The Constant Gardener

"You're history, Donohue. You think countries run the fucking world! Go back to fucking Sunday school. It's "God save our multinational" they're singing these days. And here's another thing you can tell your friends Mr. Coleridge and Mr. Quayle and whoever else you're lining up against me. Kenny K loves Africa — " a sweep of the whole upper body took in the picture window and the lake bathed in silken moonlight — "it's in his fucking blood! And Kenny K loves his drug! And Kenny K was put on earth to get his drug to every African man, woman and child who needs it! And that's what he's going to do, so fuck the lot of you! And if somebody sets himself up to stand in the way of science, he's only got himself to blame. Because I can't stop those boys, not anymore, and nor can you. Because that drug has been tried and tested all ways up by the best brains money can buy bar none. And not one of them — " the voice soaring to a crescendo of hysterical menace — "not one of them has found a fucking word to say against it or will. Ever! Now fuck off."

As Donohue did as he was bidden, a furtive cacophony of haste broke out around him. Shadows sidled into the corridors, dogs barked and a chorus of telephones began their chant.

* * *

Stepping into the fresh air, Donohue paused to let the night smells and sounds of Africa wash him clean. He was, as ever, unarmed. A ragged veil of cloud had spread itself across the stars. In the glare of the security lights the acacia trees were paper yellow. He heard nightjars and the braying of a zebra. He peered slowly round, forcing his gaze to rest longest on the darkest places. The house stood on a high terrace and behind it lay the lake and before it a tarmac sweep, which by moonlight resembled a deep crater. His car stood at the center of it. From habit he had parked it clear of the surrounding undergrowth. Unsure whether he had glimpsed a moving shadow he remained motionless. He was thinking, oddly enough, of Justin. He was thinking that if Curtiss was right, and Justin had in quick succession been in Italy, Germany and Canada, traveling on a false passport, then this was a Justin he didn't know, but had in recent weeks come to suspect might exist: Justin the loner, taking nobody's orders but his own; Justin impassioned and on the warpath, determined to uncover what, in an earlier life, he might have helped to cover up. And if that was who Justin was these days, and that was the task he had set himself, then where better to start looking than here, at the lakeside residence of Sir Kenneth Curtiss, importer and distributor of "my drug"?

Donohue took a half pace toward his car and, hearing a sound close to him, stopped in midstride and laid his foot oh-so-softly on the tarmac. What are we playing, Justin? Grandmother's Footsteps? Or are you just another colobus monkey? A tread this time, a palpable footstep behind him. Man or beast? Donohue raised his right elbow in defense and, suppressing a desire to whisper Justin's name, swung round to see Doug Crick standing four feet from him in the moonlight, his hands hanging demonstratively free at his sides. He was a big fellow, as tall as Donohue but half his age, with a wide pale face and fair hair and an appealing if effeminate smile.

"Hullo, Doug," Donohue said. "Keeping well?"

"Very, sir, thank you and I hope I can say the same for you."

"Something I can do for you?"

They were both speaking very quietly.

"Yes, sir. You can drive to the main road, turn toward Nairobi, drive as far as the turnoff to Hell's Gate National Park, which closed an hour ago. It's a dirt road, no lights. I'll meet you there in ten minutes."

Donohue drove down a ride of black grevillea trees to the gatehouse and let the guard shine a torch in his face, then in his car, in case he had stolen the leopard-skin rugs. The kung fu had given way to badly focused pornography. He turned slowly onto the main road, watching for animals and pedestrians. Hooded natives crouched and lay along the verges. Lone walkers with long sticks lifted a slow hand at him or leaped mockingly into his headlights. He kept driving until he saw a smart sign indicating the national park. He stopped, switched off his lights and waited. A car pulled up behind him. He unlocked his passenger door and opened it a foot, making the courtesy light go on. There was no cloud and no moon. Through the windscreen, the stars were double bright. Donohue made out Taurus and Gemini; and after Gemini, Cancer. Crick slipped onto the passenger seat and slammed the door after him, leaving them in pitch darkness.

"The chief's desperate, sir. I haven't seen him like this — well, ever," said Crick.

"I don't suppose you have, Doug."

"He's going a bit screwy, frankly."

"Overwrought, I expect," said Donohue sympathetically.