Three Page 17

  The door was closed. I had left Three out in the warehouse. I did not want it to see what I was doing. It still did not know about the bomb.

  It must never know, I thought. Or it will not push the button.

  At last the wire was fixed. I sat back from the table and wiped the sweat from my palms. Then I wiped my eyes. Why was I feeling so bad? Holly’s father had created Three to be a suicide bomber.

  Its destiny was to kill itself.

  I opened the door and called the brid into the kitchen. I made us both a mug of tea. Three said a joke about baby formula – it was not really funny but I pretended to laugh. I had hidden the backpack in one of the high kitchen cupboards. I did not want Three to see it and ask questions. The questions could come later. I still did not know how I would answer them.

  But there was another problem to solve first. It was something I had not considered until this evening. How would Three find Mbuti?

  I knew the general would not go to Nabozi City now that I had run away: he would stay tonight in his big mansion here in the capital. I had been there with my parents on many occasions, to have dinner with Mbuti and his wife. I could take Three there. But it was right over on the far side of town. There was a curfew. Could I risk another trip across the city at night after what had happened last time?

  And even if we got there safely, and Three found its way in past Mbuti’s state-of-the-art alarm system from Germany and his two savage guard dogs (also from Germany), what if Mrs Mbuti got killed in the bomb blast?

  Aaaaee! Even if her husband was a he-goat tyrant and a murderer, ‘Aunt’ Mercy was a good, kind woman. She must not become collateral like my dear Ama.

  So it must be done somewhere else, I thought. And not at night. Where did Mbuti go in the daytime? I remembered meeting him in my father’s office. He had acted like it was his office now – one tyrant ruler replacing another – so mustbe he went there every day. But there were guardsmen there, also. Many of them.

  I had to think of another place – a place where other people would not be killed when the bomb went off.

  ‘Phone ring,’ said Three.

  I put down my mug too fast, splashing tea on the table. The brid was right – a faint ring-ring noise came from out in the warehouse. Holly is calling me! I thought. She remembers! Suddenly I was no longer in the kitchen, I was running fast-fast through the dark warehouse towards Three’s and my hiding place.

  I found Holly’s phone on one of the high boxes where I had left it. It was not ringing, and now I remembered the flat battery. But the ring-ring noise continued. It came from down near my feet. I felt in the darkness and found the jacket I had swapped for my football jersey. In the inner pocket was a phone.

  ‘Hello?’ I said.

  ‘Good evening,’ said a man’s voice, very polite. ‘Is that Sunday Balewo?’

  I hesitated. ‘Who is that?’

  ‘My name is George Keita. You gave me your football jersey today. I gave you my jacket.’

  ‘Is this your phone?’ I asked.

  ‘Yes. I forgot it was in the jacket when I gave it to you. Do you mind if I came and collected it?’

  It was dangerous to tell people where I was hiding. ‘I will bring it to you,’ I said. ‘Where do you live?’

  He gave me his address and told me how to get there. It was not far.

  I asked, ‘Is there a mailbox?’

  ‘Yes. Mine is 5E.’

  ‘I will put it in there.’

  ‘You are very kind,’ he said. ‘But take care, Sunday – it was on the government radio that General Mbuti is looking for you.’

  He will not find me, I thought. But I will find him.

  And suddenly I knew the place.

  ‘What day is it tomorrow?’ I asked.

  ‘Saturday,’ said George Keita.

  ‘Do you have a car?’

  37

  One Important Thing

  George Keita met me at nine o’clock the next morning in a deserted lane behind the warehouse. He did not own a car; it was a red-and-silver Dayun 125cc motorbike that would take us to find Mbuti.

  As well as a white crash helmet, George wore a pale blue T-shirt, blue jeans and dark glasses. I was glad that he was not wearing my football jersey, for I did not want people to take notice of us. A second white helmet dangled from his arm.

  ‘Put this on, Sunday,’ he said, sitting on his Dayun with the engine running.

  I buckled on the helmet with my back turned to George, so he would not see the lump in the front of his old jacket, where Three’s backpack was zipped tightly inside.

  ‘Someone else will be coming with us,’ I said over my shoulder.

  George did not reply. Mightbe he was looking around for the other passenger.

  ‘I hope that is okay?’ I asked.

  ‘I only brought one helmet,’ said George.

  ‘It is a baboon.’

  ‘Pardon?’

  ‘It is a baboon,’ I repeated, louder. ‘It will not need a helmet.’

  ‘You are joking!’

  I made a low whistle and Three came from behind a broken fence where I had told it to hide. It wore a pale brown raincoat with a hood that I had found hanging behind a door in the warehouse office. Mightbe it belonged to Mrs Parr. It was too big for Three, who now looked like one of those Jawa aliens from the first Star Wars movies.

  ‘Do not worry,’ I said to George. ‘It is tame.’

  I had warned Three not to speak. It came shuffling towards us and stopped about three metres distant.

  George was staring at Three. ‘I heard something about baboons setting off bombs.’

  ‘That is just lies!’ I said, more sharply than I had meant to. It was bad to talk of bombs in front of Three. ‘Here is your phone, George.’

  While he checked his phone for messages, I quickly climbed onto the back of the motorbike. Then I beckoned to Three, who jumped on behind me and circled me with its strong arms. I moved them a bit down from where the backpack was.

  ‘Mind your tail, Three,’ I said. ‘Do not let it get caught in the wheel.’

  ‘Pardon?’ said George, turning his helmet to hear me.

  ‘Nothing. I was talking to the baboon.’

  I heard George laugh. ‘Hold on tight!’ he called above the noise of the revving Dayun. ‘Next stop: the golf course.’

  I had never ridden on a motorbike before and I thought it could be fun. But it was not fun today; not when I knew what lay ahead.

  I hoped my guess was right. Mbuti used to play golf most Saturday mornings with my father, Mr Kimutai, Mr Sekibo and one or two other Big Men. Sometimes one or other of them could not go, but always there were others to play in their place. It seemed most unlikely that Mbuti would have murdered all his golfing companions.

  Please be at golf today, murderer! I thought.

  For surely there could be no better place than a golf course to explode a bomb without killing innocent people.

  I could feel the weight of the little backpack inside my jacket as we rode. The red button was turned inwards, so it could not be pressed by mistake. But there was no real danger of that happening – I had tested the button before I fixed the wire, and it had to be pressed quite hard.

  I hoped that Three would not mess up.

  Feeling his warm arms around my body, a chill touched my heart and I had to remind myself of what Mr Ibori had told me. Three had been created in a laboratory. Its very existence was a crime against God.

  ‘It must be destroyed!’ the journalist had said.

  My parents’ murderer also must be destroyed, I vowed.

  Both things would bring justice to Earth and to Heaven.

  George was a careful rider. We did not go fast. And he stayed off the big busy roads wherever possible, like we had agreed on the phone. At one stage, when a fast truck came close up behind us, George turned quickly down a side street so the driver would not have too long to look at the strange, Jawa-like figure on the back of the motorbike in fro
nt of him.

  George was doing me a huge favour today and I felt very bad for lying to him about the baboons with bombs. But what would he do if he knew there was a bomb inside my jacket? A bomb that might explode if we fell off or had an accident? Aaaaee! I had no right to put his life in such danger.

  But I had every right to do what I planned to do. My parents’ murderer fully deserved to die.

  And Three had no rightful place on this Earth.

  The golf course was five kilometres beyond the last of the city’s sprawling slums. George rode slowly-slowly along the final stretch of road. It was lined with yellow-trunked fever trees and had many deep ruts and potholes. We passed a troop of about thirty baboons, all walking in a line along the road’s edge. They took no notice of us, but I felt Three’s arms become more tight around me.

  I gently squeezed one of its hands. ‘You will be okay, buddy,’ I said inside my helmet.

  But of course the brid did not hear.

  And of course it would not be okay.

  When we reached the tall iron gates of Zantuga International Golf Club, George remembered what I had said on the phone and rode slowly-slowly past without turning his head. But I turned my eyes. A pair of bored-looking security guards held shotguns. They watched us go past. I hoped Three had its hood pulled up. A little further along, I got a clear view through the cyclone-wire fence of the clubhouse in the distance. Built of marble and imported bluestone, and surrounded by leafy trees and green-green grass, it looked like a country palace somewhere in England or Europe. The windscreens of several parked cars flashed silver in the morning sunshine.

  And under the portico behind the other cars, just visible in the shade of the building, stood a long, black limousine.

  I waited until a curve in the road took our motorbike behind some trees where the guards at the gate could no longer see us, then I tapped George on the shoulder.

  ‘Anywhere along here will do,’ I called above the noise of the engine.

  He stopped at the edge of the road and held the Dayun steady while Three and I got off. I unbuckled my helmet.

  ‘Thank you very much for all your help,’ I said.

  George took the spare helmet and threaded his left arm through the two holes. His own helmet swivelled from side to side, as if he was looking for the reason why I had come to this lonely place. But there was nothing to see but the road, the tall cyclone-wire fence and about ten thousand trees.

  ‘Do you want me to wait?’ he asked.

  ‘No. I am meeting someone. We will be okay.’

  George shrugged. He held out his hand for a handshake. ‘It was an honour to meet you, Sunday Balewo. I wish you well.’

  Shaking his hand, I was grateful that not once had he called me Magic Feet. That part of my life was finished. ‘I wish you well, also, George Keita.’

  I waited until he and his motorbike were out of sight, then I led Three over to the fence. A square metal sign was sewn to it with wire.

  PRIVATE PROPERTY

  TRESPASSERS WILL BE SHOT

  I wondered if that was true. Was it okay to shoot trespassers? Was it legal? I began to sweat inside George’s jacket. There was so much about my country that I did not know. I had been the son of the president for close to seventeen years, yet I had taken so little interest in what was truly important.

  But today I would do one important thing.

  ‘Are you able to climb over this fence?’ I said to Three.

  ‘Can I take off the coat?’ it asked.

  ‘Yes, take it off.’ I tried to smile. ‘You look ridiculous in it!’

  38

  Part-Monkey

  Three climbed over the fence easily. But for me it was more difficult. I was not part-monkey. And the fence was higher than my head, with several strands of barbed wire running along the top. I flopped Mrs Parr’s coat over a section of it to cover the barbs, but still I cut my leg in two places and badly ripped the sleeve of George’s jacket.

  ‘You are bleeding,’ Three said when I joined it on the other side.

  ‘It is just a scratch.’

  ‘Two scratches.’

  ‘Okay, two scratches,’ I said irritably. ‘Follow me.’ A thin strip of native bushland had been left growing along the fence. But after mightbe thirty metres it ended, and it was like seeing another country. There was smooth green grass, little lakes with ducks swimming on them and green leafy trees that looked like they belonged in America or England. Scattered across this peaceful landscape were several groups of men playing golf. Three and I spied on them from behind the trunk of a spiny camel thorn tree.

  ‘I wish I had binoculars,’ I whispered.

  ‘What Sunday want see?’ asked Three.

  ‘General Mbuti.’

  Three pointed at a motorised golf cart that moved slowly down a fairway about 400 metres from our hiding place. ‘Lionel in little car.’

  ‘How do you know?’

  ‘Can see with eyes.’

  All my eyes could see was a tiny white cart with three – or was it four? – human figures crowded beneath its sun canopy.

  I glanced at my companion’s unnatural blue eyes and thought: God did not make you! Then I looked quickly away.

  ‘Come with me, Three. I want to get closer to him.’

  We moved cautiously through the strip of Zantugan bush in the same direction as Mbuti’s golf cart. Soon we were closer, but another fairway and a little lake still separated us. The cart stopped near a putting green and four men got out. We were near enough now for the eyes that God gave me to see that one of the men was Mbuti. He wore a bright yellow shirt and white trousers. His hat also was white and looked like one of those big-brimmed ones worn by cow farmers in America. I watched him hit towards the flag. It was too far to see the ball. Two of his companions lowered their own golf clubs and clapped. The fourth man did not clap. He wore the green uniform of the President’s Guard. Instead of a golf club, he held a little Uzi sub-machine gun.

  Aaaaee! I had not expected Mbuti to have a bodyguard today. It would make my task more difficult. But it would not stop me. I would get justice for the murder of my parents, no matter what was to happen. Mightbe I also would die, along with Mbuti and Three, but I was no longer afraid. All the good things in this life – Ama and Baba, Holly, football – had been taken from me. I was ready for the next life.

  I watched Mbuti and the two other golfers take turns to putt for the hole. One man had four tries. It was boring. Now that the time was near to get revenge on my parents’ murderer, I did not want to lie in the prickly thorn-scrub doing nothing, while the flies and ants fed on my scratched leg as if they could not wait for somebody to die.

  At last the four men climbed back into the golf cart and drove a short distance to the next tee. When they got out of the cart with their clubs, they faced in our direction. One of Mbuti’s companions hit first. I could not see the ball, only the silver flash of his golf club as it turned in the sun. Nothing happened for several seconds, then a little white ball bounce-bounced on the grass no more than fifty metres from where Three and I lay.

  Until now, I had been spying on the men playing golf, but I had not paid attention to the layout of the course. There was a putting green close enough to make out a black number three printed on the little red flag that fluttered above the hole. This was the one that Mbuti and his companions were aiming for.

  Hole number three, I thought. It was a sign.

  Mbuti hit next. Again the flash of the club, again the bounce-bounce of the ball. But the general had not hit straight. After a third bounce, his ball rolled down a steep slope into a little grassy hollow beneath a tree. It was a big tree, with wide branches and many large green leaves.

  Surely God had chosen this place!

  I turned to Three. ‘Remember how Mustafa told you I was “target”?’

  ‘Sunday not target,’ it said.

  ‘True,’ I whispered. ‘I am not target. Now General Mbuti is target.’

  Care
fully I unzipped my jacket. Three watched in silence as I pulled out the little backpack. My fingers were unsteady.

  And so was my voice when I spoke: ‘Put this on, Three. Be careful not to touch the button.’

  I was scared that it would ask questions, but the brid remained silent as I helped get its long, hairy arms through the tight shoulder straps.

  ‘See the big tree where the last ball stopped?’ I pointed. ‘I want you to run over there and climb up into the branches. Hide up there and make sure nobody will see you from the ground. When General Mbuti comes to hit his ball, jump down next to him and press the button.

  ‘But only do it if he is alone,’ I added. ‘If anyone is with him, stay up in the tree and do not touch the button.’

  Now Three asked the question that I had both expected and dreaded: ‘What will happen when press button?’

  ‘Nothing. It is a joke I am playing on Lionel.’

  ‘Three get reward after?’

  ‘Mightbe,’ I said, looking away from its trusting blue eyes. ‘If you do it properly.’

  ‘Three do proper,’ it said.

  ‘I know you will, buddy.’ I patted it on the shoulder that did not have the red button. ‘Now go quick-quick and hide in that tree before anyone comes.’

  Three left the strip of native bushland and went scampering off across the open green grass towards the tree. I looked anxiously in the direction of the four men, but if any of them saw Three, they paid it no attention. Their human eyes would not see the backpack from so far away. The brid would just look like a normal baboon.

  But Three was anything but a normal baboon.

  I watched it reach the tree undetected. Then it scrambled up into the branches and disappeared from sight.

  Abomination, I thought.

  39

  Right From Wrong

  The third golfer hit his ball into a small lake on the far side of the fairway. They drove the cart to the edge of the lake and climbed out. Everyone stood looking down at the water. There was much talk and laughter. Finally, the guardsman sat down on the bank and removed his boots and socks. Leaving the Uzi sub-machine gun next to his boots, he rolled up his trousers and waded out into the shallow lake.