Guardian (31 page)

There's one genuine problem with phosphorescence. Well, if you're trying to stay under the radar, that is. Even if the little critters aren't in the mood to flash while you're moving through their liquid home, they can certainly wake up when you surface and they realise you're leaving their natural habitat. As your body streams with the last vestiges of salt water heading south, on a ‘good' night you can look for all the world like the proverbial ‘pillar of fire'. And this was one of those ‘good' nights. Hoping against hope that any guards on the beach side of the building weren't under the impression they were being visited by one of Africa's countless ghouls or, worse still, an unwanted intruder, I dashed up the beach towards a shadowed corner of the house, where I could just make out a couple of shuttered windows. Fortunately, in the blacker shadows just below the roof, this European-style house signalled conformity with its contemporaries by revealing evidence of the gap that was so often found along the top of such walls. A breach designed to encourage the passage of cooling air, but one that was usually just wide enough to allow a relatively slim body to roll through without hindrance.

With my ragged breathing back under control, there were few other noises to be heard at my end of the house, but I was aware of quite a lot of distant movement. Someone, somewhere, had begun thinking sufficiently clearly to organise the handing out of lighted candles, with order being gradually restored and rooms checked for intruders. Consequently, there remained little time if I was to reach Ahmed before his bodyguards got back to their designated posts. So, assuming he would be in bed by this time of night and perhaps even distracted by some companion or other, I made my way stealthily past the preoccupied guards, until reaching the far end of the house, away from the brightly lit rooms I'd noted prior to cutting the power. In essence, the more discreet end, where I fondly hoped I would find Ahmed's lair.

I was not disappointed. Arriving in front of a heavy, carved door set into a wall that ran the whole width of the house (it had to be the owner's), I could just catch the occasional burst of muffled laughter. But no candlelight flickered from under the door so, with any luck, Ahmed had not yet been alerted to what was going on. Actually, I hoped the guards were too afraid to bother him after he'd retired, particularly if it was only to tell him bad news. Hopefully, that would be his (and their) undoing. However, expecting the door to be locked from the inside, I had already decided that boldness was the only feasible way to gain entry. So, stepping forward with my heart lurching unsteadily, I knocked forcefully on his rather substantial door and, with my hand cupped in front of my mouth to mute the sound, called urgently for audience in Arabic. Which produced exactly the reaction for which I had hoped. An impatient demand to know why he was being disturbed ‘at this time of night'. A second, equally muffled call preceded the impatient clicking of a key and the sound of a heavy bolt being drawn back. Seconds later the door was jerked open and in the darkness I could just discern the outline of a surprisingly lean body. Nervous anyway and frightened by the speed of his appearance, I whipped the harpoon up, aiming for somewhere just above the centre of the figure and loosed the only spear I had, knowing the needle-sharp, weighted and barbed missile would do its work. Although I must confess even then, at the far recesses of my mind, I was still hoping it wouldn't act too quickly. Until I caught the explosive exhalation of breath, followed immediately by a distinctly female shriek of shocked pain.

Unnerved by what I immediately realised was a fatal mistake (probably fatal for both of us, actually), I dropped the weapon, turned and fled, bouncing off walls, slamming into doors and generally creating mayhem with individual pieces of furniture, acting for all the world as though pursued by the hounds of Hell. Beyond blind panic, I don't remember much of that exit, except that as I scrambled back up the wall, several poorly aimed bullets drilled chips off the plaster around me and some rather better aimed shots passed altogether too close for comfort as I sprinted for the safety of the sea. There to begin a dialogue with myself on what exactly I was supposed to be doing. And that, surely, didn't include indiscriminate killing? Or simply antagonising a very dangerous enemy, if he should ever get even a hint of who was involved.

* * *

It didn't take me long to retrace my footsteps and get back to Malcolm and Jill, but although I arrived well before dawn, both were already up and neither was in the mood to hear any excuses concerning the failure of my latest bout of organised mayhem. It turned out that far from obtaining satisfaction over Jill's harassment, Malcolm had been read the riot act by Superintendent Foley, who was now certain the Jouberts knew more than they were prepared to divulge. Someone, somewhere, had clearly spilled the beans, or been forced to confess as to who it was using (abusing?) their hospitality. Which meant that henceforth,
Kwetu
was off limits to me. Whether I liked it or not. And I was very clearly back on the run, because the police were in no mood to listen to anyone regarding my innocence or otherwise. Particularly now I had stupidly added to the sum of my offences, without gaining anything.

***

Ahmed was incensed. Not only had his personal security been blatantly breached, but one of his favoured slaves was probably beyond use. And it has to be said that, whilst he wasn't overly bothered about the girl, he was very concerned over the inevitable loss of face. Calling first for his chief of personal protection, he informed him in considerable depth and at extremely high volume of his fury concerning the incident. Added to which, as of that moment, the man was out of a job. Then he started yelling for the man the staff feared most, next to himself. His resident ‘fixer'. A weasel of a man, with the dry and dusty manner of an undertaker, but one whom you misjudged at your peril. A quiet word in his ear and the departing chief never made it past the back door. Instead, like so many others, he disappeared swiftly into an anonymous lime pit, kept specifically for such purposes. Then and only then did Ahmed summon his personal physician who, knowing the financial value attached to this particular slave, set about the task of trying to resuscitate and repair her with an alacrity not commonly observed in his performances. Had I known of his success that night, I might not have been quite so circumspect over making myself visible to the police during the succeeding months. But hindsight is a wonderful thing. For now, Ahmed contented himself with terrifying the staff and ordering a thorough search for the culprit. A positive result to be with him by sun-up, latest. And, with those same staff fully aware of their former chief's fate, the intensity and enthusiasm of their hunt couldn't be faulted. Which was why, having finally discovered who was involved, they caught up with the Jouberts late that afternoon. How they did, I do not know to this day. All I do know is what I read in the following day's papers. Two whites murdered, reasons unknown, but with evidence of underworld involvement. And, of course, in my misery I knew exactly who was responsible. And thus, by implication, whose fault it was. Mine. I remember beginning to shake as I read through the article, and then to weep. To weep for the friends I had endangered and now lost, to weep for vanished innocence, to weep for what I had obviously become and, above all, to weep for the unbearable presence of a dark, drear and growing void in my life. An injury from whose wound I felt I was unlikely to recover. A void that was at once ethereal yet solid, dead yet growing. An awful, bitter, but inescapable burden. A reservoir of despair that flourished for want of love, for want of Roz. Yet how unutterably relieved I was that she was not there to witness what I had begun to regard as my ultimate degradation. For, in those days of vengeance, this was exactly how I viewed the reasonable assumption that I'd killed a slave (albeit inadvertently), a woman who had no doubt been through much the same anguish as I had endured and who was definitely a sister in adversity.

The overwhelming storm of anguish that now swept over me was long overdue and the flow of tears deeply cathartic in its own inimical way, laying me low for most of that day, but purging my perceptions and steeling my determination to get even. This, when I would have been better occupied throwing in the towel, striving for liberation through confession to the police, not continuing to search out yet more ways to even the score.

It wasn't every day that Heaven involved itself quite so directly in the affairs of individuals. Certainly not to the extent that destinies were changed or events carefully re-fashioned by specific angels. If there was one thing humans were expected to do, it was get on and live useful lives – lives that combined their God-given intelligence with their most precious possession; free will. Mostly, the end results were reasonable, but sometimes a particular human would foul up so comprehensively that it took nothing short of a miracle to straighten things out (which, of course, agitated everyone on Earth). Nevertheless, once the decision had been taken to intervene, skilled angels would be commissioned to manoeuvre events discreetly and unobtrusively. Aware that, eventually, the affected humans would conclude that the resultant, if somewhat baffling outcome of their bungling was simply down to good fortune. This being how it tended to look from the human perspective. And today was one of those days.

Which meant Michael himself was called upon not only to plan, but to lead a ‘clean-up' exercise. And in this case, he was going to have to boost his forces with a battalion of the elite Praetorian Guard. Problem was, in more recent centuries, any direct involvement by Michael had always managed to trigger uproar in Hell. Well, that was after the various satanic spies deployed for the sole purpose of covering divine operations had woken up to what was actually going on. In truth, given any halfway intelligent undercover agency, significant intervention from Heaven should have been easy to spot and even simpler to anticipate. It was straightforward – although Arcturus was not about to admit anything – his ‘loose cannon' act had comprehensively breached protocol, causing alarm bells to ring in both kingdoms.

For days now, I had been heading in a decidedly unethical direction or, more specifically, rushing headfirst towards a criminal and totally unscrupulous finale, probably one that was going to end in my own abrupt termination. A state of affairs over which Israfel was fully (and painfully) aware. More importantly, as far as he was concerned, was that he'd been effortlessly outflanked and comprehensively beaten to the draw on practically every development in my recent sorry progress. And it didn't help that he'd also been forced to endure Arcturus' arrogant boasting. ‘Arcturus the Great' (as he had begun to style himself) was busy regaling any passing putrescence with the story that he alone was responsible for the comprehensive humiliation of of one of Heaven's ‘chosen'. An achievement, moreover, that had been accomplished in direct conflict with a rising star of the Angelic pantheon. An outcome clearly fashioned by his own unique powers, combined with a dazzling intellect, etc. etc.

True, Israfel had really only failed to anticipate my latest debacle. But, fortunately, the Archangel Michael himself was on the case, due not only to his concern for me, but a fatherly disquiet over Israfel. And I have to admit, it couldn't have been easy for either of them. One moment I was lost and spinning into a world of desperate sadness, the next bent on retribution; malevolent, implacable and driven by a misdirected purpose. Never mind every step on this route was followed by a precipitous fall back into gut-wrenching guilt and the pit of despair. Nor was this helped by Ahmed, who had directed his thugs to go after anyone connected with me. Quite sure that striking at friends, or family, would hurt, although at this stage, it was never going to stop me. But the distressing thing was, he couldn't be certain of this until after the Jouberts had paid with their lives. Something that not only caused me deep anguish, but for which I blamed myself entirely. Although I could, and did, post my suspicions anonymously to the local police station, I was left to strengthen my wavering resolve alone. With the Jouberts gone, and the Lescals understandably unsympathetic, I had nowhere to go, no one to turn to for help.

I hadn't known it at the time, but in the supernatural world there had been a lot riding on my reaction to these setbacks. My tribulations were being viewed as fitting opportunities to test and strengthen the boundaries of my character. All because I had been singled out for a particular destiny, as I was eventually to discover. Just like every other human, I had been prepared with suitable gifts and abilities before birth to fulfil my specific calling, but this calling remained contingent upon my willingness to assume the role. An entirely voluntary commitment. Yet here I was, once again setting off on a downward spiral, following the dangerous track of violent retaliation. So far having failed to grow into anything remotely resembling a genuinely compassionate or sympathetic individual capable of fulfilling his true destiny.

***

That morning there was a distinct buzz circulating Heaven's lower halls. The very atmosphere seemed to have caught the excitement, spurring the gorgeous and abundant birdlife into thrilling and extraordinary refrains that trailed upon the ear like warm honey. And all because Michael, that prince amongst angels, had been seen virtually dancing as he entered one of Heaven's vast amphitheatres, accompanied by a number of officers from the more prestigious of the Praetorian Guard regiments. Warriors rendered conspicuous by their efforts to look suitably stern. Battle-hardened angels every one, but individuals whom every inhabitant held in considerable awe and most longed to emulate. Never mind the thrill of actually being close to the most famous and perhaps the most beloved soldier of them all. Rumour was following upon rumour and the mansions, halls and galleries of Heaven had begun to seethe with a tangible exhilaration. Such was the perceived nature of the extraordinary occurrence that some were actually speculating this might be the start of what humans referred to as ‘the end times' and if the gossip was half as informed as it purported to be, then they were all in for a period of considerable delight and satisfaction. Stern they might be, but even these warriors were spellbound as they waited, certain it would not be long before they learned the true nature of Michael's news and their assignment.