The Cinnamon Tree (18 page)

‘But you’d be caught!’ Fintan sounded genuinely shocked.

‘Don’t worry lad, it’s your dad who’d be caught, hooked and landed, not me. I’m just the agent for a motor company. Look in my briefcase, not a shred of evidence. Anyway, I wouldn’t do it.’

‘Why … why not?’

‘’Cos I like you lad, marry you off to Becky. Think about it, I’ll teach you all you need to know. But I need to shed a tear now. Old age. Keep my drink warm for me.’

Yola didn’t dare turn, but Fintan was beside her in a second.

‘I can’t go on, Yola. He’s going to trip me up and I’ll wreck everything. We’re caught, aren’t we? Dad must have signed up, and if Birthistle blows the Dublin conference, Dad will go to jail.”

‘Nonsense, you’re doing great! This is the first evidence he’s given away and it’s all on tape! And Fintan, he sounds lonely, work on it.’

‘Hush, he’s coming!’

‘Eh … eh … you leave that black cookie alone.’ The voice was so close, Yola was sure he must have heard them talking. ‘What
is
she doing here anyway? I’m …’

At that moment the walkman clicked off. The tape had run out. Yola didn’t know what to do. She must turn the tape over, but she knew he was watching her. She opened Judit’s bag; her hands were shaking. She extracted the walkman and began to turn the tape. All at once there was a sharp tap on her shoulder. She thrust the tape down hastily; the wretched postage stamps stood out like beacons. She turned and Mr Birthistle’s face was only inches from her own. His smile was half menace, half
humour
as he pointed to her earphones as if he wanted to listen.
The waft of alcohol from his breath almost choked her. She passed him one of her tiny earphones and watched him press it into the forest of ginger hair growing out of his ear. Her finger hovered over the play button, but panic swept over her: had she turned the tape or just pushed it back in without turning it? What if he heard his own voice? The hiss as the tape-leader wound through seemed to last forever. Then, with a crash that made them both jump, Judit’s favourite Zairian band burst out. Yola jigged nervously with the music, then she gave the sweaty white man beside her a cheeky look and flicked the
earphone
from his ear. He tickled her under the chin and returned to Fintan. She waited a tense moment or two and then pressed record again. Birthistle was talking, he seemed relaxed and the charm she had noticed earlier was back.

‘Look old boy, I’ve no son, made a bit of money, house in England, office in Ostend, but it’s getting towards the time I settled down. I need someone bright like you, not too
squeamish
either. Interested?’

‘Well … it depends, tell me …’

‘Ok, scored again Fintan! Pass Go and double your money! Always be careful. So, you want info, here’s info.’

Birthistle’s voice was thickening but his mind seemed clear. Yola sat riveted, she couldn’t believe it, sometimes he reverted to arms-game talk, but at other times he was naming names: dealers, companies and clients. When the tape eventually clicked off, Yola realised that they had enough evidence to hang the man twice over. She leant back, closed her eyes and relaxed, her skirt slipped further off her thigh.

‘Jeepers, look at the time.’ That was Fintan.

‘That’s right, beauty sleep for the wicked. I’ll phone Becky that you were asking after her?’

‘Er yes, yes, please do!’ Yola ground her teeth. ‘Good night.’

Silence. Fintan had gone, but had Birthistle? Yola didn’t dare turn. She felt rather than saw the arms dealer come over and looked up. He was looking down at her with what she could only think of as a leer. She fought back panic and forced herself to take her time. She took off her earphones and coiled them down on the walkman; he mustn’t become suspicious of that. Then she looked up and smiled as if she had known he would come. His watery eyes were exploring her exposed thigh. Suddenly all the hate she had bottled up during the evening exploded. To hell with the tape, to hell with it all! Feast your eyes on this! she said to herself. With a seductiveness that she didn’t know she possessed, she slid her dress clean off both knees. Mr Birthistle’s eyes seemed to swell in their sockets. Then he noticed her artificial leg. Good though it was, even he couldn’t miss it. He stepped back, gulping.

‘Oh God, oh God, I think I’m going to be sick!’ He lunged towards the door but it was already open, he didn’t see it and walked straight into its sharp edge.

Yola twisted the gaping skirt tight about her legs and dropped her head into her hands. When Fintan came in it was like a rush of wind and he was kneeling, holding onto her.

‘Are you all right? What did he do?’

Feelings of triumph, revulsion and bitter sweetness flowed through her. Birthistle reeling and crashing against the door was worth a lot, but had it been worth that awful pawing leer, this feeling of being dirty? She wanted to throw her arms about Fintan, to ruffle his hair, but she couldn’t now; she felt unclean.

‘Fintan, your Dad?’

‘I know, I know, I’ve got to see him. But I had to see if you were all right.’

‘I just feel dirty.’

F
intan was holding Yola’s hand as they emerged into the foyer, but he relinquished it as Hans and Judit came
towards
them. The foyer was nearly empty now.

‘Where did Birthistle go?’ Fintan asked.

‘Upstairs to bed, I imagine,’ Hans said. ‘Where’s your dad?’

‘Oh God, we’re not finished yet are we?’ A look of pain crossed Fintan’s face. ‘I told him what I had found out, and I left him looking at a pile of your landmines literature and the video of the operation Yola and I saw on that poor girl in the hospital yesterday. I’m afraid all his dreams have been
shattered
. I’ll go now.’

But Fintan did not go, because at that moment the swing doors at the foot of the stairs burst open, there was an enraged shout and Mr Birthistle backed into the room, waving his arms in a mixture of surrender and defence as a smaller and older
version
of Fintan advanced on him. Mr O’Farrell was in a
towering
rage, shouting and thrusting at the startled arms dealer. Blind to where they were going, Mr Birthistle was being backed into the alcove with the mirror that Yola had found
earlier
. His feet came up against the flowerpot, he toppled back and crumpled up against the mirror. Mr O’Farrell, thwarted by
his fall, stood glaring at the heaving mass of dead flowers and waving legs.

‘Dad!’ Fintan called. ‘Over here!’

‘Come on,’ Judit said quickly to Yola, ‘let’s get this good time girl into the ladies and wash some of her warpaint off.’

It was a very sober group that sat in the deserted bar later. Mr O’Farrell glared at the table as if his gaze could burn a hole in it. His eyes flickered up and saw Yola watching him, a grim little smile flashed and he was gone. Hans took the walkman from her; they fell silent. He tipped out the cassette and carefully prised off the postage stamps so the tape could not be recorded on again by mistake.

‘This is as unnerving as defusing a mine,’ he said grimly. Then he put the tape back into the walkman and pressed
rewind
for what seemed an age. ‘Now for it!’

They all leant forward as he pressed the play button, they heard … nothing … not even a hiss. What had gone wrong? Was there nothing on the tape? Had the microphone become detached? Yola nearly cried … then she remembered!

‘Volume, Hans,’ she gasped, ‘I turned it down, it’s on the top.’

Hans span the small wheel. There, against the recorded
rustle
of Yola’s movements and the rapid patter of her heartbeat, was Birthistle’s voice. ‘… anything, boy, from peashooters to rocket launchers, M60s to tanks …’ There was a muted cheer from the gathering. Hands patted Yola on the back. They
listened
to the tape, but she had heard it all and dropped off asleep out of sheer exhaustion.

She woke to hear Mr O’Farrell saying, ‘My one regret is that he fell over that bloody flowerpot before I could hit him. You see all our talk in Murabende was technical. How to record
particular sound patterns and transfer them on to the chip – they knew their stuff. That idiot Birthistle was just a nuisance, with his nodding and winking. I just said, yes, yes, yes – it’s the only way to quieten him, you know. In the end they got tired of him too and sent him off to the bar to get drunk. Look, can’t we just turn him over to the Kasemban authorities?’

‘I’m afraid he’s not the idiot he looks,’ Hans replied. ‘You can be sure that he is clean of anything incriminating. It is you he fooled and you who is carrying all the evidence.’

‘He fooled me because I didn’t want to know. Fintan said it, but I wouldn’t listen to him. But … I’m not carrying much
evidence
now. I left the six prototypes we brought in Murabende, and they only had test data on them.’

‘Do you realise what that test data is?’

‘No. It was just test sounds, bleeps and clicks and whines, all quite meaningless.’

‘No, Mr O’Farrell, not meaningless. Those are the recorded sounds of every known mine detector in the world, possibly. Those six ‘prototypes’ are enough to stop our work
completely
. How can I put my men into a minefield knowing that one of these may blow up in his face?’

‘Well, I must try to get them back … I’ll claim they need technical modification or something. They seemed reasonable people.’

‘Ya, ya sure!’ Hans was sarcastic. ‘They have wives and nice kids at expensive boarding schools. They perhaps think they do something good, ya? But I say they are more evil than any African that ever pulled a trigger. They will know that you have turned against them and will either get you arrested or kill you Mr O’Farrell, they are not
reasonable people
!’

Yola had never seen Hans really angry before. Mr O’Farrell didn’t wilt, as she would have done, but asked, ‘Should I go to
the police here, then?’

‘No. Go. Go home now. If you stay around here you will
either
rot in prison, where you will be no good to anyone, or you will start an international incident – and in Africa that’s as good an excuse as any to start a war. The best thing you can do is take this tape – I will make a copy – and get home ahead of this Birthistle. There is enough on this to interest any police force, Interpol in particular. Get him stopped if you can, because his threat to the Dublin peace conference is real. The arms trade hates that conference and they’d give real money for proof that Ireland, the host country, is manufacturing landmines. My God, don’t you realise? Ireland was one of the first countries to sign the ban! Birthistle has probably already been paid for bringing you over here. Since you backed him into that
flowerpot
he knows this project is over, so why not make some
dollars
selling the story to the rivals.’

Mr O’Farrell nodded. ‘Ok, we’ll go,’ he said. ‘How can we get out of here ahead of him?’

Yola looked at Fintan; she hadn’t thought that he would have to go immediately. She managed a smile. He was looking at her, but his lips just narrowed. Hans was looking at his watch.

‘Let me see, the only flight out of Nopani tomorrow
morning
is one for relief workers, he won’t be allowed on that. If I can get you and Fintan on to that flight it will give you a head start. Go, pack, and get some rest, that flight leaves at eight.’

Yola stood disconsolately while everyone milled around. Fintan came up to her. And she said, ‘I won’t see you again.’

‘Yes you will if you get up early. Hans is going to copy the tape. We’ll pick it up on our way to the airport. I wish I wasn’t going now. I feel I should be trying to get those mines back, not running away.’

‘Back from Murabende? You must be joking! But I’ll come with you and see you off.’

Yola lay on her bed; she undid the valve on her leg but did not remove it. She didn’t want to be struggling to bandage her stump when the taxi came. She was exhausted, but strangely elated. She knew she would never get to sleep and so was
surprised
when Judit shook her and said, ‘Yola, wake up! The car’s come, don’t you want to see Fintan off?’ Yola was so deep in sleep that she might as well have been drowning. Judit slapped and cajoled as if she too realised that this should be an
important
moment for Yola.

The taxi stood silently in front of the office, not wasting
petrol
. Hans was talking to Mr O’Farrell through the front
window
. Fintan was standing at the back door. He was waiting for her to come and her heart was doing strange things inside her chest. She started towards the car, but at that moment a figure rose from the watchman’s chair in front of the office.

‘Ehee, Yola!’ it called softly, ‘I’ve been waiting for you.’

‘Shimima – I see you,’ called Yola, but she was deeply
confused
. Why was Shimima here?

‘Yola, little sister, I have a message for you from Senior Mother.’

Yola’s heart sank. ‘Oh Shimima, can’t it wait? I want to go to the airport.’

‘Listen to the message, little one. Your Uncle Banda is
returned
. Gabbin is in trouble.’

‘Gabbin!’ Yola repeated. She looked desperately from Shimima to Fintan and back. She had to make a choice. She might never see … At this moment it meant everything to her to see Fintan off. She took a deep breath.

‘Fintan,’ she said, ‘I’ve … Shimima here tells me … Gabbin
my … the boy who saved my life needsme … I must go to look for him.’ How could she make him understand?

When he answered it was with a slightly sad smile; he was very like his father. ‘Don’t worry, I know all about Gabbin, Catherine told me about him. Of course you must go.’

Yola stepped forward and put her arms around him briefly, but it was a formal embrace. They watched the taxi disappear, then Shimima took her hand and Yola buried her face in her shoulder.

‘I’m proud of you, little sister,’ her friend whispered.