Burning Angels

67

By Western standards, the Miracle Medical Centre was a dirty, run-down dump of a place. But to the people here, it was clearly about as good as it got. As they queued to see the doctor, Jaeger, Narov and Dale got some very strange looks. A crowd of kids had gathered, peering in and pointing.

Alex went to fetch some roast corncobs. He broke them into fist-sized lengths, offering the first to Jaeger. Once they’d stripped off the juicy maize grains, the kids took turns using the cores to juggle, laughing the whole time. Simon Chucks Bello turned out to be the biggest joker of all. He finished his juggling act with a mad shuffling dance that had everyone in stitches. In fact they were making so much racket that the doctor had to lean out of his window and tell them to keep it down.

No one seemed overly concerned about Peter. It was then that it struck Jaeger that getting sick like this – practically on the brink of death – was normal for these guys. It happened all the time. So you had no money for medical fees? Who did around here? And what were the chances of some white guy pitching up to whisk you off to hospital? Pretty near zero.

Having run some basic tests, the doctor explained that most likely Peter had malaria and typhoid. They would have to keep him in for a week, just to ensure that he pulled through. Jaeger knew what the doctor was also driving at. It would be costly.

‘How much?’ he asked.

‘Nine hundred and fifty Kenyan shillings,’ the doctor replied.

Jaeger did a quick bit of mental arithmetic. That was less than fifteen American dollars. He handed the doctor a thousand-shilling note, and thanked him for all he had done.

As they left, a young nurse came running after them. Jaeger wondered what was wrong. Maybe they’d decided to add on some extras, as he’d seemed so easy with the fees.

She held out her hand. In it was a fifty-shilling note. She’d come to give him his change.

Jaeger stared at the note in amazement. Mburu had been right. That kind of honesty, in the midst of all of this – it was humbling. He handed the money to Simon Bello.

‘Here. Treat yourself and the guys to another soda.’ He ruffled the kid’s hair. ‘So, are we good? Are you okay to hang with us for a while? Or do we need to go seek permission from your father?’

Simon frowned. ‘My father?’

‘Your and Peter’s dad.’

He gave Jaeger a look. ‘Duh. Peter – he’s not my brother brother. He’s my ghetto brother. Me – I don’t have anyone. I’m an orphan. I thought you knew that. Julius Mburu is the nearest I got to family.’

Jaeger laughed. ‘All right. You got me.’ The kid was smart, as well as having attitude. ‘But are you good to come with us now we’ve got your ghetto brother sorted?’

‘Yeah. I guess. As long as Julius is okay with it.’

They made their way back towards the vehicle, Jaeger falling into step with Narov and Dale. ‘The kid’s testimony – in terms of nailing Kammler, it’s key. But where can we take him? Somewhere utterly away from it all where we can hide him?’

Dale shrugged. ‘He’s got no passport, no papers – not even a birth certificate. He doesn’t know how old he is or when he was born. So he’s not exactly travelling anywhere far any time soon.’

Jaeger cast his mind back to something Falk Konig had said in passing. He glanced at Narov. ‘Remember that place Konig mentioned? Amani. Remote, isolated beach retreat. Totally private.’ He turned to Dale. ‘Amani Beach Resort, set on the Indian Ocean way south of Nairobi. You think you can check it out? If it looks right, can you take him there, at least until we get his papers sorted?’

‘It’s got to be better than here, that’s for sure.’

They turned up an alleyway, heading for the dirt road. All of a sudden, Jaeger heard the wail of a siren. He sensed the figures to either side of him stiffen, their eyes going wide with fear. Seconds later, the sharp crack of a pistol shot rang out. One shot, close, and echoing along the twisting alleyway. Feet thundered in all directions – some running away from the trouble, but others – mainly youths – running towards it.

‘Cops,’ Simon Bello hissed.

He gestured for Jaeger and the others to join him, as he stole ahead and crouched at the far corner.

‘You doubt anything I told you; you doubt the cops could do what they did to me: watch.’ He jabbed a finger in the direction of the gathering crowd.

Jaeger spotted a Kenyan policeman, pistol in hand. Lying before him was a teenage kid. He’d been shot in the leg and was pleading for his life.

Simon explained what was going down, his voice a tense, tight whisper. He recognised the young guy on the ground. He’d tried to make it as a ghetto gangster, but he’d proved too soft to hack it. He was a layabout, but no big-time villain. As for the cop, he was notorious. The ghetto-dwellers knew him by his nickname: Scalp. It was Scalp who’d led the round-up in which Simon and the other orphans had been captured.

As the seconds ticked by, the ghetto crowd swelled in size, but everyone was fearful of Scalp. He brandished his pistol, screaming at the wounded boy to move. The kid staggered to his feet, swaying on his bloodied leg, his face a mask of pain and terror. Scalp shoved him along the nearby alleyway, towards the top of the hill where the cop cars were waiting, complete with more men with guns.

A spasm of wild rage swept through the crowd. Scalp could sense the threat pulsing all around him. As the cops well knew, the slum could spark into a paroxysm of violence if pushed to the edge.

Scalp started beating the wounded boy with his pistol and yelling at him to move faster. The ghetto crowd surged closer, and all of a sudden Scalp just seemed to lose it. He raised his pistol and shot the young guy in his good leg. Howling in agony, the boy collapsed to the ground.

Some of the crowd rushed forward now, but Scalp brandished his pistol in their faces.

The wounded boy had both his hands up, begging for his life. Jaeger could hear his pitiful pleas for mercy, but Scalp seemed lost in a crazed bloodlust, drunk with the power of the gun. He opened fire again, shooting the boy in the body. Then he bent forward and placed the muzzle of his pistol against his head.

‘He’s dead,’ Simon Bello announced, through gritted teeth. ‘Any second now, he’s dead.’

For an instant the ghetto seemed to hold its breath, and then a shot rang out through the press of bodies, echoing around the fury-filled alleyways.

The crowd lost all control now. Figures surged forward, howling with fury. Scalp raised his weapon and began firing in the air, driving them back. At the same time, he yelled into his radio for backup.

Police reinforcements pounded down the alleyway towards the confrontation. Jaeger could sense that the ghetto was about to explode. The last thing they needed right now was to get caught up in all that. Sometimes, as he’d learned, discretion was the better part of valour.

They needed to save Simon Bello. That was the priority.

He grabbed the kid and, yelling at the others to follow, took to his heels.