Revenge is a Killer

Chapter 1

In the guerilla camp

It was dark. Moving slowly and continuously watching all around for movement he advanced towards the base of the rock. The ground was damp and smelt of recent rain on earth. He was careful to avoid the puddles and any sound of splashing. Coming across a hut he could hear faint sounds of distant music. This was the radio hut and having found it he tried to steer clear of it, but as he turned he could hear noises inside and paused to take it in. Satisfied the sounds came from a radio station he moved on, keeping an eye on the hut and the light shining within. As he moved silently past he became even more aware of the stillness of the camp and the complete lack of movement. Even the air was still. He could make out a couple of people a good way off in the open but they seemed to be sleeping. He moved on quietly. Walking more naturally now, he made his way between two huts but was then startled, suddenly by a figure standing beside him.

The figure was a man, seemingly woken from his dozing by some unintended noise. Expecting to find one of the guards who were supposed to stay with the prisoners and to need to assert his authority he was astonished to come to the side of the hut and find himself face to face with a white man. At first he was completely taken aback but then in a low voice he exclaimed some well-rehearsed profanity just before the man hit him.

The first man, Alex Ward, heard a couple of words he did not recognise but it didn’t matter. He was face to face with a man, a big man, and before he could pull away he realised the man was swaying, in fact lunging toward him, Alex pulled back his fist and hit him. It landed well but the noise of the man falling against a chair and then slamming to the ground seemed like a cannon going off, Alex was on the man before he could recover but this fellow was agile and twisted out of his grip, reaching behind him for something. In a split second Alex grabbed a large stone off the ground and careered into the fellow bringing his stone-laden hand up from the ground and smashing it into the fellow’s face. This was only a nanosecond before the clump of wood the man now held landed on Alex’s left ear and across the side of his head. The pain was excruciating and he grabbed at his ear. The wetness he felt in his hand was blood, his blood, but his attention was now fully on the other person, who had temporarily fallen back dazed and had hit his head on the wooden base of the hut, hard enough to stun himself. Alex was reeling in his own pain as he stumbled to the right and then turned full circle before rushing forward and pounded the head of his attacker twice with the stone. As the man died Alex suddenly realised his exposure. He stopped and looked around before instinctively ducking down out of sight. He was breathing hard but simply couldn’t control his need for more air. The noise had seemed like the rush of water tumbling down a waterfall but it had not attracted any attention except a couple of dogs sounding off and being chastised by their owners. But the man was lifeless, he was indeed dead.

Shaken and bleeding from the side of his head, Alex paused and double checked the body before rolling it over to the side of the hut so that it was close to the wooden base. He didn’t want to stay exposed there or create any more noise. But moving the body he could now see it was the body of young man, a boy even, whose height and age had been exaggerated by the wooden hut surround that had given him an extra 6 inches and made him seem much bigger, Alex felt sick, partly with revulsion and partly with fear and the realisation this lifeless body could so easily have been him. He’d never been close to killing someone before and he was surprised he didn’t feel bad about it. He felt quite matter of fact, ‘either he killed me or I killed him’ he thought. He moved onto the wooden platform surrounding the hut and peered inside the doorway. No one else there, he walked in and looked around, a table about six feet by four and a couple of chairs, a make shift bed on one side. A large rifle lay on the table with a large half round magazine and a hollow metal shoulder grip.

Below the table were the bags used to take the passengers’ possessions and one lay open on the floor, the contents spilling loose. Alex ran his hands through the contents but stopped, realizing he wasn’t really interested. Near the door was an open bottle of booze, he picked it up and smelt it, a local hooch of some sort, then took a swig and winced at the awful taste. In the corner he could see some crumpled uniforms and an open box inside which he found two hand grenades, a broken mirror and an unmarked tin that looked like a sardine can. He left the broken mirror and pocketed the rest. At the doorway he waited, looking for signs of any movement. Seeing it was clear he went back in, covered the body with a blanket and then sat down with his head held between his hands. He leant back against the wall and tried to think how he got here to this, killing a young boy. The world was messed up. He didn’t know by how much, but he knew he was now in Zimbabwe with 13 other hostages and no way of knowing what would happen next, what rules he’d need to follow to survive or even if there were any rules.

Earlier that night far to the north in Harare, two cars and a van pulled up at a house in the suburbs to the west of the city. The van driver stayed in his seat as the occupants of the cars got out. Eight men, armed and determined to do their job. Four of them went round to the back of the house and two walked up to the front door, the other two stay in the road in case of trouble. After a few minutes the men at the front door knocked twice. It was late and there was no immediate answer but soon enough there was a noise inside and the door opened on a chain. The men kicked the door open and burst in. The man inside was pushed back by their assault then grabbed and pulled to the doorway. He called out ‘No, no. I’ve done nothing!’.

They hit him and dragged him away. At the top of the stairs his wife and three children look on in fear and silence.

The man is taken in the back door of a police station where he is then stripped and beaten. He holds out for several hours but eventually he cannot stand the pain any longer. Crying real tears he admits that he and his family were planning to leave the next day; but he manages to give them the wrong destination, even though he knows he will die for it. His was one of three families trying to get away, to get out, just to have some peace and make a better life for their children.

Back at his house, his wife had quickly gathered the last of her things and her children as soon as he was taken, She had told the children to wait at the doorway while she ventured outside. She had looked up and down the road then waved the children out to her without looking back at them. They had set off, knowing they would be at the rendezvous early but not caring so long as they were long gone by the time the police broke her husband and returned to capture her and the children. She was now in fear of their lives and she never expected to see her husband again. Inside she too cried but the safety of her children came before her own grief, Delores Coomine would mourn when they were safe.

~ ~ ~

Chapter 2

Just outside Harare, Zimbabwe

On the 11th March 2007 the two Zimbabwean families met as agreed at 7 am at the back a small bottling plant just north of the town. Delores had been there most of the night with her children, they had slept a little but she had not. When they arrived she had taken the children and walked across and down the road, sat them down next to a broken down car and covered them with a blanket to hide them. As the other family arrived, the air seemed hot. The gradual build-up of heat started early each day, but in fact this day was a little fresher than some despite the tail end of the rainy season continuing to linger. The heat they were feeling came from within, a reaction to their desperate quest to escape the country and the oppression that they lived their daily lives by.

Originally they all had different plans for exiting Zimbabwe but they got nervous when some of them thought they were being followed. The news that Delores’ husband, Kenna, had been picked up last night by armed men and not returned had travelled quickly but the fugitives reluctantly accepted their fate was already sealed. They must stay together. A good part of the night had been spent travelling between their homes and repeatedly discussing their options. They had decided to use a 28 seat bus to transport them out of Zimbabwe into Botswana and from there to South Africa. There would be 20 of them and those who were there had arrived with cases and belongings and there were still three to arrive but it was already obvious they would not fit everything into the bus. Some of the women used small fans, more from habit than in real need this early in the day. They all wore traditional clothes, old, drab-looking garments that would make sure they didn’t stand out. One of their problems was making the journey overland without being noticed. It was some 490 kilometres (just over 300 miles) but they would need to travel more than double this distance to avoid suspicion. There were also a few regions still flooded from the recent rainy season so the remaining roads would be fuller and more likely to be used by the security forces too. The bus would use normal bus routes whenever they could and travel at normal traffic speed.

Three men talked quietly and quickly. Although English is the official language they spoke in Shona, the native tongue still widespread in Zimbabwe, but stopped abruptly as a green van arrived. It pulled up behind the bus, very close to the back of it. A young girl in her early twenties stepped out from the passenger side, she was one of the three they were waiting for, but the driver stayed in his seat. The party knew him but he was not one of them. Like the other women the young girl wore a head scarf and simple clothes but on her slim frame it looked very becoming.

A man wearing traditional clothes approached her, ‘Who is this?’ He said to her pointing to the driver, fear and disbelief written all over his face.

‘He is with me, he is coming with us, if he can’t come then I do not go! He has this van and fuel and we can take the bags, look there are too many of them. We will follow and stay half a mile or so behind. He is educated, a teacher. We will be together.’

Silently the man turned to exchange a look with the others; two of the women secured their fans in their belts and picked up their bags and made for the van. It was decided.

The first man walked to the driver’s door. ‘Do you know what you are doing?’ The driver’s face was young, lean and taut. He was in his mid-twenties but like many Zimbabweans he looked older. You aged fast and died young in a country where a man’s life expectancy was only 37 and getting younger as AIDS and HIV spread. But it was the other life type traumas that really aged people. The political and social injustices that constantly intervened in people’s lives. The driver gave a slow nod back but said nothing. There were now 19 of them, and as they loaded the cases and bags the last two arrived, 21 of them again.

It was another 20 minutes before they were ready to leave. Their plan was to drive a zig zag route southwards and when they were past the southern end of Maboto National Park they would meet a man who would help them dart across to the west and enter Botswana. They set off, all nervous and tense, looking out for anything unusual or threatening; when they spoke they spoke fast and in low voices.

They were used to tension. They lived by the grace of others and whereas things had once been manageable, life had gradually become decidedly worse and now unbearable. Since 2001 there had been a hardening of attitude from the government and even small indiscretions on the wrong day brought terrible penalties. So many of their relatives, friends and people that they knew had suffered beatings or even made the ultimate sacrifice with their lives.

There were only two choices. Either you supported the government, proactively or passively, or you got out. The people could not give up their beliefs or pretend that the injustices and human rights issues did not exist, but it was impossible to try to voice dissent from within the country.

*

Their route took them threw some wonderful country. Wild nature at its best, untouched by plough or tarmac. The trees at the start of the journey were mostly mahogany and baobab, later they would see teak, knobthorn and msasa and the Hares were scarce here but in abundance once they were free of the towns influence. Occasionally they saw a giraffe but the more subtle signs of animals were lost given their speed and route along the main roads. The countryside, the new beginnings of life starting to sprout after the rains, were all lost on them. They were terrified to go and terrified to stay.

~ ~ ~

Chapter 3

Heathrow Airport

For Alex it started at the airport. He walked into the airport departure area and looked for a seat. He was early as he had travelled down from Manchester the day before to avoid delays and looking around the lounge he saw plenty of empty spaces. He viewed the three departure assemble points at the gate. Only one would be used but which one? He looked beyond them through the floor to ceiling windows where a plane sat on the runway off to the left, and at the corresponding desk was a radio handset and clipboard. He moved over to the left and sat directly in front of the desk. He stretched backwards, encouraging his muscles to relax, feeling the pleasant ache of yesterday’s workout. He had on a linen suit which he was not entirely happy with given it was already showing creases and lines of wear despite this being its first outing. His phone rang, ‘Hello Anne, leave me alone,’ he said in a straight voice.

A shriek of laughter came down the line followed by ‘Oh please say something has come up and you can’t come.’

‘Believe me it is as much a regret to me as you. What am I doing? I must be mad! I’m only in the departure lounge and I’m regretting it already.’

‘Yeah well it’s too late, have you got my phone? That’s the important thing, not you, just my phone.’

‘Yes I have that piece of slate and chalk you claim is a phone, I nearly forgot it so it is in my pocket not my luggage. I just hope no one sees it and thinks it’s mine.’

‘You techno-pig, why we are all looking forward to seeing you I don’t know. We’ll be at the airport to meet you, I just wanted to make sure you were still coming. Lots of love!’ She was gone. He had loved hearing the smile in her voice. Anne and Alex had dated when at university but had fallen out and then became friends again and kept in touch ever since, some 15 years now. He had always regretted their breaking up and he often felt she did too. It had happened when Anne had gone off on a work experience project and while she was away he had strayed and found another girl. On Anne’s return he had stupidly told her and she decided that they were not strong enough to stay together and they agreed to part. He did not fight to keep the relationship going and so it ended. A year later she married a teacher and they had moved to South Africa, 9 years ago now. Alex had said he would visit sometime and this was it. The fact was he did not do single holidaying well and it was an easy choice. He had wondered if it was wise to go and to risk the pressures of meeting up and all that it might entail. He worried especially about the small part of him that hoped the welcome would be more than just friendly.

He found himself becoming preoccupied with the crumpling of his suit, it was linen and he made a mental note not to buy another one. He had wanted something that would be cool in South Africa and he was prepared to put up with being cold for a few hours in Heathrow. But looking tatty was not part of the plan. His phone pinged indicating a text. He smiled as he looked at the all too familiar text from his old company AtoZ Fitness the text was headed up ‘Fit or What?’ It was a reminder text he sent to all customers and registered prospects. Well, not ‘he’ any longer he reminded himself. His mind quickly went back to that chapter of his life, it was so recent he didn’t think of it as the past. Three months ago the group of three fitness centres he ran as MD was acquired by a rival and he was made redundant as part of the deal. A good deal for him financially but still a mental wrench all the same. He had been there over five years and built the business from a low base of two under-utilised centres to three busy and profitable units. Now he was on holiday, a well-earned rest for six weeks while he gathered his thoughts, and looked for something new. At 36 and with a good track record behind him he was hopeful of a fresh start when he returned and to be up and running again within six months.

He deleted the text and leaned back, finding the hard wall just behind his chair. He allowed himself to dwell on the memory of his leaving do and as he waited, scrolled through the mental images, allowing each one to shine bright and clear in his mind’s eye.

~ ~ ~

Chapter 4

Harare Airport

The staff at the airport on the 12th March 2007 were used to disruption. They often saw scuffles as people were pushed into vehicles but today there was a larger than usual presence of