nodded.

“But there've been no lions around here for months.”

Although the boys' trail curved to the right, it was obvious where it was headed and the men had pressed forward as rapidly as they could, Peter ever more afraid of what he was going to find. The bundu
⁽²⁾
itself seemed to hold its breath, as if anticipating a reaction to the shameful secret it was about to reveal. Then a sharp exclamation, followed by a swift rattle of sound from up ahead, told Peter that Mzee had spotted something and it wasn't like him to make unnecessary noise. Cresting the slight rise, Peter's gaze had followed the direction of Mzee's pointing finger and his heart had leapt. Despite the lengthening shadows of evening, there was still enough light to recognise me, although he couldn't see his own son, Matt.

Apparently, I had seemed strangely still and awkward to him, almost as though I was ignoring the presence of help, although I distinctly remember hearing their approach. And to a certain extent his supposition was true. Shame had kept my head firmly turned away, rifle gripped rigidly across my chest.

“Paul!” Peter's sharp call had cracked out like a rifle shot and, to his evident astonishment, I had jerked guiltily, but refused to look round. Confused, Peter had dismounted swiftly and run forward, taking in the awkward angle of my leg and realising I was hurt. I remember he reached down to touch me reassuringly on the shoulder, aware of the tears streaming down my face.

“Paul, what is it? Where's Matt?” The question hung in the air like a lance waiting to pin me back to the earth from which I was struggling to rise. “Paul, where's Matt?” he repeated.

I remember how Peter's voice rose, grinding out the words as fears like poisonous snakes had begun to slither around his mind, but my choking sobs almost drowned his efforts at communication.

“He's – he's dead.”

Like beads of poison my words had dropped, one by one, into Peter's ears. I just couldn't help it. Everything conspired to overwhelm me and, as my despair surfaced, I began to shriek again and again, “He's dead. Dead! We were attacked and I couldn't do anything. There was a lion.”

“Where? Where's Matt?”

“I did everything I could.” The lie dropped easily off my tongue as I pointed stiffly upwards, finger waving somewhere above my head, indicating the hill behind me before dropping back exhausted to clutch the rifle to my chest again, like a talisman. Then I had begun to shake uncontrollably as the hopelessness, the plunging cold and the pain all conspired to hit me at the same time, and I remember lapsing into an almost comatose silence.

“Quick, Mzee, see if you can get him free. Splint his leg. John, you come with me. I've got to see.”

With the expertise of years, and the fitness for which he was famed, Peter had launched himself straight up the granite slope, not bothering to pick a route, just taking the shortest way to the top. Sheer speed had carried him over the brow and into the boulder-strewn killing zone. The churned, dark-streaked and sticky earth had instantly clung to his shoes where only light dust should have been, and the rocks framed a tableau that would be fixed forever in his fevered mind. He had stopped, stunned. Unable to comprehend what lay before him as he stared at the torn earth and shattered, bloody remains of his only son. A sight no parent should have to endure brought Peter to his knees as though poleaxed. A thin moan dribbled through his lips just as John came bolting up behind his boss, arriving barely in time to hear the words of pure anguish pouring from Peter's mouth. “My son, my son, what has it done to you? Oh, what has it done to you?”

Almost unable to maintain his sanity, Peter had begun to rock gently from side to side, hands pressed to his temples as he stared, practically unseeing, at the scarcely recognisable ruin of what had once been a vibrant young man. And as he did so, murderous, implacable intent blossomed full-formed in his heart. If it was the last thing he ever did, he would put a bullet through that lion and make sure it didn't die quickly. For Peter the world had narrowed to a single dreadful spectacle, his whole existence distilled into a dream-like quality. Staggering to his feet he had steadied himself against John, whose distress and grief were all too quickly catching up with his own. Then, with a supreme effort, moving as if on autopilot, Peter had forced himself to step forward, to stoop and gather his son's bloody remains together and to whisper to John, “Get one of the horse blankets and bring it here to me.”

His night would be spent in vigil. Alone. No one and nothing would come near his son now. Of that he was grimly certain. And from a short distance, John would watch over his boss, his own pain little less. Mzee had been dispatched with me and together we would take the dread news to Peta. It was enough for now. The morning would bring action. And with it, seething revenge.