Show Me the Sky - Nicholas Hogg [58]
‘No young Englishman?’
‘Not that I remember.’
‘Are you sure? Even just a phone call? An email?’
‘No, what am I talking about! I’d forget my head if it wasn’t screwed on! Last Friday a young journalist from England visited.’
‘Early twenties?’
‘And quite a slight young man.’
‘Did he look anything like this?’
‘Let me see. Now where are my glasses?’
‘On your head.’
‘Oh, thank you. And this is your nephew?’
‘Peter.’
‘Peter, you say, well now he does look very similar to the journalist, but …’
‘He may have a beard now, or be thinner.’
‘But I don’t think so. You would almost think them brothers, but no. These are two different people. And now I remember, his name was Dominic, yes. I have his card somewhere, here, in this drawer, I think. Yes, there you are. Dominic Toon.’
‘What did he want?’
‘Said he was writing a story on Mombasa street children. He wanted to know about the orphanage, how the children come from the pavement to our family. He also asked lots of questions about the history of the place, about Reverend McCreedy. He even asked, which I thought was quite shocking, if I’d heard any rumours that the reverend was not a properly ordained member of the church. Strange question, don’t you think? But apart from that he was pleasant enough.’
‘And you’re sure it wasn’t Peter?’
‘Can I see the picture one more time?’
‘Here. It was taken a year ago. He will have changed a little.’
‘Very similar, but … I don’t think they’re the same person. Though you do have me thinking I could be wrong now.’
‘Any information where the reporter is—’
‘Miss! Miss Oburu!’
‘What do you want, child? I’m busy with a visitor.’
‘There’s a lady at the gate. Looking for her son and daughter.’
‘Sorry, Mr Nash, excuse me a moment. Come in, child. Did you ask her name?’
‘She says her name is Njenga.’
‘Njenga, are you sure?’
‘Yes.’
‘Oh Lord, Lord. We have storm clouds, sunshine, then again the storm clouds. Sorry, Mr Nash, I have something to attend to. Some bad news.’
‘Her children?’
‘We don’t have them. Well, we did until a week ago. They ran away. You’ll have to excuse me.’
‘Sorry, could I just ask if you know where Mr Toon stayed? Which hotel? Where he was heading?’
‘No idea, I’m sorry. I really must speak with this lady. I have to go now, Mr Nash. This is what I do. Oh Lord, what do I say to this mother? Usually I say we can’t change the children’s past, but we can change their present. And of course their future.’
I palm money to hotel staff, pay for false information. According to receptionists at both the Mombasa Lodge and the Harbour View, Dominic Toon was in two places at the same time.
My taxi driver can see I’m losing the plot and offers a joint. I decline. He lights it anyway, one hand on the wheel, the other used to either smoke or hit the horn. When he finishes he flicks the stub into the gutter, turns and asks, ‘This man you’re looking for, he is single, yes?’ I say I think so. ‘And also young?’ I nod. ‘Unless he a saint, then I know where he go.’
The sodium tubes of the bar illuminate the surrounding tenements, crumbling apartment blocks and roofs of corrugated tin, bones of dogs urinating against the wheels of waiting taxis. Above the dirty street a neon sign glows ‘Paradise’. I pay the driver, take a breath, and enter. Cigarettes and beer. That tang of alcohol and perfume swirling the air. Before I reach the bar a girl has linked her arm around mine. I say no thank you twice before she lets go. I order an iced tea and show a barman the picture of Billy K downloaded from the web. I chose a shot where he looks more boy next door than global rock god. But the barman shrugs his shoulders. I push a $10 bill over the counter. He puts the note in his pocket, picks up the picture and says no. I order another iced tea and sip through a straw. I watch mosquitoes zapped in the UV trap, pool players in high heels and jangling earrings firing balls into the pockets.
After the second iced tea I order a