Dream of Darkness, page 19
Vita said mildly, ‘There are others on the Co-op, Sairey. And while normally it would have been chaired by our Deputy Director, that is to say, Sir Joe, it was decided that, in this case, his personal involvement made that inappropriate.’
‘So, who is in charge?’
Vita replied, ‘The Director.’
‘And that guarantees fair play, does it? So where’s this Director now when we need him? Because this doesn’t feel like a posse galloping to protect my father, it feels like a lynch mob!’
‘The Director will be there, never fear,’ said Vita. ‘Sairey, leave the debate about how right or wrong I’ve been till later. Try to look in on yourself and see how much of your aggression against the Co-op is merely a diversion of the aggressive feelings you now have towards your father. I was never happy with the story of your mother’s death, nor with your father’s reaction after it. But if we look at the new problems that …’
‘Shut up!’ screamed Sairey. ‘Don’t lecture me! You’ve got what you want, all of you. You started off after Daddy to stop him revealing the squalid truth about the way you fucked around and fucked up in Africa. But you knew that to most people, revealing all that crap would make him a hero. Now, you think you’ve got something on him which makes you feel good! Not that you’re going to use it in the cause of justice. No, it just gives you something to blackmail him with. So, no more lectures. I’ll decide what I feel about my own father. And I’ll make up my own mind what to do. From now on, just keep out of my life and keep out of my mind and above all, keep quiet!’
She sank back in the seat, trembling with emotion. Were all declarations of independence like this? Screams of defiance on the cliff edge of despair? Outside, the rain had slackened to a damp haze which gave everything a luminous, insubstantial look. Houses, lamp-posts, hedges, trees, all went tumbling by like the furniture of a dream. A dream of darkness. What had her father really had in mind when he chose that title? She felt her mind like an ant in a wrecked anthill, scurrying from one piece of debris to another.
No one spoke. She closed her eyes for a while, then opened them again. Inside was worse than out. She let the pattern of approaching headlights sweep across her sight. It might have been hypnotic, except that she was done with hypnosis. She had lost track of time and space, but an instinct as old as both made her wind down the window, and in rushed the cold salty breath of the sea. It was not yet in sight, but the awareness of those surging cleansing waters so close filled her with a great longing to dive deep into their healing darkness.
Now they were among the dunes, moving slowly along the track which led to Aunt Celia’s house. She felt a surge of distracting indignation as she thought of what the men in her family had done to Celia’s life. Her girlhood had gone in keeping house for her father and bringing up her brother; then, just when it seemed that she might get a little mileage out of her maturity, the Mau Mau attack had condemned her to twenty years of nursing an invalid. A brief respite, then she found herself bringing up her brother’s child.
And now, when it must at last have seemed that her life might be touched with a sunset serenity, her brother had tracked trouble into her home once more.
The Volvo came to a halt before the gate in the security fence. The BMW stopped behind them, Archbell got out, went up to the gate, and tried it. Then he came to the driver’s window.
‘Locked,’ he said. ‘What’s the silly old bat keep in there? Monte Cristo’s treasures?’
‘No,’ said Sairey. ‘She just likes to keep bastards like you out here.’
‘Not to worry,’ said Archbell. ‘She’ll let you in.’
Sairey shook her head in disgust rather than denial, and said to Vita, ‘So that’s why you really came looking for me? Operation Antenor would need a Trojan Horse, wouldn’t it?’
Vita said wearily, ‘Sairey, you’ve got many more reasons for wanting to see your father than we have. Don’t make a vice out of a necessity.’
‘So we’re into pragmatism now?’ said Sairey. But she got out of the car and went up to the gate. Through the bars, she could see the house. There was no sign of any lights but she guessed this just meant the shutters were up. Was it her father or Celia who had felt the need to settle down to meet a siege? She pressed the bell button, long and hard, waited a few moments then spoke into the microphone grille.
‘Aunt Celia, it’s me, Sairey.’
‘Sairey. Nigel, it’s Sairey.’
A pause, then she heard her father’s voice, at the same time anxious and angry.
‘Sairey, what the hell are you doing here? I told you to go back to Essex.’
‘I had to see you, Daddy. But I’m not alone.’
‘Who’s with you?’
‘Grandad, Vita, Mr Archbell,’ she said.
There was another pause in which she heard Mop and Polly barking distantly.
‘And is that everyone?’ he asked, with no detectable irony.
‘Yes. Oh, I’m sorry. Vita’s friend, Mrs Marsden, she’s here, too.’
Suddenly Celia’s voice spoke inaudibly and there followed a silence as Ellis switched off the mike. Then he came back on again.
‘All right, I’m opening the gate. But be careful. Celia says the dogs have heard some kind of noise outside the kitchen and she thinks someone may have got over the fence at the back.’
Allan.
Sairey spoke urgently.
‘Daddy, be careful, if Allan shows up …’
‘Allan? Is he coming too? What is this – open day?’ Her father’s voice sounded much more carefree. ‘All right. I’m opening now.’
There was a click as the magnetic lock released itself.
Sairey began to push at the gate. Ahead, a line of light appeared in the dark square of the house, rapidly spreading to a rectangle as Ellis opened the front door to welcome them.
‘Daddy, stay inside!’ called Sairey. She could hear the dogs barking again and she trusted them more than her straining ears, which could hear nothing but the surges of the incoming tide.
But her father ignored her, advancing over the threshold till he stood silhouetted against the gold of the entrance hall light. Like a hero on a Grecian frieze. Or a target on a fairground stall.
‘Daddy!’ screamed Sairey, pushing through the gate and starting to run.
To her left, something moved. There was a sharp double crack and she saw her father spin round. Then, where he had been, there was only the untroubled light.
Behind her she heard the others spilling through the gate and there was another shot, but she had no attention to spare for anything but the crumpled figure on the hall floor. The light went out and she gasped in terror, thinking it must mean that Allan had got into the house, but as she reached the doorstep, she saw that it was Celia who had quick-wittedly switched it off, before stooping to minister to her brother.
He lay on his back. The heavy Norwegian sweater he was wearing had two holes burnt into it over the breastbone. Smoke, and the sickly smell of burning wool were still rising from them. Miraculously, he was not yet dead. His limbs twitched and his eyes were open as Celia raised her head.
‘He’ll be all right, he’ll be all right,’ urged the old lady with what seemed a desperate optimism. Sairey knelt beside him. He recognized her and smiled. Her emotions were in a turmoil which made the confusion she had experienced in the car seem like flat calm. He might be dying, he must be dying, and all she wanted to know was whether he had really killed her mother. But how do you ask your father this as he lies in his death throes?
‘Let me see.’ It was Vita, urgently professional. She pushed Sairey aside and stooped over the recumbent man as if her expertise with the body matched that with the mind.
Her examination took hardly a second.
‘Let’s get him somewhere more comfortable and take a closer look,’ she said. ‘There’ll probably be some nasty bruising.’
‘Bruising …?’ said Sairey.
Vita brushed the charred edges of the sweater holes with her fingers then widened them out, revealing, not pulverized flesh, but something like a section of burnt mattress.
‘He was lucky they didn’t aim for the head.’
Lightoller was in the hall, too. Celia had vanished up the stairs. He and Vita got Ellis to his feet and helped him towards the lounge. Sairey leaned against the wall, finding the resurrection even harder to assimilate than the death. He looked towards her. His face was grey but he tried to smile.
‘Sairey, I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘You must have thought I was a goner, eh? Get the girl a drink, someone. Get me one, too. By God, I need it.’
‘No drink till we see how badly damaged you are,’ ordered Vita, starting to drag his sweater over his head. Impatiently, he refused her help and with difficulty managed the task himself. But he let her unbuckle the bullet-proof vest.
Archbell came into the room, replacing an automatic in a shoulder holster. He stopped short when he saw Ellis, then came forward with a smile like a snarl.
‘I might have known,’ he said. ‘Always a survivor, Nigel.’
‘And how’s the chap who did it? Surviving too?’
‘Who knows? I took a shot at something but it could have been an insomniac rabbit. This looks like official issue. Confidential files weren’t the only thing you purloined, then?’
He had picked up the discarded vest.
‘Office perks, Archie. I thought you’d have understood all about them.’
Colour was coming back to Ellis’s cheeks and colour into his chest, too, in the form of a cloudy bruising. Vita touched it and he flinched.
‘No ribs cracked, I’d say. But a cold compress would help,’ she said.
‘I’ll get it,’ said Celia, who had reappeared in the doorway. She smiled wanly at Sairey, then went towards the kitchen.
Ellis said, ‘Now can I have that drink, for God’s sake? Then perhaps someone will explain what’s happening. Why are you all here? And why should young Allan have taken a fancy to shooting me, if that’s who it really was?’
‘How many enemies have you got?’ said Archbell.
‘More than I care to count, I daresay, but I wouldn’t have ranked Allan Bright among them,’ said Ellis.
‘Not even if he found out the truth about what you did to his parents and uncle?’ said Sairey.
‘And what would that truth be, my dear?’ said her father.
‘That you betrayed them. Like you’ve betrayed everyone and everything else in your life,’ she said.
He started up from his chair, his face aged with bewilderment.
‘Don’t you dare speak to your father like that!’
It was Celia, coming back into the room with a basin and a cloth. Her expression was angrier than Sairey had ever known it and she felt herself cowed as no one else present could have cowed her.
‘Nigel, sit yourself down. Let’s sort this bruising out, then we can deal with this ungrateful child’s delusions.’
She forced her brother back into his chair, took a plastic bag full of crushed ice from the basin, wrapped it in the cloth and pressed it to his chest.
‘They’re not delusions, Auntie,’ said Sairey in a low voice.
‘Oh yes, they are. You imagine your father’s betraying his country and his colleagues by writing these memoirs, don’t you? Well, let me tell you …’
‘No!’ exclaimed Sairey. ‘OK, so he is breaking his word and maybe he’s doing it more as a matter of pension than of principle, but that’s not what I’m talking about. What do I care about all the shabby little secrets people like this crawl around under?’
Her gesture was inclusive.
‘It’s what he did to his friends, to me, to Mummy, that I’m talking about.’
‘To your mother? What he did to your mother?’
Celia’s face was wreathed in alarm.
‘Yes. Didn’t you know? Didn’t you guess? Didn’t you even help him? First he betrayed her by sleeping with Apiyo Bright, then …’
She was prevented from the ultimate accusation by her aunt’s response, a curious compound of scornful amusement and something which was not unlike relief.
‘He betrayed her? You foolish child! It was quite the other way round. The same family, true …’
‘Celia,’ said Ellis, warningly, but she was not to be denied.
‘It was Sarah who took a lover. Sarah who gave herself to that black man Nigel had risked his life to protect!’
‘Ocen?’ And across Sairey’s mind moved a picture of startling clarity, in which she saw her mother removing Ocen’s bandages and gently massaging his wasted flesh.
‘Yes, Ocen,’ said Celia triumphantly, but the triumph faded as she looked at her brother, who shook his head sadly and said, ‘Oh, Celia.’
‘Is this true, Ellis?’ demanded Lightoller.
‘What if it is? I neglected her, perhaps. It was the job. And they were thrown together. It was an unreal and distorting situation …’
He was missing the point, thought Sairey. Or perhaps he was being very clever. For it was not the degree of Sarah’s culpability that was at issue, here. It was its effects on the previous, unconvincing scenario, which had Ellis as Apiyo’s lover. Now, with him as the deceived rather than the deceiving husband, all the motives fell into place; for killing his wife, for betraying her lover to the authorities, for betraying Apiyo, too, though incidentally, and finally, because Bill Bright had learned from his torturers who was responsible for his wife’s death, for conniving at his murder also.
‘Oh, you bastard,’ said Joe Lightoller. ‘Then you did kill her? I always blamed you for taking her there, but never for … oh, you bastard.’
He moved forward as if to strike Ellis. Mrs Marsden grasped his arm, only lightly, but it was enough to stay him. And Ellis looked round the room with stricken eyes.
‘Is this what you think? All of you? Sairey …?’
‘No more play-acting,’ said Vita Gray. ‘It’s more than what we think, it’s what we know. We have a witness, two witnesses. Gregory Kakuba. And your own daughter.’
Her tone was not gloating. But its level matter-of-factness was far worse. It spoke of certainty confirmed rather than shocking revelation. And it held the conviction of justice rather than the promise of revenge.
‘Sairey? What’s she got to do with this? Sairey …?’
‘I saw you, Daddy. I thought it was a dream, a nightmare, but all the time it was a memory. I saw you putting her in a box. I thought it was a coffin, but it was a trunk or a bedding chest. And you weren’t taking her to bury her, you were taking her to dump her in the wild for the animals and birds to …’
Her voice, which had been as steady and even as Vita’s, suddenly gave up on her. Then Celia came towards her, her face grey with grief, saying, ‘Sairey, please listen,’ and that gave her tongue again.
‘No, Aunt Celia, I owe you more than I can say, but when it comes to Daddy, you’re not to be trusted. You were there. You got there just in time to see what he had done and all you did was help him. Perhaps my mother wasn’t dead then, perhaps she needed help too, perhaps … but all you could see to do was what you were used to doing – sweep up the mess after your precious menfolk. I’ll never forgive you for that. Never.’
‘Sairey …’ the old woman cried, looking for the first time older than her years. Then, after a despairing glance at her brother, she turned and rushed from the room.
Ellis cried after her, ‘Celia!’ Then, strangely, he turned to Mrs Marsden and said, ‘It wasn’t meant to be like this.’ And she replied, ‘I’m sorry, Nigel. I can’t help you now.’
‘When could you?’ he cried bitterly. ‘When could any of you help anyone but yourselves?’
Archbell and Lightoller and even Vita were standing, rapt, like spectators at a riveting drama. And that was what it felt like, thought Sairey. A play, the latest melodrama, which might not get the critics’ applause, but, by God, it would pack in the coach trippers for decades! This was her way to survival – to find some spot in her mind where she could relax like a tripper, and know that no matter how violently each coup de théâtre hammered her heart, eventually the curtain would fall and ordinary, everyday life would carry on. So, enjoy the final act, she told herself hysterically. It’s been bloody marvellous so far, but can the playwright keep the shocks and tension going through to the end? It needs something new here, a dramatic entrance perhaps …
On cue, the door opened and Allan Bright stepped into the room.
Archbell’s hand went inside his jacket and Sairey screamed, not knowing if she were screaming a warning to her father or to Allan. She didn’t have to find out. The barrel of a gun appeared, resting on Allan’s left shoulder and a voice said, ‘Easy, Mr Archbell, and no one else need get hurt.’
Then Peter Kanyagga was in the room, too, his pistol shepherding them all into a loose, easily targetable group around the seated Ellis.
‘That’s fine,’ he said. And his eyes met Sairey’s and he smiled as though he’d read her recent thoughts and he said, ‘So here we all are, just like in those cosy detective plays they used to write before the war, all lounging around the library waiting for the final solution. Well, they got it and so shall we. Now, let me see, who shall begin?’
21
‘No volunteers?’ said Kanyagga after a little pause. ‘Then let me set the ball rolling. My name’s not Kanyagga, of course, but it will do. And I am a supporter of Mwakenya, but that’s not the big thing in my life. Kenya will sort itself out sooner or later, but there are other problems, much more pressing, which need concerted action in Africa and world-wide.’
‘You’re ANC,’ said Vita Gray.
‘Indeed I am. I was sent to England to further the cause, not as a public face but behind the scenes, raising funds and public consciousness, that sort of thing. Shortly after I arrived, I was told that Mr Ellis here was writing some memoirs which might be of interest to me, first because they blew the lid off British and Kenyan support for Amin in the seventies, but also because they were going to reveal the degree to which there has always been unofficial official British connivance with white regimes in Africa, sanctions-busting in Smith’s Rhodesia, for instance. And all kinds of covert support for South Africa.’
