The Magpie Trap: A Novel (40 page)

‘You
can call me that if you like,’ said the Dodo. ‘It makes me seem more
mysterious, don’t you think? My real name is Mr. Ramnawaz.’

‘What’s
the story of the Dodo? What do I tell him?’ asked Danny, deciding that he
should put suspicion to one side for a moment. He’d followed the man’s
instructions
this
far; what harm was
there in listening some more?

The
Dodo/ Mr. Ramnawaz proceeded to tell Danny the details of his new cover story
and Danny listened with rapt attention. It was nice to have someone like him in
his corner. That way Danny didn’t have to think too much; he could continue
coasting along with his life with all of the difficult decisions lifted right
out of his hands. Hell, it was like living on autopilot.

Chris found a hotel easily; Rose Hill was full
of amazing houses that were preparing for the influx of tourists by letting out
rooms or even their whole house. He paid his money and deposited the bags in
the room before finally settling onto the bed to make his call. Frustratingly,
the first time he called, the number was engaged, and he wondered whether at
that moment, Danny was making
his
secret
call. But that didn’t matter. Danny knew nothing about his plan and Chris knew
everything
about Danny’s. And knowledge
was power.

           
Cracking
open a half-sized beer from the mini-bar, Chris tried again, and this time his
call was answered.

           
‘Ah,
Mr. Parker! I am a popular man this evening,’ said the
BBC
-voiced man. ‘I’ve just been
speaking with your friend Daniel Morris. He told me that he’s a little worried
about you and your attempts to get the printer working.’

           
‘That
slimy shitbag,’ breathed Chris. ‘He’s going to try to cut me out of the deal,
isn’t he?’

           
‘Well,
I think the thought has crossed his mind…’

           
‘He
probably thinks that he can lose me and then replace me with Cheryl.’

           
‘That
is not why you are here, remember? You want to know who double-crossed you by
telling the journalist all about your brother. And I will tell you that. You
must come to see me.’

           
‘But
how will I explain it to Danny?’

           
‘You
both
come. Pretend that you have
identified me as the person that will be able to crack the code on the printer.
Tell him a story. Make something up. I will see you shortly.’

           
‘What
story?’

           
‘Tell
him the story of the Dodo,’ began the man. Then he regaled Chris with a story
straight out of the updated version of the Boy’s Own Adventure book, only
instead of pirates and cowboys, the heroes were now computer hackers and
e-criminals.

There was excitement in the steps of both of
the young men as they stepped along one of the wide avenues towards their
destination.

           
‘I
can’t believe that we both got the same name,’ said Chris. ‘This Dodo guy must
be good if he’s recommended by everyone.’

           
‘Maybe
he
does
advertise in the Yellow Pages
or whatever it is out here, chief,’ grinned Danny. There was a kind of last day
of school feel about their whole procession through the town; they were de-mob
happy.

‘This
is the place,’ said Danny, finally. ‘This is where that barman told me that we
needed to come.’

They
had arrived outside one of the large, three-storied, colonial houses. It was
solidly rectangular in shape, dressed in virgin-white paint, and was crowned
with a gable roof. It was a ‘statement-of-intent’ building, with showy additional
features, such as the twin columns which stood like sentries at either side of
the front door. These twin pillars guarded access to one of
Mauritius
’s
top computer engineers, or at least that was the story that they told each
other. And in this case, computer engineer was clearly a euphemism for hacker,
and hacking clearly paid well in
Mauritius
.

‘Look
at it,’ breathed Chris. ‘This puts Daddy dear’s place in the Cherryblossoms to
shame.’

‘He’s
rolling in it,’ agreed Danny. ‘From what I heard, this Dodo is supposed to be
some kind of whiz at breaking the codes on some of the off-shore accounts held
with the Mauritian Banks. They call him ‘The Dodo’ because your account becomes
‘extinct’ once he’d touches it.’

           
‘The
room service boy at the hotel told me that ‘the Dodo’ is a renowned playboy
throughout the island,’ said Chris. ‘But that’s only a cover for his work. He’s
evidently deadly serious about trying to get rid of some of the foreign
influence within
Mauritius
,
and has set about destroying confidence in the off-shore accounts.’
 

‘Do
you think he’ll help us, being foreigners, chief?’ asked Danny as they walked
towards the massive front door; the entrance way was like the gateway to a
temple, or a palace.

‘Absolutely;
the reason we need the Precisioner is so we don’t have to stay here, isn’t it?’
reasoned Chris.

‘Well,
we can only try,’ Chris had already pressed his finger onto the doorbell.

A
small Indian man of indiscriminate age answered almost immediately. He was
immaculately dressed in the same thin white linen suits which they’d seen so
many of the locals wearing. Thin tufts of facial hair surrounded his tight,
thin mouth, and huge brown eyes covered almost the whole of the top half of his
face.

‘Can
I help you?’ He asked, again speaking in perfect English, his mouth pursing
into a beak as he rolled his tongue around the words.

‘We’re
looking for the master of the house, a Mr. Ramnawaz?’ asked Chris, as politely
as he could manage; he was impatient to meet ‘the Dodo’ in person.

‘And
what, may I ask, do you wish to see Mr. Ramnawaz about?’ asked the man, whose
expressions made him look more and more like a baby owl; he had not shaken
Chris’s proffered hand.

‘That
is a private matter, between ourselves and the master of the house,’ Chris snapped
dismissively, sounding very much like Mal.

‘I
am sorry if I have annoyed you, sir, but I have to be careful about security in
these times. Can I ask your names?’

The
baby owl was very persistent.

‘Is
he here?’ said Chris, ignoring the question.

The
baby owl ran a tiny claw-like hand through his thinning brown hair and blew air
from his cheeks, creating a chirping sound. ‘I cannot pass a message on to the
master of the house if I do not know who you are.’

‘It’s
a job we have for him. Okay? Does that pacify your inquisitive mind? I’m sure
that your master wouldn’t be very pleased with you if he knew that you were
turning down work for him without his knowledge…’

Danny
was almost dying with embarrassment at Chris’s display of the worst type of
Englishness. He began to drag his friend away.

‘Chris,
he’s clearly not here. All of the shutters are closed on the windows; he’s not
here!’

‘Your
friend is right,’ said the doorman. ‘Mr. Ramnawaz is visiting friends on the
coast. If you wait one moment, I will take your details and pass the message on
to him.’

With
that the small man fluttered away, but swiftly reappeared with a small paper
and pen. ‘Your names, please?’

They
passed on the message and set off back to the centre of Rose Hill, back to the
hotel. Danny suddenly stopped and jogged back to the doorstep with a cry. The
baby owl was silhouetted in the light of the doorway, watching them leave.
Danny carefully peeled off a crisp Mauritian rupee note, about ten pounds
worth, and thrust it into the baby owl’s claws with a whispered apology.

Sega

Mark walked
through the streets as though in a trance. Small boys ran up to him and grabbed
at his hands, trying to lead him to their makeshift stalls by the side of the road.
He walked between tall buildings, which dwarfed the small shacks by the side of
the road.

Everywhere the noise of crowds followed him; everywhere, the beeping of
angry car horns of life. But life was not anything he was part of anymore. He
didn’t know where he was going, or what he was going to do. All he knew was
that he had failed; he had only done half of the job. His mother would have
some of the money by now, but he just didn’t know if it was enough to rescue
her from her fate. It was the not knowing that killed his soul; the
uncertainty. He didn’t want to contact her in case he got her in trouble. Mark
was still convinced that the authorities would be hot on their trail. The trap
was surely hanging over their heads, just waiting for one of them to spring it.

Mark’s unconscious procession through the streets of
Port Louis
and away from
the Hotel Midas led him into the middle of a huge marketplace. He only became
aware of his surroundings when the exotic smells of spices, the intoxicating
wafts of fried sugar cane snacks and the intrusive aroma of fish reminded him
that he was absolutely ravenously hungry. He couldn’t remember the last time he
had eaten, but now his body was nagging him back into the world of the living.
He was suddenly aware that his stomach was thundering its complaints to him,
growling in contempt at his weakness. He began to feel light-headed at the
abrupt realisation that he had absolutely no money. He stumbled through the
mixed crowd of Africans, Indians and Chinese. A towering babble of languages
were shouted at him as he crashed through groups of hagglers or families buying
their food.

His arm was suddenly gripped by a huge black woman who was wearing a
dazzlingly colourful smock. She asked him something in what Mark thought was
French, and when he did not respond, she tried again, in halting English.

‘You drunk?’ she asked, incredulous at his zigzagging, staggering
performance. ‘You will be robbed if you’re seen so out of control here.
Everyone will see you as their meal ticket. Come sit down with me and calm
down.’

She led him between two fish stalls which were wriggling with their
fresh catch, past the shouts of the stall-keepers, and through to a small area
which was shaded by tatty tarpaulin. She drew up a wooden stool and helped Mark
sit down.

‘You need something to eat? Drink? You might have sun-stroke.’

She knelt down at Mark’s side, her eyes meeting his inquisitively.

Mark tried to open his chapped, parched lips, but could hardly speak. He
mumbled just one word: ‘Water.’

The large woman, hips-swaying as if she was dancing, lumbered over
towards one of the stalls and began to talk animatedly to the stall-keeper, a
tall, thin Chinese man. Eventually, with a weary shake of the head, he provided
her with a small bottle of water, and she brought it back to Mark wrapped in a
red, blue, yellow and green striped napkin which matched her smock. Mark drank
deeply from the bottle, feeling its life-affirming goodness flow down his
throat, passing through each of his internal organs and giving them a vivacious
kiss.

           
Mark downed the entire bottle in
about thirty seconds, and then gasped his thanks to her. ‘I don’t know what I
would have done if you’d not given me that water… thanks. But I have no money
to pay you. I’m sorry, no money…’

As if to emphasise his point, he slipped his hands into his pockets, he
was going to turn them inside out for her to see. But his fingers closed around
a wad of notes which remained in his right hand pocket, and he had to shake his
head to make sure that he was not dreaming. He pulled out the handful of notes,
smelling them to ensure that they were real.

‘Put that money away,’ the woman ordered. ‘I told you not to show your
money around here…’

‘I’m sorry. I didn’t know I had it,’ Mark was still confused,
disorientated. Suddenly though, he remembered the bank. It seemed like so long
ago he’d been there. He’d tried to hand over a second batch of notes for them
to wire over, but the manager had shooed him out, claiming that the bank was closing.
In his haste, Mark must have shoved the cash into his pocket. He knew that
there was probably around five thousand pounds there… He replaced most of the
money into his pocket but tried to force the woman to take one of the notes for
herself; payment for helping him.

‘In
Mauritius
,’ she
cautioned, ‘we do not expect that we must receive payment for everything we do
for another person. Sometimes, we do things from the goodness of our hearts.’

She beat a hand on her huge breast, highlighting that she really meant
what she said.

‘We are slowly losing this though. The examples set by westerners lead
some to lose their responsibility, their morality, and they begin to treat
everybody else like they can take advantage of them.’

‘I’m just trying to say thank you,’ pleaded Mark, ‘I was about to
pass-out and you saved me. Please take the money…’

The woman seemed to sense the sincerity in Mark’s voice, and visibly
softened towards him. She dragged up another stool and sat down, taking the
proffered note and tucking it under her smock with a smile.

‘So, what are you doing here?’ she asked, pulling a bowl of sugar cane
seemingly from underneath her smock and offering him some to chew.

As the darkness
descended on Mark’s second full day in
Mauritius
, he finally began
to feel as though he was there in mind, body and spirit. Although a small part
of him would forever remain at
Edison
’s Printers, he
now began to appreciate his new reality. He felt the light breeze which whipped
off the harbour wall and tickled his cheeks. He smelled the salted dry fish
which was laid out on the table in front of him. He tasted the thick brandy
which he was being encouraged to drain in order to revive his spirits. His eyes
drifted over the bobbing lights of the small fishing boats moored close to
where he was sitting, and the larger, more lurching movement of the bigger
vessels which were docked further away. A thin layer of salt – scattered into
the atmosphere by the waves which lapped against the harbour wall - beached in
his rapidly growing hair.

           
Mark was content to sit back and
listen to the commotion which was unfolding around him. He was sitting in a
bustling fisherman’s café by the large commercial port, sitting surrounded by
smiling faces and loud chatter. Something was about to happen, he sensed the
anticipation in the air. Suddenly, Stella grasped him on the arm; she was
always touching him.

‘Mark; the dancing is about to begin! You will see the real
Mauritius
now!’

Since his near-collapse in the market, the big black woman, Stella,
seemed to have adopted Mark. Maybe she was giving him his money’s-worth after
she had finally accepted his note, but he sensed that she was simply happy to
have him around. He was so
interested
in
everything. He had hung around at her market-stall for most of the afternoon;
chewing sugar cane, whose properties helped to revitalise him. She had then
offered to take him to a café to sample ‘real Mauritian cooking’ and he had
been only too happy to accept. At that point he had nowhere else to go. They had
been joined around their rickety table by a group of fishermen who supplied the
fish for Stella’s stall, and they accepted him immediately, without question.
Had she told them about his money? Mark somehow doubted it.

 
         
Mark
barely spared a thought for Danny and Chris, the company of these simple people
was somehow making him feel more alive in the now. Their lustful enjoyment of
the salted dry fish – ‘Sonouk’, he’d been told it was called - and the octopus
stew; their pride in showing off their culture, began to awaken long-dead
desires to live by the sea, to feel its powerful freedom crash over him. For
the first time in years, he began to hope; maybe there was light at the end of
his long, dark tunnel of depression. None of these people had money, Mark
thought, and yet they were happy. They never strained to discover what might
be, if only they had their special monetary key to allow them access to what
was behind the doors which were closed to them. They would never be tempted to
see what was behind those doors as he had been… Perhaps they
saw
no doors.

Almost unconsciously, on his dazed walk around the streets of the
capital, he’d noted that there was hardly a proliferation of security cameras.
Of course, there were some, by the banks or the hotels, but were these to give
the westerners the same sense of security to which they were accustomed? Or was
the lack of cameras because there was nothing to watch?
       

           
Mark was shaken out of his
contemplation by the beginnings of some music, blaring unevenly through
speakers which were tacked onto the lamp-posts outside the café. Stella began
clapping her hands excitedly, and he noticed that the previously boisterous
fishermen, sat back on their chairs in reverential silence.

A long-winded drum roll began, and then through the long-ribboned fly
netting on the café door, a girl danced out to tumultuous applause. She was
draped in flowing, golden silk, and she moved as though she was a trick of the
light. It was as though his brain had been slowed, and what he saw were the
trails of a thousand shooting stars floating in front of his eyes. He had never
seen anything so beautiful.

‘This is the traditional dance of
Mauritius
; the Sega,’
whispered Stella. ‘Isn’t it magnificent?’

Mark, who had barely left his native north east of
England
before,
thought that the Sega was an old computer games console. Whatever it was
though, he became addicted to that particular game that night. When he saw the
spinning, whirling, breathless flight of the golden plumed bird, he knew that
he saw the glittering reflection of millions of stars.

           
Then the dance rose into a frenzied
climax, and the girl lay, breathing heavily on the floor, recreating the
stillness of death. Somehow Mark understood that the dance told the story of
life, of the fleeting glimpses we all see of happiness, before we are spun away
and into the next chapter. He drained his glass of brandy and stared into
space, overwhelmed. There were scenes of his life which he would never forget;
his father lying prone in the hospital bed with his mother kneeling, praying by
his side; the crimson red wound in Callum Burr’s head; the white sands of the
Beach; the dancing lights. The milieu told the story of his life, just as the
dance had; somehow within it lay the answers to his pleading questions about
forgiveness, reconciliation and regret.
  

 
          
Then
he felt another tug at his sleeve, and he turned, expecting to see Stella
offering him yet another brandy, but the face that met his was not Stella’s. It
was the small, dark-skinned face of the dancer; her eyes were still dancing,
sparkling
like a precious stone. She
looked hard into his eyes, drawing deeply at his overflowing waterfall of
guilt.

‘You have a sadness in your eyes,’ she said, softly. ‘Whatever you have
done can be undone with time. You just have to want it, here.’

She took his hand and guided it to his heart.

‘Pardon me, I don’t know what you mean, like’ said Mark, disorientated,
withdrawing his hand quickly.

‘I have seen such pain before; usually it’s in the eyes of soldiers who
have been forced to fight a battle they do not believe in. Is that the same
with you?’

One of the fishermen had vacated his seat next to Mark, and the dancing
girl had promptly sat down it.

‘Erm… Again, I’m not exactly sure what you mean… that was a beautiful
dance by the way,’ Mark nervously restricted his eyes to quick, furtive glances
at the wondrous woman next to him.

‘I am Mauritia, pleased to meet you,’ her voice was like her dancing, quick
sudden movements followed by long, stretching vowels. The way she said her name
was beautiful to Mark. He looked over at her again, smiling sheepishly.

‘I’m Mark; I’m from
England
, I am English,
I am Mark Birch, after the birch tree,’ he said, nonsensically.

‘That is very nice Mark, now what are you so sad about, would you like
me to read your palm?’

Suddenly Mark thought he saw her plan. She was probably some kind of
swindler who knew about the notes in his pocket; that was surely the only
reason she was entertaining him for so long. But then she burst out laughing.
It was not the sweet tinkling laugh he’d expected, but a deep, wheezing belly
laugh.

‘I am sorry, I’m joking with you, Mark, and I have no idea how to read
palms! I was trying to cheer you up. You did look sad though’ she said. She was
slapping her thigh now, enjoying her own joke.