Читать книгу The Walk - Peter Barry - Страница 8

Sunday

Early in the morning, the sun just rising above the horizon, Adrian flew with Tim back to Korem. One of the staff at the airstrip drove the two men the short distance to the clinic.

Anne Chaffey stood with them on the verandah and pointed out the young man in the distance. He stood well away from the clinic, against the perimeter fence, as if he wished to separate himself from those camped in its immediate vicinity. ‘He likes to keep to himself,’ she said, placing a wide-brimmed straw hat on her head. ‘Perhaps it’s because he came here by himself. Bit of a wanderer, too,’ she added, as if they were lucky to find him still there.

‘Goes walkabout, does he?’ laughed Tim. ‘We have fellas like that in Australia; always heading off into the back of beyond.’

The lone figure stood immobile, oscillating in the harsh light, as black and insubstantial as a Giacometti ink drawing, almost transparent in the waves of rising heat, like a wisp of blackened paper dancing above the heat of a bonfire. He was so fragile, he looked to Adrian as if he might suddenly waft upwards into the sky.

‘Stay here, please,’ said Anne, and she set off towards the distant figure, picking her way carefully between those who were sitting and lying in front of the clinic, then marching with a speed that belied her age across the open ground. She spoke to the young man for a minute or two. Finally, they started to walk back towards Adrian and Tim where they waited in the shade of the building. Adrian was reminded of an old couple in an English country garden, walking side by side, taking a quiet afternoon stroll around the grounds after an extended lunch.

The nurse’s companion was soon almost close enough to be properly seen. Adrian studied him with a rising sense of excitement. He had that economy of movement characteristic of those who are starving, as if intent on saving what little energy he had left. One arm hung loosely by his side, while in his other hand he was grasping a long wooden pole, a rough walking staff. He towered over the nurse, his tightly curled black hair making him appear even taller. She barely came up to his chest.

Adrian wondered what he should do. Should he advance and greet them? Should he start talking to Tim, who was now sitting on the edge of the verandah smoking a cigarette? Should he behave as if the stranger were barely of interest to him? Should he look at him, or was it more polite to turn away? He wanted to do the right thing, but out here, in these surroundings, what was the right thing? He had no idea, so he stood there, undecided, with the air of a schoolteacher watching the approach of two naughty children.

Tim moved to his side. ‘Looks little more than a kid.’ Some cigarette smoke drifted in Adrian’s direction, and he flapped a hand irritably.

‘Sorry, mate’ – said more with amusement than apology. ‘Want one?’

Adrian grunted, and briefly shook his head. He detested being called mate, the warm, antipodean familiarity not just enveloping him in its damp embrace, but dragging him down to uncouth colonial levels, and making the heat of their surroundings even more unbearable.

The Ethiopian had his head down as he walked, as if he didn’t want to look at them. Or is it deference? Adrian asked himself. His legs were long, more than half his height. They were the legs of a leopard, almost out of proportion to the rest of his body. He loped across the ground, seemingly without effort, making Anne look slow and ponderous.

The nurse stopped in front of them, and the stranger copied her. ‘Adrian, Tim, this is Mujtabaa.’

‘G’day, mate.’

Adrian muttered something about being pleased to meet him, but realized that his words were unlikely to be understood. He considered shaking hands, but decided against it – probably too English, he told himself. The young man bowed his head three times, slowly and solemnly, and the four of them stood in silence facing each other on the very edge of the desolate crowd outside the whitewashed clinic, incongruous, thrown together by one man’s outrageous and improbable dream.

The Ethiopian was wearing a large, shroud-like, thin cotton cloth around his body like a dress. A smaller piece of the same material half-covered his head, like a hood. Round his waist was a garment like a skirt, tied at the right hip and reaching to his calves. A double-edged dagger, with a blade that must have been about 16 inches in length, hung from his waist, across the front of his body, in an ornate scabbard. He wore several amulets around his neck, and had a goatskin waterbag slung from his left shoulder. His skin and clothes were both tinged with salt, like a fine, white dust.

As if reading Adrian’s thoughts, Anne said: ‘This is how he arrived here from the Danakil. As instructed by you, I haven’t washed him and haven’t changed his clothes. All I’ve done is feed him a little food.’

He didn’t thank her. ‘How thin is he? It’s hard to tell in that thing.’

The nurse looked surprised. ‘His main garment is a shämma.’ After the briefest of pauses, she added: ‘And you don’t have to worry about that, Adrian – he’s very thin. You can see that from his face, his legs, his hands…’

‘Does he wear anything under that?’

‘Under his shämma? Only the sanafil, that skirt-like garment you can see. The sanafil would be his normal attire – that alone, but he’s travelling now. Hence his shämma.’ She sounded like an expat, both formal and rather out of date.

The young man stood before them, tall, straight and unmoving, a little separate from the three Westerners, anchored to the sandy soil, joined to it down the length of his body, so unlike the way the foreigners simply skittered, barely touching, across its surface, like mayflies across a pond on a summer’s evening. He towered over them, his large feet, square and bony, cracked and filthy, rooting him to the earth.

‘Please ask him to take off his shämma.’ He made little effort to hide the impatience in his voice.

‘I can’t do that, Adrian.’

‘In heaven’s name, why not?’

‘We don’t know him. He’d be insulted.’

‘But he’s practically a child.’

‘You have to take my word on this: under that shämma, he’ll be very thin.’

‘He’ll have to take it off some time. He’s no use to us like that.’

There was a heavy silence. Adrian was aware of Tim reaching into his shirt pocket and pulling out a packet of tobacco and some cigarette papers. He started to roll himself another cigarette, leaning nonchalantly against one of the uprights supporting the verandah roof, politely disengaging himself from the conversation.

It struck Adrian that the heat wouldn’t be unusual for him. No wonder he looks so comfortable, he thought. In fact he looked loose, as if he were hanging from a coat-hanger in the cool shadows of a wardrobe. Adrian, tense and awkward, tried to emulate the Australian, to relax and think cool, but it was difficult when his T-shirt was already saturated. It stuck to his body and was dark with sweat beneath his armpits and down his back.

‘How old would you say he is?’ he asked the nurse.

‘It’s hard to tell when someone’s so malnourished, but I’d guess he’s about 16 or 17, possibly younger. He could be 15. People look older when they’re starving.’ She ended their short conversation by turning away and studying those who were sitting and lying on the ground.

Adrian told himself that a 15- or 16-year-old was perfect. ‘So what have you said to him?’

She turned back towards him, regarding him calmly from beneath the shade of her hat, patiently respectful. ‘What you told me to tell him.’

‘Which was?’ Trying to coax it out of her.

‘That we will help his people with food and money if he accompanies us.’

‘And will he?’

‘It’s hard to tell. He doesn’t say much. If you push him he nods his head. But I’m certain he has agreed to help us.’

‘You don’t sound very sure, if you don’t mind my saying so, Anne. I’d hate to have come all the way from London just to have him refuse to come with us.’

‘I know these people, Adrian. His silence is acquiescence. You have to trust me on this.’

Adrian had always had a problem with delegating. If anyone ever confronted him on the issue, he’d defend himself by admitting that he wasn’t happy delegating because no one else could be trusted. He was feeling this now: he knew Anne was essential to the successful implementation of his idea, and that he had to trust her, but everything inside him was screaming at him to intervene. That would be a mistake; he knew that. The idea was important, it was sacrosanct, but he needed people around him to make it happen.

‘What language does he speak?’

‘Afar. That’s what the Afar speak.’ Said as if he should know that.

‘And do you speak Afar?’

‘I speak Amharic, the country’s official language and the main language around here. But I have an adequate understanding of Afar. In the Danakil, it’s the main language.’

Looking at the Ethiopian: ‘And does he speak Amharic?’

‘He doesn’t seem to. But I’m making myself understood in his language.’

‘Well, let’s hope so. We need to communicate with each other somehow if he’s going to come with us.’

The pilot stood watching the two of them. They were nitpicking like a married couple; the sixty-something, straight-backed, expat nurse and the slightly overweight, heavily perspiring and twitchy middle-aged executive. Each wore neatly pressed shorts that went down to the knees. She also had on a short-sleeved check shirt, buttoned almost to the chin. Her skin was brown, his shockingly white. The two of them stood facing each other: he, ill-tempered and out of his depth; she, self-possessed and quietly in control. The sun beat down, without discrimination – on Adrian and Anne, on the two bystanders, Tim and Mujtabaa, and on the gathering of refugees who seemed to have been stupefied by it.

‘You’ve told him where we’re planning to take him?’

The young man stood next to Anne, staring fixedly at his feet, as if determined to take no part in the discussion – even if he’d been able to. He looked no different from a child being forced to listen to a scene between his parents and wishing he could leave the room.

‘Yes, I’ve told him where we want to take him – of course. It’s just that I can’t be certain he understood.’

Adrian thought, why have I ended up with someone like this? Surely there must have been someone else available? A good account man, someone like Simon Twining, that’s who I need now. Someone whom I can absolutely trust, someone I barely need to give instructions to. He closed his eyes. ‘And what makes you think he may not have understood you, Anne?’

‘It’s nothing to do with interpretation difficulties. It’s to do with the fact that these people usually stay within the same locality all of their lives. Although they’re nomadic, they rarely wander great distances.’

‘But you can still explain to him that we’re taking him to another country, to the UK, can’t you?’

‘He won’t understand what I’m talking about. The UK could be on the other side of the Danakil for all he knows. I may as well tell him we’re taking him to the moon. That would probably make more sense to him; at least he can see the moon.’ She was clasping and unclasping her hands, suddenly looking agitated and ill at ease amongst the three men.

The PR consultant and the nurse scowled at each other. Then, possibly in an attempt to be more placatory, she said: ‘I told him we’re taking him to visit another tribe. I think he understood that.’

‘Another tribe?’ Adrian was incredulous. He wiped the back of his neck with his handkerchief, and thought how his plans always tended to fall apart whenever other people became involved.

The pilot stepped in. ‘Can I make a suggestion, you guys?’ They both turned to him. ‘As pleasant as it is out here, maybe we should leave for Addis before our brains fry, and before you miss your London flight. Explain everything to him on the way.’

Adrian turned his back on the pilot, saying to the nurse: ‘I’m taking your word for it, Anne, that he’s happy to come with us. So we’ll leave as soon as you’re ready.’

They were farewelled by the replacement nurse on loan from the sister clinic at Weldiya, and three of the local girls who helped out.

Back at the Korem airstrip, Tim opened the Cessna’s cockpit door, saying over his shoulder, ‘Don’t worry, Anne, he’ll definitely be better off coming with us than remaining here.’

She didn’t reply to this attempted reassurance. Instead, giving the Ethiopian a quick smile of encouragement, she climbed into the plane. When Adrian indicated that the young man should follow her, a look of sheer panic appeared on his face. His eyes opened wide, making his head look even more skull-like. He stepped backwards, his hand hovering above the hilt of his jile.

Oh my God, thought Adrian, this is all we need. Even if we get him into the plane, we’ll be up on kidnapping charges. He obviously has no idea what’s going on.

‘It’s all right,’ he said, giving a strained smile, ‘keep calm. We’re not going to harm you. We’re doing this to help you. Help?’ he added loudly, questioningly, throwing the one word directly into the stranger’s face as if on the off-chance it might lodge there, on his skull, on the shell of his brain. There was a mixture of sweat and sunblock in Adrian’s eyes and he was doing his best not to screw them up, but the stinging was making him blink furiously. Although the young man had his head down, he was watching Adrian intently from beneath his white, salt-crusted eyebrows, his right hand now firmly gripping the hilt of the jile.

Adrian put his head in the plane to speak to Anne. ‘I don’t think he’s been in a plane before.’

There was a roar of laughter behind him. ‘You’re joking, mate?’ Tim said. ‘Been in one? It’s quite likely he’s never bloody seen one before.’

Adrian swore into the cockpit and closed his eyes with exasperation and frustration. Was his dream finished before it had even started? ‘I don’t care how you do it, Anne, but we have to get him into the plane. We have to! We’re trying to help him – and his people. Does he not understand that?’

Anne, possibly startled by the vehemence with which he spoke, reached out and put a hand on his arm. ‘I’ll talk to him again.’ She climbed out of the plane and addressed the young man in a low, earnest voice. His head and eyes remained down, and his face expressionless, so it was difficult to tell whether he was either listening to, or understanding, what she was saying. She held out her hand, speaking quietly, without pause, her voice soothing and encouraging. She then took his hand, the one resting on his jile, and turned and stepped back towards the plane. Adrian and Tim watched, both men looking as if they might be betting on how far she’d get, the diminutive woman leading the giant, like a child trying to lure a stallion into a horsebox. The Ethiopian followed her, his head still down, one arm at full stretch, being dragged like a child unwillingly to school.

Anne climbed into the plane, crouching down in the doorway, still holding the young man’s hand. Adrian moved in behind him, as if to cut off his escape. The nurse continued talking, almost whispering, trying to reassure. The Ethiopian attempted to grasp the side of the door with the hand that was already holding his long, polished walking staff, but couldn’t manage it. His eyes were almost popping out of his head. Anne gently prised the staff from his hand and lay it on the floor of the plane.

Adrian reached out to support the young man’s arm. It was dry and dusty, and felt like bone, hard and brittle. He was scared of breaking something. He felt big and clumsy next to his skeletal neighbour, like a heavyweight boxer handling fine porcelain china. With a little pulling from Anne and some pushing by Adrian, they managed to manoeuvre him into the fuselage. There was then the problem of getting him off the floor of the plane and into a seat. It was a while before they succeeded. Anne put the safety belt round his waist, and even after tightening it as far as it would go, it still lay loosely across his lap.

Adrian struggled into the front seat of the plane next to the pilot. As Tim slammed the cockpit door closed, Adrian turned round and said: ‘Might be a good idea to warn him about the noise, Anne.’

She spoke to the young man, placing her hand on his. She nodded to Tim. He started the engine, and the propeller whirred to life. Immediately the Ethiopian threw himself against the window, scrabbling to get out. She took both of his hands in hers, clasping them, talking all the time, trying to pull him back from the window.

Tim looked across at Adrian. ‘Reckon this is still such a good idea?’ Because of the noise, Adrian didn’t hear the question. The pilot raised his eyes skywards, turned back to the controls and, almost with reluctance, released the brake. The engine revved louder and the aircraft started taxiing towards the end of the landing strip. The Ethiopian had closed his eyes and was now gabbling away in a panic-stricken voice. Adrian looked at Anne, questioning.

‘I believe he’s praying,’ she said. ‘To Wak.’

‘Who’s Wak?’

‘He’s their Sky God.’

Tim laughed. ‘That’s kind of appropriate. Maybe I should pray to him too.’

The aircraft bumped along the packed earth, quickly picking up speed, before lifting into the air. The young man opened his eyes. What had happened? He turned, almost as an afterthought, and looked out of the window. As the small township rapidly disappeared beneath them, he started to wail as if his death was now imminent and some evil spirit was already calling out his name. Anne spoke to him, patting his hands, trying to reassure him with smiles and words, until finally, in despair and totally spent, he sank forward in his seat, his chin on his chest and, looking as if it was all too much for him and he no longer had the strength to care what happened, he closed his eyes. He didn’t move for the rest of the flight.

The plane headed south, and for a while the only sound was the steady drone of the engine. There was a feeling of relief in the cockpit now that the young man had quietened down. Adrian twisted round in his seat and spoke to Anne: ‘Is he asleep?’

‘I think he may be.’

‘Does he need a blanket?’

She raised her eyebrows, as if surprised by his concern. ‘I think he’s all right, Adrian. Thank you.’

Turning further round, and putting an arm up on the back of his seat, he said: ‘You know I don’t expect anything of you, Anne, except to keep – what’s his name?’

‘Mujtabaa.’

‘That’s right, Mujtabaa. Just to keep him alive. That’s all.’ He stared at her for slightly longer than was necessary.

She looked small in the back of the plane next to her tall neighbour, like a schoolgirl. Adrian thought she could almost have been one of Emma’s friends if it weren’t for the white hair and the fine lines on the tanned face.

‘Yes, that’s quite clear.’

And it went through his mind that in fact no one was going to give a damn if the young man died. Two thousand deaths or two thousand and one deaths. Four thousand deaths, or four thousand and one deaths. If you were honest with yourself, if you weren’t a hypocrite, it was surely immaterial. But he had sufficient sense to keep this thought to himself.

The nurse looked away, and gazed out of the window. Her face betrayed no emotion. Adrian looked briefly at Tim, maybe hoping for support, but the pilot’s face remained determinedly expressionless.

His eyes wandered, but there was nothing on which they could settle. Nature had split its canvas in two, the desert and the sky. Each reverberated in the heat, gleaming white where they met, then changing to a cobalt blue overhead and a drab yellow at their feet. He knew that, thousands of years ago, the landscape beneath them had been covered by forests, but now, after centuries of human abuse, it had been worn out, ravaged and discarded. It had the air of a deserted campsite. A small group of refugees was heading along a deeply furrowed track in the direction of the mountains. He wondered if any of them would know Mujtabaa and what they would think if they realized he was now flying through the sky, hundreds of feet above their heads, in the company of three white people.

Seeing him look out of the window, Tim said, ‘Wouldn’t think it was the wet season, would you?’

‘Is it?’

‘From June to September, that’s when the long rains fall – the meher. It’s also called the hungry season, because everyone is waiting for the harvest to come. The short rains are in March and April – the belg – but we haven’t had those for three or four years now. That’s half the problem – the lack of rain. The other half is the civil war. There’s little or no grass left for their herds, and they say next year will be even worse.’

The pilot broke the long silence that followed. ‘So what are you going to do with this bloke in London?’

‘Keeping that to ourselves for the moment.’

‘Sure.’

Adrian relented a little. ‘He’s helping us with our fundraising efforts. We’re hoping to capitalize on the success and publicity of Live Aid.’ He didn’t want to reveal too much. He remembered Anne telling him Tim also did flights for the other charities – it would be a disaster if they found out what he was up to before it got under way. ‘Fact is, its influence is waning, and people need to be reminded of what’s happening here.’

‘So long as you’re not going to inflict another Do they know it’s Christmas? on us. If I hear that song one more time, think I’ll go barmy as a bandicoot.’

‘What we’re trying to do will make a real difference. I’m sure of it.’

Tim changed the subject. ‘We should be back in Addis in under two hours.’

Adrian nodded. Again, he glanced back to study the features of the young man. He was now leaning against the side of the cockpit, his head, with its chaotic mass of tightly curled hair, resting on the window, his skeletal frame almost enveloped in dusty robes. If he’d been holding a scythe, he’d have made a good Grim Reaper at a fancy-dress party. Adrian smelt a distinctive mixture of sweat, dirt and illness. He wondered if it was the smell of death, the young man decomposing before their eyes. Concerned, he shouted back to Anne: ‘Do you think he’ll be OK?’

She leant forward so she didn’t have to shout. ‘This would be a nasty shock to anyone’s immune system, but especially someone who isn’t well.’

Adrian suspected she was avoiding answering his question. ‘But do you think he’ll survive?’ he insisted. ‘Is he healthy?’

‘I wouldn’t have agreed to this if I didn’t think he’d survive, Adrian.’ She sounded quite frosty. ‘As to whether or not he’s healthy, I find that almost impossible to answer. Being the weight he is, he’s scarcely healthy, yet I wouldn’t necessarily describe him as unhealthy. He doesn’t look well, obviously, but then he’s young, so…’ She left her sentence unfinished, before adding: ‘So far as I can tell, he’s not ill. If he had malaria it would be obvious enough, or TB, which is the main killer amongst these people. But there are other diseases which are harder to detect in the early stages.’

Despite Adrian’s worries about the young man attracting undue attention at Addis Ababa airport, no one gave him more than a cursory glance. Since the famine had attracted worldwide attention two years earlier, the capital had been besieged by relief-agency workers, government officials, and the well-educated, well-fed, well-off and well-meaning middle classes of the Western world. Famine was a booming business. Even celebrities and Hollywood film stars, looking appropriately gloomy, earnest and sympathetic, could be spotted at regular intervals flying in or out of the country. To see an actual victim of the famine was far less interesting.

Inside the terminal, a noisy air-conditioning system was trying, unsuccessfully, to cope with the heat. The paint on the ceiling was flaking, and mould was creeping up the walls. A bored and listless throng shuffled aimlessly around the building as if they had no plans to go anywhere, but were more intent on finding a place to lie down and have a quiet doze.

Tim’s office was in a Nissan hut at the back of the terminal. The raised floor was covered in linoleum, badly worn where the traffic in the room had been heaviest. The desk, filing cabinets and chairs looked as if they’d come straight from a surplus store, and the piles of paperwork appeared to have settled permanently beneath a thin patina of dust. There was a window, which Tim now opened, and a fan, which he now switched on. Anne made Mujtabaa lie down on an old, worn sofa, its plastic covering split in several places, like a patient undergoing surgery, revealing seeping, rubbery, yellowed guts.

Tim told Adrian he could use the phone to call London – ‘though you’ll be lucky to get through’ – then showed Anne where the kitchen was. After that, he shook hands with both of them and left, saying he probably wouldn’t be back before they left for London.

Adrian made himself at home, already visualizing the small, cramped office as his command centre, a place where he could manage his small team – only four, but enough people to feed his fantasy. Rory, who worked for Africa Assist in the capital, had just arrived to help out with the ‘top secret project’. He was a tall, sinewy and unexpectedly white individual, despite his years in Africa, who offered his services in a rather laid-back and supercilious manner. As well as Anne and Mujtabaa, Adrian mentally included Tim amongst his team, even though it was unlikely they’d see him again. Numbers were important to him.

As he arranged the contents of his briefcase on the desk, he instructed Rory to confirm their tickets on the 2.15 Ethiopian Airlines flight to London.

‘What about Mujtabaa’s national ID card and visa?’

‘Already done. Anne arranged it.’

‘And Anne?’

‘She still has her British passport.’

He turned to the nurse sitting patiently on a chair between his desk and the sofa on which the young man was lying. ‘What about our friend? Does he need anything?’

‘I think he needs to eat something.’

She saw the concern on his face. ‘Since he reached the clinic, I’ve just been giving him some zinc and vitamin A mixed in with a little milk and cereal. It’s not enough for him to put on any weight, certainly not enough to be noticeable.’

‘It’s important he doesn’t. I want to keep him lean and hungry. But that doesn’t mean I want to starve him,’ he added hastily.

‘I’d remind you, Adrian, that I have the final say on what Mujtabaa does or does not eat. I won’t compromise on that. We must be clear on that from the start.’

He nodded, smiling briefly, feeling more conciliatory now that things were going his way.

‘Once I’ve prepared the milk, I suggest you give it to Mujtabaa.’

‘Yes?’

‘Amongst nomads, accepting food, even a drink of milk, means the forming of a bond between the giver and the receiver, between the host and the guest. It shows you’re willing to take on the responsibility of protecting Mujtabaa should there be any trouble in the future.’

Rory interrupted. ‘It also means you have to avenge his death if he’s killed.’

‘Maybe it would be better coming from you, Anne.’

‘I don’t think so. I’ve already fed him, obviously, but in his eyes at least, I’m only a woman.’ She was adamant, as if daring Adrian to make the same mistake as the Ethiopian.

He didn’t want the responsibility, but told himself it was simply some peasant belief and he should go along with it.

He got through to London with surprising ease. First he spoke to Dave Parker, the new assistant foisted on him by James Balcombe. Adrian ordered him to set everything in motion now, to organize the army of volunteer collectors, the placards and advertising placements, the police and council clearances, and anything else that needed to be put in place before their arrival. Some of these were already under way and had just been awaiting the final go-ahead once they’d found their Ethiopian.

Next, Adrian spoke to the executive director of Africa Assist. ‘All going well, James, we’ll be in London soon after eight o’clock your time this evening. The only flight out of Addis is via Rome.’

‘How many of you are there?’

‘Three. Myself, Anne Chaffey – the nurse I was telling you about – and the Ethiopian fellow.’

‘Tell me about him.’ He sounded peremptory.

‘He’s perfect.’ He read from the piece of paper Anne had placed on the side of his desk. ‘Name: Mujtabaa bin Qurban-Ali. Approximately 16 years old. Height, six foot three. No distinguishing marks, except that he’s incredibly thin.’

‘I doubt that’s a distinguishing mark in Ethiopia.’

‘I don’t suppose it is.’ He looked across at the young man sitting on the couch. ‘We couldn’t have hoped for better.’

There was a long silence, during which Adrian stared at Mujtabaa, who sat listlessly, almost like a rag doll, his eyes open but unseeing, seemingly indifferent to what was going on around him.

Adrian was imagining James Balcombe in his big house in Esher. He was probably enjoying drinks on the terrace, overlooking the extensive, lovingly tended gardens, discussing with his wife their social engagements for the week ahead. Maybe they had weekend guests down from the city, listening, with furrowed brows, to their host relaying his concerns to some troublesome minion on a faraway continent.

‘I have to make certain this is absolutely clear to you’ – he’s probably casting a meaningful glance at his guests right now, thought Adrian – ‘If anything goes wrong – you hear what I’m saying? – anything at all, it will be your responsibility, Adrian. I’ve been against this escapade from day one. Don’t forget that.’ There was a brief pause, both men listening to what sounded like a loud humming from some distant ocean bed. ‘Do I make myself clear?’

‘Perfectly. I understand exactly where you’re coming from.’ You fence-sitter, he thought, you weak-minded, bureaucratic idiot; covering your backside as usual. But he said, ‘Your concerns have been noted, James. I’m more than happy to take responsibility.’ As an afterthought, he added: ‘We don’t want any publicity by the way. Not yet.’

‘No?’

‘Just in case.’

‘I don’t understand.’

‘In case something does go wrong.’

‘You mean should he die? Is that what you mean, Adrian – if the young man should die?’

He could hear the panic in the man’s voice. ‘It’s unlikely, but yes. Or if we can’t get him onto the plane or something. That’s more of a possibility,’ he added, ‘but that’s why I have Anne Chaffey with me, to prevent such mishaps.’

‘Dying is scarcely a mishap, Adrian. Quite frankly, this scheme of yours terrifies me.’

‘The event is to be launched tomorrow morning, at the press conference. Nothing’s to be revealed before then.’ Adrian wanted support. He didn’t want to know about everyone else’s worries; he had enough of his own. ‘If I’m to take full responsibility for this, James, I have to be the one running the show. I’ve told you that already: I make the decisions.’

Before Balcombe had a chance to communicate any more of his concerns, Adrian said: ‘I have to go. The immigration people are about to arrive.’

But the executive director of Africa Assist refused to be dismissed so easily. ‘One more thing. I’ll come and meet you at Heathrow.’

‘Probably better if you don’t. Everyone will be tired. Why not join us at the press conference tomorrow morning?’

As he put the phone down, Anne returned from the kitchen with a glass of milk. ‘I suggest you offer this to him in a solemn manner, Adrian. It would be wrong just to put it down on the table in front of him.’

Adrian carried the glass across to where the young man was sitting. He didn’t stir. Adrian said his name. He looked up. Although Adrian knew the young man couldn’t understand him, he said: ‘Here’s some milk for you,’ and held out the glass. It was a few seconds before the Ethiopian reached up and slowly, with both hands, took the glass off him. He bowed his head as if to thank Adrian, then gulped the milk noisily. Adrian was reminded of a small child, and half expected him to gasp and wipe his mouth with the back of his hand when he’d finished. He did neither. He simply let his hands fall back onto his lap, still holding the glass.

‘Oh dear, that was far too fast.’ Anne came up and stood next to the two men. ‘I think we may be seeing that milk again somehow.’

‘You mean…?’

‘Yes.’ She gently prised the glass from the young man’s hands.

‘Oh.’ Adrian took an involuntary step backwards, and the two of them stood looking down at the skeletal figure, once again slumped apathetically before them.

‘I was thinking, it doesn’t matter if he’s ill, just so long as he’s not about to die.’ Aware of how callous that might sound, he added: ‘I’d be happier if he wasn’t ill, of course; I certainly don’t want him to suffer.’

‘I’m pleased to hear that. Anyway, you won’t get him into the UK if he has anything too serious. As for the ethics of doing such a thing…’

He stared at her for a moment, silent, as if he were ignorant of that particular word and needed time to work out what it could possibly mean. He was exasperated by what he perceived as her lack of co-operation.

He went back to the desk and started to type on the old typewriter. ‘To whom it may concern. This is to say that I am leaving Ethiopia of my own free will, in the company of Adrian Burles, Chief Project Manager of Africa Assist and Partner of Talcott & Burles. I have agreed to fly to London in order to let the people of the United Kingdom learn of the desperate famine conditions in my country, and to help raise money for my compatriots. I absolve Africa Assist of any responsibility for what may or may not happen to me.’

He handed the sheet of paper to Anne. ‘Would you translate this for Mujtabaa and ask him to sign it?’

‘I’m certain he won’t be able to write.’

‘Make him put a cross then. Some kind of mark.’

She read the letter without comment. When she spoke to the young man, he neither moved, nor reacted. She struggled to place a pen between his fingers and thumb and hold it there, before attempting to guide his hand to draw an ‘M’ at the bottom of the page.

As Adrian took back the sheet of paper, he said, ‘I’m sure we won’t need it.’ He didn’t sound convinced, but he was more preoccupied at that moment with whether or not they’d be able to persuade Mujtabaa to get on the flight to London that afternoon without causing some kind of scene.

The terminal lay stretched out beside the empty landing strips, paralysed by the heat. Planes squatted immobile near the hangars, people slouched on seats inside the terminal, and the small number of taxi drivers at the front of the building hung listlessly out of open doors waiting for fares that seemed unlikely ever to materialize. The Arrivals and Departures boards clattered city names and flight times rarely and with complete uninterest, as if sensing no one had either the energy or the desire to read them.

A little before two o’clock, after receiving a laconic ‘goodbye and good luck’ from Rory, Adrian, Anne and Mujtabaa left what was rather ambitiously described as a Departure Lounge, and walked out of the terminal towards a jet parked on the apron.

Accompanied across the tarmac by many other passengers, each enveloped in their own damp, heavy, clinging mantle of heat, Adrian worried that Mujtabaa would create a scene and refuse to climb the stairs onto the plane. What could they do? What if an official ran forward and started asking awkward questions and the Ethiopian shouted that he was being taken out of the country against his will? He took reassurance by reminding himself of the stories he’d heard about the steady stream of Westerners leaving the country with local children in tow. Their hastily cobbled-together visa documents declared them to be adopted, but, if you had money – and not even a great deal of it – you could get your hands on documentation saying anything you damn well wanted it to say. He told himself there was no reason for him to worry; not only was their paperwork all in order, but Anne had reassured him the young man was accompanying them of his own free will.

It may have been because the plane was bigger than the one they’d been in earlier that day and he was simply unable to comprehend it, or it may have been that he found the presence of so many of his fellow Ethiopians reassuring, but Mujtabaa boarded the plane without a murmur. He climbed the stairs slowly, Anne supporting his elbow, almost with the air of a departing dignitary.

Adrian found his place in the Business Class section of the plane and Anne and Mujtabaa continued through to the rear. He settled into his seat and a minute later a steward brought him a glass of orange juice and a cool towel. He was relieved to find there was no one sitting next to him. He stared out of the window.

You’re going to make it, Mujtabaa, he said to himself. You’re going to be OK. So long as you don’t go and die on me, I’ll make you famous. This is going to be a huge coup for Africa Assist.

He was smiling as the plane taxied to the end of the runway. A few minutes later, after lumbering ponderously through the heavy heat haze rising off the tarmac, they were airborne. Stage one has gone without a hitch, Adrian told himself, and he ordered the first of a few celebratory glasses of champagne.

Some time later, after lunch, as he was flicking through the airline’s in-flight magazine, he saw a map of the world that showed the countries the airline flew to, the routes exploding across the page like fireworks over the major cities of Africa, Europe and Asia. He studied the map closely, then, keen to share his thoughts, he stood up and, still clutching the magazine, made his way past the curtain that separated Business Class from Economy. He was pleased to find that Anne had put Mujtabaa in the aisle seat, as far from the window as possible. She was sitting in the middle seat, and a young European girl was by the window.

He held out the magazine to Anne, over the head of the young man. ‘Show him Ethiopia and England, Anne, then he’ll get an idea of how far he’s flying.’

She stared at him, incredulous. ‘He won’t understand. Not a map.’

‘Try,’ he insisted, as eager as a young boy. ‘Please.’

‘He won’t be able to grasp how you can put a whole country on a piece of paper. It won’t make any sense to him.’

Adrian continued to hold the map before her face, obstinately thrusting it forward like an unwanted gift. Shaking her head in disbelief, as if dealing with a particularly stubborn child, she took the magazine and held it in front of Mujtabaa. She said a few words, pointing at the map. He lowered his eyes for a second, then returned to staring at the top of the seat in front of him. Anne handed the magazine back to Adrian. ‘He’s not interested.’

‘You’d think he’d be keen to know where he’s going.’

‘When we get to London, Adrian,’ she said with an uncharacteristic hint of exasperation, ‘may I suggest you draw a map in the earth with a stick? It will probably make more sense to him.’

He noticed how, when she spoke to him, she would slightly lower her head – it was almost a bow, almost as if she felt herself unworthy to speak to him – and it occurred to him, just fleetingly, that maybe she was unused to speaking to her own people after having lived in Ethiopia for so long.

He stood in the aisle as if stranded in no-man’s-land, at a loss where to go. ‘How’s it going then? Did you give him anything for lunch?’

‘Very little.’

‘That’s good.’ He stared at the top of Mujtabaa’s head, without seeing it, and, unusually for him, without knowing what to say.

‘A stewardess kindly mixed some dried food in the galley – faffa porridge.’ Said as if Adrian should, in some way, have planned for this eventuality.

‘It was bright yellow,’ said the young girl by the window.

‘Is that right?’ Adrian smiled.

‘And she’ – the girl added, pointing at Anne – ‘had to feed him with a spoon, like a baby. That’s because he lives in a tent in the desert.’

‘No, it’s because…?’ The old nurse raised her eyebrows.

‘Because he’s not well.’

‘That’s correct.’

‘I’d better be getting back,’ said Adrian, beginning to feel somewhat superfluous to the conversation, almost as if he were being deliberately excluded.

He was dozing, sitting bolt upright in his seat, his chin resting on his chest, a work file on his lap, when the plane ducked and draked along the wet runway at Leonardo da Vinci International Airport. There was an hour’s wait before the flight continued to London. Anne and Mujtabaa stayed on board, while Adrian left the plane. In the terminal he bought some perfume for Judith and a leather writing-case for Emma. He toyed with the idea of buying Mujtabaa a photograph of the Pope, or one of the little plastic replicas of a Michelangelo statue, Moses or David, almost as a bit of a joke, but at the last minute decided against it. He considered buying him a leather jacket, but thought even that might not be appreciated.

Soon after seven, on a sublime, still, summer’s evening, they soared smoothly into the sky and headed for London. The rain clouds had scattered to the horizon, and a brilliant orange sky now stretched like a theatre backdrop behind the seven hills. The Eternal City was bathed in an appropriately ethereal glow. Flying up the coast to France, it struck Adrian very forcefully, and for the first time, that his dream was about to be realized. He was almost home.

Two hours later they were flying low above the wide, translucent ribbon of the Thames. The sky was becoming dark. Adrian looked out of the window at the sights of London unravelling beneath them. He doubted Mujtabaa would be interested in seeing them, and was probably, as always, staring impassively to the front, seemingly oblivious of everything that was happening around him. Adrian was concerned by his lack of movement, but also by his separateness. And he was frustrated by the fact that he was only able to speak to the Ethiopian through Anne.

Right on schedule, they were taxiing towards Terminal 3.

Being one of the first to disembark, Adrian waited for Anne and Mujtabaa at the end of the airbridge. The nurse had asked for a wheelchair for Mujtabaa, so she was the last off the plane. It was being pushed by a flight attendant. His perspiring face was directly above his seated compatriot, but they weren’t talking. Mujtabaa sat, looking at no one, as silent and unresponsive as a piece of baggage.

‘I thought it better to avoid the crush,’ Anne said by way of explanation.

The flight attendant took them to Immigration and Passport Control, chatting all the time, as if that was what was expected of him. He left them in the queue, solemnly turning round and waving as he walked back the way they’d come. The immigration officer barely looked at Anne or Adrian’s passports, and stamped Mujtabaa’s visa after only the quickest of glances in his direction. Before handing it back to Adrian, he said, ‘What’s wrong with him?’ He scarcely sounded interested in a reply.

‘You mean, why is he in a wheelchair?’ The officer nodded. ‘He’s from an area of famine, and has lost a lot of weight.’ They were waved through with a world-weary flick of the hand.

They collected their luggage from the carousel along with Mujtabaa’s jile, which had travelled as a ‘special package’ in the hold of the plane, from a desk nearby. At Customs, they walked through the Nothing to Declare gate. They were stopped.

‘Has this young man any baggage?’ The customs officer was looking at Mujtabaa.

‘No,’ said Adrian.

‘No hand luggage, sir?’

‘No.’

‘A toothbrush, maybe?’ he asked frowning.

‘Not even a toothbrush. Never used one, doesn’t own one, probably never seen one.’

The customs officer stared at them. ‘What would Colgate Palmolive have to say about that?’ He half smiled, revealing his own rather forlorn set of nicotine-stained teeth, then indicated they should wait. He walked away to consult a colleague.

‘What’s the problem now, for heaven’s sake?’

‘I’m sure everything’s fine, Adrian. It’s probably because they’ve never come across anyone without any luggage before.’ She lay a protective hand on Mujtabaa’s arm.

The two customs officers were staring at them from an inspection table further up the hall. A minute later they walked over. The new officer, an overweight, stern-faced woman and, from her demeanour, the more senior of the two, asked: ‘What did you say was wrong with your friend?’

‘I didn’t. I told one of your colleagues at Passport Control that there’s nothing wrong with him, apart from the fact he’s hungry. He’s been in an area of famine, but he’s not ill.’

‘Ethiopia, is that where he’s from?’

‘Yes. I work for the charity Africa Assist, and this man is helping us raise money for his people, for famine relief.’

The two officers, expressionless and silent, regarded Mujtabaa as if he were a dead fish washed up on a beach and they were uncertain whether to throw him back in the water or simply walk away.

‘Is there a problem?’ Adrian asked.

The woman looked at him, almost with reluctance. ‘Is there? You tell me, sir.’

‘I don’t believe there is.’

‘Can he stand?’ the woman’s colleague asked.

Adrian’s heart sank. ‘Yes, of course.’

‘Will you ask him to stand for me, please.’

Anne spoke to Mujtabaa, but he didn’t stir. She took both of his hands and gently attempted to pull him to his feet. She whispered to him, but his head remained sunk on his chest. The customs officers watched dispassionately, as if they had little interest in the outcome of their request. Adrian stepped forward. ‘Mujtabaa, let’s just give you a bit of a hand up.’ He grasped the young man under one of his arms, and with the nurse on his other side, they lifted him gently out of the wheelchair. He stood between them like a rag doll. Adrian felt he and Anne could have been army privates supporting a friend at an officer’s morning inspection, trying to hide the fact that he was drunk and incapable from the night before.

They stood there for what seemed an interminable time. Finally, the female customs officer said, ‘He can sit down again.’

Thank God, Adrian thought. But no sooner had they lowered Mujtabaa into the wheelchair than the woman said: ‘If you’d follow me, please.’ She led them to a small room at the side of the Customs Hall.

‘Can you tell me what’s happening?’

‘Yes, sir. Because of where he’s come from, I’d like one of our medical officers to look at your friend.’ She picked up the phone and dialled a number. While she waited for someone to answer, she addressed Adrian: ‘There’s a Medical Centre here at Heathrow, or we can take him to Hillingdon Hospital.’

‘I really don’t think that’s necessary.’

‘He doesn’t look well to me, sir. I’ll ask someone from the Medical Centre to pop over.’

‘He’s fine–’ His protests were cut short by the woman explaining the situation to someone on the other end of the line. When she put the receiver down, she addressed Anne rather than Adrian: ‘It’s regulations, you understand. We have to be careful. There’s been a lot of publicity about the famines in Africa.’

They sat on chairs by the door. The customs officer sat behind a desk and stared at the Ethiopian. No one spoke. Adrian appreciated that, even though he’d anticipated the possibility of such a ruinous turn of events, he was confounded by it now that it had happened. Although it was too late to argue with the customs officer, he’d have to make sure he pushed his case at the Medical Centre. He was so close to realizing his idea; he couldn’t let it slip through his fingers at this late stage, after they’d come so far. He glanced at Mujtabaa. It was possibly a stroke of luck that no one was able to talk to him. But could he rely on Anne to say the right thing? That was his main concern.

A few minutes later there was a knock at the door and a young nurse appeared. ‘I’ve come to collect someone for the Medical Centre.’ She appeared relaxed and confident, her shapely, muscular frame sheathed tightly in a clean, starched uniform, a friendly, open smile on her face.

The nurse pushed the wheelchair, while Adrian and Anne followed behind. ‘The Medical Centre is in Terminal 2. It’s not far.’ The young woman smiled over her shoulder at them. The moment they walked out into the crowded, noisy Arrivals Hall, Dave Parker appeared suddenly at their side. There wasn’t much flesh on the man, and so little on his face there was scarcely enough to even feed a smile. Maybe it was because of his height – an inch or two over six feet – but he always seemed to be looking down on those around him. A look that was complemented, quite successfully, by his air of smug satisfaction. He’d been with Africa Assist for the best part of 15 years, so he knew the ropes sufficiently well to follow Adrian without asking questions. As they walked, Adrian introduced him to Anne Chaffey. ‘This is James Balcombe’s right-hand man.’ It was his way of disowning the fellow.

Even at this late hour, there were people hurrying in every direction, or standing about aimlessly, looking lost. The small group headed for the underground walkway. A long pedestrian mover carried them between green, hospital-like walls, illuminated every few yards by an electric light. There was no one to be seen; everyone had suddenly disappeared. For one insane moment Adrian considered elbowing the young nurse to one side, grabbing the wheelchair and, with Anne and Dave in tow, making a run for it. He was sorely tempted.

When they reached the entrance to Terminal 2, they turned right and walked the dozen yards to the Queens Building: the Medical Centre was on the ground floor. The nurse ushered them into a small room, then disappeared through a door at the far end, saying, ‘Dr Kadwell won’t be a minute.’

Dave peered down at Mujtabaa. ‘So this is the unfortunate soul who has to walk to Trafalgar Square?’

‘There are a few – as you put it – unfortunate souls walking to Trafalgar Square,’ said Adrian curtly.

Dave turned to him. ‘Which is extremely noble-minded.’ He smiled. ‘But then I’m driving, so I would say that.’

Anne was watching Dave closely, as if uncertain how to take him. ‘He doesn’t look what I’d call conspicuously thin,’ he said to Adrian. ‘Do you think he’s going to stand out sufficiently for our purpose?’

Adrian wondered if he was going to have to put up with this kind of negativity for a whole week. ‘He’ll certainly stand out in this country. In his own country he doesn’t, but that’s because everyone there is thin.’ He didn’t bother to keep the supercilious tone out of his voice. ‘Also, you’re only seeing his face at the moment.’

Dave was looking at him critically, perhaps reflecting on the fact that the public-relations consultant was an endomorph, while he himself was an ectomorph. Adrian was annoyed with himself for having given James Balcombe’s man the opportunity to comment, but equally annoyed with himself for his barrel-shaped abdomen.

‘Do we know how much he understands what’s going on?’

‘We believe quite a bit, although he doesn’t say very much, so it can be hard to tell.’ Anne spoke as if she were still addressing the child who’d sat next to her on the plane.

Dave took a step forward and lifted one of Mujtabaa’s hands off his lap, clasping it briefly. ‘Pleased to meet you. I’m Dave.’ Mujtabaa didn’t move. Dave placed his hand back on his lap. The three of them stared at the Ethiopian in silence, then Dave said, ‘As you requested, Adrian, I’ve arranged a private lounge for us, when we leave here.’

Dr Kadwell appeared a few minutes later. He looked as if he were barely out of medical school, having the tired, haunted appearance of a student who works all day and night, and is permanently worried about making a wrong diagnosis. He strode into the room, walked straight across to the wheelchair, and bent down to examine Mujtabaa’s face. He was so objective, so separate, he could have been a lepidopterist studying a particularly interesting specimen in a display case. He straightened up and announced to the room, even though he was still staring with great concentration at the young man, ‘If everything goes well, this should take less than an hour.’ Only then did he turn and ask, ‘Do you wish to stay here or go and have a coffee?’

‘We’ll stay here, and I’d like Anne Chaffey to accompany you. She’s his nurse.’

‘There’s no need for that.’

Adrian was insistent. ‘This young man knows Anne, it will help him to relax. She’s also the only one able to communicate with him.’

Kadwell said nothing, but left the room with Mujtabaa and Anne.

‘I don’t trust that fellow.’

‘Is there anything he can do?’

Adrian imagined the worst scenario. ‘He could attempt to get him admitted to hospital.’

‘Would Mujtabaa pass a medical, do you think?’

‘Anne says he isn’t fit compared to a Westerner, but then it depends on the criteria you judge him by.’

‘He doesn’t look well to me.’

Adrian found his assistant’s lack of enthusiasm disheartening. He should surely have to defend himself from the doctor, not from his own assistant. ‘You have to take into account his background, his circumstances and the fact he’s severely malnourished. Obviously, he’s weak but, as far as Anne can tell, he’s not ill in the sense that he’s carrying any contagious or dangerous diseases.’

‘How about AIDS? Did you ask her about that?’

‘She said it’s difficult to tell, but she doesn’t believe so.’

‘That’s the big worry nowadays.’

‘People are just paranoid. Fixated. That’s all that is.’ He was becoming impatient. He began pacing up and down the small room.

‘I spoke to one of the Press guys before you got here, Adrian – part of the permanent media presence at the airport.’

He abruptly stopped pacing. ‘I told you not to speak to anyone until we arrived. What did you go and do that for?’

‘It was James’s idea.’

Adrian swore under his breath.

‘I played it down, just kind of mentioned it.’

‘How on earth can you just kind of mention something like this?’

‘I knew you were in the air, so I didn’t think much could go wrong.’ His smile looked vaguely victorious.

‘For Christ’s sake, Dave, just stick to what I tell you in future.’ He resumed pacing. He felt unnaturally tense; he needed to relax. ‘It’s not a good idea to speak to anyone until the press conference tomorrow morning, OK? We can build it up quickly from there.’ He shook his head. ‘What came over you?’

Dave’s smirk had disappeared; now he was sulking. ‘I told James what I was doing.’

‘You don’t answer to him over the next week – just me. Is that clear?’

‘Sure.’ This was said with seeming indifference, as if he had no intention of obeying such an instruction.

Adrian started to think about all the things that had to be organized, but he also knew there was nothing to be done until they could be sure they had Mujtabaa back in their care. He hated being dependent on someone else’s decision.

Eventually, Dr Kadwell came back into the room. His head was buried in a file, and he exuded an air of busy self-importance. He was alone.

‘Mr Burles, can you tell me why Mujtabaa is in this country?’

‘He’s helping Africa Assist raise money for famine relief.’

‘And how’s he doing that?’

Adrian briefly described what was planned, but avoided the details, trying to keep everything as vague as possible.

Dr Kadwell briefly consulted his file. Adrian stared at him, tense. Dave remained silent. Finally, the doctor closed his folder with a deliberate emphasis. ‘You appreciate Mujtabaa isn’t a well man?’

‘We scarcely needed a medical examination to tell us that, Dr Kadwell.’

‘It was a precautionary measure, you understand. To come straight to the point, I believe that what you’re suggesting for this man, this young man, would place him in real danger.’ He hesitated, before adding: ‘I don’t believe I’m exaggerating when I say it could even amount to a death sentence.’ Outside the room, very much in the distance, they could hear flight information being announced over the public-address system. A taxi went past the window.

‘I disagree, Doctor.’ Adrian’s features twitched with the effort to remain calm.

‘It’s possible you’re playing with a man’s life here, Mr Burles.’

‘If we were – and I don’t believe that is the case – then we’re risking one man’s life in order to save the lives of many others.’

‘You’re surely not saying the end justifies the means?’

Adrian held up his hands as if startled by such a suggestion. ‘Not at all. I’m not that callous.’

‘What if he should die? What if he can’t do all that you want him to do?’

‘I’m quite confident he can do what’s required of him.’

‘To the best of my knowledge, you’re not a medical man, Mr Burles, so how can you be so sure?’

‘We know that over the past few days, before he reached Anne Chaffey’s clinic, this young man had walked over a hundred miles. He walked over a hundred miles to find food. We’re not asking him to do anything nearly as exhausting as that. We’re also giving him food and taking care of him while he’s with us.’

‘He walked that distance in order to survive. Now he’s not obliged to do anything in order to survive.’

‘But he is. He needs to raise money for himself, his family and his tribe so that they can all survive. He chose to come here of his own free will in order to help them. Leaving your own family, that’s a hard choice for anyone to have to make.’

‘He doesn’t need to do anything to raise that money.’

‘You’re wrong, Dr Kadwell. Africa Assist has been in this business long enough to know that the general public doesn’t give a damn about the hundreds of thousands of Africans dying of starvation, but they do give a damn about an individual. That’s the way it’s always been. It’ll never change.’

He spoke passionately, earnestly, waving his arms around, keen for his audience to understand his point of view. ‘And when people see this one skeletal figure, when he’s standing there right in front of them, people will care. The ordinary man in the street can’t imagine someone like him – he’s beyond their comprehension – but if they can see him, then they’ll understand. That’s why I’ve brought him to London, so that people will comprehend the scale of the Ethiopian disaster.’

There was a long silence at the end of this speech. The two men looked at Dr Kadwell, waiting for his response. Finally, he spoke: ‘That’s very altruistic, very noble – I mean that sincerely. But it doesn’t get away from the fact your organization is placing this man’s life in danger, and I can’t condone that. Live Aid raised a great deal of money without bringing starving Ethiopians into the country.’

‘And that’s what was missing from their campaign – the human touch. They had to rely on film.’

‘They were very successful, despite – as you put it – relying on film.’

‘Geldof did well, I’m not denying it, but I’m building on what he achieved. I’m making famine personal, that’s the difference.’

The doctor seemed to waver. The two men stared at each other in silence. Dave still sat in a chair in the corner of the room, watching, almost looking as if he didn’t care who won the argument. This time it was Adrian who eventually spoke. ‘Is he ill, Doctor? Is that what you’re saying?’

‘It depends on what you mean by ill. So far as I can tell, he doesn’t have any of the diseases one might expect him to have: TB, leprosy, typhus, typhoid or trachoma. And he isn’t HIV positive.’

‘There you are.’ Adrian held his hands out wide, as if to say, well then, that’s the end of our discussion, everything’s fine. ‘Wonderful!’ He attempted to hide from the doctor just how relieved he was to hear this news.

‘But the danger to Mujtabaa isn’t what he can give us, it’s what we can give him. He’s so weak, a dose of common-or-garden flu could be fatal to him. That’s my concern.’

‘We’ll be careful. But the point is, he’s well – or, at least, he isn’t ill.’

‘That’s a little simplistic.’

There was a brief silence before Adrian said: ‘Thanks for checking him over, but I think we should get out of your hair now.’

Considering the doctor, despite his age, had only a fringe of fine hair around the base of his shiny cranium, this probably wasn’t the most appropriate expression to use. Apart from moving the files he was holding at his side to an almost protective position in front of his navel, one hand over the other, the doctor stood motionless. His veins were prominent on the back of his polished hands. ‘I’m suggesting most forcefully, Mr Burles, that this young man does not do anything apart from rest. What you’re suggesting is not only dangerous, it’s immoral.’

‘The morality or otherwise of our plans shouldn’t be part of this discussion.’

‘It’s hard to ignore.’

‘I say this with the greatest respect, Doctor. Your business is Mujtabaa’s health, that’s all. If he doesn’t have any health issues, then you have no grounds to detain him.’

It was a gamble to spell it out as clearly as that, but Adrian felt he was now getting the better of his young adversary. When the doctor didn’t reply, he added: ‘My feeling is, Mujtabaa’s no worse off here than he would be back in the desert. In fact, I’d say he’s probably better off with us because he’ll have medical support with him at all times.’

Dr Kadwell’s smile looked as if it was being squeezed out through a cake-decorating bag. ‘No offence intended, but if you’re referring to Ms Chaffey, she’s only a nurse.’

‘A highly qualified one. She’s been working with people like Mujtabaa for about 40 years. She runs a health clinic in his country, and deals with hundreds of refugees every day. She has cared for thousands of people in her time. There’s little she doesn’t know about the treatment of the malnourished.’

Then he added, very much as an afterthought: ‘I’ve also arranged for our family doctor to keep an eye on him – on a regular basis.’

‘That reassures me a little.’

‘It will be additional insurance.’

There was a long silence. It was eventually broken by the young nurse wheeling Mujtabaa back into the room, the wheels making a slight sticking sound on the linoleum. She was followed by Anne Chaffey.

Adrian looked at them, then turned back to the doctor. ‘We must be on our way.’

‘You’re surely not planning to commence anything this evening?’

‘Tomorrow morning.’

‘Then might I suggest the young man spends the night in our Medical Centre? At least he’ll have a qualified doctor with him on his first night in the country. We can keep him under observation.’

‘Thank you, but I think we’ll take him with us.’

‘Where are you planning to stay?’

‘We’ve booked a hotel.’

The doctor nodded. ‘If he stayed with us, Mr Burles, he’d be in good hands – in the event of an emergency, you understand. We’d be able to take care of him.’

‘We’re not expecting there to be any emergency. Anyway, we’ll only be two minutes away.’

‘You’re placing his life at risk, and quite needlessly in my opinion. If he dies tonight, you’ll have that on your conscience.’

‘I’ll have to learn to live with that’ – said with the faintest of smiles. ‘But, as I said, our family GP is making himself available.’ He held out his hand, but the doctor’s hands remained clasped on top of his files.

‘I’ve taken the Hippocratic Oath – as I’m sure you must know – to save lives at all costs. I’d be breaking that oath if I didn’t speak out.’

Adrian wondered what the doctor was getting at, but decided not to ask him. He made to walk off, then stopped. ‘Mujtabaa is here of his own free will, you know, Doctor. He understands that, by helping us, he’ll help his family and tribe.’

The doctor said nothing to this; he simply left the room. The young nurse gave them a little smile as she followed him out.

On their way back to Terminal 3, Dave, who was pushing the wheelchair, said: ‘I thought it was a good idea to leave Mujtabaa there for the night.’

‘Did you?’

The assistant hesitated, perhaps reluctant to risk overstepping some imagined mark. ‘It struck me as a sensible option. You know, a safe one.’

‘It’s too great a risk. You know what they say; possession is nine-tenths of the law.’

They took a few steps in silence before Anne murmured: ‘I didn’t appreciate that rule applied to people.’

Adrian couldn’t tell if this was a straightforward claim to ignorance or if the nurse was being ironic.

‘I’m pleased to hear you’ll be contacting your GP as an added safeguard.’

‘If it makes you happy, Anne,’ he said magnanimously, ‘I shall do just that.’ He hadn’t intended to.

When they reached the reserved lounge, Anne read a book, Mujtabaa fell asleep in the wheelchair, wrapped in a large grey blanket, while the two men discussed the printing and distribution of flyers, the placing of advertisements in newspapers, the organizing of an army of volunteers, and the arrangements with respect to the mobile home. Adrian also told Dave to confirm, first thing in the morning, Mujtabaa’s attendance at the Sunday rally. This was a long-standing booking organized by the Disasters Emergency Committee, the umbrella group for British charities raising funds for emergency relief.

Dave stared at the young Ethiopian in his wheelchair, his head lying awkwardly on his shoulder. ‘We’re giving him food, aren’t we?’

‘Enough to keep him going. Over the next few days, until the weekend, we just want to keep him alive.’

Dave grimaced. ‘That sounds fun.’

‘He has to stay hungry, otherwise this won’t work. Come Sunday, we can feed him up, but not until then.’ Adrian shook his head. ‘We don’t have an option. The hungrier he looks, the better this will work for us.’

‘I suppose so.’ His assistant didn’t look convinced.

‘Don’t worry, we’ll take good care of him.’

‘Oh, I’m not worried.’

But Adrian added, because he knew it would be faithfully relayed back to Dave’s boss, ‘He’ll be in good hands at all times.’

Dave changed the subject: ‘It reminds me of that joke you hear every time there’s a famine in Africa.’

‘Yes?’ Adrian did his best to appear interested.

‘A fat man runs into a thin man and says: “You should be ashamed of yourself. If a visitor to this country saw you before anyone else, he’d think there was a famine here.” And the thin man replies, “And if he saw you straight after me, he’d know the reason for it.”’

With a somewhat preoccupied air, Adrian nodded.

Soon after Dave left for home, Dr Somerville arrived, stooping, as if dragged forwards both by his age and the weight of his faded black medicine bag. He’d been the Burles family’s GP for many years, back to the days when Adrian was a child. Adrian had always regarded him as part of that rare breed of doctors that takes the time to talk to each of their patients, to find out how their lives are going even if they only claim to be suffering from a headache. This meant he was always behind schedule, and his waiting room always crowded.

He examined Mujtabaa carefully, breathing heavily as he did so. Adrian looked on, deciding the doctor sounded far less healthy than the patient. Finally, the medical man straightened up. ‘Malnourished definitely, but fit as a fiddle I’d say. If I were you, I’d dose him up on vitamins, and plenty of supplements.’ He turned to Anne: ‘Imagine you’re doing that already, Nurse?’

She smiled back at him. ‘I am, Dr Somerville.’

‘Good woman. Obviously can’t teach you anything.’ And a few minutes later he left.

Adrian told Anne that he wanted the three of them to spend the night in the lounge. ‘It’s more authentic if it looks like Mujtabaa has just stepped off a plane when he starts his walk. It’s not the same if he spends the night in a hotel, then returns to the airport the next morning.’

‘That doesn’t mean you have to stay here, Adrian. He’ll be fine with me – just so long as you’re nearby.’

He quickly agreed, grateful not to have to spend the night on a sofa. They said goodnight. He left Anne and the still-sleeping Mujtabaa and caught the lift down to the ground floor. He booked into the first airport hotel he stumbled across and, before going up to his room, called Anne to give her his room and phone numbers. ‘Call me if you have any worries, any worries at all.’ Then he ordered a double scotch at the bar. He was the only customer. He stared down into the amber liquid in front of him, swilling the ice around in the glass. He felt tired and lethargic, and briefly wondered why. This was no time to take his foot off the accelerator; this was his moment. This project could be the biggest thing he’d ever done.