The hippo and the crocodile, together kill more people on the African continent than any other species and yet men and women wash in the rivers and walk by their banks while the animals guard and protect their watery territory. No one knows who is master of this underworld, the hippo or the crocodile, but it is clear that each respects the other. The crocodile is most dangerous within its element, while the hippo, uncertain on land, can move like a bullet there when threatened or afraid.
The Rebels oppressed by day, hold the northern half of the country and, like the hippo, they lay low in the light, staying cool and quietly gaining strength. But their control, even of the North is as uncertain as that of the hippo on land, insecure and dangerous. Their hold on the land is not a secure establishment of power, and so where they can they build hospitals and schools to gain the support of the locals and in so doing strengthen and not undermine the first principle of power – corruption. Their domination is tenuous and in some villages and towns, the support is strong but never complete and so there they punish, thus strengthening the second principle of power – force. The people don’t protest because if it wasn’t the Rebels doing it to the others, it would be the Government doing it to them – nothing changes.
Like the hippo the Rebels gather at night. They use its cover, its dangers and its noises as a shield. Every bark of a baboon, every cry of the dog, every big cat cough weaves a net around them, a sound-based force field, which keeps informers at home and allows them the freedom to walk amid their fellow hippo. But their society is complex and their needs legion. They need to transport medicine, ammunition and supplies through the dark bush to the villages, to arm them and protect them, to please them and to buy their support. Their army of idealists, of African Marxists and of self-seekers has to become one animal, with one aim, or the domination weakens and disease spreads. A scattered body, a scattered army must communicate and in a country with few landlines, limited infrastructure and no money for satellite links, transport is the only method. Transport is the only way to get the supplies quickly away from the carelessly guarded, but nevertheless dangerous borders, and since no one will give them transport, since no superpower will lend to them and no begging has produced a sympathetic response from any international agencies – then they have to steal.
The all-clear siren was late going off that morning and so the taxi that Martin had booked was late arriving. They were waiting on the veranda as it approached. Jo hid her anxious excitement reassuring herself that if curfew had not lifted for them, it had not lifted for anyone else either. Everyone would be late. The taxi thumped and thudded up the drive and came to a halt by them, at first reversing to turn the car round and face the road. A cheerful driver stepped out and beaming, greeted them. ‘Good morning, it is okay I have seen Safari Tours they will wait for us.’
‘Thank you.’ Martin picked up his rucksack, but the driver lunged forward and took it from him, taking Jo’s from her also, and placing them in the boot of the car. This done, he held the door open for Jo and then climbed in himself. ‘Okay’ he said. ‘We go!’
The car lurched forward uncertainly. None of the taxis in Losuda seemed to have a reliable first gear and this driver had to nurse the engine with a skill borne of intimate knowledge. They turned down the road towards the city. Traffic was beginning to appear and people were stepping out cautiously. They appeared from the shacks and shanties that stretched through the suburbs, some emerging from the hiding places that had protected them throughout the night. One man was climbing down from a tree. Still patrolling, but now with guns slung at their sides the soldiers watched and drove through the people employing a deceptively easy manner. As the morning progressed the people grew bolder. The soldiers of unquestioning, unanswerable action were now soldiers of the day – watchers, observers passive figures taking note. The people went from a careful hunted movement to a faster more confident stride, the memory of the night was fading.
By the time they reached the city the market street was already full of bargaining people. The meat and fruit and food that had been hidden overnight was on display. Martin looked at it and commented. ‘The supplies are going down, there’s not as much as there was and what there is pretty ropey…. this market used to be renowned but I don’t know what it would be renowned for now.’
Jo said nothing. She had expected to find an Africa full of the starving and the dirty, so she was not disturbed by these signs of decay, these images still improved upon her stereotypical media-fuelled concept of the modern Africa: one country of the starving and dependent not a continent of failed, but also some successful states. What she had seen so far was better than that. Suburban Africa was richer than she had anticipated but here it was most certainly not secure. Even so, she had seen no one starving, no distended bellies or wide-eyed ricket-twisted children. The clothes were ragged. The people certainly not overweight, but there was a sophistication in their poverty that had little to with starvation or ill health. It was knowledge, a realisation that what they had lost, had given away under duress or in ignorance could not be bought back with independence for “independence” was a hollow word. They still depended on the old colonial powers for the things they had learned to want: the durable goods and machine luxuries of the North. Their poverty was a poverty of justice, a poverty of equality, a poverty of trade, the men of the North still haggled over their country’s resources without reference to those who found, mined and tried to trade in those resources: oil, gold, diamonds, chocolate, all bought by the North at the price set by the North. Thus the individual African still could not partake in the rampant materialism of the Northern hemisphere, whether or not such materialism was a worthy goal.
Jo watched the people bargaining hard. She saw them look at the taxi and follow its progress. She saw them assess the occupants with the dull-eyed curiosity that the poor have about the rich. Their stare, their unashamed opening of their palms for money made her uncomfortable, more so than the deformed limbless cripples that crawled along the pavement asking for pennies. She felt like a target and was grateful for the confines of the taxi. Their poverty was a reproach, but not an easy one to cure, a tenner donated down the phone or by credit card, could drive the images away, if the donor put down the phone, turned off the TV and headed for Starbucks, but here, Starbucks was in amidst the poverty and the donor could not switch off the images.
The Losuda Hilton grew out of the skyline at them. In the car park was a cluster of Safari Tours vans, although there was little sign of other travellers. The taxi pulled up before the main door and a uniformed porter, stepped up to open the car door for Jo. She climbed up and waited by the entrance to the foyer of the modern hotel. Another taxi drew up, out of which stepped an elderly, florid man with the deep ingrained tan of a local white. The taxi driver handed him his change and waited for his tip. The man slapped some money into the hand and said loudly. ‘All right, fuck off, that’s all you’re getting.’ The driver nodded and turned without protest, but he was not resigned or ingratiating. He got into the car, his annoyance clear on his face and in the noisy manner in which he drove away. Jo gave the man her best evil glare. He caught sight of it and bowed ‘Charmed’ he said with a flourish and disappeared into the hotel. Jo did not respond. She took it to be sarcasm and she turned back to Martin who was ready for her. A porter came to take their bags. ‘We’re with Safari Tours’ Martin explained.
‘Ah yes,’ said the porter. ‘This way’ and he led them into the foyer. The hotel was opulent its richness contrasted not only with what was outside, but with anything Jo had experienced in any hotel that she had stayed in ever before. The marble floors hone at hear, furniture and flowers garlanded the guests in an air-conditioned welcome. ‘Grief’ she murmured. Martin chuckled. ‘I’m told all the Lodges are like this too, there doesn’t seem to be any in between in Kinjii, either five star luxury or those shanty hotels.’
The foyer stretched before them, enough space to house a plethora of shanty huts. A large spiral staircase led up to the first floor under which was an indoor fountain display. Uniformed men flitted between the bar and the customers taking orders and bringing exotic drinks to the clientele of whom there were few. A group of Japanese businessmen sat drinking together. The elderly man Jo had seen earlier was already into his first double scotch and near to him was a couple, clearly American, and a plumpish young man with blonde curly hair. All were conspicuous in their safari gear. The porter set down their bags and said ‘Safari Tours’ and waited, Martin tipped him. He and Jo stood facing the group. The American couple smiled. The woman fat and squat with straight, short hair was dressed like her husband in a smart new safari suit. The man stood and reached out to shake hands with Martin and Jo. Around his neck was tied a colourful bandanna. ‘Hi’ he said, uninhibited. ‘I’m Carl and this is Betty and over there’s our kids Craig and Marci.’ He pointed to a girl of about eight and her younger brother who were engaged upon choosing some sweets to buy. ‘I guess we’ll be travelling together.’ Martin nodded.
‘Yes, I suppose so.’ The American indicated a man who sat nearby. ‘And this here’s Tom, I believe he’s a Brit too.’ Tom looked up from behind his three day old English paper and smiled ‘Hello’. The American turned back to Martin and Jo and looked expectantly at them. Martin was silent for a moment but the insistent look of the American reminded him ‘Oh sorry yes, I’m Martin this is Jo.’
‘Great to meet you.’ The woman spoke in a high but open voice and they all seated themselves. ‘The Safari Tours man will be with us in a minute explained Carl. I guess he’s gone to check the schedules.’
The woman turned and smiled at Jo, seeming to expect Martin to carry on a separate conversation with her husband. ‘Is this your first time?’
‘Yes, but not for Martin, he lives here.’
‘Oh really what does he do?’ She was over enthusiastic.
‘He teaches in a school in Jonja.’
‘Oh my’ she said elongating her words. ‘Aren’t there Rebels there?’
‘Not too near, no.’
‘And you’re just vistin then?’
‘Yes,’ Jo did not feel inclined to explain further and the conversation lapsed. She retreated to her British stereotype, polite but unfriendly. She sat down and rested back in the deep soft chair and Martin joined her, placing his arm around her shoulders and squeezing her slightly. He smiled warmly ‘Looking forward to it?’
‘Very much’ she replied, encouraged by his warmth. A thaw had set in and something of what they had had before was returning – perhaps it was not all such blind foolishness after all. She felt relieved and excited like the children who now ran amok in the foyer playing some violent space age game only they understood with the waiters. ‘Ah here you are’ a voice said. ‘Good we are all ready, I’m glad you had no trouble getting here.’ He addressed Martin and Jo who shook their heads. ‘Okay’ he said. ‘I am Charles and I am based here, soon I will introduce you to your driver Abdul, but first here is a questionnaire which we hope you will fill out at the end of the trip. It’s just about the service you receive, we are always looking to improve.’ He handed out the papers above the clatter of children who, having the seen the activity around their parents, had rushed to join in. ‘Mr Wilson?’ Charles continued talking to Tom ‘Here are your plane tickets to the Lake yes?’
‘Thank you’ Tom took the tickets and examined the details briefly. When he looked up Charles was looking at him, apprehensively. ‘Is everything in order?’
‘Yes, yes thank you’ said Tom.
‘Okay,’ Charles beamed at them all. ‘Let’s go’. He indicated to the hovering porters that they could now take the bags and, within seconds, each bag was being marched towards the light of the main door.
They were led to a group of Nissan vans in the car park, each bearing the “Safari Tours” logo, each had the roof that could be lifted to facilitate the viewing of wildlife. A friendly young man stepped towards them, Indian in origin, he smiled easily at them. ‘This is Abdul’ said Charles. ‘He is your driver to the Lodges and on the game drives. You should arrive at about lunchtime and then at 3.30 pm you will have your first game drive. I hope you will see many animals, perhaps the Big Five.’
‘What’s the Big Five?’ The little girl spoke and Charles smiled at her.
‘It means, rhino, lion, leopard, elephant and buffalo, you see those and you will have seen the Big Five.’
‘Thank you’ said Carl for his daughter.
‘Okay?’ said Charles. ‘Have a nice day’ and he went to talk to another of the drivers.
By now, Abdul had opened the van and the bags were being carefully placed inside. Amongst the luggage Jo noted the photographic equipment, a large silver case, that, no doubt contained every digital image taker and transmitter invented. These were Carl’s and he was careful to see that they were secure. ‘Can I sit up front?’ The girl bounced beside her father. ‘Now, ,just you wait and see Marci, Abdul’s the boss. He’ll tell you where to sit.’
‘It’s okay’ said Abdul.
‘Well so long as nobody else minds honey.’ Betty appealed to the remaining adults all of whom smiled and agreed to the children sitting in front. There at least their excitement would be contained. The children cheered and ran to the front, while Abdul opened the sliding door for the remainder. ‘I guess we’d better sit near the kids,’ said Carl and so Martin and Jo began to climb in.
Charles’s voice floated over to them as they did so ‘I’m sorry, I’m sorry, there is something I forget.’ They stopped and turned to address Charles who was flustered and seemed unable to forgive himself for his oversight. ‘There is a favour I have to ask.’ Jo felt Martin stiffen, it sounded like the opening line for money. ‘I forget there is a lady, Mrs Ziegler, Frau Ziegler and a boy, she is a missionary at the Tenda school, the boy came to the hospital here to see his mother..um..she died.’ He looked suitably sad and then went on. ‘They asked me if they could have a lift. They can this afternoon, one driver is going over, just in a van but it would be better if they could this morning.’ He finished hopefully, his request clear. The American was first to speak ‘Well that’s fine with me, what about everybody else?’
‘Fine’ said Jo ‘Why not?’ Tom and Martin agreed.
‘Okay’ said Carl ‘wheel her in.’ Tact was not his strong point.
‘Thank you’ Charles said. ‘Thank you, it is very kind.’ He ran to the back of the van and beckoned. In a moment an elderly woman and an African boy of about twelve appeared. The woman was deeply tanned, her face a canvass of weather creases, dressed in slacks and a short-sleeved blouse. She carried a white cardigan over her arm, already the sun was stinging them all. ‘This is Frau Ziegler’ said Charles ‘and Angus, these are Carl, Betty, Tom, Martin and Jo’ He reeled off the names far too quickly for anyone to remember but the protocol was met and they were formally introduced. Frau Ziegler smiled and said ‘I speak little English but thank you for the driving. It is important to us yes?’
‘Welcome to the show Ms Ziegler!’ said Carl and then called ‘Okay kids, out of the front there, we have guests.’
‘Oh Dad,’ came the inevitable protests, while the missionary tried to maintain the seats for the children, but Carl wouldn’t hear of it. The prime seats would go to the strangers, that way they would remain strangers. The woman and the boy clambered into the front. They boy, did not look at the tourists in the back. He sheltered himself by the woman, his thin hands gripping hers whilst, visible to all those who studied him, there was a minute trembling in his body.
Abdul saw to it that all were settled and climbed into the van. He strapped in, checked everything and everyone and turned the key. A painful grinding sound was emitted from the engine. He tried again and the same sound whined out. He tried again and this time the van shuddered and almost took, but then it relapsed and sounded worse than before. By this time Charles, attracted by the sound, had returned with a worried and curious expression on his face and he stood at the door of the van. After a moment Abdul leaned out of the window and began a heated discussion in what, the occupants of the van guessed to be an “I told you so” tone. Everyone was silent and watching, each person trying to show a mature attitude, while desperately hoping that this was not going to delay them or worse.
Charles’s anxiety had returned to abuse his good nature and he consulted the clipboard he held in his hand, frowned and discussed again with Abdul. After a moment’s further consultation, he nodded and Abdul got out of the van. Charles popped his head through the open door, and beamed at them all ‘I’m sorry, this van seems to have broken. We will have to change vans and we will have a new driver. I’m so sorry, each driver is responsible for his own van, Abdul, will have to stay here to get spares. It’s bureaucracy, you know how it is!’ Abdul had opened the sliding door and they began to climb out. He started to unload the bags and carry them to a van a few yards away.
Charles stepped ahead of them and approached another driver, a slightly overweight man with a round open face. He wore a T-shirt that said ‘I Love New York’ and he had been listening to a walkman. The life of a driver obviously had its benefits for Joseph, but his face changed when he heard Charles’s request. Charles spoke in Swahili but Joseph replied in English. He wanted the travelers to hear him. ‘Oh no Charles, I’ve been driving seven days solid okay? I’ve got another three to go, it’s my morning off ask John okay?’
‘I can’t’ replied Charles reverting to English. ‘John isn’t here, you’re the only one here.’
‘Well Abdul can take my van. I’ll fix his and drive it on this afternoon, we can swap then.’
‘You know we can’t do that.’
‘Nobody would know.’
‘No’ Charles was beginning to get strained. ‘Do you want to lose me my job? He whispered now, because a straggled band of tourists had gathered by the van, looking like orphans in search of parents. Joseph dropped his voice. He looked now as if he was pleading for his life and he spoke in Swahili. ‘I can’t do it, Charles don’t ask me to!’ They stared at each other, one questioning, one confused, one pleading with an unspoken knowledge. Charles recognised the look in his colleague’s eyes and for a moment caught his breath, but he set his mind against the implication. ‘The customers are waiting it’s not my problem.’
Carl stepped forward to the two men, he had the look of a Kissinger about to intercede, a patronizing American confident of his ability to resolve everything. ‘Is there a problem?’
‘No really everything is fine’ said Charles, smiling nervously but the American did not retreat as Charles’s tone implied that he should. ‘Look’ Carl continued. ‘I’m sure it’s real problem, but I guess we can come to some arrangement.’ Carl addressed Joseph, who understood the offer but despised it. A hard expression crossed his face, as he considered what had been said. He looked at Carl and appeared to decide. ‘Okay’ he said and smiled. ‘Fine, fine if we can go now, if we get there earlier and I can rest then okay?’
‘Yeah, fine’ Carl turned to the others, triumphant and Charles broke into a large grin. Jo and Martin stepped forward with the bags and Joseph took them, Charles hovered round watching Joseph put the bags in the van with a sullen unsatisfactory attitude. It troubled Charles, who tried to effect the introductions as he had done with Abdul, but Joseph was uncooperative and Charles finished up lamely saying the names of the tourists, pointing to Joseph and announcing. ‘This is Joseph. Okay Joseph?’ He added almost threateningly. Joseph looked up and flashed a smile of barely disguised sarcasm and nodded. He marched round to the side of the van and slid the door open with a resounding flourish. He did not wait to help anyone in. Carl exchanged a look with Jo and said ‘Well I guess we’ll get there anyway.’
‘Yes’ said Charles, now recovered. ‘Abdul will catch you up and will take you on your game drive this afternoon. This is just temporary’. He sounded more confident than anyone thought he had reason to be and he helped Betty and the children in, shutting the sliding door after them all and opening the front door for Frau Ziegler and Angus. He spoke in Swahili to Joseph who nodded and smiled at Frau Ziegler with an expression resembling, if not achieving, good humour. Frau Ziegler responded ‘Asante sana’ but her voice was drowned by the sudden roar of the engine. Joseph had started to drive.
The journey began in a flurry of speed, weaving closely through the city traffic and for whatever reason, Joseph looked at his watch, sighed and huffed. His exasperation seemed to conjure trouble in the roads. A matatu was slung drunkenly across the main street, resting hard in a pothole, crippled by its broken axle. Its passengers spilled out onto road, on the whole unhurt and in good humour, but a hazard to the remaining traffic. A bus conductor stood at the door of an overcrowded and battered bus, beating back the passengers from the matatu with a cosh. The expelled passengers were attempting to hitch a ride by hanging onto anything they could find. The American levelled his digital Nikon and took his first picture of the day. The kids giggled at the chaos and the impotent abuse of the conductor. Joseph honked his horn and began to sweat. Frau Ziegler watched him and spoke again but he did not reply.
Once past the matatu, they were not long in reaching the open road. Tarmac at first, stretched before them, straight and uncompromising and they sped along it, the engine hammering away at full throttle. Martin and Jo exchanged a look, conversation was more-or-less impossible in the hurtling van, but they did clutch hands and snuggle a little closer, to watch together the passing landscape, growing yellower and less inhabited.
They hit the dust road with a resounding scrunch. All the passengers leapt in their seats and the little girl giggled. ‘It’s like a bucking bronco daddy’ she said.
‘Sure is a bit bumpy honey.’ Jo swallowed a smile at the kind of clichéd conversation. She had never met Americans before and this family sounded too much like an advertisement.
Only now and then did their hurtling missile slow up, sometimes almost to a stop to negotiate a particularly dangerous pothole. But where it was possible it still sped on, dealing with the potholes as if shooting down the imaginary aliens of a computer game, Joseph’s responses had to be as fast. The space and power of the new landscape began to impress the British passengers who were not used to the knowledge that thousands of miles beyond what they could see was more of the same. No sea to hem them in until, in almost all directions, borders were breached and deserts crossed. Space and bush surrounded them.
Initially they traveled along at peace with the countryside and each other. The journey seemed to rock them all into an hypnotic state, they rested in the speed and gave up looking for wildlife, the bush seemed empty. At last, the little boy, Craig, began to cry. He leant against his mother and moaned. ‘Mummy, I feel funny.’
‘Do you baby boy, what’s the problem?’
‘I feel pewky’
‘Uh uh, did you take your pills last night?’
‘I tried to’ replied the anguished voice, aware that he was rumbled.
‘What do you mean “tried to” son?’ asked Carl, intervening with his father’s authority. ‘I couldn’t swallow ’em dad. They tasted horrible.’
‘Oh Craigie’ reproached his mother. ‘You should have asked for help son, doesn’t feeling pewky feel worse?’
Carl leaned forward and approached Joseph ‘Look I’m really sorry, but my son didn’t take his travel sickness pills, and he’s always sick. I’m afraid we’ll have to stop. He’s usually okay after one stop.’ Joseph turned almost viciously, his eyes leaving the road for a second too long so that they slammed into a pothole. The van jolted and shuddered. ‘Can’t he wait? It’s important we get there soon.’
‘It’s only for a moment. I’m afraid he will be sick in here if you don’t. I really don’t see the need to hurry so hard.’
Joseph said nothing but drove on. At first it seemed as if he wasn’t going to stop, and Jo felt Martin stiffen beside her. He sat up so that she could no longer nestle her head on his shoulder. He looked at the child and Jo looked at him, the tense expression of the previous day had returned. The child was clearly ill and this was not having the effect on Joseph that it should have done. He was hardly the sympathetic and effusive tour guide they had expected. The guides were normally so keen to help, if only in the hope of a larger tip.
The little boy moaned and began to cry. Betty leant forward. ‘Oh come on Joseph, he’ll make us all sick if he throws up in here.’
‘Not here’ said Joseph. ‘There will be problems.’
‘What kind of problems? Animals?’
‘What then? Joseph we’ll be quick!’ The little boy wretched and rolled into a ball at his mother’s side. ‘We are close the Rebels here’ said Joseph. But Carl was not convinced and cut in, his voice made harsher by his son’s suffering. ‘The Rebels are fifty miles away, five minutes to be sick isn’t gonna bring them running.’
Joseph closed his eyes and began to brake. ‘Okay, no problem.’ He dropped through the gears, his face set with anger and tension whilst relief swept through the van. They stopped at the side of the empty road. The dust settled behind them, leaving a red sheen on them all. Joseph got out and opened the sliding door. The parents climbed out, Betty carrying Craig. Marci made an attempt to join them but Carl stopped her. ‘Oh no kid, this is strictly business.’
They took the little boy aside and watched him as he threw up his breakfast and most of last night’s dinner. Jo watched for a moment but then, feeling her stomach waver, she turned to Martin and whispered ‘Why bring a child who gets travel sick on a safari?’ Martin grinned and Tom, who had overheard her smiled also. The atmosphere relaxed.
In the distance the outline of some blue mountains beckoned to them but the rest of the savannah was a vast flat and empty landscape. The road cut a red swathe through the spiked thorn trees, flat topped and grey with drought. Scrub bushes and trees surrounded them and it seemed that they were alone.
Craig had now finished vomiting and was being persuaded to empty his bladder. Marci called from the van ‘Daddy I want to go too!’ An exasperated sigh from Joseph, gave Carl his cue ‘No honey you hang on!’
‘It’s not long now.’ The girl relapsed into a sulky silence, her brother was getting far too much attention for her liking, but she knew that tone in her father’s voice, it was not to be gainsaid.
The parents and the pacified, slightly less pallid child, climbed back into the van. Carl beamed at the Brits. ‘He’s usually okay after one stop, but I’m really sorry, I’ll see he takes his pills tonight, I promise.’ Everyone smiled indulgently and Joseph slammed the van door shut.
They drove off again and again they were soon belching out the dust from behind them like a vapour trail, but the speed and the tension of the driver communicated itself to all in the van, so that when they passed their first giraffe, nobody asked to stop and take a photograph. Instead their heads all turned and they watched silently as the animal crossed the road behind them. It’s loping step so familiar and yet so completely strange because it was seen without the barrier of a screen and a voiceover and, because of the speed at which they travelled, it disappeared, like a dream, all too soon.
They turned their heads back towards the road ahead and remembered thoughtfully their first sight of wild Africa. The van clattered on even faster now, as if gathering momentum, down a steep and dangerous hill. It seemed to fly across the potholes and the passengers began to doze in the heat despite the bone breaking speed. There would be time enough for giraffes, time enough for a slow gentle stroll across the wilderness. Right now, the jet lag and the tension of the city had caught up with them and they rested in the knowledge that they had arrived
‘Jesus! Shit!’ The American leant forward earnestly and stared hard at something in the road ahead. The vehicle slowed suddenly, jolting them all awake. They all took notice now and stared at was there. Something in the distance, was blocking the road and as they got closer the shadow took shape. ‘He’s armed.’ Carl still stared ahead intensely. ‘Look at that rifle!’ Everyone strained to look ahead. Martin sat bolt upright. His face tense, his eyes burning up the road, seeking to destroy the figure that blocked their path. ‘What is it Martin?’ Jo was looking at him watching his already pale face go grey. He barked something out in Swahili, making Joseph jump and look at his passenger ‘Ndeo’ he said.
‘Martin?’ Jo repeated, her voice insistent with warning as they slowed up before the man. ‘Rebels” said Martin. ‘And I think he’s in on it.’ He indicated Joseph.
© All rights reserved by Judith Gunn 2010