‘Screw that, Pav. We’re here to train the bastards, not entertain them.’
I looked back to the fire and went on. ‘Listen. We’ve been chatting up Bakunda. We’ve got him well pissed already. He’s spouted quite a bit. Get some food down your neck and join us. But for fuck’s sake don’t mention this business. I don’t think he realised what happened — or at least, if he did, he doesn’t want to know.’
Whatever the President suspected, no further mention was made of the incident that evening. We continued to hammer the rum, and after a while Joss joined the party, along with Pavarotti, Andy and Genesis. I hadn’t seen Joss drinking before, and now he began to worry me a bit. It may have been that alcohol started to bring out his true character, or it may have been that he was trying to impress the President, or both. In any case, he started saying that the time when Kamanga needed the services of the West was coming to an end.
‘The whole of Africa’s independent now,’ he shouted. ‘We’re in charge of our own destiny.’
‘But you still need blokes like us to help with your military training,’ Phil told him.
‘I wouldn’t be too sure of that,’ said Joss, louder than he need have. ‘This could be the last assignment the SAS gets in Kamanga.’
‘Now then,’ said Bakunda, and he quickly followed up with some remark in his own language. Joss looked abashed and took a big gulp from his mug.
I shot a glance at Whinger and saw he was thinking what I was thinking. Time to change the subject.
I turned to Bakunda, and asked, ‘Ever bought a ticket in our national lottery?’
‘No!’ he shouted merrily. ‘How much can I win?’
‘Millions,’ I told him. ‘Up to ten million, anyway.’
‘Pounds or kwatchas?’
‘Pounds, of course.’
Luckily, the conversation became totally frivolous. We began talking about what we’d do, back home, if we won the main prize. Whinger said he’d buy a pub, Pavarotti that he’d hire Concorde for a private trip round the world and have it stop off in Polynesia while he put in a couple of weeks’ shagging. Genesis that he’d buy an island off the Welsh coast and set up a foundation for religious instruction. Chalky fancied buying a luxury yacht and cruising in the West Indies, and Danny reckoned he’d set himself up in business as an international arms dealer.
‘And what about you, Geordie?’ burped Bakunda. ‘What would you do?’
‘I’d hire one really good guy to go and take out Saddam, and another to sort Gadaffi.’
‘Good!’ Bakunda roared. ‘I like it!’
‘General,’ said Phil, always a bit of a joker, ‘what does choka mean?’
‘Choka!’ Bakunda raised his eyebrows. ‘That’s quite a rude word. Who said that?’
‘I dunno,’ said Phil innocently. ‘I heard it somewhere.’
‘Well, it means “piss off’, to put it politely.’
‘Thanks,’ went Phil, who’d known that all along. ‘It might be useful, sometimes. And General, can I ask why you’re called Rhino?’
‘Hey!’ Bakunda stuck out a mock-accusing finger. ‘Who told you that?’
‘Can’t remember.’
‘Since we’re all friends, I’ll tell you. Partly it’s this.’ He held out his hands to indicate the width of his torso. ‘Partly it’s because when I was at Sandhurst, I took up rugby. I can see you smiling, but I did. I thought it was wonderful, how all these white wogs were murdering one another on the field. I reckoned that if I joined in I could maybe smash one or two of them. Nothing personal, you understand. Anyway, once I ran into someone — poom!’ He smacked one fist into his other open palm to illustrate the impact. ‘The opposing centre three-quarter. He went straight up in the air, and was laid out cold. When he came round, he said, “Christ! That was like being charged by a bloody rhino!”’
At around 2300 I decided I’d had enough. It was clear no serious discussion would take place until we held a wash-up on our own in the morning. I knew the President’s aides had sorted out somewhere for him to sleep, so I had no compunction about making my excuses. Then, just as I was leaving the fire, a thought struck me.
‘If you come from this village, General,’ I said, ‘you must know the witch doctor.’
‘The sin’ganga? Old Chilukole? Of course. What about him?’
It seemed too late to start on the saga of the dead boy, so I just asked, ‘What d’you think of his spells?’
‘Why, has he witched somebody?’
‘Not that I know of, but I wondered if he can foretell the future. Doesn’t he do something with bones?’
The President’s manner changed. It was as if my question had let the wind out of him. His boisterous good humour vanished, and all at once he looked serious, even alarmed. ‘Did he make a prophecy, some forecast?’
‘No, no.’ Suddenly feeling bad vibrations, I decided to turn the enquiry into a joke. ‘I just thought he might tell us how to win the lottery.’
‘Steer clear of him,’ said Bakunda heavily. ‘You never know what trouble that old devil might stir up.’
I said nothing else, but secretly felt glad that I’d binned the dose formulated to ward off evil. I’d sent the witch doctor five dollars, as agreed, but next morning, instead of taking the medicine, I threw it into the fire, where it went off with a miniature explosion and a spurt of bright green flame.
FIVE
As our little convoy rolled south, Whinger and I had plenty of time to discuss the situation. The morning after the ambush, Bakunda had been up at dawn, none the worse for having put away half a bottle of rum on top of ten or fifteen beers. Far from sporting a hangover, he’d come out, cocked a leg, executed a couple of rhino-power farts, and gone off chatting and laughing with his officers, handing out zikomos and compliments all round.
The fact that one of the Kamangans had lost his head didn’t seem to worry him in the least. He knew what had happened, all right; I had overheard him talking to Joss about the incident. But when I cornered Joss about it after breakfast, and suggested we should recover the body, the answer was, ‘Forget it, Geordie. All our guys knew Chidombo had been witched by a fiti. Sooner or later he was going to die. Now he’s dead, no one would touch his body even if we went looking for it. They think the spell might jump into them. Anyway, it’s probably gone already.’
‘Eaten by animals, you mean?’
Instead of answering straight, Joss gave me a peculiar look, half evasive, half angry. Then, after a pause, he said, ‘Maybe the devil’s got it.’
I wasn’t sure what he meant. There was something odd about his manner. He didn’t sound quite himself. But I sensed there was no point in arguing. The strange thing was that when Pavarotti had gone out with a recovery party to bring back the targets, he’d found no trace of a body. He, if anyone, knew exactly where the scuffle had taken place, and while the Kamangans had collected the figure-eights, he’d gone straight to the spot. As he said, if hyenas had eaten Chidombo, he’d have found traces of blood and chips of crunched-up bone — probably the head, too, or at least the remains of it. In the event, there was nothing — not even any flies around the place. It was as if something had lifted the body whole and whisked it clean away.
As Pav had reported this back, I felt the hair on my neck creep. We’d been getting too many stories about the devil using owls and hyenas for transport, too much stuff about witching.
‘Don’t mention it at the wash-up,’ I had warned Pav. ‘If one of the Africans starts in about it, okay, but otherwise, let it go. I reckon they’ll bin the whole episode and pretend it never happened.’