Devil’s Harvest Page 23

  Then his gaze returned to Bartholomew. ‘My client is most perturbed, George. Your unwillingness to assist with their reasonable request hasn’t been taken kindly. It’s most important that you reconsider. We were of the view that we had a good friendship, how do you say in this country … “a working relationship”. And now you spit in their faces.’

  ‘I wouldn’t put it like that. No one is spitting at anyone else. There’s no disrespect meant by our declining to undertake another … mission at this stage. It’s just that things are a bit … delicate.’

  ‘Delicate? This is another of your English words that hides its meaning. What exactly is “delicate”?’

  Bartholomew sat glum and silent while Hussein waited for him to respond. Somewhere in the house a wall clock started to chime. He could hear Lilly busy in the kitchen, a light clanging of pots as she pretended to be cleaning up, as if after some extravagant dinner party the night before. Bartholomew’s lower intestines seemed to be on the move again, twisting with anger. His instincts told him that Hussein knew everything already – there seemed to be precious little that he didn’t know – and that to hold back would be to court danger. So, with a sigh and splaying of fingers on the table, he recounted to Hussein the problem of the identifiable piece of the missile, their inability to locate it, their concern that it might be used to embarrass the British government and military, and possibly Hussein’s client as well.

  Hussein seemed unperturbed, in fact almost amused, by the story. ‘My client isn’t easily embarrassed, George. Quite honestly, this is your problem, not my client’s. If the world found out that the British government had undertaken a secret missile attack on an enemy target at the request of my client, well, my client would probably be delighted. Their enemies would quake in their boots and look up to the sky in terror. The world would know that they have the military support of one of the best armies in the world. No, this wouldn’t embarrass my client. But for your government on the other hand—’

  ‘It would be catastrophic,’ Bartholomew interrupted, smarting at the man’s arrogant mirth. ‘And for this reason, if no other, we can’t risk another strike. Not until this problem is completely resolved. It’s just not possible. And to make matters worse, some family member of the last target has been asking questions about the source of the blast.’

  ‘Yes, I know. Are you aware that she has the assistance of a British national?’

  The question felt like a whip sting on Bartholomew’s face. He sat upright and stared at the man opposite him. Hussein knew about the victim’s daughter; he almost certainly had already known about the missing piece of the missile. And now he knew something that Bartholomew did not.

  ‘Yes, we’re aware of the presence of a British national,’ he lied, his voice noticeably hoarse.

  There was a glimmer of a smile on Hussein’s mouth. ‘We’ll take care of it, George.’

  ‘How?’

  ‘Our way. We have our own ways to take care of these little hiccups. You need not concern yourself. You focus on the favour we have asked.’ Hussein closed his hands together in some kind of mock prayer, though the gesture was one of authority, not subjugation. ‘Yes, we’ll clean your mess and you’ll do us this little favour. I’ll send you the details soon. Please thank Mrs Bartholomew for the tea.’ He rose without waiting for a reply.

  Bartholomew was physically unable to escort his guest out. He heard the front door close. A few moments later the Mercedes engine roared to life and the car did an ostentatious U-turn in the quiet lane before gunning away. His neighbours would be dropping their rose cuttings in consternation.

  Bartholomew remained seated at the table, his tea now cooled in the cup in front of him. Lilly came in and moved about him as if he were a statue, stacking the cups and whispering to herself.

  Chapter 17

  JILA REFUGEE CAMP

  Gabriel had never had cause to reflect on the configuration of a refugee camp, but if asked he would have imagined a fenced compound of military tents, erected in rows, leaving space in between for Land Rovers and trucks. Officials with clipboards would sit at wooden tables and queues would form to collect family-sized food parcels. It would be something like a larger version of the work camps sometimes set up when upgrading the rural English roads. Perhaps a long row of portable latrines, like at the open-air concerts. Thinking about it, he realised that he must have seen such an image on television at some stage, as the vision in his mind was strong. Perhaps a picture of an emergency centre after the mudslides in Brazil. Certainly he had never been near such a place in his life.

  The UNHCR refugee camp at Jila conformed to none of these perceptions. It was in fact a town, far larger than Gogrial, a dense scattering of structures of haphazard shapes and sizes, tossed as if by a child across the landscape. As far as the eye could see, there were grass huts, mud-and-pole houses, tents with semi-permanent add-ons, and clusters of brick buildings bearing UN signage. Reed fences ran between some huts, merging into the reed and stick walls of temporary domed structures. Smoke drifted through the trees until the shapes blurred and disappeared, continuing into the hazy distance. Everywhere people were on the move, women with bright red-and-orange shawls, some with light-blue scarves and dresses covering everything but their faces. And children, almost none wearing tops, some just in underpants, carried by their mothers, eyeing the newcomers with frightened faces. There were more ‘No Weapon’ signs tacked up on some of the structures.

  Gabriel slowed to a crawl as children crossed over the vaguely marked road between the trees, many not bothering to look up to see whether the vehicle would avoid them. Alek directed him to a cement building where he parked in an area roughly demarcated by white-painted rocks. He turned off the engine and was immediately aware of the sound of habitation. The forest had been so quiet, even Bentiu seemed strangely silent compared to this incessant murmur of people talking, walking, chopping wood, preparing meals, stirring pots. Somewhere a child was crying, not a histrionic, attention-seeking scream, but a low, droning sob. And yet, there was the sound of someone else laughing, a woman telling a story in a loud voice and her audience cackling back at her. The smell was familiar. The Juba-mix of smoke, cattle, humanity and their excretions. The bright colours, the noise, the pervasive odour, they all combined to provide the most unexpected assault. Gabriel sat in the car, gazing without comprehension.

  A European woman with frizzy orange-blonde hair emerged from one of the office doorways. She held up her hand to block the glare of the sun as she monitored their arrival. Her cotton dress pressed against her broad hips and equally endowed chest. The heat had made her skin blotchy, undefined scarlet islands marking her bare arms, chest and neck. Alek opened the passenger door and strode around the bonnet. The redhead gave a laugh, more a guttural shout, at seeing Alek and stepped off the porch into the dust, arms outstretched.

  ‘Alek, dear girl! You made it. So good to have you back.’ There was a strong lilt to her voice, a Scottish accent that, despite the influences of many other cultures, was still evident.

  The woman wrapped both arms around Alek, her elbows lost in the union of her upper and lower arms. She kissed Alek with a loud smacking of lips on either side of the face. Alek had always seemed to bristle physically, but now Gabriel saw how she allowed herself to be embraced, allowing the woman into her personal space.

  ‘You’re looking good. Juba must be agreeing with you,’ the Scot added, stepping back and looking her up and down. ‘But still too thin. Look at you, as bony as ever. Not nearly enough meat on this body.’

  Alek laughed and it seemed as if the two women were about to walk off arm in arm, forgetting Gabriel as he clambered out from behind the steering wheel.

  ‘Margie, this is Gabriel.’ Alek turned and gestured towards him.

  ‘Gabriel now is it?’ The woman let go of Alek and advanced on him. Gabriel flinched as if in anticipation of combat.

  ‘Hello, Gabriel. I’m the camp manager. Margaret, but everyone ca
lls me Margie.’ Her cheeks were aflame in the sun and a trickle of sweat had already made its way down the side of her neck. She paused to take in his ill-fitting sandals. ‘What’s your clan name then, love?’

  ‘Cockburn,’ Gabriel answered, still a little cowed by the woman’s physical presence. As he feared, his answer evoked an emotional eruption in the camp manager.

  ‘A Scot? My Lord, we have a Scottish man amongst us! Lord help us, I’ve waited long enough!’

  Margie’s handshake was crushing, the podginess of her arms belying their strength. She shook his hand up and down with vigour, as if trying to warm up his shoulder joint for weightlifting or some other exercise.

  ‘Oh my, my poor lonely heart. A Scotsman all the way out here. Dear Lord!’ Margie let his hand go and gripped his shoulder. ‘And thank you for bringing my beautiful Alek back to me, Mr Cockburn.’

  Gabriel turned to Alek. ‘You worked here before?’

  Alek looked at him with something akin to pity in her eyes. ‘Worked? No, Mr Gabriel, this is my home. Margie is my second mother. I lived here. And in other camps just like it. I have spent most of my life running away to places like this, chased by men and their guns.’

  Gabriel took in the smoke-blurred expanse. ‘Where do all these people come from?’ he asked. ‘South Sudan has been independent for three years now?’ He regretted the naïve-sounding question the moment it was articulated.

  Margie laughed out loud, letting go of his shoulder only to pat him with solid blows on the forearm to show that she didn’t mean to mock him.

  ‘I’m not getting it, am I?’ Gabriel added.

  ‘No love, you’re bloody well not. But that’s okay. The new ones take a wee bit of time. And to be honest, I still don’t really “get it” myself.’ She gave him one last clout on the arm for good measure. Gabriel’s lower arm and hand tingled in response. He was starting to feel physically abused.

  ‘Gabriel is a professor. He’s here to turn God into a formula,’ Alek informed Margie with no trace of sarcasm, although Gabriel noted that there was no mention of their onward journey.

  ‘Goodness me, what a strange undertaking. I’m not sure God will be at all pleased by that. Not at all.’ She raised her eyebrows and chuckled, then took Alek’s hand. ‘Now come inside and have some tea. I have so much I want to ask you, my child.’

  The welcome had been warm, but as soon as the mug of tea was in his hand, he was forgotten by Alek again, although Margie kept grinning at him in the most disconcerting manner. At least it was real tea, he thought, made with a teabag and hot water. The UV-treated milk gave it a strange taste, but he was grateful nonetheless.

  Margie’s office was a small square with most of the space occupied by a large table that served as her desk. Filing cabinets and boxes took up the rest of the floor space and the walls were covered in maps, graphs and diagrams. One large hand-drawn graph appeared to be tracking malaria and typhoid cases on a weekly basis in the camp. There were several posters distributed by the United Nations, many from UNESCO, bearing optimistic messages about human rights and education. In a university corridor in Bristol, Gabriel would have read them as just another statement from a misguided liberal. Here, they appeared ludicrous: it seemed, even to Gabriel, like an affront to talk about the ‘pathways of learning’ in a place like Jila.

  The office had no ceiling and the heat descended, oven-like, from the bare metal roof. The roughly hewn bulkheads creaked as the heat expanded the joints, and the breeze outside pulled at the edges of the roofing sheets. There was no air conditioning to combat the elements and the working environment was oppressive. Gabriel started to feel a panicky claustrophobia. He thought of the squabbles in the university over who would have the best offices in the new building. The desire for a view seemed a perversity now.

  The conversation between Alek and Margie was animated, the camp manager’s voice booming out with warm guffaws and exclamations. They focused almost exclusively on the whereabouts of people who’d previously worked in the camp, or perhaps lived there as refugees. Each revelation as to someone’s personal business brought new waves of mirth, or an occasional sad shake of the head at some inevitable demise. But each reference led to further connections with other people. It seemed like an endless and self-perpetuating undertaking and, tired of listening, Gabriel got up to look at the maps pinned up on the walls.

  The largest map designated an unidentifiable country, divided up into small provinces, each with a different colour and name: Moro, Jau, Angolo, Kudugli. A jigsaw puzzle of tiny municipalities making up a complex state. There was a small, grey-coloured piece in the middle. Gabriel leant in closer. ‘UN/NGO compounds’ the map indicated. Now he noted that another long, brown ‘province’ bore the name ‘Children’s compounds’.

  ‘The tribal groupings in the camp.’ Margie’s lilted explanation came from behind.

  ‘Tribal groupings?’

  ‘Affiliations, yes.’

  ‘You mean,’ he said with a degree of righteousness, ‘you’ve divided the whole camp up according to their tribes?’

  ‘No love, not me. That’s the people themselves.’

  He turned to her in surprise.

  ‘What did you expect? Love and roses and hugs all round?’

  ‘I hadn’t expected people to cling to tribalism. Not when you and everyone around you …’ He was finding it difficult to articulate his thoughts.

  Margie shook her head at him. ‘That’s exactly when you cling to your roots, isn’t it? That’s when you need it most. When you’ve had everything else taken away.’

  Gabriel returned to the map. A large group at the southern end of the camp were designated ‘mixed tribes’ with their tribal heritage noted in brackets: Katcha, Miri, Tafere, Tuma, Karungo, Damba, Belenka, Tuku, Kafina, Chororo. Another area was referred to as ‘mixed subtribes’. The more he stared at the map, the greater his sense of despair. He dragged himself away and sat down again. Margie was watching him closely.

  ‘We currently have over a hundred thousand people in the camp. And we’re receiving about a thousand new people at the moment. That’s every day, love. They’re crossing over at Lake Jau from Sudan, fleeing from the Nuba Mountains and South Kordofan. This is where they come to.’

  ‘Fleeing what?’ The camp, the bizarre map, the journey after Bentiu, it had all shaken him.

  ‘This camp is for displaced people from the north. It’s Darfur all over again up there. Khartoum’s murdering anyone who’s not viewed as Arab enough. Only this time Bashir is sending his problems across the border. Do you know that the Sudan Armed Forces have painted their attack helicopters white to mimic our food aid transport and the African Union peacekeepers? They know the rebels are too smart to fall for it, but it confuses the villagers on the ground. They never used to run from them. Thousands were killed because of it. Dear Lord, now they run from everything.’

  ‘Bastard!’ Alek spat the word out.

  ‘Oh my dear, he’s up to all kinds of bastard tricks. Do you know his latest? He blocked a consignment of grain at Port Sudan destined for the camps because he said it was genetically modified! It’s sophistry of the very worst level. He delayed the delivery of our medicines because his thugs had to make sure that the expiry dates hadn’t been reached. “We cannot allow the United Nations to harm our people.”’ Margie put on a mocking accent, gesticulating with her finger. ‘Can you believe the crap we have to deal with? And, of course, despite his militia’s programme of rape and abuse, every AU peacekeeper has to have an HIV test before they’re allowed in. May the Devil take his impoverished soul.’

  Gabriel said nothing, bewildered by her stories.

  ‘Bashir is barren.’ Alek said it dispassionately. ‘He has no seed and cannot have children. That is why he doesn’t feel anyone’s pain. He feels nothing. He is free.’

  * * *

  Gabriel had been allocated his own small room, while Alek was to share with an Italian UNHCR woman for the night. The bed was a simpl
e camping mattress with a thin layer of foam cut to size and laid on top. Nevertheless, he eyed it with longing, his body stiff and tired after days cooped up in the Land Cruiser. He managed to clean the worst of the dust off himself in a cold shower in the communal staff ablution block. He wondered whether he would ever be truly clean again. He imagined that, for years, he would still be digging layers of dirt out of his ears and from the crooks of his arms. What would he think, he mused, walking down the aisle of the Co-operative Food Store in Princess Victoria Street, only to observe a smear of red-brown African dirt under his fingernail? Would he rush to the bathroom to cleanse himself of the unwanted memory, or would he feel a little nostalgic? He was in limbo, stuck in a place he thought he hated, but unable to comprehend how he might leave it behind. He made his way to the dining room in a pensive mood.

  The room was both a kitchen and dining room, with a long trestle table in the middle flanked by an assortment of chairs and stools, some more rickety than others. There were already over fifteen people there, including Alek and Margie who were in conversation at the quietest end. The group was a collection of people representing all parts of the world, all ages and various body types, from the intimidating Margie to a diminutive Ecuadorian woman who at first glance looked about twelve. Only when Gabriel got closer did he see that she was probably middle-aged, but the combination of her delicate physique and smooth skin gave her a striking youthfulness. A Sudanese man with very dark eyebrows was positioned at the stove, an aluminium pot hissing in front of him. The smell of frying onions mixed with the creosote of the bulkhead beams.

  Supper turned out to be a raucous affair, the cooking and cleaning undertaken with gusto according to an unrecorded roster. Gabriel was welcomed into the group and promptly given a plate of beans to shell by a wiry individual with a light French accent dressed in an MSF T-shirt. This caused a stir of jokes from the others. The Frenchman, Bernard, was apparently a camp veteran, infamous for his cunning ability to avoid kitchen duties by charming newcomers.