Out of Shadows (28 page)

I struggled for words. “I found . . . I think there's . . . Sir, I need to tell you something. It's important.”

But I'd already lost him. His eyes burned holes into the back of the ambling soldier.

“It'll have to wait,” he told me.

“Sir, I—”

“I said, not now. I've been up all night and I'm in no mood. Not after what's happened.”

“Happened?” I didn't like this. “Is it something to do with Hascott, sir?”

“
Hascott?
What are you talking about, boy? It's Miss Marimbo,” he said, jaw tensing. “That poor woman. They said she wouldn't stop, that they tried to wave her down. They said she was driving aggressively and that they were only obeying orders. She was trying to
leave
, for Christ's sake, not get in.”

Each word a solid punch.

“The filthy gook bastards . . . They shot her. They
murdered
her. And the government will brush over this like it never happened. I'm telling you, someone should shoot him. If this is the kind of game our prime minister plays then we're better off without him.”

I started to cry
. As Dunno spoke everything caught up with me and I lowered my head and bawled. I didn't know what to do now.

Neither, it seemed, did Dunno.

“Boy? Are you all right, boy?” he asked.

I wanted to tell him everything, but when I tried it felt like needles were stabbing the back of my throat. I couldn't talk. My knees buckled.

Mr. Dunn caught me and half led, half carried me back to his house, and hastily made his wife take over while he went to try and deal with the mess. Mrs. Dunn was from the same cast as her husband, but she was also a mother of some twenty years and still had an instinct.

“Don't you worry, my boy,” she said as she laid me onto a bed. I was dazed. Numb. I stared at nothing. “It's Robert, isn't it? You look in a terrible state, Robert, but you'll be fine. It's been a great shock. Try to get some sleep.”

“Will they cancel Speech Day?” I croaked, surprising her.
“Do you think they'll stop him from coming? He won't come after what's happened. Will he?”

Ma Dunn gazed at me, frowning. The glow of the rising sun coming through the window was unable to melt the stony set of her face.

“It's an important day,” she replied, “for the headmaster
and
the prime minister. They both have a lot to gain. I don't think either man would let something like this hold them up.”

And then she turned.

“You look tired. Shame. Try to get some rest, hey.”

It was so easy.

Lying there in the Dunn's spare room, staring at the colorless ceiling, I told myself there was nothing I could do. It was out of my hands. Besides, it was what they all wanted, wasn't it? The whites, the Matabeles . . . So maybe it really
was
for the best. What if Mugabe really was as bad as they said, and not actually the great man my father insisted he was? His soldiers had killed Miss Marimbo without thinking about it, so they probably had killed lots of other innocent people for him in the past, just as Ivan told us they had, and would keep on killing in the future.

After all, it wasn't my country, so what the hell did I know? All I had to do was lie here and do nothing, let the hours run dry. Whatever the outcome, one way or another, it would all be over. And it would have nothing to do with me.

I felt the lump on my head, the scratches and bruises on my body. I closed my eyes wanting only to come out on the other side, but beneath the shroud I met Ivan.

Ivan at the bottle store.

Ivan at the Cliffs.

Ivan in a darkened alley with an inert Greet bleeding at his feet.

Ivan by the workers' village.

Then I was dreaming, and I was in the chapel next to Ivan with the prime minister coming toward us again. This time Ivan didn't take aim. Instead, he was handing the rifle—
my
rifle, from the club—to me, and as I took it he said, grinning and nodding: “Klompie and Pitters, they're okay . . . But you're
better
. I need you. . . .”

The sound of the bullet echoed and I jerked straight. It came again—
crack
—but it was just the jacaranda pods exploding as the heat grew. There was another noise with it, and when I looked out across the playing fields I saw cars.

The morning had moved on. People were starting to arrive.

I like to think
there was a moment in Derek De Klomp's life in which he considered everything he was about to do and reevaluated his part. If he ever did, it was as he stood, smiling and proud, in the parking lot with his relatives and glanced across to see me running like a thief toward the house. I stopped, and for that moment there was a glimpse of uncertainty as a line of complete understanding passed between us. Not regret, exactly, or guilt, rather the genuine fear of someone who'd found himself in a place to which he'd willingly gone but didn't like now that he was there. And there was no way out and he knew it.

His aunt pulled him around to straighten his tie, and the moment was gone. He lifted his head once more to me, though now the look of deviance and loathing Ivan had taught him was back.

By now everyone was beginning to notice what a state I was in. I finished my dash for the house while the De Klomp family joined the flow that headed for the chapel.

I called for a squack from the junior dorm as I changed into my clean uniform.

“Where's Hascott?”

The squack shook his head: He hadn't seen him all morning.

Through my study window I checked the state of the procession. The De Klomps were still in view but Klompie himself had broken away and was moving briskly around the back of the tennis courts and toward the new house, constantly checking over his shoulder.

In the distance I heard the siren wail of the prime minister's motorcade.

I knew Klompie could only have been the failsafe. The backup. The last-chance shot should things not have gone to plan. He was too stupid for anything else. Simply lie still, wait for Robert Mugabe to step up to the decorative ribbon, and then pull the trigger. Even a monkey couldn't miss at that range.

I don't think Klompie really believed he'd be required to make that shot, or maybe he just hoped it would all be over before the cloud of VIPs got anywhere near him. Whatever the reason, it obviously hadn't dawned on him that by running through a mound of cement dust outside he'd leave a trail of footprints that led me up the stairs and right to the chair he'd used to climb up into the attic. The stink of cigarette smoke hit me straightaway. He hadn't even bothered to pull the cover across after him.

I eased myself up. He was squatting uncomfortably on the rafters, gun against the wall. His line of sight was through ventilation bricks. Even with just my head and shoulders pushed through I could feel the instant heat. Klompie was having to wipe sweat and keep his fringe out of his eyes, and when he
realized I was there he squinted several times to make sure he wasn't seeing things.

“What are you doing here, Jacko?” He sounded worried. Then, angrily: “What are you
doing
?”

He leaped. There was a hollow sound as his head connected with the beam directly above him and he went straight back down. The gun slid and fell, and with a stretch I grabbed the end of the barrel.

Too late, he saw what was happening and reached for the butt with panicky hands. We wrestled briefly for control, and for one terrible moment I saw his fingers snatching close to the trigger, but I managed to kick out, and when he tried to regain balance his foot slipped and punctured the ceiling.

He looked stupidly at what he'd done. Unbelievably, even for him, he pushed the other foot down to try and get himself out and made the hole even bigger. His face melted into a look of absolute dismay as he sank to the waist.

“Hey, man . . .”

His clothes were caught and snagged so he couldn't go up or down. He was helpless. Trapped. Like a movie villain in quicksand he gasped and struggled, as I emptied the gun's chamber and took out the magazine.

“You're crazy, De Klomp,” I said, actually feeling sorry for him now. “You let him talk you into something you could never get away with.”

He grunted. “We knew we were never going to get away with it, you idiot. Not at first. But maybe one day, when our guys take over power again . . .”

He laughed at me.

“And even if they kill us we'll be heroes.”

“That's lies. How can you believe that?”

He suddenly stopped squirming and looked at me squarely. Because it was Klompie, the sincerity and intelligence of his response startled me.

“If you were in front of Hitler with a gun, wouldn't you squeeze the trigger?
Why
wouldn't you? I'll tell you why: because you're a coward. You're a coward who doesn't even belong here. You're not one of us. You don't understand.”

For a moment I did nothing, just stared, then I smashed the rifle into the wall.

“Why don't you piss off back to Pommieland,” he growled. “This is our country.”

I climbed back down.

“That's Ivan talking.”

“So what if it is?” he shouted after me. “He was right. And Mr. van Hout was right, too. Can't you see? Kaffirs will destroy our country. Ivan's not the liar.
Mugabe
is. He's the one who has to be stopped. He'll destroy us all.”

From inside the study only Klompie's legs were visible. He started to kick.

“
No!
You can't. You'll ruin everything.
Everything
.”

“If anyone's going to ruin anything it's Ivan. I'm only trying to make things right.”

Only some might say that that never happened: I
did
ruin it. I screwed up big time.

Limping slightly, I ran out and toward the chapel. The bell had started to ring—I had to hurry.

The prime minister's cars were
taking up the entire space outside the Admin Block. I knew he was up in Bully's study because six bodyguards were posted around the building while another three stood on the stairs. Boys and parents and masters were answering the call of the bell and filing into the chapel.

The bodyguards began to jostle nervously. The prime minister must have been ready. It was only about ten meters to the chapel entrance and the area was too open. Ivan and Pitters had to have been inside.

I pushed my way forward and went in through one of the side entrances. A quarter of the pews were already full while sixth-form boys were taking their places up in the gallery. I looked hard. Where were they? Behind me the choir had taken all available positions around the altar, the only vacant seats there belonged to Bully, the prime minister, and his entourage.

Where were they?

Mr. Hodgson came in and settled at the organ. After a few
seconds, the towering collection of pipes wheezed into life, and Mr. Finklater had to come over and tell me to stop loitering and get up to the gallery. Parents were looking at me like I was going to make an announcement.

I moved slowly, still scouring faces. Mr. Hodgson's prelude continued, and it was difficult not to notice his slightly erratic performance because he always prided himself on perfection. I let myself be distracted by it and watched Mr. Hodgson's face crease with agitation as notes slipped from his fingers. One note in particular, in fact, and each time he glanced up at the culpable pipes.

Something was wrong. Something, I wondered, or someone?

Mr. Finklater made a grab but I was too quick, darting across the altar to the vestry door. The choir watched with mild confusion as I passed. I'd never been up to where the organ pipes were. If you got caught up there it was instant expulsion. I figured that didn't matter anymore.

The steps were narrow and near vertical; the higher I climbed into the lightless room the harder the music pressed.

Pittman was waiting for me at the top, emerging like a ghost. He grabbed me and pulled me up and threw me further into the room of tubes and pipes. I bounced between the unmoving metal and skidded to the floor. Ahead, I could see Pittman's gun lying flat.

“Ivan should never have trusted you.” Swinging his shoe into my ribs. “Who cares if you're a crack shot; you're still only a Pommie.”

He landed on my spine and drove the air from my lungs. Then he turned me over and leaned forward.

“I hope I only injure him and get the chance to make him die slowly.”

I tried to push his face out of mine. His teeth bit into my hand. With an agonized thrust I pushed forward so that my finger went all the way in and scraped the back of his throat
and he fell off me, eyes bulging. He made a retching sound as I quickly faced forward and crawled. All I could see was the gun. All I had to do was get the gun.

Pittman came again.

I grabbed the rifle in both hands, quickly pulled the bolt without him seeing and swung. Pittman stopped, the barrel digging into his stomach.

“It's over, Pitters,” I told him over the music.

“What are you going to do? Shoot me?” He grabbed the barrel and stuck it under his chin. The trigger strained dangerously against my finger. “Go on—shoot! Do it.”

I did nothing, of course.

“You're such a poof, Jacko. You would never have done it. I knew that. You might be good but all you can slot are squares of cardboard on a range.”

He whipped his fist and I caught it on the cheek. Fire erupted.

A second swipe and the world slipped away. My eyes rolled.

Help
 . . .

I could only think the words as my mouth slurred something vague and incoherent.

Please
 . . .

Even if I'd called it no one would have heard, and as my dark cloud descended I sensed movement out in the main chapel. The sound of the main doors. I heard a wave roll through the congregation, from front to rear, and through small gaps between the organ pipes I saw heads turn and bodies stand. Mr. Mugabe had entered and was walking down the aisle.