Black Mischief Read online

  Not for the first time the two mothers held each other very tight, each feeling the physical throb of the other’s body as the pain took hold again. But Maura was very conscious of the waste of dwelling on the past when there was a vital necessity to try to ward off another possible violent death. She hardened her sensitivity. Perhaps she and Sonya were too late already, but the miracle of her Tom’s return still gave her hope. Quickly she got to the reason why she and Sonya were there.

  ‘Sally, do you think Abel will be ready to help?’

  Sally did not answer at once. It was taking time for her to journey back to the present.

  ‘Yes, yes. He is a good man. He has not seen The Nation, but he has his own ways of knowing. He’s in his screen room. He follows the markets. Did I already say that? He will be here soon.’

  Abel Rubai was indeed in his screen room. He had enjoyed another profitable night working, competing with unseen friends and rivals all over the world. The screens were dark now and he was leaning forward in the comfort of his favourite red leather armchair. He, too, was involved in a train of thought that had reached out of the past into this present moment. There was the ritual remembering of Julius, snatched away just when he was growing into his true self and, as usual, the pain of this memory triggered the vivid scene of the dying son. The worst of it was the inevitable next picture, the brown-legged, fair-haired features of the always smiling, always mocking scourge of the white rat of Londiani.

  ‘Why did I hesitate? All the work was done. Just a simple “yes” from me. Julius would be here today and that other one … a forgotten statistic.’

  He was conscious that he was again putting his recent resolve to be his cold, ruthless best self in danger of weakening. Crazy! Stupid! What is going on inside this head of mine? Everything went according to plan yesterday morning. The boys picked up Mboya at the place he had in Kibera. Mboya, he remembered this one’s uncle. He often recalled the day when he heard the news that he had been gunned down in Nairobi. ‘Good riddance!’ had been his father’s comment when the sound of the announcer’s words filled their shamba home with the shock news. Later, over their supper of posho and beans, Father had gone on, ‘Abel, never trust a Luo. They are too clever. This one wanted to be the Big Man. I know it. Bad, all bad!’

  This nephew, this Simon, was clever, too, and won a scholarship to study medicine overseas. When Abel read in the papers that he had married a fellow student, Sonya Daniels, he was sure that their next step would be migration from England to the United States. There was big money to be made over there. Good riddance!

  But no, they had come back to Kenya. For a time they worked in the practice of her elder brother. It wasn’t long before articles in Simon’s name appeared in the papers. Abel made a point of reading them. He would have admitted it to no one, but since the evening of the news broadcast announcing his death, the story of Tom Mboya had fascinated him. He had read the books about him, but nowhere could he find the essence of this handsome, charming man, nor how or why, irrespective of tribe, so many Kenyans were attracted to him. His popularity at home and abroad brought him down. He had become too big a threat.

  Abel had admired a lot of Simon’s writings. There was some envy, too, for the wider horizons he had experienced in those years spent in Europe. The articles were popular for their blend of sound, simple medical advice and the humorous stories he used to illustrate these pieces.

  Abel remembered the article where the tone began to change. Gone was the folksy humour. This piece was mostly some sentimental rubbish about an unplanned visit to Naivasha Hospital. His first kid was born there, but not out of choice. There was so much anger in that writing. He was raving like an idiot about the shocking conditions, the inhumanity and the rest of that stuff. After that a long silence.

  It was years later when one of his staff dropped a newspaper cutting on Abel’s desk. Mboya, the writer, was back in business. By now he had built and equipped the first of his clinics. Simon’s articles appeared again nationally and in foreign medical journals. At first, these pieces made Abel feel merely uncomfortable, but it was not long before his anger was roused not so much by the medical contents but the increased amount of politicking in them. There was a ready audience for these open attacks on the government and its ‘corrupt’ practices. How long would it be before he and his clever pals would be making cocky challenges? We’ll see about that.

  Abel puzzled over the sources of Mboya’s material. Could it be someone in the Inner Twelve who was leaking information? Abel resolved to act when barely veiled threats to his own position appeared. Another Mboya, another threat. The fool was writing his own death warrant. But Abel was a patient man. He would give Mboya the chance to change his ways. His own ways were not subtle. He was not that patient! Abel’s team of enforcers knew their business. They enjoyed making sure that the message got through to the little man with the big ideas.

  He checked the wall clock. Five minutes to coffee time. Better be on his way. After his half hour with Sally, he would return to the privacy of his screen room and make a couple of phone calls. He was ready to give the word. He began to whistle, a sure sign that the man of the house was in a happy mood.

  Realising that he was coming, Maura fixed her gaze on the open door of the sitting room to watch Abel’s immediate reaction when he saw Sonya and herself. It lasted only a moment or two, but that was long enough for her to pick up a hint of shock, even of panic that confirmed her suspicion. The affable smile, the bright wide eyes came too late to hide his secret.

  ‘Ladies, what a pleasant surprise. Four for coffee. It’s a long time since we had that, Sally!

  His wife’s smile was sickly, but neither of the guests could summon up even that gesture. Sonya was looking down, fiddling aimlessly with her fingers. Maura met the challenge of his look. The false charm had vanished and been replaced by a patronising contempt. He suspected what was coming and was preparing his position.

  Instinctively Maura knew that the approach that she and Sonya had considered would have to be ditched. Gentle conciliation was not going to work. Abel Rubai would interpret that as begging, grovelling. His ego might swell, but it would not diminish the threat to Simon’s life, if there was a life left to threaten.

  ‘You know that you are our only chance. You helped save my Tom.’

  Three pairs of female eyes were riveted on Abel Rubai as he looked down into his coffee, taking his time to make sure that he stirred the last speck of cream into the rich brown liquid. When he lifted his head, Sonya caught her breath at the sight of his face. There was a broad smile on his lips, but the eyes were cold, hooded like a cobra about to spit his venom. She had never seen such a frightening combination of features.

  Abel, the master builder of tension, sipped his drink once, twice to make sure that the taste and the temperature were satisfactory. He cleared his throat and began.

  ‘Maura, as direct as ever, I see! Well I see I must be direct, too. Seeing you here, Mrs Mboya, tells me everything. I have to say at once that I can do very little to help. Maura, I told you that what happened with your son all those months ago,’ he flicked his free hand casually, as if he were pushing away a fly, ‘was little more than chance, a piece of good fortune. I telephoned the main police stations around the country, and Inspector Kariuki of Nakuru … came up with the goods. Lightning doesn’t strike …’ He waited for someone to complete the expression.

  Sonya obliged. ‘Oh, but it does!’ She moved forward in her seat and focused on Abel as if she were a teacher eager to make an important point in a lesson. Her energy levels were rising fast. ‘Mr Rubai, what kind of wretched human being could want to punish a man, a doctor, working to help the poorest people in this country, to give them a little hope?’

  Sally found the pain of Julius’s loss beginning to overwhelm her once more with the usual side effect, a deepened compassion for the suffering of someone who had lost a loved one or was in danger of doing so.

  ‘Sonya, Abel w
ill do anything he can. There are cruel people at work among us. Abel, perhaps if you telephoned the police …’

  ‘Perhaps.’ Abel did not try to hide his irritation with his wife. She was trying to invade a world that he meant to keep private, mainly for her own good.

  Maura picked up the conflict of vibrations between husband and wife and her intuition, honed to a sharp edge, told her why it was so. She saw clearly that this wily man who lived by his wits did not give a fig for the lives of those whom he saw as a threat. He was the strong man in the ruling elite. The air of mystery created by his shadowy position fostered awe in friend and foe. Dangerous and ruthless, he was also astute and knew exactly when to hold back. Maura knew what she must do.

  ‘Abel, you are making a mistake here.’

  The big man poured himself another coffee, then turned to face Maura full on. He gave her the benefit of an expression of amused contempt before he spoke.

  ‘My dear Maura, please be more specific. Mistake? Of underestimating my powers to be of assistance to this lady? Mistake of … well, you tell me. I’m intrigued.’

  She weighed in without hesitation. ‘Mistake of thinking that we are idiots! Simon Mboya was becoming a nuisance to certain people in this country.’

  ‘I have to agree with you there but - and listen carefully - I am not one of those people.’

  Maura hesitated to look across at Sonya. She was upset to see distress written large in her expression. For a few seconds she hesitated. Perhaps it was she who was making the mistake. No! No! She did not doubt that the man sitting opposite her was the moving force behind the danger to a good man’s life, but she had realised that she was a novice in the world of intrigue which was the natural habitat of Mr Abel Rubai. He would make her pay for her wild boldness, but she had to go on.

  ‘Half a dozen young men in smart suits, the Rubai trademark. Anyone with half a brain would recognise that.’

  Abel chuckled and he reached out to touch his wife’s arm. He wanted to reassure her that her beloved husband had not turned into an evil scourge of his, the good people of Kenya.

  ‘Maura, you are the one who is mistaken. I can forgive you, but look what you are doing to your friend here! I am sure you are acting in love, but your desperation has temporarily turned your mind.’ He raised his hand as a gesture to prevent her from renewing her attack. ‘Please, dear lady, just listen. Yes, I give work to a lot of young men. Yes, I like them to look smart and I can afford to buy them good quality clothes. But I don’t have a corner on the market of the hundreds of very competent tailors working in this city. Now, something more important. If you come with me to my library, you will find a lot of literature about the Mboya family. I have all the books and articles written about the great Thomas. I have always been a big admirer. I remember the day the news came through about his murder on the streets of this city. You can inspect the boxes where I keep the articles that Simon wrote.

  ‘Why would I want to do any harm to a man who was helping, and will help again, God willing, to fight disease in the most deserving of the wananchi?’

  Sally sat back in her chair, relaxed again to have it proved to her that her man still had the upright character that she had seen in him all those years ago when they first met in a youth service in the village branch of the Presbyterian Church of East Africa. Sonya, too, could understand the logic of what he said. Perhaps the shock of almost losing Tom in a kidnapping was still with Maura and caused suspicions to surface where there were none.

  Maura refused to let go. ‘Right, then, you’re too clever for me, and you can see that I’m not very smart with words so, to shut me up, just do one thing and I’ll go home. Say - and I’m not asking you to swear - that you had nothing to do with all this, that even now, you’ll try your best to get Simon back alive.’

  ‘No!’

  The curt reply shocked the room into silence. Abel gave his companions time to draw their conclusions before going on. When he did so, he spoke with quiet assurance.

  ‘No. I cannot satisfy you on this. If you take this to be an unspoken confession of guilt, let that be on your conscience. If you cannot believe what I have said already, if you think I am a liar, then “yes” or “no”, what difference would either of these words make?’

  ‘So, we are wasting our time and your time? And, Sonya, it breaks my heart that I have failed you.’

  Sally interrupted. ‘No, Maura. There is too much love in what you have done for it to be called a failure. Abel, darling, just say that …’

  Sonya was desperate to get away. ‘Please, I must get back to the boys. My hope is dying and it terrifies me.’

  She rose from her seat and moved unsteadily towards the door, brushing a coffee cup and sending it noisily to the floor. ‘I’m so sorry, Mrs Rubai, so sorry! Please … I promise to pay for the damage, but just now …’ She turned to look towards Sally as she spoke and made an effort to stand tall. After a brief glance towards Abel, she spoke again with a trembling but compassionate voice. ‘Mrs Rubai, you are a good lady. Thank you for your kindness. I will pray for your family.’

  Maura was afraid that Sonya would fall and grasped her under the shoulders. She hurried her to the sitting room door and out into the fresh air. Sally Rubai clutched her stomach and weeping freely looked across at her husband. There was no emotion showing on his face as first he watched the departing visitors, then stooped to pick up the fallen cup. He checked for damage, found none then placed it meticulously back on its saucer.

  ‘No harm done there.’ He smiled sweetly and continued. ‘You remember I have a meeting at twelve. The President wants us to build two new floors on Nairobi Hospital. Another of his great ideas, but where will we get the money?’

  As he made his way back to his study, Abel took out his mobile phone and made a call. It was very brief. ‘Ochome? Silence him.’

  Chapter Thirteen

  he journey back to Cartref was slow. Sonya hoped that her boys were asleep, tired after a very long journey, but suspected that they would not be. She needed to be ready for them and she wasn’t. She knew that Moses and Sammy, the two youngest, believed that when Mama returned, Papa would be with her or else they would soon be on their way home to Langata to meet him there.

  Her thinking was becoming more and more confused. Perhaps an hour or two alone might help her, but seeking solitude had never been her way of dealing with serious issues in her life. Doing always worked better than brooding.

  A stranger watching their progress home might have thought that one of them was ill for the frequent stops that they made. They were temporarily out of their everyday world and were travelling in a kind of spiritual and emotional bubble. A storm of seemingly disconnected thoughts rained down on them. Most of these struck but made no lasting impression but some hit hard and brought the one or the other to an abrupt halt while they tried to take them in, to make sense of them.

  Maura felt a heavy guilt that she had made Sonya’s situation worse. She was more convinced than ever that Abel Rubai was the man behind the kidnapping. Her Tom had survived a similar one and she had thought that she understood how Abel would react, that a direct appeal might make him think again, even change his mind. She had been innocent, naive, foolish. In this encounter with the powerful man she understood for the first time how ruthless, how hard-hearted he was. Please God he was not, in part, taking revenge on Simon for his failure with Tom! She shuddered and the scream of ‘No!’ was cutting the warm morning air before she could rein it in.

  Sonya took a battering of a different kind. Scene after scene flashed in and out of her mind with the relentless ruthlessness of the worst of nightmares. She was helpless in the face of them. Her world was being turned upside down. Hopes and dreams were being shattered. Unexpectedly, she remembered her childhood days when she was the baby of the family. Mam and Dad loved to keep up some old Welsh traditions, especially the weekly reading of the Bible. She had been born in Nairobi, but she loved to hear Welsh accents reciting passage
s from the gospels or the psalms just before her bedtime on Sunday evenings. In that worst of times the smell of the lines of jasmine strung across the ceiling of the veranda was with her again. Most memorable of all, Dada’s prayers, spontaneous, passionate and intimate were quietly spoken as if his maker were listening from His throne at the top of the veranda steps. That was what Mam had told her was happening.

  Without thought or premeditation, she sank to her knees on the grassy verge, launching into a torrent of words, not so much a prayer as a release of half a dozen conflicting emotions. She was hammering on a heavy, dark door and demanding justice, mercy, forgiveness, pouring out her anger on unseen power for turning away from a good man who cared more for the wellbeing of others than he did for his own life.

  At once Maura found herself caught up in the intoxicating euphoria of letting her tongue loose, joining in a wild duet of the words that presented themselves in the mouths of two defeated women.

  Soon the pair of them were on their way again, arms linked, singing, laughing outrageously, seemingly past all care. The stranger who might have observed them earlier would have found it easier to understand this behaviour. The two women were, quite simply, drunk. They were being released from the chains of self. The release brought with it a relief from their fear. For a time their egos were swamped by more positive emotions. Their ordeal was not diminished, but their strength to cope was more assured. Their prayer was being answered.

  Chapter Fourteen

  enis Orango enjoyed his daily cycle ride to the Karen dukas. The morning air did not have the sharp, chill edge of his village home up in the Aberdares, but he always wore his black woollen gloves anyway. This was partly for the warmth they gave but more to keep the money for the newspaper safe in his hand. Mrs Rubai sent him to pick up The Daily Nation because he was the fastest rider on the staff and the least likely to dawdle on his errand. She liked to have the paper by her side when she had breakfast.