The wolf hour, p.23
The Wolf Hour, page 23
‘There was no violation.’
‘My brother said no killing.’
‘No killing, that’s a good joke—it’s your lot who do the killing.’ Stephen smiled and Kolo’s brother laughed, then stopped abruptly and clenched his jaw so that the muscles in his face worked as he ground his teeth. ‘I would be careful if I were you. Right now you are not in a position to make such remarks.’
Another truck pulled up and half-a-dozen men got out, forming a semicircle around them. Mapogos, Stephen thought. Rogue lions.
‘Okay, so now you show me the Ares.’
Stephen looked at Reba, who shifted uneasily then pulled out another crate, and together they dragged the case forward and opened the latches.
‘You will like these,’ Stephen said. ‘The serial numbers have been ground off.’
‘I do not care about serial numbers,’ Kolo’s brother replied. ‘Real soldiers do not think of such things. Tell me, how many do you have?’
‘Twenty, with ammunition. But there are Uzis too, take your pick.’
‘I will take what we agreed upon, plus the Ares.’ Picking up the slick Ares Shrike, he ran his fingertips along the handguard. ‘Ah yes.’ He grinned. ‘In the golden West, you have machine guns named after war gods and birds of prey. You have everything. You are excessive. Excessive with your habits, so you are excessive with your guns. But you understand that these are not enough. You owe us more.’
‘You’ll get it,’ Stephen had said brusquely. ‘Tell your brother he will get what he wants.’
Kolo’s brother smiled. ‘What I will tell him is that you can definitely improve your odds.’
In minutes they’d unloaded the cargo, leaving the hold like a shucked oyster. Stephen watched their battered four-wheel drives leave. By then, the sun had already crept above the tree line, and across the tarmac passengers were disembarking from the domestic carrier in a haphazard line.
He glanced at them. It felt like a game, standing next to the sleek Gulfstream jet in the early morning, having just traded more than he bargained for; a game of chance, except the stakes were real.
‘You’re familiar with the markets?’ Frost had asked him in the bar that night in Cape Town.
‘You mean your distribution channels?’
Frost nodded. ‘Spot the right deal and you might get yourself a promotion. Maybe a chance to cut out some of the other middlemen.’ He smiled. ‘Let’s see how you go.’
Now, following this morning’s handover on the tarmac, it was clear he would need to up the supply to meet the rebels’ new demands, meaning he’d have to cut a better deal with Frost’s suppliers too, and that would cost him big time.
Stephen wondered where Reba was; they would need to clear out of here. Back at the hotel where they’d had breakfast in the dining room, he listened to Reba complaining over a second or third cup of the awful brewed coffee. ‘What do you mean, “Money’s money?” Shit, Steve, this isn’t the first time you’ve got us out of our depth.’
‘Yeah, right—poor you.’
‘You saw that village, the stinking carcass in the campfire; what makes you think you’ll be treated any differently?’
‘We got out. Now you know why—it costs.’
‘Great, well maybe you can pick up the tab for me.’
Stephen was surprised; he hadn’t expected Reba to brood.
‘Jesus,’ Reba continued. ‘I can’t believe we’re doing business with these people.’
‘Why?’ Stephen asked. ‘Who did you think we were doing business with? The Tooth Fairy?’
Reba’s face clouded. ‘I tell you, Steve, what you do is like thumping your opponent behind the play—you might think you’re going to get away with it, but in the end, you’ll always find there’s someone on the sidelines who’s watching you.’
Stephen wanted to laugh or make some quip, but none came to him. Normally he was able to second-guess how people were going to react, but every now and then someone would surprise him and pull some unexpected shit, like Reba becoming philosophical or Tess blowing the preacher’s brains out. Six rounds straight into his face.
What he had to do now was think first, then act. He would have to contact his bank in Cape Town and move some money to make up the shortfall. Reba’s payment could wait. Cherie’s too. Despite her protests and threats of lawyers—whom he would need to stymie—she would have to wait the longest.
He could do with a backup plan though. He sat up and poured himself a shot from the bottle of Scotch on the bedside table. It slid down the back of his throat and, as he put his glass down, his phone buzzed with a text message from his father. Jesus, what now?
33
Neil waited at a small table on the second-floor balcony. The sky was milky and streaked with purple clouds; it would be dark soon, although the heat had not yet gone from the day. Sweat dampened his collar, and it seemed the fruit hanging from the trees in the garden continued to ripen in the quickening dusk. Insects hovered in the warm air while overhead he heard bats wheep.
When Stephen approached he was still putting together what information he had—wondering how much of it was true, how much was pure speculation—and thinking about what he needed to do … what he should have done a long time ago, in fact. Neil watched the confident way his son moved, the definite footfall as his heavy hiking boots struck the tiled floor, and he noticed the way the muscles in Stephen’s arms flexed as he placed a bottle of Scotch and two whisky glasses on the table in front of them.
‘Want one?’ Stephen said, and before Neil could answer, he poured a glass for himself and another for his father then handed it to him. ‘So, you wanted to talk?’
‘Yes,’ Neil declared firmly, placing the glass to one side. ‘There are a lot of things I want to talk to you about. Things I should have spoken to you about months ago when I planned to visit you in Cape Town.’
‘But you didn’t.’
‘No. I didn’t.’
Stephen rolled his shoulders then sat down. He looked striking. His sandy hair was well cut, and he wore an expensive chambray shirt with the sleeves rolled up. His watch, a heavy Rolex, had two or three smaller dials on the face.
Neil pressed his lips together. ‘Anyway, I’m here now. Look, Steve, you found Tess and got her out of there, although she’s …’ He hesitated, then said, ‘I just wish I’d got here sooner.’
‘Why?’ Stephen replied. ‘Tessa’s safe now, so there’s no need for you to be a hero. Besides, Dad, you weren’t up to it, remember?’ He smiled, then leant across the table and patted Neil on the shoulder.
Neil flinched as Stephen gave him a small, patronising squeeze. Shrugging off his son’s hand, he said, ‘Stephen, listen to me, I want to get something straight: you helped Tessa escape and I’m grateful for that—’
‘But?’ Stephen interrupted.
‘But now I want some honest answers.’ He heard the hostile tone in his voice and tried to tamp it down. It sounded like such an insistent, old-fashioned thing to demand, and for a second, he saw his own father bang his fist on the dinner table. The inevitable violence of his upbringing. Tempers unchecked. Heavy Irish drinkers.
‘I know what it is you do,’ Neil said, still trying to control himself. ‘I know what your business is here.’
‘Yeah?’ Stephen replied with dry sarcasm. ‘And what’s that?’
Reedy music came from somewhere and, above it, a faint call to prayer. So many fucking religions, Stephen thought. Someone was shouting in the street. Boda-bodas tooted. Stephen heard his father, but he was still thinking about Kolo’s so-called brother. He would have to watch his back and, at the same time, sweeten the deal. No surprise that, given he hadn’t delivered what they’d demanded, there might be trouble. Here, where reprisals were the norm, it was like a Molotov cocktail: the slightest spark and everything could burst into flames. He didn’t have time to talk to his father. He needed to leave, and then, after he got back to Cape Town, he’d need to lay low for a while, maybe even spend a few weeks in the US or, better still, go to Asia, and work from there.
‘Did you hear me?’ Neil said. ‘I saw you at the airport.’
For a brief moment, Stephen felt a flicker of alarm. ‘So what?’ he said. ‘You see me at the airport with a couple of thugs and you think you’ve got a whole story figured out?’
Neil moved his glass further aside. ‘Well, tell me how it is then. Fill me in. What have I missed?’
‘You want answers?’
‘I want the truth!’ And Neil’s fist did strike the table, causing it to shake.
Stephen sat back and folded his arms. ‘Really?’ He smiled. ‘You want the truth? I don’t think that’s ever been what you wanted. You’re a filmmaker, remember. No such thing as the truth.’
Neil’s heart pounded. He had met with Matt Reba in the downstairs bar. The South African’s boyish face had been flushed and his accent heavy as he said, ‘I’m telling you, man, Steve thinks he can do anything. He doesn’t care what the rules are. When you’re with him, he says what you want to hear. The moment you leave the room, he’s someone else.’ And all at once it fell into place with startling clarity. Who would stop Stephen? Who would tell his son ‘no’? The violent tingling that began in Neil’s heart and in his head ran down his spine. What, in fact, could he make his son do? No matter what course of action he took, he might not be able to turn things around or stop Stephen from doing whatever he wanted. Yet he had to. He must. If there had been one guiding principle in the way he parented, it was that he would not father as he had been fathered. But all he could think of now was how to cut Stephen down—expose him, then shame him into a confession. He wanted an admission from him. Justice after that—and, yes, punishment.
Stephen sculled his drink.
‘Answer me,’ Neil repeated. ‘What is it you do? I want to hear you say it, these deals you make—for fuck’s sake, you have the freedom to choose, and you choose to be a criminal. You destroy people’s lives. You exploit them for your own gain.’
Stephen refilled his glass. ‘It’s free enterprise,’ he said dismissively. ‘Besides, if not for what I do, Tessa would still be in that shithole.’
‘For Christ’s sake, Stephen, what the hell’s wrong with you?’
‘Nothing’s wrong with me. I’m a problem solver. I’m from the West, remember—here to help.’
‘Haven’t you had enough to drink?’
‘Ah, so that’s the issue now.’
‘Listen, Steve, don’t imagine you can make light of this. What you’re caught up in isn’t on the periphery of some distasteful little business, it’s the dirt trade of the world. What the hell makes you think it’s okay, or that you’re in any way justified?’
Stephen raised his eyebrows. ‘Who’s talking about whether it’s justified? I offer a means of protection. Haven’t you noticed? In the markets around here they sell guns and knives alongside children’s toys and Omo washing powder.’
‘You’re exaggerating.’
‘Am I?’ Stephen turned his glass in a circle in front of him, then lifted it up and took another swig. The hair on his arm was sun-bleached but Neil focused on his hands, the shapely knuckles, the square nails. A smart kid, a greedy man.
The air smelt rank. Slightly rotting flowers lay on the grass. A groundsman was raking them in the near-dark while elsewhere the hotel staff went about their evening routines. Women walked past with folded towels balanced on their heads while, by the pool, glasses clinked and people dived into the blue-lit water.
‘When wolves are successful,’ Neil said, his voice becoming thick with anger, ‘they do not eat in moderation. They are extreme, often devouring more than they need; a single animal can consume up to a fifth of its own body weight in one go. It’s instinct—to balance out the lean times when their resources are scarce, but you, your greed—’
‘My greed,’ Stephen scoffed then sat back. ‘It’s not my greed. It’s just the way the world works.’ He waved his hand in the air carelessly, then sat forward again. ‘But you know what? As fucked and unfair as that might be, the truth is it’s consistently fucked and unfair.’
‘Wait a minute, Steve …’
‘No, you wait. Do you really think there’ll ever be peace on Earth? Look at the history books, read the news. This isn’t one of your documentaries, some easy-viewing TV show with voice-overs and tribal music that can be confined to a forty-five-minute time slot. Shit, Dad, what do you think goes on?’
Neil tried to cut in again, but Stephen held up his hand. ‘Let’s start with this place, the Acholi Inn. It’s owned by a top Ugandan general who fills his rooms with some of the worst of the rebels who have defected. At an exorbitant rate, he promises them, and us, a security his military can’t promise the Ugandans—those people, may I remind you, who are actually screwed over by this conflict. So don’t sit there and think your choices are all that innocent. What I see is what most people see, but they don’t admit it because it’s easier not to give a shit. Besides what I do would continue to be done whether I was here or not. Maybe you think you know what’s going on, but let me tell you, the reality is worse every time.’
Neil raised his hands and let them fall heavily into his lap. ‘Jesus, Stephen, listen to yourself! What about the consequences of what you do? I’m telling you, you have to stop. Now. Do you hear me?’
Stephen jiggled his knee and looked away as if the conversation bored him.
‘Christ Almighty!’ Neil shouted. ‘You think you’re so smart, and yet what have you done with your life? Is this what you make of the opportunities you’ve been given? You come here, to this amazing place, and all you do is destroy what you find.’
Stephen turned back to face him, his expression almost smug. ‘Why don’t you save your platitudes for someone else?’ he said, then pouting in mock sympathy, he added, ‘Save them for Tessa, who’s always wanting to do the right thing by you, and is now a complete mess.’
What Neil felt then went to another level, beyond fury, beyond reason, as if something had unleashed itself in him. He leapt to his feet—knocking the table over—drew back his fist and punched Stephen in the face. It hit with the entire force of his rage and, in that instant, it was as if all his disappointment and frustration had found a single outlet. His whole body radiated violence which, once released, continued to strike with a savagery he could not contain. He heard the cartilage in Stephen’s nose smash—felt it give way as if it were plasticine, then drew back and once again aimed for Stephen’s upper jaw, knowing in that instant the violence of what he might do was real. As Stephen’s head jolted backwards he understood that he could break his son’s neck.
‘Neil!’
Leigh’s voice was loud and insistent, and when he heard it again, he wanted to ignore it, and yet part of him was grateful to her for saving him from himself. He felt her hand grip his arm.
‘Neil! Stop!’
He sat down and brought his bloodied fist close to his chest. For a moment the pain beneath his ribcage threatened to overtake him. His heart contracted, and he feared he might black out again. He leant back and let his head rest against the wall.
Stephen was still staggering from the blow, his face bloodied.
‘Jeez,’ he snorted. ‘Who do you think you are? A cop?’
Leigh moved towards him, but Stephen held up his hands to prevent her from coming any closer. He looked disoriented, and shocked, as if he could hardly believe what had happened. He wiped the blood from his nose with the hem of his shirt and swayed for a moment. Then he steadied himself and, picking up his tumbler of whisky, raised it to his parents. ‘If you had a choice between leaving Tessa for dead or doing what I did, what would you do?’ he asked flatly. ‘What would either of you do?’ He looked from one parent to the other. ‘Well, what?’
Neil’s face was red. ‘Not what you have done,’ he said.
Stephen shook his head. ‘How do you know that? Huh? The truth is neither of you know, and you never will, because I saved you the trouble.’
Neil looked at his son’s bleeding mouth. His fist smarted. If he was to make any difference at all, then he needed to act now. ‘You’re wrong,’ he said in a low voice. ‘And don’t think for a minute I won’t stop you. This isn’t something you did for your sister. Your sordid deals: the contraband you’re trafficking. There are photographs—’
‘Photographs,’ Stephen repeated dismissively.
‘Yes, photographs, taken at Gulu airport. Photographs which I can use to incriminate you.’
‘Fine, but what do you think will happen to Tessa if I’m implicated? Do you think she’s immune? Do you think they won’t come looking for her if what I have promised them fails to materialise?’
‘You’re bluffing.’
‘I don’t think so.’ And picking up the bottle of Scotch, he walked away.
Neil turned to Leigh, who was still looking towards the faint light on the stairs where Stephen had gone. Finally, she faced him, her expression incredulous, as if he were someone she had never met before.
He shook his head. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said. And then, after a time, ‘If you hadn’t stopped me, I would’ve killed him. I wanted to.’
34
The next morning they sat at a breakfast table in the shaded courtyard, drinking orange juice and eating scrambled eggs. They might have been in a cafe in Melbourne if not for the dread they both felt. The waitress wore a magenta hairpiece that looked like a streak of fluorescent paint in her crinkly black hair. She served them extra toast, and when she left their table Leigh leant forward and put her hand on Neil’s arm. ‘What are we going to do?’ she repeated. Her eyelids felt gritty, her mouth pinched. She had been awake since 3 am going over the violence of the night before, her anxiety escalating. She pictured Stephen by the pool—the silver droplets of water on his tanned skin and his half-smirk, later bloodied by Neil’s fist. She believed the discovery of Stephen’s dealings had been the tipping point for Neil, defaulting him back to his own dubious upbringing—and shockingly, it now seemed to her, a loss of control in order to gain control. And there was Tessa too, troubled and agitated, her sleep-deprived eyes strangely lit and flicking away as she tried to avoid the scrutiny she and Neil had put her under; her stiff shoulders and the purple bruising on her neck where a dark undertone of blood had pooled beneath her skin. The whole family mess, where no one could pretend that violence was something they would not participate in. How could they right what was wrong? How could they restrain Stephen, or persuade Tessa to return home?
