Lights in a Western Sky Read online

  This reversal of roles was no chance thing. Rupert had been given a part to play, an opportunity, almost, but to what purpose he could not determine. Outwardly it was the sort of challenge that faced military recruits on orientation exercises when, alone, they had to extricate themselves from demanding situations. He set off in the direction that Jackson had pointed, along another path identical to the first. He looked back to see the dark figure immobile in the clearing, with head bowed. An imperious gesture of the hand waved him on. Given no conceivable option he obeyed.

  He moved forward, guided only by the faint ribbon of light above the path. He began to feel free of Jackson’s presence, and with that came the realisation that the forest was no longer a dumb lifeless thing but full of myriad sounds from the whole spectrum of sylvan fauna. Cicadas rasped and amphibians roared their repertoires against the distant crashing of larger forms.

  But gradually the previous silence again prevailed, as if a dampening blanket had been drawn over the entire forest. Then, after what might have been half a minute or ten, Rupert made the inevitable association. Icy fingers of fear explored his body and he began to sweat profusely. He found that, by increasing his stride, it was possible – for just a few moments – to re-summon, in the minutest measure, the living manifestations of the forest. But with their demise came the certain knowledge that his companion was closing upon him. He looked back but saw nothing. He wanted to run, but Africa had taught him that the consequences of flight were seldom advantageous. So he stood still, as a condemned man might wait, unspeakably fearful. The footsteps behind were measured and purposeful. They stopped, but still Rupert did not turn.

  What surprised him most was the strain in Jackson’s voice, as if he had reached a decision of awesome magnitude that had drained his body. ‘You are fortunate, Dr Murchison,’ he said.

  ‘To have survived this far?’ Rupert replied, with a levity so inappropriate that it elicited no response. But he knew that the crisis – whatever it was – had passed.

  After a few seconds Jackson said simply, ‘If you continue along this path you will reach the township. There will be people to help you.’

  Rupert did not look back and did not see Jackson again. Ahead was a pinpoint of light in the far distance. A minute later he emerged from the forest.

  The miscellany of low buildings – some brick with tin roofs but mostly of mud and thatch – had the same exaggerated incongruity as any remote colonial outpost from the early days. Even in the dim lamplight, Rupert could see frangipani, oleander and bougainvillea in profusion. He remembered that Muhoroni – if indeed this was the place – was still a district centre. However undeservedly, it still possessed a district officer.

  It was not difficult to find the house, perched on a ridge, encircled by lawns and trees, all enclosed by a neatly trimmed hedge at odds with everything outside it. It was the ultimate distillation of British colonial style. Lighted oil lamps at intervals along the veranda each cherished its own microcosm of swarming insects, illuminating the palms in their pots below.

  At the door the sullen eyes of the houseboy expressed anxiety rather than the usual resentment. ‘Bwana is not home. He has important business.’

  ‘I need somewhere to stay,’ Rupert said.

  ‘It is not possible here.’

  ‘Then perhaps the memsahib…’

  ‘Bwana said…’

  A woman’s voice, clear and melodious, called out, ‘It’s all right, Mwangi. Dr Murchison is welcome. You can leave us.’ It came from the past, with the same sweet bite that he’d tried so hard to forget. As she emerged onto the veranda her slender figure seemed little changed.

  Being independent of the process, Rupert had never concerned himself with the cruel lottery that was the posting of government officers. And when it happened he was indifferent to the squeals of delight or despair. It shouldn’t have surprised him to find Catherine in this forsaken place, but it did because her bonding with Nairobi society had seemed unbreakable. Even now – whatever his feelings for her might be – it seemed, if nothing else, unfair. What despot sweating behind his desk would have taken pleasure in transplanting such a flower? But therein, he thought later, lay the probable explanation.

  That she seemed pleased he was there contrasted sharply with his memory of their last, bitter, encounter. She came to stand close to him.

  ‘Let me just say I’m sorry, Rupert. I did not set out to hurt you.’

  ‘You succeeded with a vengeance.’

  ‘A married woman – even in Nairobi – is like a caged beast, always under scrutiny. It could not have continued.’

  ‘It didn’t seem to bother you with others.’

  ‘Times were changing. Please, may we put it behind us?’

  Rupert smiled ruefully. ‘I suppose I must, if I want shelter. By the way, where is Richard?’

  ‘Out. Away. I’ll tell you about it. But first, where on earth have you been? People from the train were here hours ago. They’re all up at the guesthouse.’

  Rupert was incredulous. ‘You know about the train?’

  ‘It was almost at the station. I had a look myself.’

  ‘Then I have a mystery on my hands.’

  ‘Well, I hope it’s nothing to do with Richard’s wild goose chase.’

  He followed her inside, into that strange mixture of cultures that typifies the dwellings of colonial government servants: a print of a Constable on the wall next to a fading zebra skin, drawings of orchids – for she was a gifted artist – alongside west African masks. Rupert recognised them all. She set a lamp on the table in the dining room and they sat facing one another, sparring in the way – or so Rupert imagined – of all ex-lovers brought together by chance, reliving the dregs of their first attraction.

  ‘Richard told me you are leaving us soon.’

  ‘After I’ve collected my things from the Lake. I sail from Mombasa on Monday.’

  ‘Only four days!’

  ‘You’re safe, then.’

  Catherine’s eyes widened with anger augmented by fear. The bitterness against the perceived injustice of the transfer erupted in a torrent. ‘Safety is the last bloody thing I’m after in this hell-hole,’ She was immediately ashamed. ‘I’m sorry, Rupert. That wasn’t the cool hostess you once knew, was it?’

  ‘It’s a strange feeling to think I’ve touched base – something solid at last. That never happened before. With you, I mean.’ He leaned back in his chair, the better to scrutinise her face.

  ‘It came close at times,’ she whispered.

  ‘Then you might have shown it.’

  There were shadows beneath the hazel eyes that were not just tricks of the light. Rupert had seen before the hall-marks of loneliness in those forced to forego social advantage for the greater good. And Catherine was the most inflexible of subjects. He knew, too, that Richard could not fill the void. He could feel his own heartbeat and saw his fingers tremble as he reached for the glass she pushed towards him. He hoped she hadn’t noticed. He began to recognise within himself a developing conflict in which sympathy and the settling of scores were joined by a third contender – a reawakening of the same passion he had felt all those years ago. Then – could it have been by chance? – her foot brushed his.

  ‘In case you’re still wondering,’ she said, ‘Richard’s gone to sort out some panic with the Nandi. There’s been a return of their favourite form of persecution, where things come out of the forest and leave them in a bit of a mess.’

  ‘The chemosit?’

  ‘You know? Ah, but you would, wouldn’t you, as a zoologist. Everyone thought it had stopped a few years ago, but it seems it hasn’t.’

  ‘Actually, someone told me on the train.’

  ‘Anyone interesting?’ She said it dreamily, distantly, as if not expecting an answer.

  ‘A Jac
kson somebody.’

  ‘Oh… yes. I know him. He’s the minister here.’

  Rupert felt the warmth of her bare foot on his own. It was, he remembered, how it had started, at their house at the foot of the Ngong Hills just after he had arrived in Kenya ten years before. Living in a tent nearby, he must have seemed eccentric enough to warrant an invitation from Richard Hedley. The rapid path he had trodden then, even with hindsight, was no less inviting now. He could not prevent himself saying, ‘Your boy – when does he leave?’

  ‘As soon as he’s cleared the kitchen.’

  They waited in silence, fingers touching tentatively across the table, until the door slammed and the footsteps were absorbed into the night. Rupert wanted to tell her about Jackson, but the risk of diverting her attention held him back.

  Together they checked the muslin net above the bed. As it fell into place he saw through it an image of the woman as she had been and could be again for one last time.

  He rounded the foot of the bed, expecting to encounter a pair of soft expectant eyes, but there was a noise outside and her expression turned fearful. The room was suddenly suffused by the pale light of a lamp from somewhere in front of the house.

  ‘Richard?’ he suggested.

  ‘Oh dear God, it must be. Don’t move. I’ll be back.’

  There were animated voices from below. A minute later she reappeared.

  ‘I think you’d better come,’ she said. ‘This could interest you. Don’t worry, it’s not Richard.’

  There were three Africans in the room below. Rupert could tell from their agitation that something of great moment had happened. He assumed it had to do with the train, but it did not, at least directly. He recognised the houseboy among them.

  ‘Mwangi,’ Catherine said, ‘you had better tell Bwana Murchison what the men say.’

  ‘They say that they have caught it, Memsahib. In the railway shed.’

  ‘Caught what, Mwangi?’

  ‘The chemosit, Memsahib.’

  Catherine seemed puzzled. ‘What is it, Mwangi?’

  ‘They do not know.’

  ‘Surely they must know,’ she said impatiently. ‘Is it a leopard – or a hyaena?’

  Mwangi addressed the men, translating.

  ‘These men say it is not a leopard or a hyaena.’

  ‘How big is it?’

  ‘Bigger than three men, Memsahib.’

  Catherine moved to the window and stared out. When she turned back to them the strain of the decision told upon her face. ‘Tell the men Bwana Hedley will come when he gets back in the morning.’

  ‘Then Bwana Murchison must come.’

  ‘Bwana Murchison is very tired. Can the creature escape?’

  ‘The shed is locked.’

  ‘Then Bwana Murchison will come later.’

  From the shadows Rupert watched the men file dejectedly from the room and out into the rain. He had listened without interest, experience telling him that in Africa truth gets embellished in the telling. But now they were gone he was curious.

  ‘I ought to follow,’ he said.

  ‘Nonsense. They’ve caught a hyena or a baboon perhaps.’

  ‘But Catherine, these men know what those animals look like.’

  ‘They’ve been drinking.’

  ‘I didn’t notice.’

  ‘Well, they have.’

  ‘I think I ought to go.’

  Catherine’s anger suddenly surfaced. ‘Then you can tell me about it at breakfast.’

  ‘You won’t wait for me?’

  ‘You never would grasp opportunities, would you? Your one great failing. You fool!’ She was at the window, sobbing into the curtains that were clutched between her hands. He guessed that these were tears dammed up since she came, released because he, Rupert, had turned the key.

  They returned to the bedroom, Rupert’s mind calmed by the drumming of rain on the roof, Catherine’s by a skirmish fought and won.

  ‘You’ve lost weight, Rupert. I can feel your heart beating. For a moment you took me away from this place. You can’t imagine how that felt.’

  ‘You didn’t make things easy for yourself.’

  ‘Lovers into enemies, is that what you mean?’ She paused. ‘Are you my enemy, Rupert?’

  ‘Just now I’m a friend.’

  ‘Not more? After what we’ve just done. What I let you do.’ She rolled over to face him. ‘You could stay. Just for a few days. Cancel the boat. There’s always someone wanting a berth.’

  ‘And how would I explain that?’

  ‘Tell them in London you’ve got the fever.’

  ‘No, I meant to Richard.’

  ‘I don’t know. Help him sort out these killings. Something like that.’

  ‘That’s for the police, surely.’

  ‘Police? I can tell you it’s not a matter for the police.’

  ‘The Church, then?’

  There was a sudden clattering noise from somewhere beneath the window. Rupert said, ‘What the hell was that?’

  ‘Just an animal. Richard probably left some rubbish out. It always attracts them. I’ll take a look.’

  ‘You won’t see much. It’s pitch black out there – no moon at all.’

  She moved to the window and parted the curtains. ‘One of the veranda lights is still on. There’s nothing there now.’ Slowly she drew the curtains together and returned to the bed.

  ‘Catherine, you’re shivering.’

  ‘It’s got colder.’

  ‘I wouldn’t have said so.’

  ‘You’re not always bloody right.’ She grasped his arm tightly. ‘I’m sorry.’

  ‘It’s okay. Anyway, it’s quiet now.’

  ‘Yes, quiet. It’s either the rain beating down or…’

  Images from the early evening crept into Rupert’s thoughts. ‘Like in the forest.’

  ‘Oh?’ She squeezed his arm more tightly. ‘Sometimes I think I’m losing my senses. Last week… I went there to get some orchids to paint. Climbing up, into the dripping branches – and then… silence.’

  ‘That frightened you?’

  ‘At first. While I thought I was alone.’

  ‘And then?’

  The pain in Rupert’s arm was becoming unbearable.

  ‘Because nothing is what you expect. And if you expect nothing, what appears is…’ An animal-like snarl from below the window caused her to release her grip on his arm. ‘Oh, Christ!’

  ‘I’ll put on the light.’

  ‘Don’t touch it! Be silent.’ There was a long pause, then she whispered, ‘What can you hear?’

  ‘Nothing. Nothing at all.’

  ‘Listen harder.’

  ‘Really nothing. Not even the cicadas.’

  ‘That’s right. Not even them.’ She stroked his arm gently. ‘Go to your own bed now, Rupert. There’s nothing more for you here.’

  ‘Catherine, you’re still shivering.’

  ‘Dread and intoxication, all at the same moment. Strange bedfellows, don’t you think?’

  ‘I don’t know what…’

  ‘One day you’ll thank me.’ The push into his back was as violent as her next utterance. ‘Now go!’

  Rupert picked up his clothes and left the room. For what seemed like hours he lay staring through the window at the black and troubled sky. He imagined he heard voices, but whether in reality or in a dream he did not know. He remembered waking to see a sliver of light appearing in the clouds, and hearing the buzz of a mosquito, reminding him that he had not lowered his net.

  Richard swept up in his jeep while they were having breakfast on the veranda. He seemed pleased to see Rupert, who was at first relieved that his erstwhile affair with Catherine seemed to hav
e remained undiscovered.

  ‘So has Catherine been looking after you?’

  ‘Very well.’

  ‘As only she can.’ He poured himself a coffee, as if giving Rupert time to dwell on what he had said. ‘These attacks – it’s a bloody puzzle. Till now there’s been no pattern. I mean, all the victims were mutilated, sure, but there was no common motive. The first could have been theft, the next sexual, but last night’s…’

  ‘Last night’s?’

  ‘Next village. Just come from there, actually. Hut entered, youth disfigured, for no reason. A sighting of sorts, but in that downpour no-one was sure what they saw. Anyway, let’s take a look at the railway shed. You coming, Catherine?

  ‘What do you think?’ she replied facetiously.

  The railway shed turned out to be a substantial brick building beside a single length of track. Richard explained that it had once been a store, which accounted for the bars at each of the windows. The doors could be closed by a stout pole between the handles. It was this simple device that had allowed the villagers to imprison whatever they had believed to be inside. But it had proved insufficient, as the small knot of disgruntled figures standing outside the now open doors testified.

  Inside the shed one of the men Rupert had seen the night before pointed to a skylight high above, its broken glass jagged and sparkling in the bright morning sunlight. There were drops of blood, still fresh, on the pile of boxes and abandoned furniture that seemed to have had aided the creature’s ascent. Richard was relieved. ‘That can only be a baboon,’ he said. ‘We’ll have to look elsewhere for our assailant.’

  On the pretext of retrieving his hat Rupert re-entered the shed and studied the route of escape. The more he looked the more convinced he became that the items in the pile had been placed deliberately to aid the creature’s flight. No baboon could have managed that. Nor for that matter, could a chimpanzee, even if there had been any around. That left only one other possibility. He climbed up the first few feet. Then he saw it, a tiny fragment like a piece of sackcloth adhering to a wooden beam. But, coming closer, he saw it was a mass of dense hair matted with congealed blood. Carefully he prised it from the protruding nail. Jumping down, he wrapped it in his handkerchief and put it in his pocket.