Mackenzie Ford - The Clouds Beneath the Sun

The record was reaching the end, the sad, painful slow coda not quite filling the night as, every so often, the shrieks of the baboons or the cackle of hyenas drowned out the cello. Can anyone have heard this music in such weird surroundings? she thought.

Then she corrected herself. These surroundings weren’t weird. This campfire, this gorge, this plain, and this music, all together, and however much the animals might add their voices, were wonderful.

Natalie laid out the small table by the entrance to her tent, and placed on it a pack of cigarettes, an ashtray, and a notebook. She was still very jealous of her late-night moments, but three changes had been introduced in the light of Richard’s murder. She now sat looking the other way, across the camp towards the hills rather than in the direction where she had seen Mutevu in his Wellingtons, sneaking through the night. She had with her a notebook. Since the discoveries had begun to occur, she now felt the need to record her reactions and to write up some of the details: much better to get them down straight away when they were fresh than to revisit them later when all sorts of things might be forgotten. And, of course, there was no whiskey.

She settled in her chair, reached for the cigarettes, and looked up at the sky. No moon tonight, but the shimmer of the stars was not a bad alternative. She heard a zebra snort nearby. She was learning to identify more and more bush noises. And smells.

Pulling on her cigarette, letting her frame settle, she picked up her notebook and began to scribble some lines. She described how the idea that there was a rock shelter in the gorge had come to her. That was the kind of question not tackled in scientific papers, but which people like journalists would want to know.

Next she turned to some thoughts about the prevailing winds in Kihara Gorge. From what she now knew about them, did it make sense for the rock shelter to be orientated in the way that it was? Eleanor, who was herself growing increasingly excited about the “shelter,” as they were calling it, had spotted that its layout was semicircular, not straight. That made it more interesting as a structure. Natalie closed her eyes and tried to imagine life as it might have been two million years ago.

“Mind if I join you for a moment?”

Natalie’s eyes jerked open. She looked up to see Eleanor. “Not at all. Let me get you a chair.”

“No, no. Don’t worry, and don’t move. I’m not staying—I know how you love these late nights to yourself. I came to give you this.” And she put down on the table Natalie’s whiskey flask.

Natalie looked from the flask to Eleanor but said nothing.

Eleanor was carrying her own notebook in one hand. With the other she took off her spectacles. “I was wrong. Christopher convinced me. I was wrong about one or two things, my dear. I stand by my belief that a dig has to be run strictly, otherwise it falls apart. But, as Christopher said, I should get used to judging people individually, not putting everyone in the same boat.” She pointed to the flask. “It’s not a security risk, or a major corrupting influence. I’m sorry I was so strict about it. Please forgive me.”

Natalie, astonished by what she was hearing, nevertheless waved away the need to apologize. “Would you like to share one with me? See what all the fuss is about?”

“No, thank you. I don’t have a head for spirits. In any case, I fancy you’ll want to be more on your own than ever tonight.” She held up two envelopes. “Post. I completely forgot to give it to you at dinner. Something else I need to apologize for.”

She put the letters on the table, next to the flask. “Good night, Natalie.”

Eleanor disappeared into the gloom.

Abstractedly, Natalie muttered, “Good night” and picked up the letters. Both had a New York postmark. One, she could see, was from Russell.

Radio silence had been broken.

She inserted her finger under the flap. There was just one handwritten sheet inside, in black ink, plus some typed pages.

The resident nightjar was in full voice. Dear Natalie , the letter began. I hope you receive this without it being first opened by her ladyship …

Not a good start. I haven’t got back to Berkeley yet. I stopped off in New York and saw Richard’s parents. As you can imagine they are devastated—crushed. No, that’s not quite right. Devastated, yes, but not crushed. Richard’s father, Richard Sr., is quite a man and he is, if anything, angry, very angry. Spitting bile, fire and brimstone. Not with you, of course (I’ll come back to that), but with the Deacons in general and Eleanor in particular. Richard’s body has now been released after the inquest and is being flown back to Manhattan as I write. As soon as the funeral is over (I’m staying), Richard Sr. is planning his own trip to Nairobi and the Gorge and then we shall see what we shall see. All I can say is this: expect fireworks . I enclose a draft of the paper for Nature on the knee joint. (I found some modern bones in a Manhattan hospital!) Daniel’s name comes first, then Richard’s, then mine. All of you are included. Please show it around, so everyone can endorse it, before it appears. I can’t bring myself to write direct to her ladyship . I’m sorry our relationship had to begin—and end?—in the way that it did. But perhaps it’s not the final word. I hope that this season’s digging is—for you—a great success. After that—well, let’s see. I already look back on our late-night whiskey sessions with great fondness and nostalgia. I repeat that you’ll find me a much more relaxed figure in California. Come see . Russell

She reread the letter. He was still very raw, that much was clear. His rawness was a form of energy, one of the things that she liked about him. But, now that he was away from the camp, his bitter side seemed to be overtaking him. And she wasn’t available to defuse his anger.

And how much of a threat was Richard Sutton Senior? Russell’s tone sounded ominous.

She poured herself half a cup of whiskey, raised it to her lips, smelled the liquid, and felt the familiar, comforting burn as it sank down and spread its warmth across her chest.

Men were a little like whiskey, she reflected. They could warm you and they could scald you. Russell was no different from Dominic on that score.

Was she unlucky with men? she wondered. Or did she invite trouble? She had agreed to spend the night in a cave with Christopher: was that wise? She really did want to see the rock art Christopher had mentioned, and she sensed she could handle him.

She rubbed her tongue along her lips, feeling the scorch of the whiskey fade.

Then she slid her finger under the flap of the second envelope and took out the sheet inside. Dear Dr. Nelson , I have been given your name by Professor Russell North, a colleague of yours, though of course I already had your address because my son, Professor Richard Sutton, was, until recently, also a member of your excavation team . You will anticipate the reason for this letter. Russell has told my wife and me that you were a witness to the recent dreadful events that resulted in the tragic death of our son, and will be giving evidence at the trial. Tragedy is tragedy, but this one was made worse by the very great distance between Kenya and New York, where we live, and by the fact that business/legal commitments unavoidably keep me here, when my instinct—our instinct—is to leave immediately for Kihara . And so I am writing this letter, and sending it by special delivery. At the moment, as I say, I am detained in New York on business matters that cannot be put to one side. But, as soon as we are able, my wife and I shall be traveling to Kihara to see for ourselves the location where this awful crime took place. We are counting on you to see that justice is done and that the cruel killing of our son is matched by the conviction of his murderer, who we understand is in custody. This is probably not a situation where money makes any difference but please be assured that I am a wealthy man and that I am willing to spend whatever it takes to achieve justice . Since I do not know you, Dr. Nelson, and because I do not know even Professor North that well, I am unsure how exactly to pitch the tone of this letter. My wife and I are devastated by our son’s death. Nothing can bring him back but we very much hope—on the basis of what Professor North has told us—that your testimony will give us some satisfaction. I understand that in Kenya murderers, if convicted, are hanged. That would provide some small comfort for my wife and me . We look forward to meeting you in the not-too-distant future . Sincerely yours , Richard Sutton (Senior)