Not Child's Play by Dave Muller

Author:Dave Muller
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9781928420651
Publisher: Jacana Media

Chapter Eleven

Day 12 – Wednesday, 9 May

As usual, Tammy and Seth wake at the first sound of activity in the kitchen. I lie listening to their shrill questions and Patricio’s gruff, singsong answers. The day ahead seems interminable. Only the kids and I eat breakfast; Sandy refuses any food. We sit together in melancholic silence, picking at our meal of bony fish. Captain Hook, Antonio, Salvadoria, Eric, Patricio, George and a newcomer, David, another teenager, stand around our table observing us, as impassive as mourners around an open grave. After breakfast Sandy climbs back into bed. We’ve agreed that there will be no mention of the news report concerning the burning of Arwen to Patricio or George, but she can no longer suppress her anger and suddenly erupts though the red curtain, demanding that Patricio and George fetch the Commander.

Patricio recognises an angry woman when he sees one. Too astonished to do anything but comply, he scuttles off to where the Commander sits in his turquoise deckchair in front of his house. With an emphatic foot stamp, he presents Sandy’s request.

Both make their way back to us and Sandy explains what we’d heard the evening before. Her accusations cause immediate consternation and much shaking of heads. The agitated mood does nothing to help breach the language barrier, but we infer from their replies that Renamo would not have burnt the yacht. Patricio tells us that a recce party will be assembled and despatched to Paul Patrick’s camp to find out what’s happened. An hour later we watch as an armed party heads north.

Sandy returns to our bed and remains there until after lunch when the Commander, Captain Hook and Communications walk over to our table with a tape recorder. It looks as though we’re about to listen to yet another speech, but this time we are the ones to be recorded.

As before, the Commander asks questions from a prepared script and once again they seem to relate to why we were sailing along the Mozambique coast and whether we have any connection with oil or gas exploration, or fishing. Patricio’s translations of the Commander’s questions become a jumble of disconnected words that, like a verbal jigsaw, we try to piece together. For all we know, our replies are a matter of life or death and we may inadvertently be giving answers that, even before Patricio’s mangled translation, seriously compromise our safety. Where possible, we try to avoid answering, but when we do we make it clear we have not understood the question and so are repeating what we think is the question as well as our reply. After an hour of this jumbled interrogation, our interrogators return to the beer garden and we try to recover our equanimity. I sit back, allowing my sweat-covered body to dry and my heart rate to return to normal, while Sandy returns to bed, her anger somewhat mollified.

It’s not long before the beer garden is back to full flow and at top volume. The voice of Cocky, in particular, rises above the others.

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