Savage Moon

Jon cleared his throat. 'Are you going to kill me?'

Field shook his head. 'One more person will die tonight, but it won't be you.'

Jon felt some of the elation return to mix with his sickening fear. He looked at the blood and dirt smeared on the other man's face.

'I disgust you. I can see it in your eyes.'

Jon swallowed. 'You… your appearance. It's shocked me.' Field glanced down at his own body. 'I've been sleeping in ditches, fields and woods. Living off whatever I could find, washing in that river.'

'You were following the Medlock?' He nodded. 'Since Kerrigan.'

Unsure if Field would strike, Jon slowly lowered one knee, the ankle throbbing with pain as he slid his foot outwards.

'Following it back here to Sutton?'

'Not Sutton. Kiboroboro. The killer. That's what the prisoners at Hola knew him as. They never found out the names of their mzungu guards, so they gave them nicknames instead.'

'I read your project about Kenya.'

Field smiled. 'Good. I knew you'd come across it sooner or later. The project you read — the original — has gone to the Manchester Evening Chronicle. I sent it to the crime reporter there. Once tonight is over she will have to tell the truth.'

'It was terrible, what happened there.'

Field raised a bloody claw and used it to scratch at his head.

'You shaved your dreadlocks off.'

'Yes, I think this pelt has given me lice.'

'Where did you get it?'

'The Burma market in Nairobi. You can buy anything there.'

'When you met your relatives?'

'Yes. You know Trevor Kerrigan raped my mother when she couldn't pay her rent?'

'We'd guessed as much. How did you learn that?'

'The letters she sent to our relatives in Kenya. In one she mentioned his surname. It was easy to track him down when I returned to Britain.'

'And Peterson?'

'You know why. For pushing Danny into killing himself.'

'Rose Sutton?'

Field shrugged. 'If he'd had any children, I would have killed them too. He destroyed my family. You've read my project, but you won't know what men like Ken Sutton did. You should know. Everyone should know.'

He sat down and crossed his legs, never letting go of the weapon in each hand. 'My grandfather, Magayu Gathambo, was an educated man. He went to the Tumutumu Presbyterian Mission in Nyeri. He worked as a clerk for a lawyer in Nairobi, then joined the British Army when World War Two broke out. When he returned home his family were living in squalor. But he refused to join the men who whispered about ending white rule. He still believed in those British values of decency and fair play, hoping they might be applied to black people too. When the soldiers drove into Nairobi in their Land Rovers, loud speakers blaring, ordering all Kikuyu to pack one bag and leave their homes, he cooperated.'

'Operation Anvil,' Jon whispered.

James inclined his head. 'Correct. At the screening centre in Subuku they tied him to a chair and extinguished cigarettes on his back. They shocked him with electricity and forced hot eggs into his anus. My grandmother, Muringo, had her breasts squeezed with pliers and banana leaves rammed into her vagina. They didn't confess to the oath because they hadn't taken it. But once they were set free, they took it straightaway. Muringo remained in Nairobi, Magayu left for the forests of Mount Kenya to join the KLFA. He fought for three years, living as I have done, before he was captured on a return visit to see his wife in Nairobi. They were both immediately put into the Pipeline.'

Beyond the courtyard Jon saw the glow of torches starting to bob across the fields. He heard dogs whining and snatches of speech on the breeze, orders being given in low voices.

James cocked his head to the side, eyes staying on Jon. 'Time is running out, your reinforcements will be here soon. When Magayu arrived at his camp the doors to his cattle truck were thrown open. They ran a gauntlet of whistle-blowing guards and barking alsatians. Officers screamed, “Piga! Piga sana!” Beat them, keep beating them! They were stripped naked and forced into a cattle dip of disinfectant. Some drowned in the stampede. He was issued with a pair of yellow shorts, two blankets and a wristband with a number. The few possessions he had were stolen, his clothes burned on a bonfire. He was graded as a black suspect, the ones most dangerously committed to independence. He was moved from camp to camp in shackles, forced to work laying roads, digging trenches, even building the runways for the international airport outside Nairobi. Many died on that project, but still he refused to confess the oath. He was eventually classed as hardcore and sent to Hola for breaking there.'

Now Jon could see the lights had split into two groups. From somewhere in the black sky came the chopping sound of a helicopter. 'I don't know what to call you.'

'Jammer. I'm neither James nor Njama.'

'Well Jammer, we need to discuss what's about to happen. That's an armed response unit coming across the fields.'

Jammer raked a claw across the concrete. 'It's not important. Just listen. Magayu survived the beatings and torture at every camp, but nothing could prepare him for Hola and the rule of

Kiboroboro.'

'Sutton was the camp commander?'

'He had many ways of trying to make prisoners confess. Sometimes he'd put them in coils of barbed wire and kick them round the central square. But his speciality was his Land Rover, Gitune. That means Big Red. The prisoners called it that because it was so covered in blood. Kiboroboro would tie an inmate to the rear bumper by his ankles. Then he'd say, “Last chance to talk, Nugu.” That means baboon. If they didn't, he'd drive round and round the camp perimeter until the body was just pulp.'

Jon remembered Clegg describing how Sutton had dragged the carcass of the dog back to its owners in the same way. Behind Jammer heads began to peer round the corners of the courtyard. They disappeared for a moment. Then armed officers ran out, forming a line. An amplified voice boomed out. 'Drop your weapons and move away from the officer!'

Jammer crouched lower. 'Because my grandfather was literate, he was given basic tasks in the camp office. He learned Kiboroboro's real name from memoranda he saw there. He also stole paper and smuggled out letters detailing the atrocities. They went to people in authority, both in Kenya and here, in Britain. He knew the letters reached their intended recipients.'

'How?'

'Because the people he wrote to returned them to the camp, demanding to know how such letters had leaked out. The treatment of prisoners was sanctioned at the very highest levels. They signed his death warrant. Kiboroboro tied him to the back of Gitune.'

'Jon, are you injured?'

He glanced over Jammer's shoulder, saw Rick by the left hand wall. He gave a slow shake of his head. 'It's OK. We're talking.' The same loud voice again. 'I repeat, move away from the officer!'

'Shut up!' Jon shouted back. 'Listen, Jammer, we can talk about all this later. At this moment in time, it's more important you don't get shot.'

Jammer smiled. 'I said in my letter that death doesn't scare me. You know, when I met my relatives in Nairobi, I realised they were from a different world. Thing is, I don't belong here either. Children's homes and white parents. All my life I wondered about where I was from, who I was. My eyes, my nose, my hair. My anger. Where did it come from? On Sundays in the children's home I would hide when other kids' parents came to visit. I was so jealous. And when I found out the truth, it made me even angrier. Kerrigan raped my mother, but it was people like Sutton who really created me. You know what my grandmother's work detail in Kamiti was? Burying dead bodies, even though she was pregnant. They brought them to Kamiti by the truckload from surrounding camps. She gave birth to my mother, then bled to death in the bunk house. The guards' first question when they unlocked the doors each morning was always, “How many have died?”'