SS Glasgow Castle 32 Chapter Thirty Two

"Someone' s been here before us."

"It's a popular spot," Kross said lazily. All the same, he switched off the engine and listened for a while.

I listened with him, looking at the mother of all acacias that grew some distance from the bank, but all I heard was a thousand crickets rubbing their hind legs or whatever they do to make noise.

"Popular with whom?" I asked.

"Smugglers. The other sh.o.r.e's in Ghana."

So that was the border! It definitely was a good spot to slip across. I said:

"If it's a popular spot with smugglers, it's bound to be popular with the local cops or whatever."

"It is. They're paid well to stay away."

"But not by you. By the other guys."

"Correct."

"So actually we're saving a bunch in bribe money."

"We don't have any bribe money left," he said. And with these encouraging words, he slipped the Toyota into gear and gave it just enough gas to get it going. He let the truck roll down to the water and inched it across on half-clutch.

The water barely reached the hubcaps, but a couple of times the the crankcase shield screeched horribly as we dragged it over a protruding stone. The stream was so narrow the Toyota could almost straddle it; the back wheels splashed into the water and just a heartbeat later the front wheels. .h.i.t the other bank, the suspension letting out a delighted whinny.

Kross motored up the slight incline at walking speed; I noticed a relatively fresh crumpled cigarette pack lying next to the track and was. .h.i.t by a wave of paranoia - I could swear someone was watching us. Kross must have felt this too: he stopped and killed the engine at the top of the rise and we both sat silently for a while, sonars pinging. A faraway bird shrieked mockingly. The crickets chirped and hissed and zinged; the setting sun dappled the landscape with flickering shadows.

I noticed a couple of very odd-looking hills in the distance: enormous mounds of smooth dark grey rock crowned with a scattering of trees and bushes. They grew out of perfectly flat ground like basalt watermelons. I also saw something move against the dark trunk of a big fat baobab tree that was much closer, maybe two hundred yards away.

I pointed and said:

"There's something or someone over there."

"Yeah. Looks like a cat."

"A leopard?"

"No. They've got a species here that's missing from the books. Small brutes striped reddish brown, not much bigger than a domestic cat, but f.u.c.king fierce - go for a grown man when threatened."

He switched the motor back on and began driving very carefully, at around twenty or so. This was in such contrast to his earlier performance that I thought it slightly comic. I found myself thinking that maybe all those security guys are slightly sick in the head. It stands to reason, doesn't it? Would you want to live in a state of constant paranoia, checking for burglars behind bushes and snipers in treetops and all that s.h.i.t? Might be exciting initially, but it would get old quickly. I wouldn't do it for all the c.o.ke in Colombia.

We hit a dirt road maybe twenty minutes later, just as the sun began its evening light show. It let me forget briefly about security, Avery's loot, my private predicaments; it let me forget about everything and just live for a little while. I'm no different from you; I have many reasons for living (some conflicting); definitely more than reasons not to live. But when all's said and done, I suspect that's what I live for: to see the sun go down yet another time. And so I was staring at the sunset, my eyes p.r.i.c.kling, when Kross took his foot off the accelerator and said:

"Looks like our hotel for tonight."

We parked for the night in a shallow hollow behind the father of all baobabs: a monster tree whose enormous trunk was scarred and scored by at least a couple of centuries of existence. It stood maybe a hundred paces from the dirt road - close enough to hear any pa.s.sing traffic, far enough to breathe easily. The baobab hid us from the road, while the spa.r.s.e savanna shrubs and trees converged to block the Toyota from any other point of view at a longer distance.

Kross switched off the motor and said:

"Okay. We've got only fifteen minutes or so of light left, so let's get cracking." He half-stood up, twisting to reach behind the seats. He retrieved our luggage and dumped it in my surprised lap. Then he pulled out another bag that I'd failed to notice - a greasy, slimy canvas hold-all whose clanking, shifting contents suggested tools. He sat down, zipped it open, and rummaged around for a little while, making mysterious tinkling noises.

"Here," he said, handing me a monkey wrench. Then he gave me a shock: he tossed a vehicle registration plate into my lap.

"Put this on the front," he said. I saw that he was holding a twin plate. I also noted he had equipped himself with a flat spanner. I said:

"What the f.u.c.k is this?"

"It's a Ghanaian registration plate. Vehicles with foreign registration plates routinely get stopped and checked."

"You have the papers to go with this?"

"Don't be f.u.c.king silly." He dumped the bag onto the floor and added:

"Come on. The light's going." He opened his door and jumped out.

I got out of the Toyota the way people get out of funeral cars: slow and dignified. I walked to the front of the truck checking for snakes, mines, and scorpions with every step. I knelt down by the front b.u.mper and stared at the registration plate affixed there. This was crazy.

Kross's spanner clanged against the rear of the truck and I heard him m.u.f.fle a curse. I got to work, making sure I didn't make any noise. Naturally, it was slow going, slowed down still further by the fact that the nuts holding the front registration plate had been welded on with baked dirt. The wrench was loose; its jaw kept slipping. The new plate was white on black, three letters and four digits; the old plate was black on white, two letters and five digits. There definitely was a striking difference, and I could see Kross's point. I was comparing his point and my point when I heard his footsteps approach.

"What are you doing, making a f.u.c.king quilt?"

I maintained a dignified silence while removing the second nut and tugged at the plate. It was stuck.

"Oh for Christ's sake. Move over." I did. I stood over him while he changed plates and fastened the nuts with the speed and ease of a professional mechanic. He said:

"Go and wash your hands. I left a gas-soaked rag for you in the back."

"Are we going to have dinner?"

"Move."

I moved swiftly, spurred by his threatening tone. The rag hung from the tailboard as advertised. My hands were relatively clean but I wiped them again anyway. I heard Kross put the old plates and the tools back into the cab, and f.u.c.k around with the bags inside. I had just carefully re-arranged the rag on the tailboard exactly as I'd found it when Kross came round.

He was carrying his bag, a fat black nylon tube. He set it on the ground and zipped it open. He took out a couple of slightly rumpled squares of folded clothing and thrust them at me without a word. I took them, my lip sagging so low it practically hit the ground. The clothes consisted of an olive green T-shirt and a pair of wicked-looking camouflage pants. I said:

"You want me to wear these?"

"No, I want you to stand there staring at them."
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He pulled off his shirt and I saw his scar. It was an ugly, ragged sickle running from his waist to just below his left t.i.t, an inch-wide band of glistening mashed-banana skin. He looked at me, saw me staring, and said:

"Barbed wire." He pulled his T-shirt over his head, turned round and started unb.u.t.toning his pants. I turned my back too, and changed silently. The T-shirt still smelled faintly of the vinegar they use to fix the colour. The pants had double straps at each side to adjust the waist, and b.u.t.toned cuffs. They fit well.

"No new socks?" I said.

"No. New boots." They were old, heavy brown leather military boots with straps on the high ankle cuffs.

"Look," I said, "Is this all really necessary?"

"Just put them on. We'll talk about it while we eat."

"So that's how you guys dress for dinner," I said, and put them on.

I wondered what to do with my pa.s.sport and wallet - I didn't want to have them on me while wearing this getup - in the end, I hid both in a zipped inside pocket of my bag. I bent down to put on the boots. They fit perfectly. I said:

"They're a perfect fit." I couldn't quite keep the amazement out of my voice, and Kross sounded pleased with himself:

"I know. You and I wear the same size. They're broken in, so you'll find them pretty comfortable."

I stared at him. The corner of his lip twitched with the amus.e.m.e.nt, and he added:

"You keep forgetting it's my job to notice things."