‘What was he like as a child?’
‘Delightful, bright, inquisitive; he could read both English and Swahili before he was five as well as his mother language. Our school has some books to help the children learn to read, but he went through them in a couple of years. I’d like a more extensive library, but we don’t have the funding.’
‘Did he read anything else?’
‘He used to borrow from my personal library, mostly religious, the history of my order. I’m a Dominican.’
‘Weren’t they responsible for the Inquisition?’
‘In part … it wasn’t the most illustrious part of our history.’
‘All those witches who needed their toes warming.’
‘We didn’t burn witches, they were dealt with by secular courts. The Ecclesiastical courts were only interested in heretics.’
‘Which means?’
‘Those who denied the Catholic doctrine, initially the Cathars then later the Protestants. It was also a good excuse to clamp down on the Jews and Muslims in Spain; not a good period of our history.’
‘And Henry read all of this?’
‘Almost certainly.’
‘So his knowledge of the world was a combination of Janet and John and medieval Christianity. Did he understand the context of his reading?’
Brother Sebastian thought for a moment. ‘Probably not, he knew little of European history.’
‘Or the corruption that existed in the Church.’
‘The modern Church has come to terms with its past.’
‘I’m sure it has, though I don’t suppose there are many Cathars left to burn.’
‘No, their sect died out, but this isn’t what the modern Church is all about.’
Graham thought for a few minutes, doodling on his notepad, most of the doodles looked like crosses, a few of the crosses looked like swords. ‘Do you think you indoctrinated him?’
‘Not deliberately. As you’ve seen, we’re very limited here in what we can achieve, and we weren’t equipped to deal with a boy of Henry’s abilities. He not only has a brilliant mind, he has glamour in the old fashioned sense of the word. People near him smile when he’s happy and cry when he’s sad. I had hoped he would use that gift here in the mission, or possibly even have got as far as Rome.
‘What, Pope Henry?’
Brother Sebastian laughed, ‘perhaps high office, but there was always going to be a problem? He’s very attracted to women and they to him.’
‘So, no girls if he wanted to become the next African bishop. You know mate, I don’t understand how you do it, get by without women.’
‘By facing temptation head on; every victory makes you stronger.’
‘That’s kind of what Colonel Harding told me, in a different context.’
‘You know the Colonel?’
‘Only in passing, we move in different social circles … assuming he has any social circles to move in. So you’ve never been tempted by the flesh?’
‘Of course I have, many times, but as you get older it gets easier.’
‘And never fallen?’
‘Ah, that’s between me and my God. Do you have a family?’
‘I’m married, though Amani thinks we should wait to have children.’ She thinks I should wait, thought Graham.
‘Amani, so you’ve married an African woman. Excuse me for one minute.’ Brother Sebastian disappeared inside, returning with an old photograph. ‘This was taken when he was twelve years old. It’s a class photo, he’s in the middle, holding the football.’ He passed it over to Graham.
A couple of dozen small boys; some with cheeky small boy grins, some serious and some baffled, stared out of the picture. The surroundings were different, the clothes were different, and the colour of the skin was different, but from the expressions it could have been his own junior school photo.
‘What happened to them all?’
‘The same as any school I suppose, they’ve all gone their different ways. Some went to the city, some are still around here, two of them joined Henry in the British Army.’
‘I didn’t know he’d been a soldier.’
‘Three years in the King’s African Rifles,’ the youngest sergeant in the battalion. There was even talk of a commission.’
‘What happened?’
‘He was beaten up one night, probably by some white, junior officers. The next day he disappeared.’
‘So why isn’t he using his training? The last I heard, he was still encouraging his acolytes to face guns with superstition.’
‘You’re missing the point. At the moment he can call on them to lay down their lives for him without question. Think what he’ll be able to do with them once they’re armed.’
‘So where do you think he’ll get the guns from?’
‘I would have thought you were more likely to know that than me, but I’m guessing there are plenty of foreign governments who would like to see the British out of here.’
‘And I bet we think half of them are our friends. He’s had a couple of attempts at armed insurrection, both laughable failures. What do you think he’ll do next?’
‘I don’t think they were laughable failures for those that were killed.’
‘Sorry Brother, of course not, bad turn of phrase. He is responsible for those deaths.’
‘He’s also a freedom fighter, so perhaps the British are also a little to blame?’
‘You’d rather see him in charge of the place than the British?’
‘Of course not, he’s lost his moral compass, but perhaps it’s time the British handed over power. This country needs an African leader.’
‘Was he a bully at school?’
‘He had a certain contempt for those who weren’t up to his standards.’
‘Which by the sound of it was everyone else.’
‘So how are you going to write this up, mad monk turns innocent child into religious fanatic?’
‘Do you think you did?’
‘No, I don’t, though in retrospect I would have treated him differently.’
‘Maybe a bit more humanity? Isn’t Christianity the religion of love thy neighbour? Mind you, back in Manchester loving thy neighbour starts wars as often as it stops them.’
‘You’re quite right of course, But he truly isn’t a bad person, just misguided.’
‘Misguided! Brother, how can you say that! He sent a couple of dozen men to their deaths, protected by nothing more than a cross around their necks.’
‘As a freedom fighter, he resorted to what he knew.’
‘Three years of training by the British Army and an extensive knowledge of medieval Christianity, and all he could come up with was a couple of sticks tied together with string to protect them?’
‘He just needs time to learn more of the world.’
‘Less I’d have thought. If you’d had Mein Kampf and The Art of War in your library as well as the religious stuff, he’d probably be in control of most of Africa by now.’
‘So what will you say?’
‘What you’ve told me, but don’t worry Brother, even though my editor would love me to, I’m not going to do a knife job. If anything I think you could do with a bit more help, certainly more help with the school; top up?’
Brother Sebastian passed his glass over. ‘I don’t know who told you to ply me with scotch but whoever it was, thank them for me.’
‘I’d have bought you a bottle of malt, but I didn’t manage to squeeze enough expenses out of my editor.’
‘Well I’m grateful for what you have brought. To your very good health.’
Graham dipped a finger into his whiskey and dragged out a small, winged creature. He held it up, stared at it for a few moments, decided it probably wasn’t going to survive it’s drunken ordeal then flicked it away. He clinked his glass against Brother Sebastian’s and leant back in his chair, brushing a small moth out of his hair as he did so.
‘Doodoos are out tonight.’
‘We are luck
y here though,’ replied Brother Sebastian. ‘We don’t get troubled very much by mosquitoes. You might find it helps a bit if you put your coaster on top of your drink rather than under it.’
‘Excellent suggestion.’ Graham took his coaster, rubbed it on his shirt in an attempt to clean it, and then carefully positioned it, taking care to make sure each side was exactly the same distance from the edge of the glass.
‘The other day my car broke down. The mechanic found that a bone trapped in the fan belt had caused it to jam and the car to overheat. He told me I’d been cursed, that the bone was work of the devil and that I should pray to Jesus to remove the bad magic. Do you think that Jesus would stop my car overheating if I asked him?’
Brother Sebastian smiled, ‘you know I think he might. I have a lot of time for local superstitions, they reflect circumstance. Maybe if you prayed to Jesus to help keep your car on the road then you would also give it’s mechanical wellbeing more attention.’
‘So if I asked you, would you bless it?’
‘By all means, but that blessing means nothing if it isn’t reflected in the actions of its keeper. A blessing isn’t designed to cut down on maintenance bills.’
Graham laughed, ‘sounds as if you’re in league with my mechanic. He thinks that having prayed to Jesus I should bring the car in for a service.’
‘I could tell you the parable of the wise virgins.’
‘No need, I never thought that wisdom and virginity sat well together. Sef, my neighbour, would say, “trust in Allah for he knows everything that has been and is to be, but tie up your donkey.” Of course he’s a member of the opposition.’
‘Not at all, we both believe in the God of Abraham. So he how do you know Colonel Harding?’
‘He was the good Samaritan who rescued me when the car broke down.’
‘A man who is very much misunderstood, even out here they’re terrified of him.’
‘Justifiably so by all accounts.’
‘You mean his rumoured enthusiasm for preemptive justice?’
‘Dragging off suspects into the woods and shooting them doesn’t endear you to the man.’
‘But do you know firsthand of such an instance?’
Graham shook his head, ‘just hearsay and rumour.’
‘Or know anyone who does?’
Graham had a sip of whiskey to assist his memory, it didn’t work; ‘not offhand.’
‘Would you be surprised to know that he provides some of the funding for my school? He’s also on the board of an orphanage we run.’
Graham didn’t bother to hide his surprise. ‘So if he’s a saint, why the rumours?’
Brother Sebastian laughed, ‘ definitely not a saint, more a pragmatist. I think you’ll find most of them originated from his office. It’s easier to control people if they’re frightened of you.’
‘I’m surprised he’s never had a spear in the back.’
‘No, that won’t happen. There are far too many superstitions surrounding him.’
‘So they think he is some sort of demon.’
‘He’s a very interesting man, and now it’s time for sleep. I’ve enjoyed this evening Graham, though I may reassess that statement in the morning if I have a hangover. I hope that in the future you’ll find time to come and visit my mission again, together with another bottle of scotch.’
Graham smiled and nodded his head. ‘I will Brother, I will.’
‘And bring your wife with you.’
‘Ah, that might not be quite so easy, she’s allergic to the countryside. She won’t go near City Park in case she gets mauled by a lion.’
‘A pity. I’ll be up and out early tomorrow morning, so we probably won’t meet. You’ll find Mary around though and I’ve told her to make you some breakfast. So goodnight and God bless. You’d better take the hurricane lamp with you.’
‘And God bless you as well, Brother.’ Graham picked up the lamp, went off to his room, and collapsed on the bed. He turned down the lamp and lay there, staring into the dark, listening to the night. After a couple of minutes, he took off his shoes and fell asleep.
*****
He was woken by cockerels before sunrise, his mouth dry, but Mary had left a glass of water by the bed so he drank it then managed to get back to sleep again. An hour later, he got up and wandered over to the kitchen to find some breakfast. Mary cooked him a couple of eggs with toast and some unidentified greens. She poured him a coffee and kept it topped up, all the time moving around the kitchen like a church mouse. As he finished, she sat down next to him.
‘Thank you my dear, that was delicious.’
‘What is your name?’ She asked, ignoring the compliment.
‘Graham.’
‘And your second name?’
‘Theakston.’
‘Theakston, Graham Theakston,’ repeated Mary. ‘You are journalist.’
‘That’s right, from The Standard.’
She nodded her head, absorbing the information. Then got up from the table, picking up Graham’s empty plate and cup, taking them to the sink.
Four
Graham arrived back at the office early that afternoon. He’d thought about going to the house but juggling between Amani and Bradley came down in favour of Bradley.
‘You’re late, I expected you back by midday.’
‘It’s a long way.’
‘Then you’ll have to stay late, there are half a dozen press releases off the wire I want you to cut down for the foreign news page. Combine those with articles from the London papers.’
‘What about the international sport?’
‘That’s being done by Geoffreys.’
‘But it’s my job, I’m the sports writer.’
‘No you’re not, you’re what I want you to be, and today you’re the foreign news editor. Here’s some foreign news to edit.’ He pushed a pile of British papers across the desk.
‘You want me to plagiarise The Times?’ asked Graham, picking up the first.
‘I want you to use it as a reference.’
‘But I don’t know anything about foreign news.’
‘You don’t know much about sport but that’s never held you back. Summarise the last week in nice simple words that our readers will understand, using your usual wit and flair to hold their attention. I don’t want a book on twentieth century history.’
‘What about the piece I wrote on James?’
‘What about it?’
‘Did it get published?’
Bradley put a copy of the morning’s Standard on top of the pile.
Graham picked it up to look for his piece.
‘You can read that in your own time, after you’ve finished.’
‘Which will be midnight at the earliest.’
‘If you wanted a nine to five, you should get a job in a factory.’
‘And what about my report on Ngai?’
‘That can wait until tomorrow.’
Graham picked up the pile of newspapers and left the office.
‘I’ll send Sam round with a message to tell Amani you’ll be late,’ shouted Bradley after him, ‘send him in … Get a note from Graham and take it to his house explaining why he’ll be late back tonight, then go and buy a crate of beer and put it next to his desk.’
‘Yes, Mr Bradley sir.’
*****
The next morning Graham woke with a full bladder and a mouth that had the flavour and texture of the bottom of an old dustbin. Beside his head, slumped on the desk, was a pile of rewrites, six empty bottles of beer and an ashtray full of cigarette ends. His head felt a little fuzzy. He got up and wandered into the loo, relieved himself, and splashed his face with water then swilled his mouth out. He went back to the desk. His head was thumping, so he opened another beer to rehydrate.
The copy was finished, well as far as he was concerned it was, Bradley could do what he liked with it; he was past caring. He picked up the previous day’s Standard and leafed through it. His report was on page three, th
e nearest he’d ever been to the front page. Bradley had done a slash and burn edit of it, but hadn’t destroyed either his interview or the portrayal of his brother-in-law. He felt relief, even pleasure; he knew how Bradley could have totally turned it round and for some reason he hadn’t.
On the page opposite was an editorial. He began to read it and as he did so the throbbing in his head increased. Bradley had done a hatchet job, painting James as a greedy, ignorant upstart who had only his own interests at heart and who would trample over his own people. A man who, if allowed to, would cause public unrest, civil disobedience, and possibly even bloodshed to achieve his aims. Graham read the editorial again in disbelief. Bradley had destroyed his article, all, as he put it, “in the name of a balanced view of which the Standard is proud.” Balanced! Only if the fulcrum were somewhere to the right of the Third Reich.
He put down the paper and groaned. His note had told Amani he’d be working late, not all night, and she’d have read the paper over her cornflakes. He was in trouble. His clothes had been on him for three days, he hadn’t shaved and, in the heat, was starting to smell of rancid gravy. A bit later in the day and he could have had something to eat at the Stardust, even had a shower, putting off his return home until she’d left for work, but the Stardust wouldn’t be open for another four hours. This left a coffee bar down the street. Coffee would help, and he could get some eggs on toast; maybe a few rashers of bacon. Bradley would be arriving any minute, so he needed to leave or he’d never get out.
He shambled down the stairs, out of the building and into King George Street. He turned his back on the bright morning sun and headed for the coffee shop, but didn’t get there. Amani was coming his way among the early morning commuters. With the sun in her eyes, she didn’t seem to have seen him, so he doubled back, headed down a side street and made his way around the block. Back on track he got to the cafe and dived inside. She was almost certainly on her way to the newspaper offices to find him and would probably run into Bradley. He didn’t want to be at the point of contact; he’d probably hear the resulting detonation from the cafe. He got out the copy of the London Times he’d had the foresight to bring with him and settled into a corner with a mug of coffee, a couple of aspirin, and a heap of fried eggs, bacon and toast. Wonderful he thought, a greasy spoon breakfast before work, one of the most civilised institutions that the British had introduced to Africa, and just the thing to counter a hangover. It was even run in the great tradition of the Empire by a Cypriot, Aristotle. He turned to the sports pages and engrossed himself with the fortunes of various first division football teams. It all seemed to be happening so far away, well it was. He didn’t even notice the man who came through the door until he’d sat down opposite him.