Epilogue

We flew back to London separately. Xander sorted the logistics, changing our flights and organising taxis to the airport while the rest of us packed up in a bit of a daze. He was returning to Nigeria; I’d see him back at school. Amelia, Mum and I made the trip home without Dad. Mum was furious. She spent the journey staring into the middle distance with a determined look on her face. Over the days and weeks that followed I tried to help her cope by looking like I was coping myself. Dad decided to take us literally and refused to set foot in the house. He would send someone for his things, he said. This meant Mum and I had to pack up all his belongings ready for the courier. I took charge. It was surreal to stand before his mahogany desk – I’d not even been allowed near it when I was small – and sweep the contents off its leather-inlaid top into a packing crate.

One of the objects on that desk was a little wooden elephant Mark had carved, copying as best he could one made out of actual ivory which, for as long as either of us could remember, had stood in pride of place under the brass desk lamp. Carving anything out of ivory is wrong; to make an elephant is as wrong as it gets. Mark’s wooden version was crudely done when I held the two side by side, but for a ten-year-old, the age at which he had carved it, that elephant was impressive.

I stood there turning the carving over in my fingers, transfixed. Was it a good thing that Mark died without knowing what our father was actually like, deep down? Was I better off knowing it now? For the first time since the ordeal in the Congo, the feel of that wooden elephant in my hand brought me close to tears. I put it in my pocket. The rest of the desk’s contents, the magnifying glass and letter opener, the blotter and glass paperweights – and Dad’s prized ivory elephant – I clattered into the crate. Who cared if anything got broken? Desk cleared, I dragged the box into his dressing room and rammed in his handmade suits. A couple of drawers of underclothes went in on top. Seeing the neatly pressed silk boxer shorts and paired woollen socks fall in among the jumble was curiously satisfying. Box full, I went off to find Mum.

She was at the island in the kitchen, focusing on her laptop.

‘What’s going to happen next?’ I asked.

‘Hmm?’ She sat back on her barstool. ‘Well, Langdon’s mining operation is under investigation,’ she said. There was a glimmer of satisfaction in her eye as she nodded at her screen. ‘According to Mr Mukwege, the authorities are likely to confiscate the whole business.’

Though that was of course good news, I hadn’t quite meant the question as she’d taken it. ‘I was thinking more of us,’ I said.

‘Of course. So you’ll be back at school in no time. That will be the same as it’s always been, more or less.’

She was probably right, but that wasn’t a good thing. The idea of sitting in a classroom was pretty boring, and being cooped up like a prison inmate for weeks on end filled me with dread. It must have shown in my face. Mum went on, ‘Listen. You’ll be fine. And before you know it you’ll be home again for the holidays. I’ve been thinking about that too. The Congo trip didn’t work out that well –’

‘You could say that.’

‘So we should plan another one, somewhere else, the two of us.’

‘It wasn’t exactly a bundle of laughs for Amelia or Xander either,’ I said.

‘You’re right. We should invite them too. To do something completely different. Have a think about it.’

She was trying so hard to be positive, I found myself doing the same. What sort of place would best blot things out? From nowhere a picture of Amelia swimming underwater came to me. Turquoise sea, coral reefs, a firework display of tropical fish. Might as well add in some treasure spilling out of a pirate’s chest. We should head beneath the waves somewhere. That was about as far from the jungle as it’s possible to get.

Mum was watching me closely. ‘Any ideas?’ she asked.

‘As it happens –’ I returned her smile – ‘yes.’