The Marks of Cain Read online

  The car was hot; he was sweating. David rubbed at his brow. Trying to work it all out. It was probable that Miguel and the Society had calculated where Eloise had gone. The Society was, self-evidently, well aware of the GenoMap connection. The Society had killed Fazackerly in London, precisely because he was connected to GenoMap. They knew all about GenoMap, they were closing down GenoMap with extreme violence; just as they were killing anyone with a connection to Gurs, and the Cagots. At the church’s bidding?

  So they were surely aware of the Namibian connection – the links with Fischer and Kellerman Namcorp.

  Putting the simple sums together produced a fairly obvious answer: Nairn and Eloise were in Namibia. David and Amy too. And Miguel had come after them.

  David stared around, teetering on the edge of despair. Would they ever be safe? Violet-black mountains shimmered on the horizon. Mirages came and went: lakes of illusion, glimmering in the imperious sun. The heat was already impressive. Everyone in the car was drinking plenty of water.

  The mountains reminded him of the Pyrenees. The Pyrenees reminded him of the map, still in his pocket, still folded and faded. David reached in his dusted jacket and pulled out the map. Amy was half asleep next to him.

  He unfolded some of the soft paper leaves. Every star on the map had been explained, even the one near Lyon. But there was still that tiny line of writing on the back. He flipped the map over and looked. It was so faded, so barely legible, so small. Not his father’s handwriting. David squinted as close as he could: was that maybe a German word? Strasse? As in street? Maybe?

  Possibly. Or possibly it was just the Teutonic ambience of Namibia, leading him down that cognitive pathway.

  Carefully, reverently, pensively, David folded the map. With its one last clue. And then he kissed Amy’s sweet, bare, sleeping shoulder, hoping she wasn’t dreaming of Miguel.

  At length Hans turned, one hand on the wheel. He nodded at David.

  ‘Empty, right?’

  ‘Sorry?’

  ‘I said, Namibia is empty. You know why?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘My people did this. Emptied the damn country.’ He frowned. ‘The Germans. You ever heard of the Herero Holocaust?’

  He apologized: no, he hadn’t.

  Amy stirred on his left. Rubbing sleep from her eyes. And listening to Hans.

  ‘Incredible story.’ Hans glanced at Sammy. Who was silent. The big German driver turned and fixed his eyes on the potholed road, and gulped some more water from a little bottle, as he elaborated:

  ‘In 1904 the Herero people rebelled, and massacred dozens of German settlers. My great great great uncle nearly died.’ Hans suddenly pointed out of the window.

  ‘Ostrich!’

  Amy and David craned to see: three or four large ungainly birds were running down the road in front of them. With their flustered big black and white behinds, they looked like alarmed Victorian spinsters fleeing a minor sex offender. The sight was comical. But Hans was not laughing.

  ‘Where was I? Yeah. The Germans saw this revolt as a serious threat to the potential of their diamond-rich colony, so they despatched a Prussian imperialist, Lothar von Trotha, to deal with the uprising.’ Hans drank some more water. ‘The Kaiser told von Trotha to “emulate the Huns” in his savagery. Von Trotha promised he would use “cruelty and terrorism”. Nice bunch of guys, the German imperial classes.’

  Hans steered a left and a right. ‘And that’s exactly what happened. Cruelty and terrorism. And genocide. After several battles, where the Herero were slain in large numbers, lovely von Trotha decided to finish the job once and for all and destroy the entire Herero people. In 1907 he issued his notorious extermination order, or vernichtungsbefehl. He decided to kill them in toto. Every last one. An entire nation.’

  ‘Jesus,’ said Amy.

  ‘Yah,’ said Hans. ‘So the Herero were driven west, into the Kalahari desert, to die. Guards were stationed at water-holes so the people couldn’t drink; wells were deliberately poisoned. You have to remember this was desert, searing desert, the Omahake. They had no food and water, an entire nation of people with no food and water. They didn’t last long. Some women and children tried to return, but they were instantly shot.’

  He jerked the wheel to avoid a small gaggle of little birds.

  ‘And there are eye witness accounts of this holocaust. Unbearably harrowing. Hundreds of people just lying in the desert, dying of thirst. Children going mad amongst the corpses of their parents; apparently the buzzing of the flies was deafening, paralyzed people were eaten alive by leopards and jackals.’

  Amy asked, quietly: ‘How many died?’

  Hans shrugged. ‘No one’s entirely sure. Reliable historians estimate that maybe sixty thousand Herero were killed. That’s seventy to eighty percent of the entire Herero people.’ He laughed, very sourly. ‘Oh yes, the numbers, we do love our numbers, don’t we? Makes it all easier to bear for white men. A nice sensible percentage. Seventy-five point six two percent!’ He waved an angry hand, gesturing at the desert. ‘The slaughter affects Namibia’s demography to this day. Helps explain the emptiness.’

  David was silenced – by everything – this horrible story, the stirring desolation of the landscape, the extraordinary heat – and the mighty sun. Namibia just seemed to dwarf…everything.

  ‘Uis. We’re nearly in Uis.’

  The town of Uis, which had appeared to be significant on the map, turned out to be barely a village. A couple of caged liquor stores stood next to three petrol stations. A grey concrete building, apparently a restaurant, advertised Snoek, Meat Pies and Greek Salad. Several iron shacks, a few big houses with big fences, and some huts and bungalows comprised the sunburned residential district.

  There were lots of men sitting on their haunches around the petrol stations, staring into the burning emptiness, staring at the Land Rovers. Unpaved roads straggled off into half-hearted woodland. The shadows cast by men and buildings were stark, etched into the dust. Black black black then blazing white.

  Hans stopped the car at one of the gas stations; the other Land Rover did the same. David and Amy got out to walk about for a moment, to stretch aching legs, but the heat of the scorching sun was punishing – driving them back towards shelter. Hans looked at the pair of them sceptically as he paid the petrol attendant.

  ‘You guys got hats?’

  They both said no.

  ‘Guys! In Namibia there are three rules. Always wear a hat. Take every opportunity to refuel. And never drink whisky with a Baster.’ He laughed. ‘OK. We’re getting near – if your coordinates are right. Maybe another coupla hours.’

  The car headed deeper into the thickening bush. David had never experienced this kind of terrain: it made the Pyrenees look like St James’s Park. He was glad they were losing themselves in the wilderness: it made them that much harder to follow. If they were being followed. Were they being followed?

  ‘These are the Damara wetlands,’ said Hans. ‘Underground rivers, coming to the surface. This water is what everyone relies on. We’ve gotta go straight through.’

  It felt contradictory. From scorching desert they were shifting, abruptly, into an emerald paradise of sudden rivers. Waterbirds squawked, toads and frogs croaked. And the car was rocking right down the middle of it all, wheel-arch deep in muddy water. It was like they were tunnelling into Eden.

  Reeds cracked against the undercarriage, ducks fled the splashing wheels; more than once it seemed they were going to get stuck in the sucking black mud and would have to be towed free. But, just when the car was about to give up, Hans did some manly manoeuvre with the wheel and the gearstick and they lurched from the sucking swamps – charging back up onto dry land.

  David wound the window open. They were on much firmer territory now; lush yet dry. Big orange cliffs stood on either side, they were rumbling down a dusty canyon.

  A gazelle, or an antelope, stared quizzically at them from a rock.

  ‘Klipspringer,’ said Hans.
‘Beautiful things. Always remind me of Russian girl gymnasts…’ He checked the GPS coordinates given him by Amy. ‘We’re nearly there. I hope your woman has given you the right numbers. But I can’t see anything. I’d hate it if you guys have come all this way for nothing –’

  ‘There,’ said Amy.

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  David followed her gaze, and her pointing arm. Down a shallow side canyon he saw a group of tents – a largish camp of parked vans, pink tents and people. One of the men stood out, he had bright red hair. He was injecting a black girl in the crook of her arm; she was covered in grease and her breasts were quite bare.

  ‘That must be Nairn.’

  The Land Rovers pulled up, David and Amy climbed out and approached the red-haired man – only then did he turn to look at them. He was still drawing blood from the black girl.

  ‘OK. I’ve nearly finished this bunch.’ Angus Nairn’s voice was loud, exuberant. He smiled at the visitors, then turned to a colleague and carried on issuing commands. ‘Alphonse! Alfie. Stop faffing about or I’ll be forced to get von Trotha on yer arse. Ask Donna to get the tables laid. And I want some kudu steak too. Excellent. Splendid. OK. You must be David and Amy? Eloise told me all about you. Give me a sec, we’re just finishing up. Alright, laydeez –’

  David and Amy stood there feeling spare, and stunned, as the business of the camp continued. David contemplated Nairn as he chattered. Where was Eloise?

  Hans came over, rubbing driver’s stiffness from his shoulders. As he shook Angus’s hand, the Scotsman smiled, quite warily, his green eyes gleaming.

  ‘And you are?’

  ‘Hans Petersen. Offered these guys a lift.’

  ‘Apparently so. Think I know your work with the ellies. Save the desert ellies, right?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘Know the accent…Dorslander? Northern Dutch? Not an original thirstlander?’

  Hans smiled at Angus.

  ‘Sorry, no…German Dutch. Otasha.’ He made his goodbyes to Amy and David. ‘OK. We gotta make the Huab by nightfall. Glad I could be of help.’

  Nairn nodded, Hans retreated. The Desert Elephant Land Rovers departed, trailing clouds of orange dust, like cannon smoke drifting over a battlefield. Angus picked up a big steel syringe and beckoned over another tribeswoman. David felt absurd standing here, doing nothing. Where was Eloise? Was Enoka with Miguel?

  Miguel and Enoka.

  ‘Mister Nairn. We think we may have been followed. To Namibia.’

  The geneticist nodded, pensively. He continued drawing blood as he talked.

  ‘Call me Angus. Followed how?’

  ‘We’re not sure. We just think maybe someone was looking for us in Swakop. A friend of Miguel’s. Might be wrong.’

  Angus sighed.

  ‘Eloise told me about Miguel. Garovillo? Yup. I knew they’d come for us. But we’re nearly done anyway. And we’re pretty safe out here in the bush.’

  ‘Where is Eloise?’

  Angus lifted a hand.

  ‘Wait. Let me finish. Just a few Nama and Damara to go. And the ever delightful Himba.’

  David watched as Angus took samples from the last tribespeople. The process of collecting blood was simple, it seemed. The locals queued patiently in the sun, then exposed their black and brown arms for Angus to plunge a shining needle in the soft veiny crook of the elbow. In return for the extracted blood samples, he then offered a brief medical examination, and dispensed medications – antibiotics, analgesics, antimalarials – to his sardonically mystified but apparently grateful customers.

  Now he was almost done. One girl remained, her hair and her bare body smeared with a reddish ochre substance – a form of grease, Angus told them, made from dust and butter.

  ‘The topless ones are the Himba – don’t know why bras are taboo. OK, that’s it, just unfold your arm. Less jouncing would be good.’

  The syringe glittered. The glass tube filled with blood, deep crimson blood, rubescent in the fading yet still burning sun. The shadows of the Damara canyon walls were long against the rocks; squawks and chirrs of birds and hyrax trilled through the air. The desert was returning to life after the infernal heat of the day.

  ‘There,’ said Angus. ‘One more fluid ounce and we’re finished.’

  He turned and squirted the blood into a sealed glass vial, which he handed to Alphonse, who escorted it away with ceremonial care. Like a newborn being taken to the scales. Angus swabbed the girl’s arm with a cotton wool bud. ‘Alright love. Thank you very much. Here’s some medicine for the kiddo. Do you understand? De Calpol juju?’

  The girl smiled, in shy puzzlement, and took the bottle of medicine, then turned and followed her family homeward through the acacias, assimilating with the long dark shadows of the trees.

  ‘Finally!’ Angus almost cheered. ‘Finito Benito! Now let’s have some Tafels and tucker. Guess you’re a bit confused, come all this way to see me and you can’t see Eloise? All can be explained, but first we drink. And eat!’

  He was right. In the centre of the camp some trestle tables had been laid for a meal. There were big steel bowls of kudu steaks with cold pepper sauce, golden Windhoek and Urbock lager already poured into glasses. Fruit sat next to chocolate bars.

  ‘Courtesy of Nathan Kellerman, such a generous benefactor, albeit a Zionist hoodlum. Come on, sit down for fuck’s sake, you two came a long way in one drive. Damaraland from Swakop? Mad men! Amy, your name is Amy Myerson right? Eloise told me everything.’

  Amy nodded, and said firmly: ‘Where is Eloise?’

  A mosquito whined and Angus shot out his hands and clapped. A squished mosquito was black on his fingers. ‘Howzat!’ He squinted closely at the insect’s corpse. ‘Anopheles Moucheti Moucheti. The day ones are arguably more dangerous, they carry dengue –’

  ‘Please. Where is Eloise?’ Amy repeated. ‘She told us to come here –’

  ‘She was here, you’re quite right. But I got a bit angsty. Decided to send her south.’

  ‘Where?’

  ‘The Sperrgebiet. The Forbidden Zone. Safest place in the world – for the world’s last breeding Cagot.’

  ‘Apart from Miguel.’

  Nairn’s eyes brightened.

  ‘So he is a Cagot as well? The terrorist! How is that? Tell me how. Tell me everything. The Urbock is cold and the desert evening is long. Tell me!’

  Over half a dozen beers, and plates of cold kudu steak and okra, Amy and David relayed the story to Angus Nairn. They were getting used to telling this story. There seemed increasingly little point in concealing the story from a potential ally. Miguel was the enemy.

  At length Angus sat back, the desert breeze riffling his red hair.

  ‘This explains a lot. It explains the murders, the ones you mention!’

  David said, ‘But…why? It doesn’t explain why Miguel…’

  ‘Don’t you see? He’s involved in the killings where torture is involved. The first two victims, the poor old girls who turned out to be rich.’

  The logic unfolded in David’s mind. Dimly.

  ‘I guess…He was just back from abroad. When he came in the bar – Amy –?’

  She nodded. ‘And after Miguel was back in Spain, the killings changed. Right? The man in Windsor – he was just killed. Not tortured. And Fazackerly, the scientist, he was also…just killed. Cruelly but…efficiently. I suppose. But then when Miguel got another chance, in Gurs – Eloise’s mother. She was elaborately tortured…Miguel again. But why?’ Her blue eyes gazed Angus’s way, full of questions. ‘Why would he kill and torture – where others just kill?’

  Angus stuffed another morsel of bread and chewed, exuberantly. ‘Think harder. One reason is obvious.’

  ‘Is it?’

  ‘Yes!’ A broad smile. ‘Why is he so murderously cruel to the Cagots? In particular?’

  The truth unpetalled in David’s mind.

  ‘Because…he knows about himself?’

  ‘Zakly. He’s a fucking self-hater! Like that B
asque witch burner.’

  ‘De Lancre?’

  ‘Yep. That’s it! He can’t face his own reality, his own race, his terrible identity. Can’t deal with it. Sublimated self-hatred becomes externalized violence. That must be the answer. Like Freud said! And Miguel Garovillo is a Cagot! So he takes his violent feelings, and inflicts them on the hated Cagots who embody his self loathing, his misery. He uses the tortures once inflicted on the deformed people. The witches and outcasts. The pariahs of the forest who he cannot accept as kin.’

  ‘But –’

  ‘And he probably heard about the Basque witch burnings when he was a kid, all the stories. And that’s gotta affect you. Tales of fire and torments! They fuck you up, your mum and dad, especially if they are terrorists. He probably has a psychosexual neurosis about the witch tortures.’

  There was a momentary silence. David turned Amy’s way, and he flinched. Because he’d noticed. Amy had just that second – briefly, subconsciously, surreptitiously – put her hand to her head.

  As if she was hiding the scar. The marks of the witch. David considered that scar, the interlocking curves. Was the scar simply more evidence of Miguel’s obsession, his sexual hang-ups, of the killer’s psychic need to revisit these witch tortures? But why did Amy let him do it? Cut her living skin? Why?

  He remembered her words in Arizkun.

  We do not exist, yes we do exist, we are fourteen thousand strong.

  Angus was talking again, his face shadowed yet animated in the long Damara twilight.

  ‘And Miguel probably has his own strange urges, anyway. One or more of the nasty syndromes of the Cagots. The violent urges. Poor Cagot bastard. No doubt the church told its agents to despatch with swift efficiency. Yet when Miguel had a chance he snuck in a bit of medieval mutilation, couldn’t help himself…’

  A large moth flickered in the lamplight: lanterns had been strung from trees around the camp. David gawped: ‘You knew it was…the church?’

  ‘Well, I presumed. Am I right? I’m right, aren’t I? Uh-huh?’

  ‘Actually,’ Any interjected, ‘it was the Society of Pius X.’