Owen Sheers: The Dust Diaries

The man beneath him was still having a restless time of it, not just coughing now, but turning on the axis of his sleep as well. With each shift of his weight the flimsy bunks rocked and creaked, and the loose screws holding the bed to the wall of the cabin slid in their worn holes. The man, whose name was Joseph O’Connor, was younger than Arthur, more of a boy than a man. He was thin and pale, sent on this voyage by his father to follow in the wake of Rhodes and his pocket-fuls of diamonds. From what Arthur could make of it his father had booked this voyage for his son because he wanted a new world for him. London, he had told him, was no place to start a life now, not when there was so much of Africa to make your own, to build your dreams in. He himself had travelled from Ireland as a boy to follow his dreams in England, and now his son would follow his to Africa. And that was what the boy seemed to be travelling on: dreams, borrowed dreams, not even his own. But then who was he to dismiss Joseph’s borrowed dreams? Wasn’t he, after all, travelling on dreams himself? Towards them and away from them, pushed and pulled, by borrowed and broken dreams alike.

He knew his decision to leave England had caused pain. He thought of his mother’s distress, her worries for his safety and his promise to her to stay in Africa for just two years. But then he thought of his brother too, William, how he had glanced ai his pocket watch as the train pulled out of the station, as if even then he wasn’t leaving quickly enough. He knew his brother loved him as much as his mother, but he showed it in a very different way. And he would, there is no doubt, be feeling some relief now his troublesome younger sibling was so far away, now that things could finally be allowed to settle. Except of course, lying there looking at his damp patch of ceiling, Arthur knew they would never settle entirely; not in him or, he found himself hoping, in her. What had he done, leaving like that? Maybe he should have taken the risk and, like Orpheus, not gone on, but should have turned back instead. And if he had done, then maybe she would, after all, have still been there, waiting for him to turn. Waiting for him to come back to her, for the touch of his hands on her face, the sound of his voice in her ear and the taste of his breath on her skin.

♦

Joseph O’Connor’s dreams obviously weren’t going to let Arthur return to his, so, swinging his legs off the edge of the bunk, he let himself down onto the floor of the cramped two-berth cabin. He reached for the khaki suit he had bought in Zanzibar, hanging on the end of his bed. Though a little on the small side, wearing it made him feel suitably adventurous. He pulled on the trousers and put the jacket on over his cotton shirt, before slipping his bare feet into his boots. Turning to the cabin door, he reached for its handle. As he did, he glanced back at the sleeping form of Joseph, who looked even younger now, frowning like a confused child over the top of the twisted sheets that had wound themselves around him. Arthur looked at him and could not help but feel a pang of concern about what lay in store for this boy in Africa. Joseph rolled over again, away from him, and Arthur turned away too, opening the cabin door, stepping through it and walking up the narrow corridor, acknowledging as he went that the concern he felt was not just for Joseph. It was for himself as well.

♦

He heard the noise as he climbed the steep stairwells towards the top deck of the ship. Muffled at first, it became clearer the nearer he got. It was the noise of men, not at work, but at argument. The cadences of two languages were confronting each other above him, and while he could not make out what those languages were, he could tell from their pitches and rhythms they were infused with high emotions. Aggression, fear and panic. Coming up onto the first level beneath the deck he pushed through a heavy door, and the two tongues suddenly became more forceful, like the heat from an opened oven. He broke into a jog and took the steps up onto the deck two at a time.

As he emerged into the morning air the brightness of the light took him by surprise, and his eyes were momentarily confused, shot with white stars and a prism light reflecting in his pupils. He put his hand out to steady himself on a rail, vaguely aware of the activity far below him on the dock to his right, and, shading his face with the other hand, waited for his eyes to clear. As they did the source of the argument came into focus. The Somalis from the native accommodation stood as a crowd further up the starboard side of the ship. All of them seemed to be there, about fifty in total. They were tightly bunched, and moving, swaying together, a muscle of men. As Arthur watched they suddenly contracted as one, recoiling from something he couldn’t see beyond them. They were all agitated, but the raised voices came from the front of the group, the part he couldn’t see despite his height. The Somalis were a tall people.

As he walked towards the group he could hear the language opposing the Somali: harsh, Hispanic, but not Spanish. He glanced to his right. There was the dock, and there was Africa. Black bodies worked everywhere, carrying, pushing, lifting. A few Europeans stood among them. Not carrying, not pushing, not lifting. They pointed. They shouted. And they all wore khaki like he did.

It was the first shot that snapped his attention back to the deck. It cracked and echoed through the air, leaving a sense of sound displaced. He didn’t think it was a shot until he heard the second, then the third. He began to run towards the group. But then came the fourth and the fifth in quick succession, each ear-jarring crack chasing the tail of the other. The Somalis had broken on the first, and were now fanning, spreading, melting towards him as he ran towards them. They hit him like a wave, a riptide of feet rolling him, pulling him under. He saw the flash of a blade swipe through the corner of his eye, more feet, more legs and arms, then a body falling, its black chest unfurling a sheet of blood to the floor. More shots. Six, seven, eight. He was clear of the feet and legs now, but he remained lying on the deck, his arms over his head, the same words repeating again and again in his mind. Why don’t they stop? Why don’t they stop? And then they did.

Suddenly, as suddenly as it had begun, it all stopped, and for a few seconds silence came ebbing back into the vacuum. But it was not long until more noise arrived, the sound of aftermath rising to the occasion. More shouts, the German of the crew, an undertone of groaning, the sea’s slap and clap against the hull, his own breath, short and close in his ear, the winch and pulley of a crane that had worked throughout. One woman’s scream, long on the morning.

The whole incident had passed in seconds, and already it was over, it had happened. But Arthur’s mind had not caught up, and as he lay there on the deck, his eyes closed, he was still trying to register it, to adjust himself to the sudden disturbance, the violent brevity of it. The whole, sight, sound and smell of it. He opened his eyes. From where he lay he could see the legs of the remaining Somalis, thick together like a copse of closely planted saplings. Looking up their bodies he saw they were being rounded up, collected, gathered by men in uniform. Policemen. Two held drawn swords, one held a revolver, clumsy and smoking in his hand. Then there, closer to him, were the bodies. Two, no, three of them. The man closest to him lay on his back, his head thrown back, exposing his neck, his pointed Adam’s apple jutting from his throat. His mouth was open, and leaked blood from the commissure of his lips which trailed down his tilted face to his open eyes, where it collected in an eyelid. A red tear, ready to drop.

He was still staring at the dead man when he felt the pressure of hands on his body. He was being picked to his feet. Hands under his arms, pulling him up. A face swam into view, one of the young German crew, speaking in faltering English.