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  Frere had held the lifeless girl by her wrist, and had offered the small corpse to the man confronting him. The girl’s father, seeing that she was dead, had started shouting and had drawn several other men out of the trees around him. All of these others had been armed, all intent, according to this slender branch of the story, on avenging the dead girl. Frere had then laid the body down and had attempted to reason with the approaching men. One of the new arrivals seized the journal the girl had been attempting to steal; others picked through the remainder of Frere’s belongings scattered around the tree against which he had been resting. Attempting to avoid being robbed a second time, Frere, still confused and alarmed, had then struck out at one of these men, whereupon the others had retaliated and had clubbed him until he could no longer stand. A further blow had knocked him unconscious, and when he came round he found himself being half-carried, half-dragged in the direction of the Lomami, where he was eventually brought to the guard hut and the recently arrived feather-trader.

  The rest of the story remains as speculative as the country beyond. Nothing of how he came to be in the hands of Hammad, who brought him back to us, nothing of his journey from there to here; nothing of what deals were struck with the dead girl’s father or of the ransom paid for such a valuable hostage. Only unconnected details. Frere was unable to stand for three days, unable to flex his fingers for a week after that.

  By the time of his return, he had either been stripped of all his belongings, including his boots and most of his clothes, or everything had been returned to him, including his precious journals, and everything he owned was now in safe-keeping alongside him in the Belgian gaol. Yet another story said everything had been lost – including the lives of three porters – when a boat had misjudged the Boloko rapids and had overturned there; or when yet another porter had abandoned Hammad in the night, taking Frere’s possessions with him in lieu of unpaid wages.

  All the places mentioned existed, though few had visited them – and certainly no-one from the Station – and although some of the men involved were known to us, the chief participants – the dead girl’s father and the other witnesses – remained stubbornly beyond our reach and questioning.

  * * *

  I searched ahead of us for any sign that we had been observed. There would always be someone watching a vessel cross the river, but hopefully on this occasion no-one who would guess our business in coming. Lights shone in some of the larger buildings. A line of men ferried timber from a boat moored downriver. The sun was by then well risen behind us and already pouring its light into the darkness.

  I was pleased that our arrival had not attracted anyone to the water’s edge, but then, as the boatman poled in through the channels of braided sand and mud, and as the boy crouched ready to leap overboard and pull us to the shore, Bone raised his rifle and without warning fired three times into the air. I asked him what he was doing.

  But he simply grinned at me, and then nodded once over my shoulder to the water’s edge.

  A solitary man stood there, his arm raised to us, and in my momentary confusion, the noise of Bone’s shots still rising above us, I imagined that the man on the shore was none other than Frere himself, that arrangements had been made without my knowledge, and that this was the reason for Bone coming with me. I was so convinced of this that I almost called out Frere’s name to the waiting man.

  And then he lowered his arm and came closer to us, and I saw that it was not Frere, but a man of a different build entirely, shorter, thinner, slighter than Frere, that it was in fact a man called Proctor, a Belgian sergeant who fulfilled in this Station the role played by Bone in our own.

  My disappointment was evident to Bone, who said, ‘See, you aren’t so clever,’ and then jumped from the boat and waded ashore ahead of me, stirring up clouds of silt in his wake.

  * * *

  The two men greeted each other.

  The boatman pushed his oar ahead of us and the keel scraped us to a standstill. Both the old man and the crouching boy waited for me to rise and climb out before leaving the canoe themselves and pulling it free of the water.

  I went to where Bone and Proctor stood together. Proctor held a bottle, which he offered to Bone, and from which Bone drank in long swallows. My boots were filled with water and I raised my feet in an unsuccessful attempt to let this run free.

  Proctor was in command of the gaol where Frere was being held, and whatever else happened that morning, I would need his support to ensure decent treatment for Frere. I approached the two men and held out my hand to Proctor. He made a point of ignoring the gesture. Bone watched me over the neck of the bottle. I had encountered Proctor before and there existed some animosity between us. Two months earlier he had insisted on having one of our porters flogged for petty theft. The man had afterwards died of his wounds and I had made a formal complaint to the Belgians concerning this. Nothing had come of my approach, but I later heard that the dead man’s family had been compensated in some small way, and that Proctor had been either reprimanded or made to contribute towards this payment.

  ‘Been waiting three days,’ he said to me. ‘Your Mister Frere is not in a good way, not a good way at all. Fact, he might already be dead for all I know. Saw him last –’ he paused and rubbed his chin for effect – ‘must have been this time yesterday. Crying like a baby, he was. He can’t believe you’d leave him up there to rot like this. Especially you, his so-called friend.’ He added a cold emphasis to the word. The man’s face and forearms were covered with the waxy fingerprint scars of some old affliction, keeping his skin pale and glossy, and giving it the appearance of being easily broken. Cornelius said it was the scarring pattern of syphilis.

  ‘He has yet to be charged with any crime,’ I said, regretting the remark immediately.

  ‘But he stands accused of more than a fair few,’ Proctor said. ‘You wouldn’t believe the tales we’re hearing. How long was he gone? And nobody going after him. Surprising what a man can get up to in that length of time, him lost, the sun on his head, and with that taste in his mouth.’

  ‘I’m sure everything will be noted,’ I said.

  ‘They keep on coming in every day, his accusers, adding a little bit here, a little bit there, to the stories.’

  It was clear to me that he knew as little as we did, and that if he did know more, then he was not prepared to divulge it to me.

  ‘Am I to be allowed to visit him?’ I asked him.

  His grin fell for an instant, and I knew in that unguarded moment that I would not be prevented from seeing Frere, that the senior officers at the Station had already briefed Proctor on the course of the events ahead.

  Bone nudged Proctor.

  ‘Bone here has asked me nicely,’ Proctor said.

  ‘Then I am grateful to you both,’ I said, entering this charade of petty responsibilities and untested authority.

  ‘He’s grateful to us both,’ Proctor said, mimicking my voice.

  Unwilling to indulge them any longer, I walked past the two men in the direction of the gaol. They ran to join me, one on either side.

  The gaol stood some distance from the main buildings of the Station, upriver, upwind, the largest part of it now derelict, its walls crumbled, its log beams rotten and collapsed. At the gateway stood the unlit garrison house in which Proctor was billeted with his command. I had seldom seen these other men, and was aware only that – again like our own garrison – they were the remnants of a once much larger force.

  The Belgians had long since secured their territories by treaty, and their military presence now was devoted largely to internal and commercial affairs. The last of the French concessionary stations had been abandoned twelve years ago, most others long before that.

  Proctor paused at the open door and shouted inside. Two men appeared, both in a state of undress and angry at being woken. Proctor told them who I was and why I was there.

  One of the soldiers went inside and reappeared with a rusted key the length of his hand.
He gave this to Proctor, who told the two men to get dressed and follow us to the gaol.

  We approached the building across an overgrown parade ground, a lantern hanging at its door and a fainter light showing from within.

  ‘I was wondering…’ I said.

  ‘Wondering what?’ Proctor said quickly, anxious for the first of my bribes.

  ‘If I might be permitted to see Frere alone.’

  ‘Impossible.’

  I took the folded notes from my pocket, unwrapped one and gave it to him.

  ‘It’s Bone arranged all this, not me,’ Proctor said, hoping to double the sum.

  ‘But Bone and I work for the same employer,’ I said, affecting surprise. ‘Neither of us would countenance a bribe for fear of the consequences.’ I turned to Bone. ‘Am I right, Sergeant?’

  Bone, caught between fear and greed, could only nod.

  ‘However, should you personally wish to share your own good fortune with a fellow officer…’

  Proctor scowled at me and went to unlock the outer door. He gave me the key. ‘Poor Bone,’ he said to me softly as we parted.

  I went inside. The room was bare, with the exception of a solitary table and chair. The inner light came from a lamp on the table. Along one wall were the three doors of the cells beyond. The same key opened each of these doors.

  I paused for a moment, preparing myself for what I might be about to see, for what I might learn. I heard the voices of the men outside, Proctor explaining to Bone that he would have to wait for his share of the bribe.

  I went to the first door and stood with my ear to it. Silence. I opened it. The darkness inside was complete and I could see nothing. I returned to the table for the lamp. The cell was empty.

  As I tried the second door I heard a sound from within, and imagining this to be Frere, I composed myself before opening the door fully and holding up the light.

  But it was not Frere. Instead, a native knelt in the far corner, both hands clasped over his face, a man as black as the darkness which enveloped him. I spoke to him, but he made no response other than to turn away from me and press himself harder into the corner. Only as I closed the door behind me did it occur to me that the terrified prisoner might have been awaiting a beating, or worse, and that he imagined me to be the instrument of that punishment.

  I stood for some time at the final door. After several minutes I knocked on it and called in to identify myself. There was no reply. I pressed my ear to the wood and called again. Behind me, at the far side of the room, Proctor appeared in the open doorway and watched me.

  ‘He’s in there,’ he said.

  I knocked and called again, turning the key as I did so. This third door opened as stiffly as the others, and I regretted that it did not swing open freely, affording me the opportunity to step back with the light so that it did not shine into the cell so abruptly or so harshly, and that Frere might see me and recognize me instead of being blinded and seeing only the shape of a man looking in at him. I held the lantern to one side, causing its light to shine only against one wall, before drawing it into the doorway and spreading its glow over the whole of the small space.

  Frere sat against the opposite wall, a hand over his eyes.

  ‘It’s me, Frasier,’ I said. I waited, but he made no attempt to answer me.

  His other hand was held in an iron ring set into the wall.

  I repeated my name.

  ‘I know who you are,’ he said. He spoke hoarsely and slowly, his free hand still over his eyes.

  ‘I’ve come to see if—’

  ‘Don’t,’ he said.

  ‘Don’t what?’

  ‘Don’t try to help me. Don’t even come inside.’ The words were a great effort for him and he began to cough, unable to catch his breath. Saliva ran onto his chin.

  ‘But this is barbaric,’ I said. ‘Unnecessary.’ I could not be certain, but I imagined he smiled at this, his mouth covered by his sleeve. He shuffled his legs until they were spread ahead of him. The low ring would have made it impossible for him to rise above a crouch.

  ‘You need help,’ I said.

  He sat gasping, breathing in long draughts.

  ‘At least let me try and bring you across to us.’

  He made no effort to speak again.

  ‘Do you have water? Are you being fed sufficiently?’

  He nodded once to each question.

  I was distracted then by a shout from Proctor, who told me that my time with Frere was at an end. I regretted my small bribe.

  I knelt so that my face was level with Frere’s and put the lantern between us so that we might see each other more clearly. His free hand was still over his eyes, but I knew that it was not held so tightly over them so as to exclude all sight of me.

  ‘I will help you,’ I said. If I had expected some small gesture of acknowledgement from him, some sign that the friendship and understanding between us was still intact – however worn or slender a thread it might now have become – then I was disappointed. For rather than lower his hand and look at me and speak to me, relieved that at last someone had come to him, he remained silent, and not only did he refuse to speak, but he then lowered his head until his chin rested on his chest and he looked through his fingers to the ground. I felt each of these small, deliberate getures like a blow.

  I remained where I was, examining him for any obvious sign of injury or suffering. The wrist of his chained hand was rubbed sore and bleeding, and he was gaunter than I had ever before seen him, and dirtier, his hair lank and matted; but other than this I could detect nothing that might require treatment.

  ‘I have to go,’ I said to him. I rose, took up the lamp and backed out of the small space. In the darkness I saw him straighten, draw up his knees and raise his head. Shocked by his response to me, and having anticipated so different an encounter, I realized as I withdrew that it had been beyond me even to touch him.

  3

  I was kept occupied over the next few days. Abbot complained to me that he was falling behind in his work because I was neglecting my own. He referred to my visit to see Frere as an ‘unnecessary diversion’. He wanted to know if my day-books reflected my absences and lack of progress.

  I worked late into the night. I visited the quarry and the quartermasters’ stores when there were few people present. I surveyed and recorded, and to save even more time I trusted the judgements and estimations of others, filling pages with the reckonings of both Fletcher and Cornelius. Neither man shared my urgency, though they too were constantly urged on by Abbot.

  ‘Tell him what he wants to hear,’ Fletcher told me.

  ‘Just as he tells our masters what they want to hear,’ Cornelius added. It genuinely saddened him to see how run-down our enterprise had become, how dependent it now was on almost rubber alone. He had helped control it during the years of its supremacy, and now he sometimes seemed to me like a man picking through the waste of its ruins like a dispirited child prodding a stick through weeds. We had all heard his tales of what had once happened at the place, of how extensive its influence had been, of the value and diversity of the goods which had passed through it.

  Even Fletcher sat and listened when Cornelius spoke, and I sensed that he too – though he would never have confessed as much – regretted how little was now actually undertaken at the Station. Recently, there had been talk of the Belgians making yet another bid to end our concessionary status and to buy up our sheds and wharves to expand their own considerably more profitable enterprise. But they would neither confirm nor deny this when we approached them directly; there was a great deal to be gained by them in maintaining this uncertainty.

  ‘Does anyone ever see Abbot’s reports?’ Cornelius asked.

  Fletcher and I exchanged a glance and shook our heads.

  ‘He sends them monthly,’ I said. ‘Sealed canisters.’

  ‘Where?’

  ‘First to Leopoldville, then onwards to London, I suppose.’

  ‘Reports about wh
at?’

  ‘About our work here. Profit and loss. What we achieve and what we fail to achieve. Viability. Prospects for the future. Who knows?’

  ‘Reports on each and every one of us,’ Fletcher added.

  I told him I didn’t fully understand him.

  ‘I’ve known what Abbot was doing ever since he arrived,’ Cornelius said. ‘I’ve seen a succession of Abbots. Men who come here only to be disappointed – for whatever reason; take your pick – but men who will never admit their disappointments, men who go on building things up, surrounding themselves with adventure and achievement where nothing can be either verified or questioned at such a distance.’

  ‘You think he makes the Station a more viable prospect than it is?’ I asked him.

  ‘Look around you,’ Cornelius said.

  ‘We still trade at a good profit,’ I insisted.

  I knew by the silence which followed that neither man was willing to be drawn into revealing their own uncertain hopes for the future of the place.

  ‘For all we know,’ Cornelius said, ‘the decision to sell or abandon might already have been taken and the letter despatched. How would we know? For six months we would all go on doing what we do like clockwork toys slowly winding down and walking round and round in ever decreasing circles banging ever more weakly on our small tin drums.’

  Fletcher laughed at this. ‘Don’t look so concerned,’ he told me. ‘He’s been saying the same thing for the past twenty years.’ Fletcher had been at the Station only twelve years.