“Where am I?” Jack asked, looking around him. The Spanish doctor jumped, turned quickly and walked towards him.
“Camp 17 of the International Red Cross. Border of Uganda and the Democratic Republic of Congo.” He paused, taking in Jack’s frown. “A refugee camp. My name is Doctor Jose-Maria Murcia. You were in quite a state when you arrived yesterday evening.” Jack nodded, shook his head, the memories of the last few hours confused. He wasn’t even sure how he’d got there.
“Didn’t embarrass myself did I?” he asked. The doctor shook his head.
“No, but you were hallucinating. Because of the fever, the infection. Seemed convinced your father was here. Kept asking if we could see him.” He paused. “And then you started to sing. Quite loudly as a matter of fact.”
Jack almost smiled. The Doctor’s face was world-weary but kind. Heavy-lidded brown eyes that gazed appraisingly out over square-framed glasses. A neatly trimmed black beard that added a few years. Jack put him in his early thirties.
“Jack Hartman, pleased to meet you,” he said lifting his hand. The doctor took it and shook it gently.
“I don’t suppose you’d like to tell us what you were doing in the jungle?” He asked. Jack remained silent. He liked the first suggestion he had overheard the most, an eco-tourist that had got lost.
“An adventure holiday gone wrong,” he replied ruefully. “Do you have a phone, there are a few people that might be worried about me? I should call home.” The doctor shook his head.
“They were stolen last week,” he sighed, “crime in a refugee camp is unfortunately just as common as it is elsewhere. There are a couple of laptops though, you can send e-mails. They’ll be bringing in a new batch of phones when the aid trucks arrive on Thursday.” Jack nodded.
“What day is it today?” he asked. The doctor raised his eyebrows. “Tuesday,” he replied.
“Right you are,” Jack said as he heaved himself up, shifting his weight to the edge of the bed.
“Hold on, where do you think you’re going?” The doctor asked.
“To use one of your laptops, where are they?” He asked, unhooking the drip from its stand and carrying the fluid-filled plastic pack with him.
“Other side of the camp, but I don’t think you should be up and about yet. You need to give the antibiotics a couple of days to clear the infection out of your system.” Jack brushed him aside
“What I need right now is for you to show me how I can get a message home.” The doctor raised a weary eyebrow and shrugged.
“Very well, this way please,” he held open the flap of tarpaulin that covered the entrance to the tent. Jack stepped out, blinking into the daylight.
He was not prepared for the scene that greeted him. When the doctor said refugee camp he imagined a few neat rows of tents, orderly queues to trestle tables dispensing cupfuls of grain. Instead he saw hundreds of untidy bundles of matted straw hunkered low to the ground, like yaks sunk to the knees in the black mud. Some had blue plastic sheeting over the top, the faded logo of the UN just visible, like a promise almost forgotten. Packaging from the food aid parachuted in. Nothing went to waste here. These were their shelters, their makeshift homes. Meagre fires in front of them, people crouched around, dressed in the tattered remnants of western brands.
A miserable scene populated by unhappy people. Jack didn’t feel pity, he felt anger. Anger at men like Nbotou, Sir Clive, Monsieur Blanc. Someone was to blame for all of this, someone had to be held to account. He turned to Dr. Murcia.
“Where are the troops? Pretty volatile region, shouldn’t there be some UN Peace Keepers around?”
“They left late last week. Rumours of further instability in the region. Some of the Congolese also panicked and fled.”
“But you’re still here?” Jack asked. Dr. Murcia nodded.
“Possibly against our better judgement, Dr. Valentine and I both stayed on.” He cast a quick glance around the camp. “Don’t misunderstand me, neither of us is a saint. Dr.Valentine has a very profitable private practice in Basel and I work as a plastic surgeon in Barcelona. We are here for a month only. More out of guilt than good intentions.” Jack watched him closely, decided he didn’t quite believe the man, but let it go.
“Here,” Dr. Murcia said, gesturing to another tent and heading inside. “The administrative centre. This is where we try and keep a record of the numbers in the camp. Get an idea of the scale of the problem facing the region. Marie will set you up on the computer.” A harassed-looking woman in her early forties stood up to greet him. She looked like she had more important things to do than speak to Jack, but she still smiled as she quickly shook his hand.
“The singer from last night? Quite a voice on you, I’ll set you up with my password. Should be enough of a signal for you to send an e-mail.”
64
Amanda hung up her coat in the hallway. The night shift over, she trudged up to her room, ready to flake out on the bed. Her housemate’s boyfriend passed her on the stairs, off for a morning jog.
“Morning Mands,” he mumbled, pulling his hood over his head, “cold out?”
Amanda frowned. She hadn’t noticed. “Don’t know. Maybe.” She opened the door to her bedroom, slowly, cautiously. A wariness to her movements ever since the events of the last week. No police had come to investigate the fracas on the doorstep, the bloodstain now all but washed away, nor had they asked questions about a stolen British Gas van. Even the local press had given up reporting on the fire at Marcon Pharmaceuticals, happy to accept the investigators’ conclusion that it was caused by leaking chemicals and an electrical fault.
Was this really how these things happened? Their significance brushed to one side? Washed away? She feared for Jack, the resolute determination he had shown in agreeing to go along with whatever it was Sir Clive suggested. She hadn’t bothered to try to convince him not to do it, or even asked him to explain what exactly he would be doing. His mind was set.
She reached up and closed the curtains, the weak February sun held at bay. Should be able to snatch a few hours kip from the semi-darkness, she thought, booting up the laptop. Her daily ritual, checking the messages morning and evening. Convincing herself there wouldn’t be any news from Jack. Still hoping there might be. She entered her password, waited for the inbox to appear on the screen.
The usual spam, investment opportunities in Nigeria, lottery wins, miracle diet plans. Some info from the lacrosse team. She clicked on the junk mail folder half-heartedly, about to click delete all.
Mands!
So much to tell so little time. Crazy stories for the grandkids. Am alive (just), no thanks to Sir C. Absolute fucking fiasco. Writing from refugee camp on border of Uganda and Congo (don’t ask), miserable shit hole. No idea how I got here but should be back home in a week. Maybe two. Tricky without any papers. But miss you. Seriously. Must be due some more of your medicine;)
Big love
J.
He hadn’t bothered to delete the auto-signature at the bottom. The sign-off was from somebody called Marie Hoogstraff, Aid Co-ordinator, Red Cross, DRC, Africa. He must have used her e-mail account. Amanda sat down on the bed, got up, re-read the message, sat down again. DRC, Democratic Republic of Congo. No idea whether she should reply to it or not, how long he would even be there. Angry, relieved, elated, all at the same time. What was that about grandkids? She smiled to herself, printing off the message. There, she had it in writing. Something to make him think twice before he next decided to charge headlong into someone else’s war.