Girl with the Golden Voice (22 page)

‘And if they don't?' Maura needed to have the answer spelled out.

‘The young lady has given us so little to work on. That car you saw on your way to Kongoni. Four men? I'll ask in the town. Perhaps they stopped somewhere.'

The inspector was right about the kidnappers. The bunch was confident. They thought they were untouchable. Patrick Uchome, their well-paid leader, Kalenjin, graduate in fine arts at Nairobi, enjoyed a bit of risk in his work. It relieved the boredom. But the risks were all calculated. He was very careful about the boys he hired. Their only loyalty was to him. In return he gave them a comfortable living, much better than pushing a pen in some deadbeat city office or standing in a field counting coffee beans.

They waited for the second car at their usual meeting point, the Lucky Bar on the outskirts of Gilgil. Nyama Choma with fried onions and a couple of Tuskers put them in the mood to finish the day's work.

A few minutes after the second car arrived with no trouble to report, there was a message for Uchome. He took it in the car outside and when he returned he brought a change of plan.

‘Can't go tonight.'

‘What do you mean? The job's almost done.'

‘Frankie, someone is having second thoughts. No, I don't like it either, but quadruple pay will help.'

‘Is that what he said?'

‘Promised not said. You know he never breaks a promise.'

‘So what's involved exactly?'

‘We hold the kid for twenty-four hours and go ahead as planned unless we hear something new.'

‘We can't let him go.'

‘Yes, I know. He's seen us. Don't worry. Three of you can have the night off. I'm sure you can find some pretty ladies in the town …'

‘But why, Patrick?

‘I never ask him that question. As long as the big money keeps rolling my way. Three of you can come with me. We're taking the kid. An old house built by some crazy English. Before we were born. Stinking road. Safe for one night.'

‘Will we let him out?'

‘Yeah. Blindfolded. Give him some posho and water.'

‘What a waste!'

‘Yeah. Just in case.'

The guns were out. Tom did not touch the posho. He'd always hated the stuff. He got a lot of the water down him, slowly. Some of the pain was gone as long as he could stay still. He sat slumped forward in the chair and rocked backwards and forwards like some drunk who was close to throwing up. Patrick's assistants blamed their prisoner for their wasted night. When they dragged him to the outhouse where he was to spend the night locked up, they made sure that the short journey was very uncomfortable, finishing with a kick that sent him sprawling across a concrete floor.

For the first time since they had taken him from the stony edge of North Road, he was in a place away from his captors. They had followed him into the room to tie his hands and feet, half hoping that when they came for him next day he might have saved them a job. But Tom had small hopes of his own. He spent time trying to relax. He was aching all over, with half a dozen really painful spots. He knew that he was lucky to be still alive to feel them. Before they brought him to this house, this building, whatever, he had been stowed away in the boot of the car and when he first came ‘round, he was being thrown around the spacious area and letting out involuntary groans of pain. With a big effort he managed to lock his feet against one wheel arch and his shoulders against the other, a small relief against the constant buffeting.

He heard things, too, many of them about himself, mostly about getting rid of him. A gun and silencer seemed the preferred method. He was puzzled how he had survived hours shut in with no problems in breathing. He would not be seeking explanations.

In the darkness and the silence of the night, he worked hard on shutting out every single negative thought. Yes, death was a strong possibility, but he was not gone yet. That must have had something to do with the telephone conversation he heard when the car was parked outside some noisy place like a bar. He caught the words ‘change of plan'. That was why he was still around. He felt that he had been given a second chance. There would not be another unless he could create one himself. Some chance. He must not give up hope. He must rest, even sleep if it were possible. He laughed and paid for the pleasure with a few moments intense agony in the region of his chest. He had visualised himself hobbling down the road chased by half a dozen lumbering heavyweights reaching for their guns. He decided to try the relaxation techniques that Mary had taught him years before. Imagining, pretending, accepting, a big advance on counting sheep.

The next thing that he felt was a kick in the back. More water, more posho to be left uneaten and back to his lodge in the boot of the car. He had no idea of the time. He was blindfolded, but surely they were into another day.

Hours later and the two Mercedes were parked again outside the Lucky Bar near Gilgil. As far as Tom was concerned they could have been close to the bar in the Intercontinental in Nairobi. Patrick Uchome and his men were enjoying big helpings of everything on offer.

‘Deja vu'. Francis Baringo considered himself to be Uchome's deputy and liked displaying his superior knowledge. He had spent a happy day in pleasant company. He was in a good mood. He was about to get a fat payout for another job done. And here he was again, same place, same food, same company, twenty-four hours on.

‘What's this dezzy view?'

‘Didn't you go to school, Drongo?'

‘Yeah, but …'

‘You didn't learn anything?'

‘I learned how to use my fists, how to roll a nice sniff of bhang, and not to trust guys who think they're educated. But this dezzy thing …'

Uchombe interrupted.

‘Drongo, remember yesterday we thought we would finish this job? Well, maybe that's going to happen today, too.'

‘And that's dezzy?' Drongo's expression was puzzled.

Francis Baringo took a moment to take in what Uchombe meant.

‘Hey, Boss, what's going on here? You mean we got to spend another night in that dump?'

‘No, but we don't get to finish him off, yet. We'll take him up to the forest, truss him up and … leave him. Check up on him in the morning.'

He raised his hand to prevent Baringo coming back at him.

‘Got a message a couple of hours ago. He's never been like this before. Something bugging him. But the money's gone up, so. Well, let's go.'

It was dark which meant less traffic. The two cars rejoined the 104 and headed north.

or Tom the claustrophobic blackness of the car boot, the drone of the powerful engine, the constant bumping and jerking had become his universe. He passed into a middle world between life and death. He inched his way to a corner where he had some control over his movements. He was beyond the stabbing agonies of pain in particular parts of his body. A dull numbness had taken over his whole body. He guessed that he must be into the second day with his new friends. And Lucy, please God, she should be back in Londiani now. The alternative was too horrendous to contemplate. These people were pros and they usually stuck to the one job. It was him they were after. Surely she was safe! Perhaps it was afternoon when the light streamed into the veranda. Would he see it again? More than anything he longed to fill his lungs with cool, sweet air.

He was both puzzled and pleased that he felt no fear. He had no illusions about what these people intended for him. He had seen them. That was proof enough. They would take no risks with their own self-preservation. His badly beaten body would not be able to put up much resistance. So his defence would be simple and seemingly feeble. While they were travelling he would fill his mind with nothing but pleasant and positive thoughts and when they stopped he would try to look dozy but underneath be alert to the smallest chance of getting away.

The car slowed and seconds later he was being jolted and rolled around the boot. They were on a dirt road or possibly a track. The physical agonies were back, redoubled. His involuntary cries were inaudible outside his hot, black cell. The rough stuff went on and on and suddenly stopped when the car jerked to a halt.

There was loud talk and a lot of laughter. Tom wondered where he was. The boot lid creaked open. Beyond the two black faces that peered down at him he could see a starlit sky through branches of tall trees. One of the faces reached down towards him and in the very second that Tom saw the gleam of the steel in his hand, a voice called out, ‘Cut the rope around his ankles. Make the dung-head walk. And don't be fussy.'

The blade touched his skin and he felt a wetness trickle into his boot. Four arms hauled him out, a hand pushed him hard in the back and he tumbled onto the damp grass of a forest track. His fingers grasped the wet earth as he tensed his whole body. A bullet in the back of the head would mean the briefest of pains. But he was dragged into a moonlit clearing and, looking up, he saw the beam of a torch playing up and down the door of a wooden shack. The dragging continued through the open door and he was flung down onto a dusty floor. Uchome barked out more orders. ‘Tie his legs again. Cut the gag.'

Tom smelled the stench of sweat and stale beer as a hand grasped the gag and cut it with a single swift movement.

‘Mister, you are one lucky bastard. One more nick and I could send you on to glory.'

‘Leave him, Drongo. Let's get out of here! This place gives me the creeps. Make sure there are two locks on the door chain.' And last words from Uchome, ‘Bwana, you can shout all you like. Only the animals will be listening. Enjoy the company. Come on, Drongo. Everyone, the drinks are on the boss. Let's relax. Finish the job later.'

Car doors banged. Engines were revved.Tom was alone. Darkness within darkness as he sat up and tried to get rid of the numbness and stiffness in his body. He recognised that his chance had come, the only one he could hope for. Would his captors be back soon to finish him off? He remembered the sight of two crumpled young bodies in the hut in the Shimba Hills, but this place was too cold for the coast. To hell with it! He'd think about where he was when he got out. ‘Finish the job later.' When was later? Get on with it.

He knew he was opposite the door. He was facing it. With his hands pinned behind his back and ankles tied fast, he rocked and wriggled up close to it and kicked hard with his heels. Useless. He continued his wriggle until he had completed a full circuit of his cell, testing the wall every yard or so. Not much hope of a hasty exit there.

Time for a breather. What was that noise? That was no human sound. As far as he could judge, there were half a dozen little animals skittering across the dead leaves out there. He listened hard. There was something familiar yet sinister about that frantic activity. He remembered where he'd heard it before, too often. The barn at Londiani, and they still hadn't got rid of them. Bloody rats! He hated them, was terrified of them. He held his breath. God, no, one of them was in there with him! With a massive effort he twisted up onto his knees and, with his back against the wall, pushed and pushed until he was upright. More skittering inside. There were two, perhaps three of them. They had no trouble getting in. What had he missed on his tour of the wall?

A few moments silence, inside and out. What were they up to? He visualised those mean eyes, that malevolent brain sizing up a gigantic side of raw meat. Perhaps there had been others before him.

They were on the move again. One was standing on his boot. He could feel the pressure of two tiny feet. When this one moved to lick the dried blood on the bottom of his leg, he tried to leap away but instead he tumbled and ended up on his back on the dusty floor. His bound hands dug into the small of his back like a hard fist and took his breath away. Another big effort and he was lying on his side close to the wall and gathering himself.

He pictured himself, cold, trussed like a chicken, holed up in a cell with rats for company, a lesser being than the rats who could come and go at will. But he was smiling, smiling at the absurdity of his situation. In an hour, two hours or ten he could be, probably would be dead, gone to be with Julius Caesar, Napoleon. ‘And I'm scared of a few rats!'

As he rolled away from the wall his forehead brushed something cold and hard. He moved the object back against the wall with his nose and painstakingly investigated, using his face as hands and eyes. Hard, smooth, quite rounded, with holes …

‘A bloody skull!'

‘Enjoy the company.' He remembered the words. Then came a shaft of revelation. ‘They're going to let me starve to death!'

The realisation energised him. In spite of the darkness all around him, Tom closed his eyes and waited. The thoughts came. Every one of them offered some unlikely possibility and every one led him back to the idea of the skull. He quickly saw that it was his one ally, but only if he could use his hands.

So began the hard work that had him perspiring in seconds. His first success came when he managed to manipulate a sharp edge of the skull against the cords binding his wrists. He sawed with slow, tiny movements. He ignored the pain even when the ache spread down to his thighs and behind his ears. He had never realised before that there were muscles up there. His first success gave him a surprise, a slight give that told him that one strand had been cut. Euphoria! More quickly a second break came and a third until the binding unravelled. For several seconds he could not pull his hands and wrists apart for the agony involved, but when he finally slid the one from the other he guided his improvised saw towards his ankles. He worked feverishly, frightened that at any minute he would hear the sound of a car approaching the hut. All the while he was thinking of his next step and as soon as he was free he took his new friend on a second tour around the wall.