The Truth (19 page)
‘It would be in your interest to let us see them.’
They pushed past him, and Mabbut turned, stricken. There was nothing more he could do.
Then, quite suddenly, from deep within the forest, came a growing, surging roar. The tree canopy sprang into life, and the air was split by shrieks and screams and the beating of wings. The massive roar came again, much nearer now, and the squawks intensified. Trees and branches began to sway and all heads turned towards the road. There, where once had been a dense and leafy vista of sal and tamarind, stood a wall of steel. Mabbut recognised it instantly. It was the convoy. The huge haulage unit at the front, its cab as high as the young trees around it, steamed and hissed with anger as it towered over the white Subaru that stood in its path. A third and prolonged blast of the horn sounded. The two security men raced down to the road as the sound filled the forest, amplified by others behind it in a syncopated bellow of rage. Mabbut watched open mouthed as the SUV skidded round, and like a mouse before an elephant, shot off down the road. With a squeal of releasing air brakes the truck lumbered into motion, drawing its massive load behind it. Then the next in line began to haul itself up the hill, boughs snapping in its wake. The third transporter, which had been halted on a steeper slope, took longer to get going. The cab reared and bounced like a horse at a jump,
and it seemed an age before the gears engaged and the last of the immense loads thundered by, leaving behind it something equally unnatural: a forest devoid of any sound at all.
Mabbut remained standing there for some time, shaken, almost literally, by what he had seen. He turned only when he heard voices behind him. Kumar and Mahesh were zigzagging back through the trees with Melville a little farther behind. Kinesh was already at the cars, stowing equipment, fitting cameras back into boxes. Melville grinned at Mabbut as he emerged into the glade.
‘Good work, guys!’
He called out to Kinesh. ‘Map?’
He looked at the map briefly, then, calling out co-ordinates to Kumar, jumped into the first jeep.
‘Let’s get out of here!’
It was a difficult half-hour as the vehicles skirted the main road and weaved along forest tracks. Kinesh said little as he concentrated on squeezing the jeep between trees, crossing streams and negotiating tricky gradients, and it wasn’t until they reached the outskirts of a sprawling village that Mabbut realised how much his companion’s attitude had changed in the course of a morning. Elation had tempered caution, and youthful exuberance had softened his seriousness. As they sat round a table in the anonymous main street he realised that this mood had filtered down from the top. Melville’s eyes shone as he spoke.
‘That was something! I tell you, if we wanted proof that they’re stepping up capacity, we have it now. Those new smelters are so important they’ll be moving the parts in twenty-four hours a day. That’s why their goons are driving around the forest like they own the place.’
He looked at Mabbut, and his smile finally seemed devoid of suspicion.
‘I’m sorry you had to meet them face to face. If they’d looked inside our vehicles we’d have been in real trouble, so thanks for helping out.’
Bhindi bhajis arrived at the table, freshly fried from the pan.
‘Why are they all so jumpy?’ asked Mabbut as he ate.
‘The Kowprah refinery was built five years ago after a whole series
of dodgy planning permissions. A lot of money went into a lot of pockets. Astramex got what they wanted and the state lost six hundred hectares of good farmland.’
Melville seemed to be in his element. There was none of the caution he’d displayed back at the camp. This was Melville unplugged and all Mabbut had to do now was listen, and try to remember what he said.
‘These guys can never get enough. Once they’ve sniffed the ground then it’s only the dollar signs that matter. Astramex want to double the amount of aluminium coming out of Kowprah. And what we found proof of this morning is that they’re not bothering to wait for permission. The new equipment’s being shipped in fast. A fait accompli. That’s the way these people operate. Do what you want and don’t let the other side stop you.’
Melville paused, took some more food and passed the plate around.
‘The trouble is that the Kowprah refinery is limited at the moment by having to bring the basic raw material, the bauxite, in from outside. If they can find it somewhere closer then things will be a lot easier for them, and a lot more profitable. And, surprise, surprise, they have found bauxite deposits a
lot
nearer – in the hills right next to the plant! What could be better than that? Except that there are people living in those hills, thousands of them, and they’ve been living there for as long as anyone knows. They worship the Masoka Hills as the reason for their survival. And not without good reason. Bauxite holds and distributes water, so two or three rivers and a whole network of streams rise on those hills. Strip the crown and the rain will just run away down the flanks. That will mean the end of a way of life and an irrigation system that provides cultivable land right down to the sea.’
He gestured to Kumar, who reached into his bag and produced a bottle of water, loosening the cap as he passed it over. Melville drank deeply and passed it across to Mabbut.
‘Thanks to this morning’s nature ramble we now have incontrovertible evidence that Astramex is bringing in heavy plant that can only be justified by the extraction of bauxite from the local hills.’
‘So, what can you do about it?’
Melville exchanged glances with the three others. He looked at Mabbut carefully, but not unkindly.
‘We shall see . . .’
M
abbut was happy. Not just with the events of the day, but also because there had been no more mention of putting him on a train back to Bhubaneswar – at least, not yet. For a second night he found himself in Melville’s camp. It was set up at the base of a smoothly eroded granite outcrop whose quartz crystals sparkled in the glow of the setting sun.
Kumar and the boys busied themselves with a generator which coughed and spluttered into life. In his tent Mabbut took out his phone and found two text messages from Ron Latham, which he ignored, and one from Krystyna, leaving only her name. There was just enough battery left for a single call. He checked the coast was clear, then tapped in her number. There was a long pause. He was about to hang up when the connection clicked in.
‘It’s me.’
She seemed to be expecting him.
‘Where are you?’
‘I’m in India.’
‘Are you safe?’
‘Yes, of course I am. Why shouldn’t I be?’
‘Your agent rang me. Then a man who spoke like a recorded message.’
‘Ron Latham? He rang you?’
‘He kept asking if you’d called. Why is he chasing you?’
‘He’s paying me, that’s why.’
He could almost hear the sound of her ears pricking up.
‘Should I tell him you called?’
‘No, Krys. Don’t have anything to do with him, he’ll never leave you alone.’
‘Is he going to make you rich?’
‘Would that make a difference?’
‘It would make a difference to you.’
It wasn’t the answer he’d hoped for.
‘Where’s Rex?’
But the phone went dead. No more charge.
‘Fuck!’
‘Everything all right?’
A shaggy grey head peered round the flap. It was Melville.
‘We’re eating soon.’
‘Oh, thanks. I’ll join you.’
Melville pointed at the phone.
‘You want that thing charged?’
‘Sometimes I think I prefer it this way,’ said Mabbut, trying to make light of the situation.
‘Couldn’t agree more. Only use mine for working.’
Mabbut handed the phone to Melville.
‘When you’re ready, then. Kumar’s cooking. Not to be missed.’
Outside a fire had been lit and Mahesh and Kinesh were hunkered down around the portable table. Cobra beers were opened and laptops and mobiles set up. All three men were engrossed in their work, which consisted mainly of long phone conversations, almost entirely in Hindi. Occasionally Kumar would be called away from the fire and another language was spoken.
Feeling rather like a spare part in the midst of all this activity, Mabbut wandered to the edge of the camp. The sun dipped below the horizon and night came almost instantly. He walked a little farther, outside the ring of light around the camp, and sniffed the air. It was very dry here and the smells he picked up were reminiscent of fire, of burnt things. A breeze blew up and he could hear the creaking of a tree branch. He squatted down, ferreting around in the dust until he found a stone whose weight and smoothness pleased him. Turning it over in his hand, he tried to concentrate his mind on what had once been his life. Krystyna sitting with him at the kitchen table, shaking her head at his outrage over something he’d read in the newspaper. Or Sam, before the theatre had seduced him, chasing a ball on a Suffolk beach, and Jay, before the complications of Shiraj,
lying on her tummy in front of the fire, twisting a lock of hair as she devoured a book.
‘Keith!’
It was Melville’s voice.
‘Grub up!’
Mabbut checked his watch. Almost half an hour had gone by and he was still holding the stone he had picked up. He stood and hurled it as far as he could into the bush then turned back to the camp.
They ate simple but tasty food – tandoori chicken with lentils and potatoes and a small but spicy curry. A lamp in the centre of the table flickered in what was now a deliciously cooling breeze. They reminisced about the day and there were many jokes about Mabbut’s sudden conversion to birdwatching. Melville lit a cigarette and took another beer and embarked on a long and elaborate account of the mating habits of the hornbill. Kumar picked up one of the clay pots in which the food had been prepared and described in detail how a nearby tribe had devised a similar pot for the collection of sago palm juice. The young boys would carry these pots to the top of the trees and hang them there to collect the sticky white sap, which was converted into the indispensable village brew. This led to a spirited argument about how much could be collected from each tree. Mahesh had heard that it was a litre a night. Kumar swore that a good tree would give as much as five litres a night, and another five during the day. This led on to a discussion of how best to climb trees. And, almost inevitably, to a late night race up a nearby mahua tree, won, impressively, by Kumar. A triumph of technique over physique.
Sometimes Melville joined in and sometimes he sat back and regarded his protégés like an indulgent father. Far from playing the role of guru, he seemed happiest indulging in jest and banter. At one point, Kumar chided the great man over his inability to master
toi
, the dialect of the Masira peoples. Melville protested, and after a few misplaced attempts he brought Kumar to his knees with laughter, then saved the day by faultlessly reciting the local names of all the village chiefs.
It was one of those rare evenings that could never be planned. When everyone present – Kinesh, the thoughtful idealist from Delhi,
Mahesh, the high-tech wizard with three children in Kolkata, Kumar, the educated tribal, Melville the living legend and Mabbut, his secret biographer – ceased for a few hours to be anything other than fellow human beings. This was certainly Mabbut’s view as he walked some distance away and stood, a little unsteadily, relieving himself beneath the tree up which Kumar had so recently scampered.
When he turned back to the camp the boys had gone to their tents and only Melville was left, sitting at the flimsy table, map open in the lamplight, his profile throwing shadows over a nearby tent.
He looked up as Mabbut approached, and laid something on the table.
‘Your phone. All charged up.’
‘Thanks. And thanks for including me. That was a good night.’
He went to take the phone but as he did so, Melville withdrew it.
There was a moment’s pause. Something had changed. Melville was examining him with that uncomfortable inquisitorial stare again. Mabbut was aware that the beers had loosened his tongue. Maybe he’d said too much.
‘We’ll be moving early tomorrow. Kumar’ll call you at four.’
Mabbut gave a grimace.
‘Fine. Early bird . . .’
‘We’ll drop you at Kindara Junction by six. There’s a train to Bhubaneswar at seven thirty. Sleep well.’
Melville returned to his map, one hand still resting on the phone. Mabbut stood there, feeling foolish. He had deluded himself that what had happened that day was confirmation that he was now a part of it all, whatever ‘it’ was. Now he was quietly and firmly being reminded of reality; that, as far as Melville was concerned, he was in the way and would remain so. But something, some sprig of indignation, stirred inside him. Mabbut reminded himself that he was fifty-six years old and had at one time been a journalist whom many had envied. He had come so close to his story, and he was not going to lose it without a fight.
‘I’d like to stay with you, if that’s possible.’
‘I’m sure you would.’ Melville didn’t look up.