Russell looked grimy and tired – more tired than Ben had seen him in a long time in fact, with large, black rings under his eyes and a faintly haggard expression. He entered the compound with Suliman sticking close to him. Both men had sweat on their bald heads, though Suliman looked more comfortable with it than Russell.
'Good day?' Ben asked his dad.
Russell nodded. 'It's a rich source of good-quality Coltan. I need another day there, and then we can get back.' He turned to Suliman. 'Thank you for your kindness today,' he said politely. 'Same time tomorrow?'
'My people will be here to collect you.' Suliman bowed slightly, and made to leave.
'Just a minute!' Ben said sharply. 'I want to ask you a question.'
Suliman turned, and Ben felt both men's eyes on him.
'What's making everyone so ill? Why is everyone dying?'
'Ben!' Russell reprimanded. 'I don't want to hear you speaking to our hosts so rudely.'
'It's true, Dad. Every other house in this village has a red cross painted on the door. It means that someone is dying, or has died recently, in that house. We've been brought here without being told – I think we deserve to know what's going on.'
Suliman looked intently at him, his face hard before it suddenly dissolved into a softer smile. 'It's true, Ben,' he whispered, his rasping voice sounding almost snakelike. 'Many of our villagers are sick. You are taking your malaria medication, I hope?'
Ben nodded mutely.
'Good. It has been bad lately. A very vicious strain. The dead are as numerous as those who survive it. Few people can afford the medicine.'
Ben said nothing; malaria was a big problem in the area, that much he knew, and Suliman's explanation had the desperate ring of truth.
'Our people have no option but to accept this as a way of life,' Suliman continued. Then he nodded at Ben and his father in turn. 'Until tomorrow, then,' he said, and left.
There was a silence between Ben and his father, which Russell broke in his quiet voice. 'Now do you understand why I was so insistent that you took your malaria medication before we left?' he asked in that frustratingly smug voice Ben found adults often using with him.
'I suppose so,' Ben muttered. He knew he was being surly, but he couldn't help it. He was beginning to wish he had never come.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Russell Tracey's breathing was heavy, slow and measured. Ben hadn't noticed it the previous night – probably too busy worrying about creepy crawlies in the bedroom, he supposed. He lay drowsily in the darkness listening to it, wishing that he too could be visited by the sleep that had descended on his father.
Gradually, though, he became aware of another sound – a scratching in the courtyard outside. He concentrated on isolating that sound from any others and realized that it was footsteps walking across the dusty, gritty earth. And then he heard a tapping at the door. Three gentle knocks. A pause, and they came again – tap, tap, tap – a little louder this time. Russell's breathing remained heavy – clearly he had been undisturbed by the sound – so Ben climbed out from under his mosquito net and pulled on his clothes. He stepped towards the door before halting, turning back on himself and removing the gun from its place on the table. Then he walked to the door and, his finger nervously caressing the trigger of the gun, gently nudged it open.
The African night was sultry, and for a moment Ben thought he had been hearing things as there appeared to be nobody there. He noticed that he was suddenly breathing as heavily as his father, and he prepared to close the door and get back to the relative comfort of his bed when he saw a figure appearing from the shadows. Whoever it was was walking swiftly towards him and had their finger pressed firmly against their lips. Ben felt a sudden sickness of panic rising in his chest, and he felt his arm bringing the gun up to point in front of him.
It wasn't until the figure was almost upon him that he realized who it was.
Halima stopped in her tracks when she saw the gun pointing towards her, her wide eyes staring fearfully at Ben, who immediately let the weapon drop to his side. 'What are you doing?' he whispered at her.
'Come with me,' Halima breathed.
'Where?'
'I need to show you something.'
Ben thought for a moment. His dad would be furious if he sneaked off again, especially with the gun. But he was asleep, and showed no signs of waking up soon, so Ben decided on a compromise. 'Wait there,' he told Halima, before slipping back inside, placing the weapon in its place on the table, and then returning to see what this mysterious girl wanted with him.
'Come with me,' Halima repeated, and she led him out into the main square.
There was nobody about, but the square itself was almost eerily well-lit by the bright silver light of the waxing moon. 'We need to stay hidden,' Halima told Ben as they skirted quietly round the edge of the square towards the little street where her house was.
'Why?' Ben asked. 'What are we doing? Why did you ignore me earlier on today?' He had so many questions.
'I will explain everything when we get there.' Halima smiled at him a bit apologetically. Suddenly she raised her hand and gestured at him to stop. 'Listen,' she instructed.
Ben stood perfectly still. Somewhere, not too far away, he imagined, he could hear the faint sound of a drum. It played a simple rhythm – three short strokes followed by four quicker ones.
Dum, dum, dum, da-da-da-da.
Halima nodded to herself in approval, then gestured at Ben to follow her. They sneaked down the street, past Halima's house and on towards the clearing where they had been chatting before Suliman had interrupted them. As they moved, the sound of the drumming grew louder, and it seemed to Ben that it had grown a little faster too. Soon enough, they came to the clearing. On the other side of it, obscured by the thicket of dense trees and brush, Ben could make out the glow of a fire. He felt a tingle of apprehension run down his spine as he realized how foolhardy he was being, allowing this girl he barely knew to lead him around surreptitiously like this in the middle of the night. He stretched out and grabbed her lightly by the arm.
'Halima, I'm not going any further until you tell me what this is about.'
Halima looked down at his hand, but Ben did not move it away. 'We can't stay here out in the open,' she told him seriously. 'I am taking you to see a tribal ritual. The village elders would be very angry if they knew I was showing it to a white person. Some things are not allowed.'
Dum, dum, dum, da-da-da-da. The drumming was closer.
Ben nodded. Halima scurried away to the left, with Ben following. Down the side of the clearing was a pathway with a few trees and straggly bushes providing a little camouflage. It wasn't much, but it was something, and they ran as light-footedly as they could towards the foliage, the light and the sound of the drums.
Once they were in the thicket, they could move with less fear of being seen, but Ben soon found that he had to tread more carefully; the sound of dried wood breaking under his feet made his heart stop every time it happened – he was thankful that the drumming, almost frenzied now, was loud enough to disguise what he felt was his terrible clumsiness.
Dum, dum, dum, da-da-da-da.
They came to the edge of small clearing, and Halima stopped, gently resting her hand on Ben's arm to indicate that he should do the same. In the middle of the clearing was a fire – clearly the one that they had seen from a distance – and sitting around it, about twenty metres from where Ben and Halima were hiding, were eight or nine elderly men. They wore simple clothes – dark-coloured all-in-one tunics mostly – but round their necks they wore what looked like heavy ceramic jewellery. Two of them wore headdresses made from the fur of animals. Standing a little way apart from these men was the drummer, bent double over a large wooden djembe drum, intently beating out the increasingly wild rhythm.