He scrubbed to get clean but couldn’t get off the dust. The air was a haze: fine particles of powder, dead matter and silt. It mixed with sweat to form a sticky paste. Most people stopped scrubbing after a day or two. He reached in the bag for another wet wipe. He carried on scrubbing.
An ‘official’ person – he couldn’t remember the name – passed something back to the driver, and saluted the passengers. The engine fired up and they bumped up the main road. A couple of people mumbled polite turns of phrase, but there was mostly just silence: except for the wind and the whistles of the driver. People had their faces pressed up to the windows; looking into the expanse as the light toppled out of it.
‘We need to hurry up.’
‘I know, I know.’ The driver jabbed his finger in the air. The van veered a little too far to the right, and there was an audible gasp from the back. ‘Think I don’t know?’
‘Sorry.’ A woman at the front turned around to the group. ‘There aren’t any lights on the road. As you might have noticed.’
‘Dark come quick.’
‘Night-time comes quickly,’ she said. ‘You don’t really get twilight.’
The man to Marcus’s right: ‘And we don’t have headlights?’
‘Yes, this vehicle does – but most others don’t. And you have to be careful of the animals. Some come down from the hills and stray on to the roads.’
‘Should we be worried? I mean, how long until we get there?’
‘Oh, we’ll get there in time. We’ll get there before it gets dark. There’s nothing to worry about.’
The driver swivelled around to laugh. It was polite captivity that made them smile back. ‘No worries, no worries.’ The car veered to the side again. Another loud gasp. He turned back to the steering wheel and gave a full-throaty crow.
‘Oh they’re used to it, here,’ she explained. ‘We’ll just drive a bit quicker. We’re nearly there.’
Everyone went quiet. The sky was sinking into the ground. The landscape throbbed with shadow. Occasionally they would pass a village and see woodsmoke swirl up from the sides of the road like fugitive spirits.
‘We’re here.’
The van skidded to a halt and threw open its doors.
‘Come on.’ Stephanie – that was her name – peered into the back. ‘We’re here.’
They had been travelling for almost twenty-four hours, but now they didn’t want to arrive. Arrival was formal and final, and they didn’t know what to expect. They were barely prepared.
The first to depart was a man to his right. The other three got out in tandem. Then it was him, in the cocoon of the car, hearing the clicking of insects. The last.
‘We’re here,’ said Stephanie. She opened the door, and he felt obliged to step out of it. ‘Come in, I’ll introduce you to the rest of the group.’
He stomped through the dust, towards a single-storey house with a small crowd outside. There was a mix of black and white, young and old. A few children skipped at the front and waggled their hands. Two women ululated. Everyone seemed happy to see them.
‘New recruits!’ cheered a man, who handed Marcus a beer. ‘Hi, pleased to meet you – I’m Aldo. You must be beat.’
‘Just a little.’
‘Well, drink the beer. It’ll do you good.’
‘Is it local?’
‘God, no way. That stuff is vile. No, this stuff is Carlsberg. It’s brewed here, in Blantyre – but it’s not really “local” stuff. They rip the labels off, for some reason. Don’t ask me why. But yep, it’s all we have, I’m afraid. It does the trick, though!’
Stephanie appeared, with a face full of lines, eyelids drooped over the eyes.
‘You all right, Steph?’
‘Oh yes. Definitely.’
‘Was it an OK drive from the airport?’
‘Yes, it was fine.’ She glanced from Aldo to Marcus. ‘It was all right, wasn’t it… I’m so sorry, you’ll have to tell me your name again. I’m feeling a bit tired.’
‘Marcus.’
‘Marcus. It was all right, wasn’t it?’
‘Very much so. It was interesting.’
‘Where do you come from, Marcus?’
‘I’m from London.’
‘This your first time in Malawi?’
‘It is, yes. First time in Africa, actually.’
Stephanie and Aldo swapped meaningful looks. ‘You’ll get used to it, here. It gets under your skin.’
‘How long have you been here, then?’
They both spoke at once.
‘You first.’ Aldo gestured.
‘I’ve been here a year. I’m now Deputy Director. With Philippa. She’s the Director. She founded the charity. You probably know that, from the website.’
‘I’ve been here six months,’ said Aldo. ‘It’s my time to go back, now. But I don’t want to.’
‘Right.’
‘I might extend it further. It’s just awesome out here. It’s a great little charity, it’s good that it’s small, you get to know everyone. And you really see the difference you’re making.’
‘I bet.’
The chatter petered out. Marcus stared into some distance.
‘Well, come meet the rest of the group. Did you chat to anyone on the way here?’
‘No.’ He added, by way of explanation: ‘I was feeling a bit… overwhelmed. At the time.’
‘Oh, sure. We all had that. Well, now’s the time to do it. Let’s go.’
‘How many people are we?’
Stephanie walked beside them, her arms stiff and crossed. ‘Well, we have some administrative help in the UK, but in terms of active volunteers… out here, right now… With you guys today, let me think – fifteen, yes, there are fifteen of us in total. We tend to change volunteers on a six-monthly basis. Aldo is staying, but most people don’t.’
‘Right.’
‘They do this as part of a gap year, or they have a sabbatical from work. Anything less than a year isn’t really long enough. But it’s hard to get volunteers to commit to a year. Well – you must know how it is. Anyway, let’s get you introduced…’
‘When did all these other volunteers arrive?’
Aldo cut in. ‘Some of them arrived with me, in another van. Others arrived last week.’
Marcus swigged his beer, gently herded around a pit fire. The village was being drained of its colour. He could just make out a ladder of lights behind a woman’s shoulder.
She turned around, following his gaze. ‘They’re the fishermen,’ she smiled. ‘Out on the lake.’
‘That’s the lake?’
‘Yes. You can’t really see it now, can you?’
‘No.’
‘They often go out at this time. When it’s just gone dark.’
He felt a vibration thud through him.
‘They’re the drums,’ she said. ‘I got here last week, so I’m a bit more used to them. Not completely, though. They’re kind of loud. My name’s Annabelle, by the way.’
‘Annabelle. Right. I’m Marcus.’
‘Nice to meet you, Marcus.’
‘So, you arrived last week?’
‘Yes.’
‘Why are they drumming?’
‘They’re signalling to each other. Communicating something, I think. It’s probably quicker than texting.’ She grinned and crinkled her nose, but stared back into bewildered eyes that kept settling and unsettling. ‘Well, I’m going to get another beer. Back in a moment.’ Meanwhile, Marcus watched those pricks of light, drifting over the darkness.
Later, there were other introductions, other handshakes, other names to remember, other beers. There was a feeling of gaiety, like this was ‘a moment’; like they’d stepped into a festival or a full-moon party, like life was being beckoned out of them, like pollen from a flower, this sweet taste on their tongues, with the scum and the dirt tightly gripping their skins like entry wristbands. Every scene was a photograph, every second was a memory, every conversation was something they would relay to their grandchildren. The drums thrummed ever louder and the beer beat their brains into muddles.
But that first night was a shambles. Stephanie addressed the group at a later point. A glass was struck and a shush rippled the crowd. Philippa came out of nowhere: a middle-aged lady, wearing a bright-coloured skirt, her curls pulled back into a big, dark bun that looked like a doughnut deep-fried in hair. She welcomed them all, gave further context, issued boundless thanks for helping out with the charity. Her voice dropped an octave and she gave some important instructions: tips about snakes and water and other things that people failed to take in. The stars were so deep, you could cut out the layers. He knew he should be listening but he kept looking up and feeling dizzy and bulldozed.
Soon, everyone was dispersing into bedrooms and shutting their doors. He was incredibly drunk by this point, couldn’t see dream from fact. When recollecting the next morning, he thought it was Annabelle, the tall brunette, who half-carried him to the bedroom. He had a vision of her tucking him in with the mosquito net. He also had a picture of something else, in the corner. And when he opened his eyes, he wasn’t too surprised to see another bed there, with another crumpled body inside.
Marcus closed his eyes again and floated back into light sleep. It was probably only for five or ten minutes, but when he opened his eyes, the figure was standing.
‘Fucking hell!’
‘Sorry, mate. Didn’t mean to frighten you.’
He took a moment to compose himself. Then he propped himself up on one arm and tried to look casual, sociable. ‘You must be my, um… neighbour.’
‘Roomshare. Yeah. I’m Toby.’
‘Marcus.’
‘Good to meet you, Marc.’
‘It’s Marcus.’
‘Marcus. Yeah, OK.’ He sat down to squeeze on some shoes.
‘It’s just family who call me Marc. Only sometimes.’
‘No worries. You coming to breakfast?’
‘What time is it?’
‘Seven.’
‘Seven?’
‘They only serve it until nine. Then we start helping out.’
‘You’ve been here the week, then?’
‘Yes, indeed. I mean, we get weekends off and all that. But Philippa told us last night–’
‘I was a bit drunk.’
‘Ha ha. I get it, I get it. No need to explain. It’s play hard, work hard, I reckon. You did seem a bit worse for wear when you staggered in last night.’
‘Sorry about that.’
‘Nah, don’t be sorry. Anyway, I’m going to go get some grub. You sure you don’t want to come?’
‘Maybe in a bit.’
‘Right you are. See you laters.’
A sigh of relief once the body was gone. It was just him and his pounding head, the sweaty palms, constant retch of nausea. It was worse than any other hangover or comedown he had ever felt. He tried to get the world to keep still, but it was dancing in front of him, shaking the daylight from the sun.
What Toby didn’t say was that the induction was compulsory in that first week. And at twenty to ten, there was a knock on the door, and when he didn’t answer, the door pushed open and Stephanie was there, her knuckles clicking together.
He tried to close his eyes quickly, to pretend to be asleep. She cleared her throat.
‘Marcus.’
He lay very still and tried to simulate rapid eye movement. He discovered this was a hard thing to do conscious. Then he felt himself prodded. He faked waking up: an unconvincing yawn and shocked widening of the eyes.
‘It’s the induction.’
‘What?’
‘It’s time for induction. Everyone has to take part in induction week or you can’t stay on the programme.’
‘But I paid the fees.’
She regained her full posture and sighed. ‘You didn’t pay your fees just to lie in bed. You should have found somewhere out of a Thomas Cook brochure if you wanted that.’
‘Touché.’ He sat up. ‘I feel…’
‘Yes, I can see how you feel. It doesn’t matter. We only do two induction weeks. You have to attend all five days. Other people drank last night too, and they’re up. They’re out there. Everyone else is up.’ She gave her best icy headmistress stare. ‘I’ll see you outside in ten minutes.’
She clicked away into absence, and he followed the orders. It would be too embarrassing to be sent back to London, his tail loose in his legs. To fail at commodity broking was one thing, but to fail at ‘finding yourself’; to be kicked out of volunteering by a charity that was desperate for volunteers! Word would get back to his old boss and work mates. They would laugh at him; trade witty one-liners. The thought of all that ridicule drew up the blood to his face. He had nowhere left to go but outside. Nowhere left to be but this continent: this epicentre of epiphany and deliverance. So they say.
He swallowed sick as he struggled into his clothes: outdoorsy bits and pieces that were hastily assembled from Kensington High Street. Everything looked too expensive, although he had deliberately ripped a few holes.
Sucked into the corner of the ceiling, a gecko hung upside down: its shiny eyes were still and staring, the tongue flicking over the slits. Out of its mouth hung eight thick legs. It was waiting for Marcus to leave before it consumed its meal. It waited some time.
To Stephanie’s relief, Marcus was not outside in ten minutes, as suspected, but he was there before her watch said 10am. His eyes were unfocused and his skin was pale. He looked unprepared. She handed him a bottle of sunscreen and left him to it; sitting at the back of the group, never uttering a word. He drank a lot of water.
At lunchtime, he stayed in his corner and scoffed the fresh fish and potatoes. People were still at stage one of their chats: finding out where people came from, what jobs they had fled from, what masks they had put on or pulled off. Instead, he chose to sit on the sand and gawp at Lake Malawi, with its invisible edges and its tidal dance. He had never seen a lake like it. He was used to the enormity of numbers, but not of physical things that he could not expunge. He felt very light, like he weighed nothing at all.
The induction week was a blur of instructions and precautions. The group familiarised themselves with the village: its small thatched buildings and its half-constructed school. The children would often throng about, grabbing their hands, tugging their clothes. The villagers seemed used to the charity, and they were friendly and welcoming. However, in solitary moments, they would stand and watch them – before sweeping the powdered-up ground into piles that would only rescatter.
The charity was ‘multi-pronged’ in its approach (a phrase they muttered like mantra) and assigned volunteers to the duties that fitted them best. Some people were obvious teachers, and would go to a nearby village, where there was already a school in place. They could start to build up their confidence there, with the expectation that another school nearby would be built within two to three months.
A few years earlier, the government had made primary school education free for all children. It was an aspirational statement: there was generally not the infrastructure nor quantity of teachers to allow this to happen. Plus many families still relied on their children for help, particularly at harvest, and did not see the point of keeping them inside to think when they could be doing.
A few charities, like Project Step Up, had surfaced in Malawi to manage the momentum of this goal. If a community built teacher housing, the government would usually provide a teacher from one of its training centres, although teachers were still thin on the ground. Volunteers from the charity were there to ‘step up’ and fill in the gaps: get the schools built in the first place, help with the teaching and try to lower the class size, while the government caught up.
Volunteers of the big and bulky kind, with too much energy, were best deployed with physical activity, such as making bricks in the kilns or building the houses. Generally, the charity endorsed using local labour, and keeping projects in the community (they were keen to stress this on their website, too). But sometimes there was muscle and punch that just needed exhausting.
Volunteers who were neither outgoing nor nurturing enough to teach, nor bouncy and brawny enough to build, were sent into the fine arts of decoration. They were given brushes and encouraged to ‘express themselves’. They sourced resources and constructed furniture. They helped around the village with domestic tasks. They immersed themselves in village life.
Marcus saw straightaway that this was by far the easiest occupation of the three, requiring neither sweat nor thought. It was all a bit ridiculous, really – like the system was designed to reward the sensitive and weak. He resolved to hide himself in corners and keep his mouth shut. He anti-socially sat longer on the sand, watching the fishermen drag in their boats.
The final exercise of induction week was his downfall. Stephanie and Philippa introduced some interactive group exercises: mainly of the troubleshooting, lateral-thinking variety. Marcus intended to hold back, but he couldn’t. He fell into a role of leadership and spoke up for his group, communicating the ideas back to everyone, unravelling their logic in careful, mannered tones. He felt the sweet swell of ego as Stephanie’s eyes widened in respect, and she nodded hard at him, with thin, jutting-out lips. His people-pleaser pulsed. A smile fluttered from his face. She caught it, and spun one back.
The next day, the volunteers gathered around a board. They were divided into three small groups. Staring him in the face were the words ‘Marcus’ and ‘teaching’. Most people were too pleased with their choices to see a snarl lift up his lip.
In Marcus’s group was a posh guy called Reuben, who wore his hair long and thick (the one who sat next to him in the van); a short, lank chef called Ben, who seemed polite and thoughtful; plus the two girls from the previous induction. These included Annabelle, the tall girl who had carried him back to his bed that first night (or, so he remembered it). There was also Dora, the youngest in the group, who had just graduated in medicine, but acted as if she had lived a thousand lives already. Dora and Annabelle, although a few years apart in age, already clung to each other. They liked to sit and whisper conspiratorially; letting tectonic plates of gossip quake molehill mountains.
The next day, they were driven to the neighbouring village, where there was already a school. The journey was bumpier than before. Nobody spoke, apart from irregular giggles between Dora and Annabelle. There was a mood of trepidation. The sun was bright, and sweat glistened their foreheads.
They saw him before they passed him. A skeleton boy, painted white, with stick-thin arms and legs. His eyes did not track the passing car, but focused on some distant thing, beyond the road. He scrunched his hands into fists, sucking hard on a sugar cane.
‘What the hell was that?’ Dora’s head swung wildly. ‘Why was he covered in paint?’
The driver looked back at them. They had gotten to know him, his name was Kondwani, and he was a friend of Stephanie’s.
‘He paint white.’
‘Why?’
‘Why.’ He allowed a couple of seconds to think. ‘When boys twelve, thirteen, we send them from village. We make them white. White is spirits. Boys live alone, find food to eat. Talk to family ghosts, our… What word?’ He clicked his fingers.
‘Ancestors?’
‘What ancestors?’
‘Family from many, many years ago,’ said Reuben. He was sitting next to Kondwani, at the front. ‘Family now dead.’
‘Yes, “ancestors”. They talk to ancestors. They talk to spirits. That why they look like spirits. So they find each other.’
‘But how do they survive?’ Annabelle was pale. She leaned forwards on the driver’s seat, as if to prop herself up.
‘Village leave food. But not home. Must leave home village. Kill animals. Find food and not die. They go home and now they man.’
‘So it’s a rite of passage?’ asked Reuben. ‘A ritual to mark a time of change, or something like that. Like, from adolescence to adulthood.’
‘Possible.’ But Kondwani sounded doubtful. He wasn’t sure how this was any different from what he had just said, but he knew the British often liked to say the same thing in a different way, as if they were the first to think or declare it. So much tautology and synonym!
Silence returned to the car. There were a few murmurings between Dora and Annabelle: indecipherable, on the whole. Marcus managed to make out: ‘Seems a bit harsh, doesn’t it? He looked so young.’ Then a grunt of agreement from Annabelle.
He felt a prod in his arm. Ben smiling, apologetically. ‘That was a bit odd back there, wasn’t it?’
‘What do you mean?’
‘A bit voodoo, if you know what I mean. Gave me a bit of a chill.’
Marcus shrugged. ‘It was just a boy.’ He’d seen worse in the City clubs on a Friday night.
Ben nodded and attempted a subject change. ‘Gosh, I’m starving. And we’ve just had breakfast! This doesn’t bode well!’
‘Hmmn.’
‘What do you think the children are going to be like? Not painted white, I presume!’
‘Look…’ Marcus closed his eyes. ‘I’m really sorry, Ben; but I’m not feeling particularly great.’
‘Oh. I’m sorry to hear that.’
‘It’s fine; I just can’t talk at the moment.’
‘Oh no. Is there anything I can do?’
‘No. It’s fine.’
‘I could ask Kondwani if he’s got any painkillers…’
‘No, it’s not a headache. Seriously, it’s fine.’
‘OK.’ Ben turned his body away from Marcus, towards the window. The terrain was a patchwork of grey and green.
They arrived to a gaggle of children, singing and clapping their hands. Marcus stepped out of the car and his hand was snatched. ‘Will you be my friend? You’re my best friend.’ He felt himself carried towards the school, like a leaf on an ant army.
Kondwani translated for them while the shy village herdman introduced them to the school and class. They also met their translator: a cheerful woman called Abikanile.
The building had only just been completed. This was the children’s first day, and they were excited. They darted in and out of legs. Their faces were shiny and full of teeth.
Annabelle spotted Marcus, towards the back, leaning against a wall, his face down to the ground. ‘Are you all right?’ she whispered. The herdman was still talking.
He nodded. There was an exaggerated swallow.
She went to walk back to the front, but his words cut her short.
‘I feel nauseous. I think I’m going to be sick.’
‘Really?’
‘Yes, really.’ His face was full of sickness and loathing.
‘When did it start?’
‘In the car.’
‘Maybe it’s travel sickness?’
He shrugged. ‘Maybe.’ Then he shook his head and gestured vaguely to his lips. I can’t talk, he seemed to say. She walked away.
As they drifted into the school, she dropped back again. ‘How are you feeling now?’
‘I think it’s subsiding.’
‘That’s good. So it must have been the car.’
‘Yes.’
‘Good. That’s an easy fix, then.’
‘Yes.’
There didn’t seem to be anything left to say. They followed the children into their new bright, clean classroom. They split the group into two, to try to keep sizes smaller, although there were children crowding in from everywhere. Either way, it was an easy class to teach, and the hours slid by. The first lessons were mainly introductions. A village lady – Bertha – had arrived, to take over translating and study their teaching. Her English was broken, but she told Annabelle that she was eager to learn. Annabelle didn’t have the heart to say that none of them were teachers back in the UK. Although she wasn’t sure this would matter: being white seemed to carry some prestige, as if you had the money and influence to solve problems, no matter how disparate or desperate. Her shoulders felt the responsibility of kings and messiahs. And yet this was a human who didn’t know how to cook or grow guavas or measure distance with the stars.
They were all exhausted when they returned to the village. The tiredness was deep in their bones, like extra weight to lug. There was chatter around their evening meal, but it was polite and contained. People commented on the day’s activities, informed the other two groups of their tasks. Nobody drank beer. Nobody tried to dominate. They leant back into their chairs and blinked up at the sky, almost willing the night-time.
Then the nausea came back: a writhing jam of acid in his belly. It kept erupting through his system and up into his throat, the burn of a digestive lava flow. He got up at one point and was sick on the sand, out of view. He went to his room to get a towel and then scooped up the sick with it. He made sure nobody could see him dump the acrid evidence into one of the waste bins. When he returned, the group were already bustling about, tidying up plates and unsetting the table. He joined in, warily, wondering if the stink was stuck to him. He worried his breath might flare out, like dragon fire.
Toby was in the room when he got there, pulling the bed sheets taut. ‘You can’t be too careful,’ he said.
‘Of what?’
‘Spiders, snakes, centipedes – all that.’
‘You’re kidding, right? They wouldn’t be able to get in here. We don’t open the windows.’
‘Oh, they could get in here, all right,’ Toby replied, breezily. ‘They’ve done it plenty of times, I reckon.’
‘But you would notice a snake. And Aldo told me they don’t have poisonous spiders here.’
‘Not officially, mate. But Stephanie was telling me how they’ve been know to get violin spiders, you know.’
‘Right – and they’re poisonous, are they?’
‘Yep,’ laughed Toby, as if the prospect delighted him. ‘Their venom could kill you, all right. We’ve got nothing to worry about, but it’s better to be safe than sorry, you know. So I like to pull the sheets really tight and touch the top of them with, like, the back of my hand, just to check there’s nothing inside. And then I sort of propel myself into bed. Then I tuck the mosquito net into the sides of the bed.’
He proceeded to do this in front of Marcus, springing into the covers with a gleam of satisfied benignness. Marcus felt compelled to do the same. Toby then stretched an arm out from under the net, and switched off the bedside light. There was the low sound of an arm swooshing in again.
The darkness wallowed in front of them. It pulsed and eddied, like waves of nullity. Marcus held on to the sides of his pillow, so he wouldn’t fall off this gyrating planet, suspended in space. He felt like he would never fall asleep. He kept thinking of his flat in London, its comforts and luxury. He could taste steak on his lips: the salty wetness of flesh oozing out on his tongue. A pang of homesickness so fierce that he had to blink back the tears.
But he must have fallen asleep, after all, to account for his waking up so suddenly. Sitting bolt upright, the sweat on his back, his breath puffy and rasping. He’d had a terrible dream. The horrors, even now, were flashing up in his vision, like he’d looked too long at something too bright. It had all been so vivid that he found himself shivering, shaking; at any moment, he might be sucked back in. He tried to think of anything else – anything at all. His first date with Nancy (Pizza Express). His favourite fruit (strawberries). Where he might live after London (New York). Annabelle in her underwear (she had an excellent cleavage). But it kept getting intercepted by his mother sitting in the bath, her zombie face twisted up at him, her eyes black and iris-less, the water muddy and low.
‘Toby,’ he called out. There wasn’t an answer. He didn’t know if he was pleased or disappointed. A mixture of both: one tied up with pride, the other, with fear.
He needed the toilet. ‘Oh fuck, no,’ he yelped. He couldn’t see anything. He heard a patter on the floorboards – a spider?
He lay there for a few minutes more. He felt the pressure in his groin. An insufferable ache. Maybe he could just piss the bed. He would have to hand wash the sheets, but that would be fine. He was sure he could do it in secret. Somehow. There must be a way. How easy, how much easier, to just slacken his muscles, his pelvis, let it all flood away…
But the shame. The shame of being found out – Annabelle! Particularly by her, perhaps it was the cleavage. But by anybody, really… To discover that he had wet the bed and then slept on it all night, mummified in ammonia.
He whipped off the sheets and lifted up the mosquito net. He tucked the bedding back in, quickly, so he didn’t return to any nasty surprises. He cursed himself for this situation as he felt his way along the wall to the door, hoping not to spring upon any latent bugs. Soon, he would be halfway to the toilets.
The whole world was conspiring against him. There must be a God, after all, and that God was showing off its dominion. Or perhaps it was the Devil. Either way, there was a vicious witchcraft in nature. All creatures, all wildlife, were the militia of some supernatural evil, some wickedness that lay deep in the soil, through pebbles, on sand, on the foothills around them, within the very veins of a leaf. Every living thing on the planet sought revenge. He was caught in the middle of a food chain: poked at and scratched at by tendrils, tentacles, umbels, follicles.
He went to the toilet at speed and was soon back in his room without incident. He thought about turning on the light and screaming, waking up the whole camp, the whole village. Something stopped him: some bottomless code.
He felt along his bed for the lump and bump of a malignant creature. While he did this, he heard the distant whine of a hungry mosquito. In a manoeuvre that would have impressed even Toby, he flipped himself into his bed, tucked up and secure, the netting tugged taut.
He listened to the whine of that mosquito for what must have been hours. He felt incredibly tired, but he could not sleep. His eyelids would get heavy, he would close his eyes, drift into unconsciousness (he could see it so near, right there in front of him, like reality had a horizon)… But then the feeling would leave him. He was back with his eyes open, the mosquito still whining. He saw the light creep into the room and the day force upon him. He had contracted insomnia. The World Health Organization had never warned him of this.
Oh, and the next few days were such a struggle. A passing blur of over-eager child-faces with chalk in their hands – like no schoolchildren he had ever seen before. And he had never seen so many black faces, even blacker bodies. He had no black friends. He had few black colleagues. He was used to being in the majority. So at first, he had stared at it: the contrast of their palms, soles, the white teeth and pink gums. Now it was normal and it was his face that looked odd: its freckles and sunspots, bloated pores and flat, wispy hair.
There was a party on Friday, once all the new recruits had survived. The trees were strewn with solar lights. The pizza oven was fired up to hungry roars. Aldo took the helm and could spin pizza dough like a pancake: this flamboyant flourish caused several whoops of approval. Other people stood by the sound system: a HiFi relic from the 90s with a temperamental CD player. The Spice Girls blasted out from nowhere and there was an even split between groan and cheer.
It is unclear what time the band arrived: an impromptu gala of locals who made musical instruments out of nothing, drumming with a scrap box and plucking an empty oil container with a single string. One of the older village men held his brown guitar quite high, with apparent pride. The A string was missing, but he worked his way round this with consummate skill.
It didn’t take long before everyone was dancing. The beer was potent, the heat speeding up the effects. Marcus was the last to join in. His head was pounding with exhaustion, there was bitterness in his mouth. But the alcohol soon took hold, as it always does; and it seemed a better prospect than just standing there, talking earnest small talk with Philippa.
He excused himself to get another drink, and was willingly sucked into the vortex, arms swinging above his head, moonlight dappling his torso. Even Philippa joined in then, her feet keeping time to the drums, to the rhythm, to the soulful warble of the frontman.
A girl called Katie. He and she backed up against a wall. She seemed to smell the money off him. Shouting him questions, queries about his job, whatever. A rapidly raised eyebrow when he told her that he owned his property.
‘In London?’
‘Yes.’
‘Zone 1?’
‘Yes.’
‘You must be loaded.’
‘Not loaded, no. But I’m doing all right.’
‘What on earth are you doing somewhere like this, if you don’t mind me asking?’ She blew on a canary yellow fringe: over-bleached and sun-dried.
He did mind her asking. When faced with this question, he felt his heart rate quicken, like he’d been found out for something; like he was on the run from the police, like he was under witness protection. Every part of him felt a peculiar sensation, a mix of adrenalin and nausea.
‘I could ask you the same thing,’ he said, trying to chuckle it out. In fact, he was employing a tactic, trying to cause conversational diversion. Everybody loves to answer questions about themselves; everyone is deep down gagging to be pressed on their life story.
‘Oh you know,’ began Katie. She wrinkled her sunburnt nose and snorted. ‘I know where you’re coming from. I have a bit of money, myself. Family money. But I hate it. I hate it.’
‘Really? How so?’
‘It’s a fucking chain round my neck. I’m renting at the moment. I’ve refused to touch their money. It’s given me nothing but grief. Don’t get me wrong, it’s not like I think all money is bad. My money, or my future husband’s money – that’s different. But my parents are academics and I was educated at about ten different schools. Expensive schools. Ridiculous. Really ridiculous.’
‘Ten of them?’
‘Oh, maybe not that many. But, you know – a lot. They kept moving around the country. I never saw them that much. It was ridiculous. Then they decided to send me to this hideous prep…’
So it goes. At an opportune moment, he slipped away to the toilet. He made his way there by keeping very close to the wall. He pricked up his ears for any rustle, scamper, patter. He could only get through the toilet business by whistling to himself and going as fast as possible. He touched the back of his head several times to make sure that nothing had dropped on it from the ceiling.
On the way out, he staggered into Annabelle. Her breasts were covered up in a loose tunic – but he still found it hard to remain on her face.
‘Marcus!’ She roared. The eyes darting around the sockets. ‘Good to see you. How’s your first week been?’
‘It’s been… interesting.’ He thought that was a good reply.
‘Interesting?’
‘Yes.’
‘That sounds… uncertain.’
‘Well, it’s been a tough adjustment, I suppose.’ He loosened a button from his polo shirt. He was cornered, with his shackles down.
‘I’m sorry to hear that.’
The first part was slurred. He saw an obvious change of subject. ‘You enjoying the beer?’
‘I’m not drunk, if that’s what you’re saying.’
‘I didn’t say “drunk”. Did I ever say “drunk”?’
She stared at him, indignant, with iceberg eyes, and her lips jutting out. Then she fell about laughing. The mood swings of an inebriant.
‘I am drunk,’ she laughed. ‘I’m incredibly drunk.’ She flung her arms out. ‘Isn’t it brilliant?’ She looked around herself. ‘Have you seen Dora?’
‘I think she’s dancing on the sand. Everybody’s dancing on the sand.’
‘There’s so much sand.’ She nodded, sagely, and then collapsed into laughter. ‘Oh dear. I’m sorry. I must be really annoying. You seem so sober. Why are you so sober? Here, let me get you a drink.’
He lifted up his beer bottle.
‘Then why are you so sober? You mustn’t be so sober.’
‘I’ve drunk a lot of beer in my time.’ And shots. And pills. And coke.
‘I can handle my beer,’ she insisted. ‘And it’s not like you weren’t wasted that first night. I mean…’ She belched. ‘Oh dear, I’m so sorry.’ Her hands flew up to her mouth. ‘I can’t handle beer. I don’t usually drink beer. I’m really drunk.’
‘That’s all right. Most people drink to get drunk. Although you could stop there, if you like. Everybody’s just dancing now, anyway.’
‘It’s so strange being here, isn’t it?’ she said, with an odd change of tack, as if answering a voice in her head. ‘It’s so different. Last week, or the week before – we were all in our different places. We knew – none of this. Crazy, huh?’
‘It is indeed.’ He nodded. Christ, he thought. Such inanity.
‘It’s such a mad thing to do. Being here. Isn’t it?’
‘I guess so.’
‘But leaving behind friends, family…’
‘I guess.’
‘Do you miss them?’
He shrugged, a faraway look to him. ‘It’s hard to say…’
‘I don’t miss mine,’ she said. ‘I miss the scenery. If you wake up every day to the same thing, it sort of becomes part of you, doesn’t it? Your identity.’
‘Yes.’
‘Where is home to you?’
‘London.’
‘Oh, OK. I’m from Manchester. Well, the outskirts – Cheshire, really.’
‘You don’t sound Mancunian.’
‘It’s just the odd thing, really. “Laugh”. “Bath”’.
‘Oh. Yes. Spotted it there.’
‘It’s probably more obvious when I’m drunk.’
‘Not at all.’
‘Well, I was born in Croydon. Lived there until I was six.’
‘I was born in Croydon, too, actually.’
‘No way! It’s an honour, isn’t it?’
‘Yep. Very proud to be the holder of a “Born in Addiscombe” badge.’
‘Oh my god, I was born in Addiscombe, too! I didn’t mention it as no-one’s ever heard of it. Plus, it’s a shithole. Sorry! Don’t know if I’m allowed to say that… You might be very proud of your Addiscombe.’
‘Of course I am. It’s the bit of Croydon that made Kate Moss. And where would we be without Kate Moss?’
‘I know, right? And I love the fact that I was born in the same ward as her.’
‘Not Mayday?’
‘Oh my god! Yes – “May-die”, they call it. What a small world. I can’t believe I’m in Malawi, of all places, and standing next to someone who was born in the same hospital as me.’ She stumbled. ‘Oh dear, I’m so drunk. I’m sorry. I just wanted to let my hair down, I think.’
‘You’ve got very pretty hair to let down.’
This seemed to sober her up. She gaze him a quizzical look, tumbled her fingers through her hair. ‘Yeah, well…’
He sparred with the awkwardness. ‘Yes, well, I think it’s time we went and danced with the others, don’t you? Let your hair down properly.’
She bit her lip. ‘OK, sure.’
He led her down to the sand, where the drums were still beating and the hips were still thrusting. The light was now a pale sliver, and the moon was a mouth, threatening to eat it all up.
A few songs later, a few glugs of beer, and he was running to the shoreline. He flung off his shorts, his top, kicked off the sandals… Dipping his toes in, then wading in further – the water, still warm.
‘Marcus!’ He ignored it. ‘Marcus!’
Dora ran up to the water with a stick and prodded him. Now a small group was trotting down. The music stopped.
‘Marcus, you’re walking through reeds. Marcus, you’ve got to stop. Right now. That water isn’t clear.’
He froze and span round. ‘What?’
‘Bilharzia. Remember?’
‘Bull-what-now?’
‘Oh, man. Just get out of the water. Now. Please, you idiot.’
He darted out. He didn’t know what the peril was, but his skin was burning. He was itching all over.
Stephanie handed him a towel. ‘Do you remember my instructions? On induction?’
‘Yes.’
‘So, it’s “bilharzia”, Marcus. We discussed it about five times over.’
‘OK. I admit. I’ve forgotten. All right?’
‘You weren’t listening, you mean.’ Dora was frowning with that baby face of hers. The medical martyr. It disgusted him. He wanted to strike her face.
‘Well, I’m listening now. You’ve got my attention.’
‘Marcus, I can’t have any of you coming down with something like that. We’ve got some insurance, but it’s really not much… Philippa can’t afford to get sued.’
‘You wouldn’t get sued.’
‘It’s from the freshwater snails. They carry a parasite. The larvae enter your skin. Or through an orifice. Your arsehole, do you understand? It can give you diarrhoea, fever, fatigue. All the good stuff. If you don’t treat it, it shuts down your internal organs. Do. You. Get. It. Now?’
‘If you’re swimming in the lake, always avoid standing water. So, anything swampy, anything with reeds, like here. That’s a big risk area.’
The party disbanded after that. Literally and figuratively. He wanted to bid Annabelle good night, but she was gone. He was left with the animals and tailwind. The village candle blown out.
Later. In the whirl of darkness around his bed, he saw a slug thicken out of a puddle. It grew and grew, in a tornado of mucus, until it was seven or eight feet tall. It stood over his bed with its eyestalks twitching: for a few minutes, dripping, just staring at Marcus and Marcus looking back. Then a rasping tongue burnt through the bed netting like acid. Marcus went to scream but sound was impossible. Only the squelch of moisture as the slug sagged down and leaked juice on his face. Crumbles of skin sloughed off into his hand. Then an eyeball plopped out and there was nothing at all. He could only sense burning, this ebbing away. And when he lifted his hand to his head, he could feel only skull…
The screams woke the hallway. The light switched on and Toby was there, mumbling, ineptly: ‘It’s all right, mate.’ Embarrassed grin. And that woman called Paula was undoing the mosquito nets and peering into his face. ‘Are you OK?’
‘Yes.’ The sweat dripped into his eyes.
‘You were having a nightmare.’
‘Yes. OK.’ But he didn’t believe it.
‘He had his eyes open, it was proper weird,’ said Toby, to no-one in particular.
Marcus sat up and saw a small crowd around the doorway. Stephanie was there. She said: ‘I really thought someone had been bitten.’
Paula turned. ‘My first thought was snakes.’
The sound drifted into speculation: the murmurings and mumblings of hearsay. Marcus took these few moments to recollect. He hadn’t been dreaming. He had been awake, he had been in his bed, he had been aware of the room. He saw that slug growing and thickening, he had watched it slide closer…
‘Right, everyone back to bed.’ Stephanie came forward to prod him. ‘No cheese at dinner tomorrow, you hear?’ Everybody laughed at this, everyone felt the matter reduced and resolved. But Marcus didn’t laugh. His eyeballs were all red and stiff as they filed away.
‘You OK for me to turn the light out, pal?’
‘Yes.’
‘Right you are.’ Blackness. ‘Night, mate.’
‘Good night, Toby.’ And he stayed like that all night: sat up, barely blinking, chest puffed up and shoulders thrown back, primed for a fight that would have no end. When morning finally came, he felt such relief that he cried into his pillow.
On Monday, they made their way back to the second village. He felt like there was nothing inside him, he was just a puppet wound up. The others chatted in the car, but he sat at the front and was silent. He didn’t know how he was going to be able to teach a class. The sickness was returning, he felt it hatching in his stomach. He was resigning himself to going back to the UK and writing the whole thing off.
The class, however, went surprisingly well. He was always best with an audience, and this was the keenest audience you could possibly get. He enjoyed the happy babble that his questions prompted. He liked the chalk between his fingers, the spells he could cast with it. Their eyes widened at his stories of Britain and of London, of red buses and the Queen. Although they already knew a surprising amount about British history, especially the Commonwealth. Often they were the ones teaching him. Abikanile’s eyes would twinkle when a child corrected him on some minor detail.
Outside, the group shuffled around the van, waiting for Reuben, who was chatting to Abikanile. Marcus’s stillness had tainted them, and nobody else spoke, even Dora and Annabelle. The children bounced between them, while hands mechanically fluttered open and shut.
‘What’s that?’
‘What?’
Dora beckoned. ‘That.’
Everyone turned but nobody had an answer.
‘Kondwani… Kondwani!’ Dora tapped on the window.
‘What?’
‘What’s that?’
‘What, now?’
‘That.’
‘Ahh.’
‘What’s she doing?’
‘Witch.’
‘Witch?’
‘Keep voice low.’
Annabelle’s eyes stretched apart. She hissed: ‘What kind of witch?’
‘Spell witch, magic witch. Witch fly at night.’
‘People don’t fly at night, Kondwani.’
‘Yes! Her!’
‘So she’s not a good witch?’
‘Good?’
‘Does nice spells? To get people better?’
‘She spells to get people better; she spells to get people sick. You teach, she spells.’
‘Why do we have to keep our voices down?’
‘Everyone know she a witch, but you cannot say witch. In law, there is no witch. That is law. But sometimes a witch go to prison. Witch not always safe.’
‘I don’t understand,’ said Annabelle. ‘Why–’
Dora interrupted: ‘How come that man’s dancing around her?’
‘He knows she is witch. Everyone know. He try to warn her.’
‘Of what?’
‘Sometimes people die by witch. Sometimes people want witch to die. Witch doctor knows. He look after village, like herdman.’
The witch doctor’s dance grew frantic. He wore a belt of shells that rattled together. There were bangles up his arms. He blew on a whistle. The children ran towards him, clapping.
The old lady tottered away, using a large stick to propel her. Her face was dark and scrunched, like her life had had several revisions. Even Reuben and Abikanile stopped talking. They were all facing the old lady as she headed their way; their backs pressed to the van.
She stopped and squinted into the sun. A bony finger unfurled and pointed. Her voice was as crackly and weak as a gramophone. She seemed to say the same thing again, but louder. Some children stopped dancing to look at her. Their faces were unreadable. The witch doctor danced on.
‘What did she say?’ asked Ben. His skin was paler than ever.
The old lady hissed and walked away.
‘Kondwani, what did she say?’ Dora fidgeted with her dress.
‘She said, “Fear the white man.”’ Abikanile paused. ‘She said, “Children, listen: fear the white man, fear the white man.”’
Abikanile’s adoptive parents were American but her Malawian was flawless from frequent visits. She liked to let the words trip off her tongue to naive ears. So she continued: ‘We say “bogeyman”: “if you misbehave, the bogeyman will come and get you”. We’ve all heard that, right? Their equivalent is “white man”. Fear the white man. He will come and get you.’
‘But why would they say that?’ asked Marcus, piping up. ‘We’re the good guys; we’re the ones who have actually come here to help you.’
She replied, ‘Oh, you understand nothing’, and swiped him away.
After that first day at school, the weeks rolled by on the train tracks of habit. Marcus was living on autopilot, just trying to get by, seeking to duck those nightmares and sudden feelings of panic. He mostly kept to himself.
There was a daytrip at some point – some river, some waterfall. He wasn’t really listening. Most people went. He opted out and slinked around the village, finding corners in the shade. Here, he lovingly dug out his Kindle and read motivational books about success and prestige. The dust crept over him and he felt very old, like he had already lived too long. Then he lay on his back and watched the clouds travel the sky. Always searching, always seeking; they never stopped. He tried to find patterns out of them, like he had as a child, like he had as a man, but now he saw only different shapes of the same thing. He saw only cloud. And just a short while later, Marcus disappeared into the landscape.