55.

Not long after we moved off, I noticed the locks on the rear doors had dropped into their sockets. That happens on some cars automatically, I know, but in the truck, then, it seemed deliberate. Had Langdon locked us in? I didn’t like the idea of that at all.

Though Langdon had promised an explanation he didn’t offer one, just sat there in silence up front. At length Amelia asked where we were going, to which Langdon gave the one-word reply: ‘Canonhead.’

‘We’ve already been.’

‘I know. But I’ve work to do there before we head back to the capital. As has Caleb.’ He looked back at his son with another fake smile. ‘You’ve barely begun!’

Caleb didn’t reply to his father. He’d shrunk again, hunched over beside me. He whispered, ‘I’m sorry,’ and I realised he was beating himself up, thinking this was all his doing. But in fact he’d taken a risk for me, crossing his dad.

‘It’s not your fault,’ I said.

He looked out of the window. I did too, at the endless scrub scrolling past. It was an overcast day, the clouds thick and grey as the mashed potato they serve at school, and that, combined with the tinted windows, made the landscape look dead. Up ahead, Francis set a blistering pace. We ploughed down the road, not slowing even when we arrived at the occasional village. In one we clipped a stray goat. Langdon’s driver, swerving unsuccessfully to avoid it, let out the only thing I heard him say all day, a weary, ‘Merde.’

‘That means –’

‘I know what it means, Amelia,’ I said.

I’ve no idea if the goat survived. Though he’d swerved, the driver wasn’t about to stop. I didn’t even care much; in a trip filled with bad days I felt lower than ever – not just frightened for Mum and Dad, but powerless to help – in the back of Langdon’s truck that day.

Hours passed, punctuated only once by my phone which, having caught some random signal, buzzed in my pocket somewhere along the way. Before I checked the screen I willed it to be my parents making contact. But it wasn’t. It was Xander. He’d left me a voicemail. I fought back the hope his name conjured: might he have good news?

Surreptitiously – not wanting Langdon to see what I was doing – I pressed the phone to my ear.

‘Jack, heads up. Langdon worked out where you are. He’s on his way to you, and he’s not a happy chap.’ Xander’s voice, clear as you like, right there in my ear. In most circumstances I’d have laughed at the timing, but not today. ‘No news here,’ the message went on, ‘but I did have one thought: the hotel has CCTV covering the entrance and the lobby. I’ve asked them to dig it out so we can have a look at the guy who dropped off the ransom note. Probably useless, but I’ll let you know either way.’

I knew Xander was clutching at straws with this news, but even so it made me realise how much I wanted to get back to Kinshasa, not just to check out the footage, but to make sure the photos I’d taken of the kids in the mine made it into the right hands. I owed that to Mum and Dad: the fact they were out of the picture for now meant I had to step up. To be speeding anywhere other than the airport, in the hands of a man I didn’t trust, was a kind of torture.

We roared back into the Canonhead compound late in the afternoon. I was hungry and tired and simmering with resentment. Caleb trotted over to Francis and Marcel immediately we arrived, and they all sidled off, keen to avoid his father no doubt. Langdon, focusing on Amelia and me, made a great show of taking us to what he called the canteen, a clutch of plastic tables and chairs set beneath a corrugated roof on stilts. It was empty at this hour. Somebody had wiped down all the tables, but not very well. You could see the patterns where the cloth had cut through the grime. They reminded me of Langdon’s shirt. Nobody had bothered to wipe the chairs he pulled out for us though. They were filthy with orange dirt, and the bottles of lemonade and Coke he rustled up from somewhere were also filmed with dust. There was grit in the leftover lunch of chilli con carne and rice as well, I’m sure of it. Caleb joined us as we ate. I was biding my time, watching my uncle. He polished off two bowls of the chilli-slop and tipped half the contents of his hip flask – Jack Daniels, I bet – into his own drink before gulping it down.

‘You said you’ve work to get on with here,’ I ventured. ‘How long will it take?’

‘Not long. A few days. A week tops.’

‘Non-specific: unconvincing,’ muttered Amelia under her breath.

‘You don’t want us here that long, getting in the way,’ I said quickly.

‘Nonsense. You can help Caleb. Think of it as a learning opportunity.’

‘Thanks, but surely we’d be better off back in Kinshasa, waiting for news there.’

Langdon tipped his plastic chair onto its back legs, planted his drink on his belly and smiled. ‘You decided to take this little trip. You have to live with the consequences,’ he said.

‘Dad,’ said Caleb.

Langdon swivelled towards his son, the fake cheer draining from his face.

‘Come on,’ said Caleb. ‘If you went missing you’d want me to do all I could to find you, wouldn’t you?’

From away in the mine a heavy thumping noise struck up.

‘What I want you to do, now and always, is exactly what I say,’ Langdon stamped the words down in time with the pile-driver, or whatever it was.

Caleb sat very still in his chair for a moment. Then looked from his father to me and back again, a decision working itself out in his face. ‘I bet you would, I bet you would,’ he said, also to the beat.

The front feet of Langdon’s chair hit the plywood floor hard. ‘I’m not sure I like your tone, Caleb.’

‘And I’m not sure I care,’ Caleb answered. This time his sideways look took in Amelia as well as me. He drew a deep breath and pulled his shoulders back. ‘Let Jack and Amelia go,’ he said simply.

‘Or?’ said Langdon.

Caleb rose from his chair. Quietly but forcefully he laid down one word: ‘Else.’

My uncle carries the ominous swell of good living beneath his Hawaiian shirts. But although a little out of shape, he has as much weight in his shoulders as his gut, muscled forearms, a rugby-player’s thighs. He got up slowly from his chair and stood toe to toe with Caleb. They matched each other in height; if anything Caleb was the taller. But although gym-built, my cousin could not have been more than two-thirds of his father’s weight. Breathing heavily, Langdon said, ‘Repeat that. I dare you.’

‘You don’t get it, do you?’ said Caleb.

He opened his mouth to go on, but before he could, his father hit him. It wasn’t a punch – Langdon’s hand was open – but all the same it was a heavy blow out of nowhere, a backhander flung hard. Caleb’s head snapped sideways and he staggered backwards. But his feet were quick beneath him, and as soon as they’d stopped him falling they drove him straight back at Langdon. I couldn’t believe what I was seeing. With real speed Caleb fired three punches at his father. The first caught him square beneath the solar plexus. Langdon dipped forward in astonishment as the second, an upper cut, glanced off his jaw. The third punch was a straight jab, square in the face. Langdon dropped to his knees, a hand covering his nose. For a second nothing happened. Then he looked up. His nose and chin were already awash with blood. Caleb took a step forward and stared down at his father. He looked electric with anticipation, simultaneously aghast and ecstatic at what he had done.

I should have got between them but I was fixed to the spot, and before I knew it Langdon had exploded from the floor, throwing all his force head first at Caleb. He roared in fury as he rocketed at him. A memory of Spenser the silverback hurtling at Caleb in the jungle came to mind. Then, Innocent had tried to intervene. Perhaps it was lucky that I was too slow. Langdon barrelled straight into his son, knocked him flat on his back and pinned him down by the throat. His free hand rose, his fist making a club, and struck Caleb once, twice, again and again, about the head. In a frenzy Caleb’s knees slammed up into his father’s chest, but my uncle wouldn’t let go. He was possessed. The weight of those punches, the sound of them – I swear he’d have killed Caleb if we’d let him.

Without realising it, I’d picked up my chair, and now I swung it at Langdon’s side with all my might, knocking him off Caleb’s chest. The hand gripping my cousin’s throat came free. As Langdon tried to right himself, Amelia grabbed his collar and hung on so hard buttons popped off his shirt. This sent him off balance just long enough for Caleb to get a leg free, bunch his knee into his chest and aim the sole of his foot at his father’s bloody face. When he unleashed the kick it flipped Langdon over. He was stunned. Caleb sprang up and lashed out with his other foot, a penalty kick across Langdon’s temple delivered with a viciousness that made me gasp. The blow knocked my uncle out cold. He didn’t even attempt to break his own fall. His head bounced once on the dirt-encrusted floor, and he lay still.

Caleb dropped to his knees beside his father, wide-eyed with shock at what he’d done. He was clutching his own throat, coughing horribly, fighting for breath. ‘Go!’ he croaked. ‘Find Marcel. He’s with the bikes. I told Francis to give him fuel.’

I heaved Langdon onto his side, thoughts clashing. Call a doctor? Try to help? No! Help Mum and Dad. Do as Caleb was insisting. Flee. Stay. What had I just witnessed? Caleb obviously hadn’t planned to fight his father, but he’d thought to organise Marcel, and when Langdon struck him his response had been savage. A dam had burst. I felt for my cousin, for Langdon even. I don’t mind admitting I had no idea what to do.

‘That’s right, put him in the recovery position,’ Amelia said, helping me with Langdon. She had her fingers pressed flat against his neck. ‘His pulse is strong,’ she announced, very matter of fact. ‘Who knows how long he’ll take to come round? We should probably do as Caleb’s suggesting …’

Caleb’s face swam close to mine. His throat was already raw purple and his cheek was swelling up. ‘I owed you,’ he whispered, his voice sandpaper. ‘I’ll deal with this.’

‘But, Caleb …’

‘Go.’