Bitter Chocolate Page 9

  He woke when some innate sense told him that the truck was slowing to a halt. He rubbed his eyes and gazed blearily out of the window. It was almost dark outside. He could see the glow of oil lamps stretching into the distance and the shadows of people moving around.

  ‘You were talking,’ the driver informed him.

  ‘Was I?’ Pascal replied.

  ‘You sounded terrified.’

  Pascal shrugged.

  ‘This is where you get out. They’ll be able to help you here.’ The driver leant across him to open the door.

  ‘Where are we?’ Pascal asked.

  ‘Refugee camp,’ said the driver. ‘You might find your family here. Or friends. There are people from all over, and plenty of our people as well.’

  We can barely afford to feed our own people. Pascal heard his father’s voice.

  It can’t be much fun living in a refugee camp. Angeline, this time. Angeline.

  Might he find her here? And his mother and Bijou?

  Pascal climbed down from the cabin and thanked the driver.

  ‘I hope you find who you’re looking for,’ the man said. ‘A bit of advice, though. Get rid of the gun. If they find that on you, you’ll be in big trouble.’

  Pascal saw that the nozzle of the AK-47 was poking out from the sacking. He covered it quickly, watched the truck disappear off into the distance, then stared in the direction of the camp. A rusty barrier protected the entrance, manned by two heavily armed security guards. Pascal slipped sideways into the bushes lining the road and stood there, trying to decide what to do. He didn’t want to give up his rifle. His rifle was his friend. Without it he would be completely on his own, and vulnerable. He realised, though, that he had no choice. If there was even the slightest possibility he might find his family in the camp, then he had to go inside.

  Pascal buried the rifle under a mess of undergrowth and made his way to the barrier. The guards gave him a thorough search, questioning him endlessly about where he had come from, until, at last, they allowed him to enter.

  Chapter 26

  The noise and the smells and the number of people in the refugee camp stunned Pascal at first. After more interminable questions and form-filling in a small, airless reception area, he was allocated to a hut made of grass and sticks, which housed eight other boys and a minder. Pascal left the reception area with assurances that everything possible would be done to discover his family’s whereabouts, whether or not they were living in the camp. But when he saw the boxes full of files relating to the refugees, and when he looked down the row upon row of rickety temporary shelters that stretched endlessly into the distance, he doubted they could trace his family, and felt that once he walked down one of those rows he too would disappear for ever.

  A sense of hopelessness settled upon him. He sat down outside his new home, lonely, exhausted, hungry and desperate for a smoke. There was nobody inside. The minder would be along soon, he was told by the girl who was given the job of accompanying him. As for the other boys, they were probably kicking a ball around somewhere, she said. He watched the constant stream of men, women and children trudging up and down the alleyways, carrying water or firewood, loaded down with provisions, or simply passing the time. Some of them stared at him, especially the children.

  Do I look so very different from them? he wondered.

  Very few refugees were native Guineans. The different languages and accents Pascal overheard made him feel even more of a stranger. A cacophony of music blared from every direction, while dogs ran around scavenging and rats moved stealthily through the spread of litter. Everyone, it seemed, was making the most of the lingering light of the day.

  When the minder returned, Pascal was both relieved and disappointed to discover that the man, Jaloh, was from Sierra Leone and could scarcely speak any French. He was relieved because he didn’t want to answer even more awkward questions, and disappointed because Jaloh wouldn’t be able to tell him anything about his own people and what was happening to them.

  They sat together for a while, Jaloh trying hard to make himself understood by speaking very slowly and throwing in the odd word of French, Pascal searching around in his head to find where he had stored the few words of English he had been taught. In the end, he couldn’t be bothered. He was too tired, and his body was rebelling against its lack of food and abrupt withdrawal from the stimulants of cigarettes and alcohol and drugs. He gestured to Jaloh that he wanted a cigarette, but the minder shook his head and made it plain that he didn’t smoke and wouldn’t allow it anywhere near him.

  ‘You’re too young,’ he said to Pascal. ‘Smoking’s bad for you.’

  Pascal didn’t understand the words, but understood Jaloh’s meaning. He went inside the hut and lay in the corner, curled up in a ball on the canvas that had been found for him. He fell asleep immediately.

  He woke within what seemed like minutes, torn from a nightmare where screams were swallowed up by loud music and rats were running over him, leaving scratches that wouldn’t stop bleeding. He was soaked in sweat and his head felt as if it were going to explode. Someone was holding him down. Words came at him, but they made no sense. In the pitch black, he had no idea where he was or who was there with him. He struggled to free himself, kicking out with his legs and twisting his body violently.

  ‘Stop fighting us,’ he heard. ‘No one’s going to hurt you.’ This time the words were in his own language.

  Someone lit an oil lamp nearby. Even though the flame was dull, the light hurt Pascal’s eyes. He squinted at a face he had never seen before. It was that of a boy, older than himself, and none too friendly. Jaloh was beside him.

  ‘You been doing drugs?’ the boy asked.

  Pascal didn’t reply. He tried to sit up, but the boy and Jaloh kept him pinned down.

  ‘How old are you?’

  ‘Twelve,’ Pascal answered.

  ‘Don’t give me that crap,’ the boy jeered. ‘I’d give you ten and no older. Ten, and you’re already addicted to drugs.’

  ‘I’m not ten. What would you know about it?’ Pascal hissed. ‘You don’t know anything about me.’ He struggled to free himself again.

  ‘I know,’ was all the boy replied. ‘Now are you gonna behave yourself while we find you something to eat, or am I gonna have to sit on you all night?’

  ‘I don’t want anything to eat,’ said Pascal. The thought of it made him feel sick.

  ‘Well, you’re gonna have something even if I have to ram it down your throat myself. Then perhaps we can all get some sleep.’

  Pascal was aware of Jaloh moving away from him and fetching something. He turned his head sideways and saw that the other boys were there as well, all watching the scene that was playing out in front of them. He was embarrassed. He sank back down on the canvas, a wave of nausea threatening to embarrass him still further. A hand slipped behind his neck and lifted his head. He heard words, but they meant nothing.

  ‘Drink,’ someone close by translated into French.

  Pascal fought the urge to vomit and sipped from the bowl that was being held to his parched lips. He had no idea what he was drinking. It was thick and sweet, and his stomach leapt on it with gratitude at the same time as trying to reject it.

  ‘Slow,’ someone ordered, in French again.

  Pascal wished they would go away and stop treating him like a child. He sipped again nevertheless.

  ‘Good.’ It was Jaloh who spoke this time.

  That single word launched Pascal back to his schoolroom, to the English lessons he hated. It was the word he had wanted his teacher to say to him, however much he pretended that he didn’t care whether or not he could speak the language. It was one of the few English words he remembered. It brought with it an avalanche of pain. Pascal howled with anguish and screamed like an animal caught in a snare. He lurched backwards, knocking the bowl out of Jaloh’s hands, then brought his knees sharply up to his chest as his body convulsed.

  ‘Ride the storm,’ the other boy urge
d him. ‘It will get better.’

  Pascal was sure he was going to die. His arms and legs felt as though they were being poked with red-hot needles.

  ‘Stop!’ he cried. ‘Stop!’ Though he didn’t know if he had cried out loud.

  Just when he thought he couldn’t take any more, the pain subsided. He let his head drop back and closed his eyes.

  The boy, Daniel, told him later that he had slept for fourteen hours. ‘It’s the best thing,’ he said, ‘to help get through the pain.’

  For several days afterwards, Pascal suffered further bouts of torment, both mental and physical, but gradually the physical pain lessened and he was able to eat and drink normally. The nightmares continued. He would often wake up shaking and covered in sweat, sometimes with Jaloh’s hands trying to steady him.

  ‘You must have been through some terrible things,’ Jaloh said to him one day, with Daniel interpreting.

  ‘Yes,’ was all Pascal replied.

  Chapter 27

  ‘That looks really bad. What did you do to make him do that to you?’ Kojo fingered the torn T-shirt and stared at the livid red wound on Pascal’s back.

  ‘I just called him a big, fat, smelly, farty pig, that’s all.’

  ‘You didn’t!’

  ‘Course I didn’t,’ Pascal sniffed. ‘I wanted to keep him sweet. The trouble is, somebody else has already turned him sour.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  Pascal nodded in Tiene’s direction. ‘All of a sudden Le Cochon seems to be aware that I might be planning to escape.’

  ‘What? You mean –’

  ‘Seems our friend couldn’t keep his big mouth shut.’

  ‘I can’t believe he did that!’ Kojo exclaimed.

  ‘I knew he’d cause trouble. It’s my own fault for losing it with him. And now he’s angry because I won’t let him come with us.’

  ‘Are we still going to risk it?’ asked Kojo.

  ‘What do you think?’ said Pascal.

  ‘Perhaps we should let him come with us, then.’

  ‘No way. Three’s too many.’

  The bell rang to end their lunch break and send them scattering back to work. Pascal’s heart began to race at the thought that this was going to be his best chance to steal the sacks. He was about to set off towards the mats, when Le Cochon shouted that he was to spend the afternoon breaking open pods. The overseer then beckoned to Tiene and told him to change jobs.

  ‘We’ll see if you can tell the difference between a bean and a beetle,’ he said. ‘Some people have great difficulty with that.’

  Tiene smirked and followed Le Cochon, imitating his waddle to the amusement of all the boys except Pascal and Kojo.

  ‘Jerk,’ Pascal muttered.

  He grabbed a machete and stalked over to the piles of pods. His plans were being blown apart before he had even begun to move them forward. He threw himself into his work while he tried to control his emotions and refocus his mind. Every so often he looked across to where Tiene was sifting beans. Tiene wasn’t alone. An overseer was keeping a watchful eye on him, just as Pascal had not been left alone that morning. Now, however, there would be no opportunity to steal the sacks without either Tiene or the overseer noticing.

  He decided there was only one thing for it. He would wait until the bell went at the end of the day. By then it would be nearly dark. He knew that Tiene wouldn’t hang around but would head straight to the canteen for dinner. All he would have to worry about was the overseer, whose job it was to make sure that the tools were put away and that the boys were all accounted for as they passed through the canteen doors. Pascal knew he wouldn’t have very long, but he knew too that he might not have another chance.

  The rest of the day passed by in a blur. Several boys who were working close by chatted to him about this and that, but Pascal scarcely uttered a word. He kept his mind fixed on what he was going to do, so that he would be ready to pounce as soon as the time came.

  Nevertheless, when the bell did finally ring, it made him jump. He listened to the whoops of joy from the other boys and watched them skip away from the piles of pods. He took several steps in the same direction, then, quick as a flash, when no one was looking, squatted down behind a bush. From there he could see Tiene striding off towards the canteen, followed by the overseer.

  Pascal seized the moment. He hurtled across the scrubby ground to the store where the sacks were kept. He pulled two from the pile, shoved them under his arm and tore along the side of the path close to where the truck had parked. There was a large bush there, densely packed with wide, dark leaves. Pascal stuffed the sacks as far into the bush as he could, checked that no part of them was showing, then quickly retraced his steps, cutting back in through the edge of the plantation until he could see the other boys just ahead of him. He slowed and steadied his breathing, then sauntered up behind them, pretending to pull up his shorts in case anyone had noticed his absence.

  Chapter 28

  Daniel was one of three Guinean boys in Pascal’s shelter. Most of the time he showed no interest in Pascal, preferring to spend his days hanging out with a gang of older boys from another part of the camp. The other two regarded Pascal with suspicion, steering clear of him as much as possible. Pascal was happy to be left alone. He didn’t want their friendship. Friendship would mean questions. Friendship would mean having to join in with games that he didn’t want to play. He wasn’t sure he’d ever be able to play games again. Bang, bang, you’re dead!

  He spent his days mooching up and down the endless maze of alleyways between the rows of makeshift shelters. He became an observer of other people’s lives, and all the time he kept an eye out for his family, his friends, his friends’ families and the people from his village. Once, he was convinced he saw Bobo. He followed him, until finally the boy turned round and shouted angrily at him. It wasn’t his cousin. Pascal shrank away, the disappointment threatening to bury him.

  As the weeks turned into months, he learnt to expect nothing. He stopped going to the reception area to ask for news. There was never any news. The people who manned the office seemed to be so swamped with the daily demands of the refugees, and with the allocation of food aid and other supplies, it didn’t seem possible for them to search for missing families as well.

  ‘Nobody cares about us,’ Daniel said morosely, one evening. ‘We’re just another problem that nobody wants to deal with. We’d be better off walking out of here and starting our own search.’

  Pascal wondered why he didn’t do just that, especially since Daniel had no reason to believe that any harm had come to his family, who had fled from their village and become separated when news reached them from a neighbouring village that rebels were close by. When he discovered that the gang Daniel was involved in was believed to be responsible for numerous thefts throughout the camp, though they had yet to be caught in the act, he concluded that Daniel must prefer indulging in such despicable activities to making the effort to find his family. From then onwards, he avoided him as much as possible.

  Pascal was too exhausted to think about leaving himself. He hated the chaos and clamour of the camp, but he liked being able to blend into the background and the anonymity it provided. He had resisted the half-hearted attempts from the authorities to send him to the camp school. Every so often he passed by the school and looked in, remembering lessons in the past when he had sat at the back of the village school, gazing out of the window and being told to pay attention. It seemed so long ago. How long was it? Over a year? A year and a half ? Once, a maths lesson was taking place when he looked in. He listened, testing himself to see how many of the sums he could work out. When he found that he knew the answer to one of the questions, his hand started to go up automatically, and he unintentionally caught the teacher’s eye. He ran away quickly in case she came after him.

  Sometimes, Pascal would relax enough to watch groups of boys playing football in an area that had been cleared for that purpose. He refused to join in, even when the
boys pleaded with him because their numbers were short, and knew that his refusal was partly because he didn’t want to risk showing himself up. He could still remember the one occasion he had scored a goal and how he had felt, but there were too many times when he had suffered his cousins’ frustration that he wasn’t any better at the game.

  Pascal was happiest when he could sit outside the stall of a man who repaired bicycles and listen to music on his radio. It reminded him of Mr Bon’s shop in his village, where everyone gathered whenever a television was brought in. The stall owner, Sheriff, and his wife, Patience, could both speak French, though their native language was English. In fact, they loved speaking French to him, and Pascal laughed at their mistakes. He even spoke one or two words in halting English to them, whenever he felt comfortable enough.

  ‘Practice is very well,’ they attempted in French. ‘Your English is very well.’

  ‘No,’ said Pascal. ‘It is evil.’

  They had lived in the camp for three years and wanted to go home. But they had no money to travel back to their own country, and no home to return to. They always seemed so full of hope, though, and whenever Pascal was with them they helped him to rekindle his own hopes.

  ‘A mother will never give up searching for her child,’ Patience insisted. ‘Never.’

  In the meantime, she and Sheriff were always happy to let him just be with them. They listened when he wanted to talk, but never pried when he sat in silence, nodding his head to the music. Little by little, Pascal told them about his life, but was unable to speak of the explosion that had engulfed his father, nor of what had happened to him from the time he had been captured by Seb and Gustav. He secreted that part of his history in a locked chamber somewhere deep in the dungeons of his mind, and tried never to go there. Sometimes, during the day, a sound, a sight or a smell would trigger a thought process that would leave him trembling on the threshold, but it was mostly at night that the door of the chamber broke open to release its demons.