Their mouths and noses were covered with rags as Bastian and Jambit beat their way uphill against the dust-cloud. Behind the house with a large upstairs balcony and abandoned tennis court was another building and Bastian pointed.
‘My lungs can’t take much more,’ coughed Jambit as they tumbled inside.
‘They won’t have to,’ said Bastian looking at the upturned wicker basket and the nylon balloon that half covered it.
The gondola was big enough to hold them all and the balloon was advertising private health insurance.
‘Help me get these bones out,’ Bastian said.
Both men were unfazed at the part skeletons, so used to death and cruelty in Angole.
‘Tool marks,’ said Jambit holding a femur.
‘Cannibals,’ said Bastian.
Decades ago when there was no food for the people they became the food.
Bastian checked the balloon for rips, then looked at the two stainless steel tanks of propane, one in the basket and one out.
‘Get me some warm water,’ he asked whilst checking the burner.
The storm was blowing over. Outside, Jambit found some dirty rainwater in an old oil can. He moved it into the sunshine for five minutes.
‘That’s all I could find,’ he said to Bastian, who carefully poured the water over the tanks before running his hand down the sides.
A change in temperature from warm to cold gave him an indication of the liquid propane inside.
‘Enough to fly us to Scotland,’ said Bastian, smiling. ‘But we’d have to go at nightfall, unseen and when the winds are lighter.’
They couldn’t launch in the heat of the day even if they’d wished with vertical air currents pinning them down.
‘And the girl?’ asked Jambit.
‘We need her.’
‘12?’
‘He’ll report us missing the first foot we set outside the camp.’
‘We could kill him.’
‘He’ll guide us past the guards.’
‘After that.’
‘Having fun, fanyanas?’ asked the taskmaster holding his rifle.
They threw themselves on the ground, stomachs in the dirt and hands on their heads.
‘We got lost in the storm,’ said Bastian.
‘Can it fly?’
‘I wouldn’t know,’ said Bastian.
‘So why was you checking the tanks?’
‘Aren’t we searching for fuel?’
‘You’re right, now get up both of you. Let’s get some transport for the tanks.’
‘And the balloon?’ asked Jambit.
‘To the sky, of course,’ he replied laughing.
The steel tanks were winched onto the back of a cart before the taskmaster set fire to the gondola and balloon. The black smoke drifted to the clouds, and half of the once exclusive residence went up in flames as Bastian and Jambit wiped away the tears that cleaned their dirty faces.
The gates of Angole were opened at nightfall by trustees holding burning torches.
‘Who found them for you?’ asked a commissar of the propane tanks, knowing that his men were idle drunkards.
The taskmaster pointed to Bastian and Jambit, their eyes drained of any emotion, stooping with their shoulders hunched.
‘Have them serve at the big house this Saturday, they can have all the leftovers they can carry. And the basket and balloon?’
‘Burnt, Sir, as directed by Leaflet 18A.’
‘You surprise me,’ said the commissar smiling. ‘Take some liger ribs and a bottle of champagne from the kitchens, tell them I sent you.’
Bastian and Jambit watched the waggon drive slowly alongside the high wire fence of the liger farm and towards the jungle. A new man held the reins, there were goggles around his neck and he wore an armband with a scarecrow beside a pterodactyl. Maybe their dreams hadn’t gone up in smoke after all.
Chapter Forty
Bastian and Jambit had been working at the big house all day, scrubbing the veranda and its long steps, and were now taking a hot shower in the servants’ quarters using real sponges and fragranced soap from Scotland. 12 had left them waiter’s attire draped over the outstretched arms of a stuffed gorilla in the ivory tiled bathroom.
It was Saturday evening and the house staff were running around like headless flamingos adding the final touches for tonight’s fund-raising ball. Donations of furs, ivory, and cocaine were already in the waggons awaiting transport to London and it was rumoured Edward himself was the guest of honour. The cocaine was manufactured by segregated elderly prisoners with a chemistry degree in a laboratory called the Snow Palace at the back of the plantation.
Trustees making final checks were strutting from one room to the next, adjusting the bathroom towels to the correct drop, checking the food in the kitchens, and ensuring the waiters wore straightened bowties.
Bastian and Jambit looked at one another. They wore grey socks and shorts, camel skin slippers with the ends curled up, and pressed long grey shirts with cheetah skin bowties.
‘Splendid,’ said 12, checking on their progress.
‘I’m sorry about the balloon,’ said Bastian, after looking around to make sure no one was eavesdropping.
‘Don’t be, the commissars have told me I retire next month, and that my old friends 1 to 11 are waiting for me. Let’s get the drinks.’
They were loading the dumb waiter from the basement’s ice cellar and sorely tempted to drink from the flagons of chilled cider but for the trustee holding his club. With the sound of coach wheels arriving they were shepherded to the kitchens.
It was a long time since they had seen so many women in one place and the short grey dresses were a sight to behold.
‘Is the barbecue sauce ready for the liger ribs, Wildflower?’ asked a female trustee.
Bastian and Jambit both turned around, almost dropping the large tray of fried crickets they were carrying to the table and that reminded them of home.
‘The commissars’ wives,’ shouted someone, and half the staff rushed to the windows.
‘Be careful with my horses, you dolt,’ shouted a young woman from the courtyard to one of the stable trustees.
‘The head commissar wishes to address the staff ahead of the ball, everyone come with me,’ said 12.
They stood at the back of the house, over twenty staff with their heads bowed. The commissar wore a crisp white suit with ivory buttons and a turban with
