The stench from the refugee camp was overpowering. Raw sewage and garbage and mud mixed together. A vast, sprawling sea of tents and tarpaulin with under-fed and undernourished women, men and children looking out, desperate, displaced by conflicts of war and misrule.
Cooper glanced around, walking behind the priest. ‘This better be good, Father. Don’t forget, I’m still got my gun in my pocket. Make one move, and you won’t have time to even say Amen.’
Having regained his composure slightly, Father O’Malley nodded. ‘Don’t worry. I won’t be making any moves, Thomas, you can be assured of that. Come on, it’s over here.’
O’Malley led Rosedale and Cooper across to a large white tent, set back away from the others.
And at the entrance, the priest drew back the thin piece of fabric which acted as the door. He stood for a moment. Looked solemn. ‘Are you ready?’
‘Is it in here?’
‘It is, Thomas.’
‘Then you go first, we’ll follow… Oh, and Father, remember what I said.’
Without answering, the priest stepped inside.
It was spacious, but stifling, with pools of water from the dripping roof gathering on the floor.
Father O’Malley led the two men across to the far end, where three people sat huddled in front of a thin, soiled mattress on the floor. On seeing the priest, they smiled in recognition. But a wary mistrust clouded their welcome when they saw Rosedale and Cooper come to stand by O’Malley’s side.
The priest rubbed his hands anxiously. ‘Thomas, I hope I’m right to trust you.’
‘It’s not us you need to worry about.’
Father O’Malley nodded to the three people. They moved aside, revealing a frail and sick man curled up under several layers of blankets.
‘Thomas, I’d like you to meet Emmanuel Mutombo.’