Bear Grylls - Burning Angels

‘I run a charity – the Mburu Foundation – doing education and development in the slums,’ Mburu explained. ‘Alex and Frank are two of my guys. And this,’ he gestured at the smaller figure, ‘is one of the Mburu Foundation’s smartest kids. Simon Chucks Bello, as you may have figured.’

Simon Chucks Bello was one striking-looking dude. His dusty, wiry hair stood out at crazed angles, as if he’d just been electrocuted. He was wearing a red T-shirt displaying a print of the Eiffel Tower, with the word PARIS emblazoned beneath it. It was several sizes too big and hung off his sparse, bony frame.

A big gap between his two front teeth gave him an even cheekier, more streetwise look than he would have had otherwise. Below his ragged shorts his knees were scuffed and scarred, and his bare feet sported cracked and broken toenails. But somehow it all seemed to add to his indefinable charm.

Yet right now, Simon Bello wasn’t exactly smiling.

Jaeger tried to break the ice. He glanced at the TV. ‘You a Man U fan? They’re taking a beating today.’

The kid eyed him. ‘You want to talk football ’cause you think football’s the key. I like Man U. You like Man U. So suddenly we’re friends. It makes us seem the same.’ He paused. ‘Mister, why not just tell me what you came for.’

Jaeger held up his hands in mock surrender. The kid sure had attitude. He liked that. ‘We were told a story. First off, we just want to know if that story’s true.’

Simon Bello rolled his eyes. ‘I told this story a thousand times over. Again?’

With Mburu’s help, they persuaded the kid to give them a potted version of his tale. It turned out to be exactly as Falk Konig had related it – with one notable exception. The kid talked a lot about ‘the boss’, as he called him – the mzungu who had called the shots on the island, overseeing all the horrors that had unfolded there.

From the description, Jaeger figured it had to be Hank Kammler.

‘So Kammler was there,’ Narov muttered.

Jaeger nodded. ‘Seems like. I guess we shouldn’t be surprised that Falk glossed over that detail. It’s not exactly what you’d want in a father.’

Jaeger outlined to the kid the deal he was proposing. They wanted to take him away from the slum, just for long enough to ensure that he was safe. They feared that those who had kidnapped him might come again, especially if they learned that he had survived.

The kid’s response was to ask for a soda. Jaeger ordered them all some drinks. He could tell by the way the boy fingered his cold bottle of Fanta what a rare treat it was.

‘I want your help,’ Simon announced, once he’d drained his bottle.

‘That’s why we’re here,’ Jaeger told him. ‘Once we’re out of this place—’

‘No, I want your help now,’ the boy cut in. He eyed Jaeger. ‘You do for me, I do for you. I need your help now.’

‘What d’you have in mind?’

‘I got a brother. He’s sick. I need you to help him. You’re a mzungu . You can afford it. Like I said: you do for me, I do for you.’

Jaeger glanced at Mburu questioningly. By way of answer, Mburu got to his feet. ‘Come. Follow me. I’ll show you.’

He led them across the street to a roadside stall. A young boy, maybe nine years old, was seated alone, half-heartedly spooning up lentil stew. He was stick-thin, the hand that held the spoon shaking horribly. A black Mburu Foundation T-shirt hung from his skeletal frame.

From the way Simon Bello talked to the boy and comforted him, Jaeger figured this had to be his brother.

‘He’s got malaria,’ Jaeger remarked. ‘Has to be. I’d know that shaking anywhere.’

Mburu related the boy’s story. His name was Peter. He’d been sick for several weeks. They’d tried to get him to a doctor, but he couldn’t afford the fees. His mother was dead and his father was addicted to changaa – the illegal, lethal knockout brew they fermented in the slums.

In short, Peter had no one to look out for him, and Jaeger could tell that he was in desperate need of help. It didn’t escape his notice that the boy was about the same age as Luke had been when he had disappeared.

He glanced at Simon Bello. ‘Okay. Let’s do it. Let’s get him to a doctor. Where’s the nearest clinic?’

For the first time, the kid cracked a smile. ‘I’ll show you.’

As they went to leave, Julius Mburu bade them farewell. ‘You’re safe with Alex and Frank. But come say goodbye before you go.’

Jaeger thanked him, then he, Narov and Dale followed Simon Bello, Peter and the Mburu boys into the maze of narrow, twisting alleyways. As they pushed deeper into the slum the stench of raw sewage assailed them, plus the noise – so many human souls crammed in so close together. It was hugely claustrophobic, and Jaeger felt his senses reeling.

Here and there their progress was barred by a heavy gate made of beaten corrugated iron, nailed to whatever waste wood the ghetto-dwellers could scavenge. They were covered in graffiti.

Simon Bello held one open so that they could pass. Jaeger asked what they were for.

‘The gateways?’ Simon’s face darkened. ‘To stop the cops when they do round-ups. Like when they grabbed me.’

By Western standards, the Miracle Medical Centre was a dirty, run-down dump of a place. But to the people here, it was clearly about as good as it got. As they queued to see the doctor, Jaeger, Narov and Dale got some very strange looks. A crowd of kids had gathered, peering in and pointing.

Alex went to fetch some roast corncobs. He broke them into fist-sized lengths, offering the first to Jaeger. Once they’d stripped off the juicy maize grains, the kids took turns using the cores to juggle, laughing the whole time. Simon Chucks Bello turned out to be the biggest joker of all. He finished his juggling act with a mad shuffling dance that had everyone in stitches. In fact they were making so much racket that the doctor had to lean out of his window and tell them to keep it down.

No one seemed overly concerned about Peter. It was then that it struck Jaeger that getting sick like this – practically on the brink of death – was normal for these guys. It happened all the time. So you had no money for medical fees? Who did around here? And what were the chances of some white guy pitching up to whisk you off to hospital? Pretty near zero.

Having run some basic tests, the doctor explained that most likely Peter had malaria and typhoid. They would have to keep him in for a week, just to ensure that he pulled through. Jaeger knew what the doctor was also driving at. It would be costly.

‘How much?’ he asked.

‘Nine hundred and fifty Kenyan shillings,’ the doctor replied.

Jaeger did a quick bit of mental arithmetic. That was less than fifteen American dollars. He handed the doctor a thousand-shilling note, and thanked him for all he had done.

As they left, a young nurse came running after them. Jaeger wondered what was wrong. Maybe they’d decided to add on some extras, as he’d seemed so easy with the fees.

She held out her hand. In it was a fifty-shilling note. She’d come to give him his change.

Jaeger stared at the note in amazement. Mburu had been right. That kind of honesty, in the midst of all of this – it was humbling. He handed the money to Simon Bello.

‘Here. Treat yourself and the guys to another soda.’ He ruffled the kid’s hair. ‘So, are we good? Are you okay to hang with us for a while? Or do we need to go seek permission from your father?’

Simon frowned. ‘My father?’

‘Your and Peter’s dad.’

He gave Jaeger a look. ‘Duh. Peter – he’s not my brother brother. He’s my ghetto brother. Me – I don’t have anyone. I’m an orphan. I thought you knew that. Julius Mburu is the nearest I got to family.’