I SHALL FIND YOU (3 page)

A traffic congestion spread for miles with all four motorway lanes closed. Several police cars and ambulances with blaring sirens had sped past hours ago. The car radio reported a serious head-on collision involving several vehicles that proved fatal. Five people had died. More people in critical condition were airlifted to hospital. The congestion was likely to spill over into the early hours of Saturday.

 It had been a long day. This was now 11:30. Saturday was creeping close.  Godfree should be home, had anticipated waking up late tomorrow. But the night electrician had his say – he had called and asked him to wait. That caused Godfree to leave late. The electrician had only arrived at the company two hours later.

Just before midnight the congestion ended. He reached the scene of the accident twenty minutes later. Three burnt out shells remained of what were once cars. He left the motorway at his junction. Miles later he passed a bridge and reached the town. Two girls in short mini-skirts and high stilettoes gestured for a lift. When he did not stop they swore and stuck their middle fingers in the air. Fifty yards on his right a large flashing purple neon sign above a door advertised a popular nightclub. A long queue of young men and girls waited to get inside. He drove uphill before turning into his road. A late-night takeaway was open.

“Good morning.”

“Hello, mate,” the shop-owner said. “Coming from work?”

“Yes.”

“You worked late.”

“Yes, got caught up in a traffic congestion which stretched for hours.”

“The one on the M25?”

“Horrible. Saw it on the news.” They all looked at the TV screen on the wall. “It’s still the main news. Strange thing about life. Think of those people that died. Never knew it was their day. You leave home, kiss the wife and kids. Don’t know you’ll never be back.”

“True. May I have the usual?”

“Sure.”

Godfree paid. The man heated chips, grabbed several pieces of chicken, barbecued ribs and wrapped them in a package.

“I added extra and another large drink as you’re a good customer.”

“Thank you.”

He stepped out as a shorter and broader black man met him at the door.

Godfree froze as his heart missed beats.

Comrade Moto!

Time seemed to stand still as they stared at the other for several seconds.

“Morning.”

Godfree did not answer. The man moved past him and entered the shop. Godfree walked to his car and got inside, a pensive look on his face and watched him. When the man drove off he followed. After several turns and streets the man parked, stepped outside the car and locked it. Walked past a gate to a house and entered. Godfree drove past the house to the end of the road, turned into a left road and parked. Waited for a time.

Had he made a mistake? That man’s accent was African. But how could Comrade Moto the notorious ruling party activist who had tortured him and killed Aaron be in England? Did he stay in that house? It could be someone else.

He drove home past the house. This time a light was on upstairs. Godfree’s home was two miles away, the last house at the end of the street.

After a long day he entered the lounge, clicked on the light. A familiar scent of sofas, carpet and books hit his nostrils. Several letters lay scattered on the carpet. Just the usual water, electricity and phone bills, and a letter from a bank he did not know inviting him to apply for credit. In the kitchen he washed and dried his hands, plonked himself on the sofa and dug into the food. After eating he took a bath. His bedroom was upstairs. He had left it neat, the bed made up as usual. After changing into his pyjamas he got into bed and stared at the darkness.

Could he be mistaken about the man he had just met?

He had never forgotten that opposition party rally years ago. Moto had arrived with trucks packed with armed ruling party supporters who wielded sticks, truncheons, whips, rocks and preceded to beat people. Opposition party members fought back. Several of Moto’s men surrounded Godfree. Despite bringing several down he was outnumbered. They would scatter but more joined. Something hard hit him on the head. Kicks and punches rained on him. He passed out. When he awoke he was naked, with a splitting headache, tasted blood, and tied to a table. Aaron was on the next one.

Torture awaited both.

Aaron never left that room of torture alive.

Moto had instructed people to leave the beaten opposition party victims in the stadium. They should not be taken to hospital. Six people were killed. The government newspaper reported unruly opposition members had disrupted a peaceful ruling party rally, beat, killed people and went on a wild rampage burning and looting.

Was Moto living in Stones now?

Suppose that was him? How many times had he imagined meeting him again and taking his revenge?

Tossing from one side to the other he fell asleep, only to wake up screaming and shivering, wet with perspiration.

The nightmare was back.

He was back in that place. Moto had cut and burnt his back, raised the hammer high and shouted.

“Comrade, your time has come.”

Sleep evaded him. Godfree caught a bath. Early in the morning before heading for work he drove to the street and parked houses away. A downstairs light was on. He was just in time to see a door open. The man he thought was Moto walked out followed by a pregnant woman. The work-suit he wore had the words Ross Furniture printed on the back. He hugged the woman before leaving in his car. Godfree followed. After twenty minutes the man parked outside a large warehouse that had Ross Furniture painted on the front and disappeared inside. The man emerged once, glanced at Godfree’s car before going back.

Godfree was convinced then it was Moto.

He drove away his face pensive. The questions came. Was that torturer a wanted man in hiding? Had it been wise to follow him? Had Moto had recognized him? Who was the pregnant woman? Likely a wife or girlfriend? Did Moto have children now? Godfree must not allow himself to see that man as human. That psychopath must pay for his crimes. It was time.

***

The day proved busy. His friend David called.

“Hey, Doc. I called before and left a message.”

David spoke. “Sorry, young brother. I’ve been too busy with work. You said it was urgent.”

“You need to take a holiday and learn to relax. It’s your turn to visit me. I have been to see you twice.”

“I’m sorry, mufana (young brother). How are you?”

“I met Moto here.”

“You’re joking?” David exclaimed. “You saw that murderer?”

“Yes. I’m sure he’s living and works in Stones now.”

“Are you sure it was him?”

“It’s him alright.”

“Tell me how you met him.”

They talked for thirty minutes, planned what to do. David had a group of people he could send to beat Moto and leave him in a wheelchair for the rest of his life.

“That man killed my uncle, your friend Aaron, and others. He left you horribly hurt on the side of the road. I’ll send people to the house. They will follow him, find a time to abduct him and beat him senseless. Excuse me, got to take this call. It’s an emergency at hospital. I’ll call you when I get back.”

Godfree felt relieved he had not yet given David that villain’s address. Suppose that pregnant woman was Moto’s wife? Did he want to help put Moto permanently in a wheelchair? Cause a child grow up seeing its dad as a cripple. But why should he care? How many people had that sadist murdered?

Godfree had kept in touch with David, the doctor who had found him on the side of the road where Moto had discarded him. The latter had trained as a surgeon in England. His deceased uncle, a prominent opposition party member had died at Moto’s hands. David had paid Godfree’s medical treatment and his plane ticket.

Moto was alive and living close to him. Seeing him again had triggered those nightmares again. He would never be safe knowing that man was around and could hurt him again. What was Moto planning now? Perhaps he had recognized him. A cunning rat like him could be coming for him to get rid of him once and for all.

The doorbell rang. He opened the door and stared.

Moto stood outside.

“Good evening, Mr Muti. May I speak with you alone?”

Godfree found his voice. “What do you want?”

“I don’t mean you any harm and won’t take much of your time. May I come in?”

“Why are you here?”

“Please, I need to talk to you.”

Godfree let him enter and closed the door.

“Thank you.”

“What do you want?”

It was hard to keep his hands still when all he wanted was to put them around that neck and strangle this man.

“I recognized you when we met on Friday night at the takeaway. You followed me to my place and to work. I came to ask your forgiveness for hurting you.”

“Take a seat.”

“Thank you.”

Moto said he sought asylum in this country. After leaving the ruling party and his job, he joined the opposition and became a whistle-blower. It was true he was once a member of the dreaded Secret Police; a hit squad that bore allegiance to the president. They targeted and tortured opposition party activists. He was not proud of his past. And then he killed an innocent relative. In remorse he left the job realized what he was - part of a killing machine. He joined the opposition party, and gave a list of targeted members of the opposition, and those abducted and killed. The information was genuine. His colleagues knew who had betrayed them. Moto knew too much. His life was in danger. That was how he escaped, landed in England, sought asylum and changed his name. He was sorry.

Godfree pointed at him. “You butchered people, left their wives widows and their children fatherless. Do you remember the rally where you arrived with your thugs and the people you killed? You tortured me and my friend Aaron and murdered him. He helped his family, widowed mother, brothers and sisters. You took his life.”

Moto looked at the floor, said ever since that man’s death he sought forgiveness from those he wronged. He wanted to help Aaron’s mother, ask forgiveness and send money. He went to church now. Was the mother alive?

“That won’t bring Aaron back. You think cash will lessen her pain and that of the rest of the family? If they know where you are they will come looking for you to avenge Aaron. Infact I shall give everyone your address.”

“I know her pain, have a pregnant wife and understand about losing my own child. Forgive me, Mister Muti. I was a different man then.”

“Different?” His eyes were wet with tears. “All I see and remember is a man that loved killing.” He turned, removed his shirt, glanced over his shoulder. “Look at my back, Comrade Moto. You like what you see? I was found by a surgeon in the bushes where you left me. Did you know I was in hospital for months?”

Moto looked sick. His voice was a whisper. “I’m so sorry.”

“When the men you killed begged for their lives, did you ever listen? You crushed Aaron’s head with that hammer. You’re a butcher. Get out of my house before I pick the phone and call Aaron’s brothers to alert them where you live. I’ve since driven past your house and watched you and your wife, thought of setting fire to your place. Out!”

Moto was at the door when an arm grabbed and dragged him back.

“Let me go. Please.”

Godfree shook his head, grabbed his lapels and hoisted the shivering man to his feet.

“Please let me go.”

“No, comrade. I’ve dreamt of you, had nightmares. You need to feel the pain too and pay for the blood you shed. You have two choices. To sit on a red-hot stove, or I cut your throat.”

He pulled him towards the kitchen.

The man’s teeth chattered. “No.”

“Pick one now!” he yelled.

He dumped him on the floor, pulled out a drawer and grabbed the bread-knife. Moto screamed, leapt to his feet and sprinted to the door, flung it open and was through in a flash. Godfree stood knife in hand as Moto jumped in the vehicle and sped off with a squeal of tyres and a strong smell of burning rubber. James’s car parked close.

“Godfree, you ok? What’s up, mate? Who was that man who ran out? What’s that knife for?”

James stepped into the house, alarm on his face. Godfree headed for the kitchen and put away the knife.

“Jamie, I almost killed that man.”

James frowned. “Where did you get those horrible scars? Who’s that man who ran out?”

Godfree picked his shirt from the floor and put it on. James’ face took a horrified look as the story unfolded.

“You meant to barbecue him?”

“Yes.”

James laughed. He sat as the mirth continued and slapped Godfree on the back.

“That’s it, my man! Wish I had arrived sooner. That animal deserves what you planned. He’s scum. You should have seen him run. In life you got to sort out the bullies, Godfree. Few people fight for you in this life. Most times a man’s bullied while society looks the other way. That beast Moto is nothing but a bully.” He squeezed Godfree’s arm. “My only regret is that you didn’t finish the job. I would have helped. Why did you let him escape?”

“I couldn’t kill him.”

“You had him in your house. I don’t understand you.” James shook his head. “That murderer should be killed. Pay for his crimes.”

“Easy, mate. You brought Nandos chicken. Thanks. I was hungry.”

“I know you love Nandos.”

James usually dropped by, brought food and enjoy a game of chess. He had yet to beat Godfree though.

“Jamie, you came at the right time. You’re a great guy.”

James beamed. “Easy, man. We’re mates. It’s not that hard kill him. I’ll help. You can call him; say he should pay cash for what he did. Name a figure. Arrange to meet him somewhere. After handing you the money you stab him in the chest. Easy. Aim for the heart. Put the scum in a bag and dump the body in a lake.”  

“Stop this talk of murder, Jamie. Let’s just enjoy our food.”

“That piece of dirt must pay for his crimes.”

“Jamie, if you don’t shut up I’ll drag you to the stove.”

“You just let a murderer walk free. Have another drumstick.”

“Thanks.”

“I’m going to tell you a boy’s story.”

He spoke of the woman who ran off with a boyfriend, leaving a husband and a seven-year old son. The father worked long hours and dreamt of his son. His dreams involved getting him to university. The mother liked to party and brought men home whenever the dad was away. She constantly hit that boy. He watched his mother cheating on the marital bed. He hated his father for not protecting him from the prostitute. When she left the devastated father became a drunk. Prison was his next stop for drugs. And then he got killed over a fight in prison. Social services took the boy. In one of those foster homes he was sexually abused for years, and threatened with death, if he ever talked about it. Years later that boy succeeded, was talented with his hands, could fix electrical things.

But there was still a score to pay.

He never forgot. The abuser was older, liked drinking and sleeping around. One night the boy waited for him along the path, stepped from the bushes, punched him hard and dragged him into the bushes. Before he slit his throat he told him who he was. The man begged for forgiveness. The boy killed him. One slash across the throat did it. Police never caught that boy. He had just made his first kill.

“You mean he killed again?” Godfree asked with a frown.

“Sure.” James shrugged his shoulders. “He had to find his mother. She should pay too.”

Godfree felt sick. “He killed his own mother?”

“No, he never found her alive. A client killed her. So the boy found someone else to kill. He selected girls that resembled her. When the dead girl arrived in hell she would tell the mother her son hated her.”

“That’s sick. Those girls hadn’t abused him.”

“Someone had to die. That prostitute with her green eyes and long white hair caused it, was unfit to be a mother. Society let her get away with it. Neighbours were unconcerned and didn’t help the boy. None lifted a hand, left social services take him and dump him in a foster home. Life to him was just one horror to the next. Do you see why you can’t let that butcher get away? It’s your turn now. He needs to feel what it is to be tied to a table and tortured. Then he’ll know what pain is.”

Godfree’s voice was firm. “Jamie, you didn’t kill a man and aren’t murdering girls now, are you?”

“Me?” He looked pained. “You think the boy’s me?”

“Is this story really fiction?”

“We work together, have coffee at work. I bring take-aways here and we play chess. I thought we were friends. How can you even think I can be a murderer, Godfree?”

“I’m sorry. For a moment you scared me. It’s the way you described that boy, like you felt his pain. You looked serious and were so convincing it was like those events really happened. You should have been a writer, not a sparkie.”

James smiled. “Easy, mate. It’s just a story I read. If Frank and Rose know of your torture and those scars they would change their attitude towards you and accept you as a genuine refugee.” 

Godfree shook his head. “Don’t tell them. It wouldn’t change their attitude. I’m their enemy number one. You want them to know how you saw me without a shirt, how I brandished a knife and got close to barbecuing a man?”

“Yeah. I plan to let Frank know you plan to slice him too if he doesn’t stop making fun of you and calling you names.”

“If you tell them about Moto you shall be the one to get sliced, mate.”

“It riles me when they treat you different. I’m getting tired of it. You have a right to be in this country too. You’re legit.”

“Jamie, in life you must accept some people won’t like you.”

Godfree liked James. He was one guy at the factory he got along with quiet well. James had that affable smile, had not grouped with people that tried to ostracize him. It was James who had told him why Frank and Rose could not stand refugees.

But James’ story had shaken him. Was it fabricated? Could he be that boy? Three girls had gone missing in Stones. James was sure it would be right to kill Moto, had even offered to help. Had he captured those girls?

Was he a killer?

No. His problem must be an overdrive imagination. Or maybe just loved a story plot from a novel he had read or a movie. He wasn’t a killer. Period. How could a warm and generous guy like James be a murderer?

But two things still bothered him.

He was sure James meant it when he told him he should kill Moto, and even offered to help. How much did he know about James’ past? He recalled him mentioning once when they were looking at his family albums that Godfree was lucky to have a family. Why did he never speak about his own? What had happened to his parents? Was he that abused boy and was confessing to his friend why he had killed? Did he harbour a dreadful secret? Could there be something in his life he was ashamed of and hid under that smile? Had James just confessed to a horrible crime in his past?

He refused to think the worst of James.

The boy in James’ story had turned into a monster. Someone who believed he needed to murder because he hated his own mother. So he embarked on a killing spree. That made him evil. James was not like that.

Had Moto told the truth about joining the opposition party? Godfree called a district opposition party leader in the country who confirmed Moto was indeed now opposition and had not lied. His list and inside information had been key in revealing government atrocities. No wonder why he was in hiding and had changed his name.

Despite the new information Godfree had images of Aaron with a crushed head. Remembered the good times with his old friend. In a way he was grateful he had let Moto escape.

At midnight David called. “Did I wake you, mufana?”

“No. I couldn’t sleep. You won’t believe this. Moto paid me a visit.”