The Last King of Scotland (1998) (43 page)

I have to confess that I had thought, in the night, of doing a flit, and not bothering to attend the press interviews Howarth had set up for me at his office. But I still had to go to a Royal Bank of Scotland branch and take out some money, and I knew that the reporters would indeed, as Stone had said, not rest until they’d tracked me down. So I waited patiently for Howarth. Once he had picked me up, I listened complaisantly during the journey to further nostrums about how I should answer the journalists’ questions without hesitation and without losing my temper.

Howarth’s office was at the Angel Islington, up some narrow stairs next to a salt-beef bar on White Lion Street. Three workmen in plastic ear-muffs were digging up the road outside. One had a pneumatic drill, his hands a blur where he held the rubber handles. The noise was unbearable outside, gradually lessening as we climbed the stairs.

“They should be here any moment,” he said, opening a glass-fronted door with the words ‘Howarth Associates, Promotions and Management’ etched into the pane.

He walked over to the window and opened the blinds, letting in golden bars of light, which came down at an angle to form a grid on the carpet. I could still hear the noise of the drill. I sat down on one of the plush velvet sofas and looked around while he made some coffee. There was a terracotta pot full of cyclamen on the table, and on the walls were various knick-knacks – albums of pop stars he had promoted, and a photograph of a boxer.

“So,” said Howarth, handing me a steaming mug. “All set, then?”

“I’ll be glad when it’s all over,” I replied. “This isn’t really me.”

“Oh, everyone says that, it won’t be so bad – you’ll see.” He was right. Only three journalists turned up in the end, which was fewer than I had been expecting. I have to confess that I was just a tiny bit disappointed about this. They sat bunched up on another sofa, in front of me. There were two fine-featured young men in charcoal suits from
The Times
and the
Telegraph
and a tough-looking woman from the
Daily Mail
. I was surprised to see none of the correspondents who’d covered Amin when I was there, but I supposed they were off chasing other freaks, wars and wonders around the world. That’s what these people do, that’s what they’re there for.

The journalists had notebooks on their knees, and photographers in tow. The latter took up various positions around the room as I spoke, fiddling with their lenses and, from time to time (though I didn’t see quite how they worked it out between each other), letting off flash-guns. These filled Howarth’s office with a white glare that hurt my eyes, and as I was talking I realized that someone must have closed the blinds again, because the grid of golden light on the carpet had gone.

I’m listening to a tape of that interview as I write. Howarth made it, and I insisted he give me a copy. As I listen to the recording now, with my pen in my hand, the noise of the drill is clearly audible in the background. I’ve cleaned up the mumblings and hesitations, though. There’s no point in trying to reproduce ums and ahs…

Telegraph
: How do you respond to the charges of assisting in torture that the new Ugandan government has been levelling at you?

NG: It’s madness. It’s all untrue. I was a doctor working at the main hospital in Kampala. I have been used as a scapegoat because I also treated Idi Amin.

Times
: What was your relationship with Amin?

NG: I got my fingers burnt. Amin was a charismatic character. I got pulled in by him, during the time when things were all right in Uganda, and then things started to go wrong.

Times
: But some people have described you as Amin’s right-hand man, his lieutenant – how do you respond to such an accusation?

NG: I was not his lieutenant. I was doing my job like many others, as a doctor.

Mail
: And what did that involve?

NG: Just ordinary medical work. From time to time, I did get dragged into doing one or two other tasks for Amin, insignificant civil-servant-type activities: writing pamphlets for the Ministry of Health, and so on. You have to appreciate that there were very few capable people there, towards the end.

Mail
: But why did you stay there till the end? You must have known about the terrible things going on around you?

NG: I don’t think you know what fear is. In a situation like that, your life goes on tramlines. You have tunnel-vision and you sometimes don’t see things for what they are.

Telegraph
: But what about the crimes and murders you have been accused of?

NG: At no time was I involved in any crime or murder. I am innocent. My only crime was that I got caught up in the machine and then stayed.

Times
: What was he like?

NG: As I said, he had charisma. But the man was a ruthless tyrant. It is a great tragedy that someone who was commissioned by the British before Independence should have been allowed to get himself into such a situation, mentally and morally. Howarth: Let’s keep this to questions about Doctor Garrigan. He can’t be held responsible for everything that happened in Uganda…

Mail
: Wasn’t it your job, as Amin’s doctor, to help put him right?

NG: I kept trying to get him to undergo treatment, but he wouldn’t listen. He just used to take handfuls of aspirin and other drugs without asking me, with brandy and beer. He had this mania when violent moods came down on him. Even his wives were not safe.

Times
: Do you think he’s mad?

NG: Mad? How does one define madness? He certainly did things you or I would classify as insane. To tell the truth, I am not sure whether he knew when he was acting inhumanely and talking nonsense. He had a sort of wicked brilliance that took control on these occasions, of himself as well as of others.

Times
: Did it control you?

NG: I tried to resist it. And I suppose I did so. But there was something mesmerizing about him. You felt he could read your thoughts.

Telegraph
: Are you angry that people are accusing you of things?

NG: Of course I’m angry. I merely did my job.

Mail
: But what about specific charges, about you being seen in the offices of the State Research Bureau, and assisting in their torture sessions?

NG: At no time was I involved in any torture.

Mail
: What about William Waziri? The Ugandan Government is now saying that you were actually there when he was tortured and killed.

NG: I was there, but as a prisoner. Held against my will. Waziri was my friend. Look, I don’t know why you are doing this to me. I only worked in the interests of people’s health, as a doctor should. I did nothing wrong, unless it was wrong to have seen some very terrible things.

Times
: But how could you stay in the employ of the man who did the things you saw? Even be his friend. Would you describe yourself as a friend of Amin?

NG: Firstly, I was in the employ of the Ministry of Health, on secondment from a British government agency. Secondly, I was his enemy. I knew that by the end.

Times
: But were you his friend to begin with?

NG: I got to know him. As many others did. It was inevitable. That’s all I’m prepared to say.

Mail
: What was it like being close to him?

NG: Like walking on eggshells.

Telegraph
: How do you mean?

NG: Amin took sheer delight in playing cat and mouse with my life. Look, you have to understand that by the time I realized the extent of the man’s Jekyll-and-Hyde character, it was too late. One day Amin would be good to me, and the next he would be calling for my blood. It wasn’t just me. He thoroughly enjoyed humiliating all the whites in Uganda.

Times
: What about the Kenyan charges? They were saying you put a bomb on a Kenyan plane.

NG: The fact that they released me is proof of my innocence. I did give the pilot of the plane a package. But I didn’t know there was a bomb in it.

[I remember feeling faint at this point, my head pounding. All I knew was that I had to defend myself. Whatever I said to those people, they wouldn’t believe I was telling the truth.]

NG: Can I have a glass of water, please?

[Howarth brings it to me. My hand, as I recall, trembles as I take it, the liquid slithering poisonously in the glass. A pause. Just drill noise and the rustling of paper on the tape. The squeal of a camera motor winding on. Then a cough.]

NG: It’s all lies. Ridiculous lies. I’m being painted with the same brush as Amin because people are guilty about what happened there.

Telegraph
: What will you do now?

NG: I’ll manage. Britain is a wonderful country – I’m very grateful to be back here. This democracy really does mean something when you have been through what I’ve been through.

Times
: How will you spend your time?

NG: I’m planning to relax and enjoy life. I’m planning to go back to Scotland.

Times
: After all those deaths?

[Silence]

Mail
: What is your financial situation? There have been stories that Amin gave you large sums from the Ugandan exchequer.

NG: My conscience is totally clear on that front.

Howarth: I think we’ll leave it there. Nick has been through a hell of a lot, as you’ve heard. He’s been under no obligation to answer your questions and I think he’s given you plenty to be going on with. Now he needs to rest.

[Tape switched off]…

∗

After the journalists had gone, I believe I might have wept a bit.

Howarth brought me a whisky. “It’s all over now,” he said gently, sitting down beside me.

He tapped his ash, and looked out of the window. “Things will get back to normal. Now, give me the address of this place in Scotland you’re planning to hole up in.”

The pneumatic drill noise again. Persistent.

“I don’t know it,” I said. “I’ve never been there before. It’s a place an old uncle left me. A bothy.”

“A what?”

“A small cottage.”

“Well, let me know,” he said, handing me his card.

I used his office phone to ring Moira then, and told her I was OK, and was coming up north. It was strange to hear her voice in my ear.
Why are you going to the bothy?
Imagining her anxious face as I spoke to her down the line.
Don’t be silly, come to me
. I remember I could see Howarth smoking by the window as I talked to her, looking down at the workmen and pretending not to listen. I want to
be on my own. Can you post my stuff there? You know?

Afterwards, I said goodbye to Howarth and went to draw out some money. By chance, there was a Royal Bank of Scotland branch right across the road. I felt half-pleased, half-angry that Stone’s money was still there: it had a sinister taint to it, but I had no other means of support. And still don’t, unless this writing venture is unexpectedly lucrative.

Aiming to catch the Fort William sleeper that night, I then took a bus back to the Marylebone Road hotel. There, trying to rest, I ended up watching television for most of the day. The flood of images was exhausting, after so many years in Africa with just the World Service and the studio-bound reports of UTV. And as I watched the news, I found myself unable to separate it in my head from Amin.

Almost hour by hour that day, it seemed, the Callaghan government was unravelling, spring coming in to its ‘winter of discontent’: I thought of him in Kampala as Wilson’s Foreign Secretary, shaking hands with Amin during his mercy mission to rescue Denis Hills. Strikes by grave-diggers and dustmen were being lifted: the shots of British army lorries returning to barracks, no longer having to clear rubbish bins, brought to mind those comic, but deadly ‘Revolutionary Suicide Mechanized Units’ which travelled in exactly the same vehicles. We must have exported them to Uganda. Moreover, as one of my countrymen grumbled about the outcome of the Scottish devolution referendum, I thought – ridiculously, I know – of Amin and a cassette of Black Watch pipe-and-drum music to which he had once made me listen. And there was, I dumbly realized, a general election campaign about to begin. There were lots of pictures on the screen of Mrs Thatcher’s bird-like face: she appeared to have lots of exciting plans in store for Britain, yet of what could I think but Amin’s letter complimenting her on her looks – ‘charming, happy, fresh’? That evening, my head buzzing, I caught a taxi to Euston station. The radio in the cab was playing a haunting reggae song as, with a lurch of my internal organs, we dipped down into an underpass. The blood-deep, bouncing beat – interrupted every now and then, when we stopped at traffic lights, by the Bushman tongue-clicks of the door-locks of the cab – stirred strange, uncertain feelings in me. I suddenly thought of another taxi journey, from Entebbe to Kampala, on that road I would get to know so well: a dark hole where the radio should have been, a Cyclopean aperture in the dashboard.

I
should have expected it, but I was still shocked by a headline in one of the newspapers I bought on the platform at Euston: amin doctor returns to Britain, and below, in smaller, sharper type,
Is there blood on his hands?
So it was, during the first hours of the long journey, under the yellow spot of the lamp in my couchette, that I read various half-versions of myself and my words. As a matter of fact, I felt as if I were reading about somebody quite other, and that eased the pain of it. I’ve still got the cuttings, and reproduce one here to give a flavour: