When the Singing Stops (6 page)

They were driven to the Guyminco management housing compound which included a beautiful old guesthouse called Wanika House where they would stay overnight. Wanika House was decorated in what Kevin described as ‘Guyana Grand'. It had guest accommodation for visiting dignitaries, social rooms and entertainment facilities. A few staff members were eating in the main dining room but a private dining room had been set for luncheon for ‘General Manager Mr Krupuk and Party', according to the inscription on the small stand by the elaborate double wooden doors.

Before lunch Matthew and Kevin were shown upstairs to their rooms, which were tropical colonial-style suites reminiscent of the days of Somerset Maugham. Large rooms with high ceilings swamped the very basic furniture. The floors were polished wood, and the sluggish ceiling fans and louvred window shutters made an attempt to cool the temperature. A wide upper verandah, enclosed by glass louvres, was set with lounging furniture and an intricately-woven Amerindian tibisiri mat.

Matthew looked out to the river, just fifty metres away. Huge mango and palm trees dotted the lawn that ran to the glassy water. The water level had dropped, leaving muddy exposed banks. A voice behind him followed his train of thought.

‘Big rains and high tides, de river flow all over de grass, round de house . . .'

Matthew turned and smiled at the plump black African woman in a starched white uniform holding a large silver teapot. ‘Thank you for the explanation. You one of the locals?'

‘Yeah, I bin born here. My daddy work on the river boats. Dem were days, eh. Good days.'

‘And now?'

‘Bad days at the mine some years ago. Every place in Guyana, eh? Now tings still not good. Very quiet. Maybe they close down, yeah? Oh my, de parties dey used t'give here. Oh my.' She chuckled.

‘My name's Matthew Wright. I'll be staying up here off and on I expect.'

‘I be Shanti. You tell me any ting you want, I get for yo.'

Matthew gave her a smile. ‘Many thanks.' He glanced across the river. ‘What's out there, past the town? Can one go walking or exploring in the bush?'

She pursed her lips. ‘Now why you wanta go and do dat for, eh? You stick to the river. More nice. More safe. Over dere be jumbis. Big moon coming tonight, not safe for walking.'

‘Well, I wasn't thinking of going walking in the bush this evening actually . . .'

Shanti peered through the louvres. ‘This bad time of year, rains, big moon and dis night de jumbi walks. You keep dem windows shut in yo room. Put on de air-conditioning.'

‘Oh no, the fans are fine. I like the fresh air. Now Shanti, what are jumbis?'

‘Dem be bad spirits . . . like ghosts. Come in many types. No good to meet a jumbi.' She shivered at the thought. ‘I got to take dis silver down for lunch.' She turned back to him at the stairs. ‘Yo take care tonight.'

Matthew raised the subject of jumbis towards the end of the meal and Lennie threw back his head. ‘They're a superstitious bunch. Man, oh man, can they bring up a story to get 'em out of doing something. But you hear some weird stories about spirits, their sort of African voodoo, I guess. But they certainly seem to believe it.'

That night the Australians met Stewart Johns at his house to discuss their takeover of the mine. ‘It's a damn shame, good people, a good resource, a good opportunity. But it's one helluva mess, right?' The CEO lapsed into one of his famous conference silences. It was a signal for the others to volunteer statements.

‘From a technical standpoint we can do it, but the cost will be horrendous,' Kevin said bluntly.

‘And can we sell it to cover the cost?' added Matthew.

Johns didn't answer right away but after a thoughtful pause said, ‘I believe so. AusGeo has never been known to walk away from a challenge, but obviously it would put the company in jeopardy if we took on too many lost causes
like this. However, I think we can make Guyminco a reasonably viable proposition for privatisation in twelve months. We can begin by instilling a climate of confidence that's sadly lacking at the moment.' He leaned forward, elbows on the table. ‘Despite the government raping the whole operation financially, the current staff have done well given the lack of cash, spare parts, management back-up and overall support. But it can't continue. They are facing six minutes to shut down,' he concluded.

‘I suppose they all know that,' said Kevin.

‘This is their future. The investment climate in Guyana is healthier now than it has been for a long time. If the people of this country want to get on their feet, then getting this plant running to full capacity and making a profit will be a signal to the government, the people and the rest of the world that there's a new season starting here.'

He looked at Matthew and Kevin, and the men nodded. If the CEO said it could be done, they'd do it, despite their reservations. That's why they had stuck with AusGeo even when other opportunities presented themselves. Johns was an inspirational leader. They loved working for him because it often meant achieving the impossible.

‘Right then. We'll put our thoughts and solutions into a detailed plan of action over the next few weeks. You each know the area you're to focus on. Get to it, men. I'll hold the usual
daily whinge session at 4.30 Monday to Saturday. Sunday, you're free.'

Kevin and Matthew strolled across the lawns in bright moonlight back to Wanika House. ‘I don't envy you drumming up a marketing campaign,' said Kevin.

‘Got to have a much stronger product to sell first. They've lost a lot of ground, market wise, I agree.'

They went quietly upstairs, had a nightcap together on the verandah and went into their rooms. Matthew noticed the bed was turned down, the windows shut tightly, the air-conditioner blasting cold air into the room. He turned it off, opened the louvres, switched off the light and, ignoring the mosquito net, fell into bed. He hadn't noticed that the mosquitoes were bad and anyway he felt claustrophobic under a thick net.

He awoke during the night to a pleasant breeze on his face. But he felt uncomfortable. He stirred and rolled on his side and immediately recoiled and leapt up at the knowledge some creature was on him. Matthew bashed and slapped at his head. Flapping and scratching had suddenly brought him wide awake and he beat something off his neck and reached for the light. The sight of blood on the pillow and more running down the white T-shirt he was wearing, shocked him. He'd felt nothing. A spider, a snake, what . . . he went cold as he looked on the floor beside the bed where a small
stunned bat lay, one of its wings beating feebly. For a moment it looked soft and innocuous until he saw the sharp nose, the long teeth, and he shuddered at the realisation it was a vampire bat. He put his hand to his neck and felt the blood trickling in a steady stream. God, how much blood had he lost, he wondered. He felt weak, was it from loss of blood or the horror of how he'd lost it?

Still holding his fingers pressed against the puncture wound, he went out onto the enclosed verandah, but knew waking Kevin wouldn't help him. He headed downstairs and went through the lounge and dining room and into the large kitchen. In the moonlight he could see bulky appliances, a refrigerator, a long table and free-standing work bench. He opened the fridge and groped for the tall jug of boiled water, opening cupboards to find a glass. He gulped down the water, refilling the tumbler several times and then pulled open two folding doors that revealed the pantry. Maybe there was a Red Cross kit in here, though what the hell did one put on a vampire bite?

He was fumbling in the dimness, moving large cans about when the kitchen light snapped on and Shanti, in a faded floral wrapper, stood in the doorway, staring at him in surprise.

‘Yo still hungry, Mr Matthew?'

Then as she saw the blood over him, she gasped. ‘Oh my, oh my Lordy. What happen to yo?'

Matthew slumped into one of the chairs around the table. ‘Bat bit me. A blood sucker . . . vampire thing. Do they have diseases?'

‘Dey no good, no good. You bleed em out long time, Mr Matthew. Maybe is good we go to obeah man. Take on yo clothes and we go dere, right now. He fix you up good.'

‘Now? Is he a doctor? Is it far? How do we get there?'

‘Yo quit yo talking and get you ready. Yes, we go dere, right now.' Shanti bustled, almost talking to herself as she hurried back to her room to dress.

Matthew felt his neck. It was still sticky and oozing blood. He was too tired to argue. He trudged upstairs, pulled on his jeans and a cotton shirt, throwing the blood-stained T-shirt on the bed.

They walked swiftly through the grounds and along the drive to the dirt road that led into the township. ‘It not be far,' said Shanti.

‘Who is it again we're seeing?' asked Matthew, suddenly aware of how crazy the situation seemed. Why was he following the solid shape of the housekeeper through bright moonlight at some ungodly hour? He'd gone to bed close to midnight, it must be about 2 am, thought Matthew. He'd left his watch by the washbasin in his bathroom.

Shanti turned into a lane beside darkened
wooden shacks, partly screened by banana trees and straggly palms. ‘We see Pundit Silk, he good Indian obeah man.'

‘What's an obeah man?' It seemed to Matthew he had heard stories about them at the Krupuks' party, but now couldn't recall what exactly.

‘He be spirit doctor. Take out bad blood and spells from the beast dat bite you.'

Matthew stopped suddenly. ‘Wait a minute, you mean he's like a witchdoctor? Not a doctor-doctor?'

‘He be doctor.' Shanti took his arm and urged him forward. ‘You no fret yoself now. You must do dis or you get sick. Maybe die.'

‘From what exactly? Rabies?'

Shanti looked at him in exasperation, pointing to his bleeding neck. ‘You have bad spirit put in you, maybe someone put spell on you. Maybe mean for someone else. But you got it, boy. You fix 'im up, Pundit fix you up. True, true.'

‘Isn't there a western, a European doctor in the town?' asked Matthew miserably, as he continued to follow Shanti.

She stopped outside a simple wooden cottage. ‘You wait, I tell Silk we is here.'

Matthew watched her go to the house and open the door. There was a murmur of voices and a dim light flowered inside. Shanti appeared in the front yard. ‘Come, Mister Matthew. Silk be here. He fix you. He say he knowed dere would be someone here tonight.'

‘Is that so.' Matthew felt defeated and figured he'd go along with this unless it got really weird. He walked into the house.

He couldn't see much because it was dark, then Shanti took his arm and they went into a room where a lantern burned. A tall thin man, who looked to be in his sixties, stood before them. He was clean shaven though his hair was long and he wore what at first seemed to be pyjamas but Matthew then realised was a long, loose, collarless shirt over baggy cotton pants. He had an imposing air, he held himself very straight and he gestured to Matthew to be seated as though receiving guests in a well-to-do establishment. His poise and confidence inspired a sense of trust and Matthew sat on the stool he indicated. ‘I am Silk. Pundit Silk. So, you have been attacked. This is not good. But have no fear, Silk will attend to you.'

He leaned forward and began examining Matthew, probing the glands in his neck, peering at the small wound. He was as professional as a western medical practitioner. He directed Shanti to light candles while he reached for a bowl partly filled with water. With a clean square of cloth, he began to cleanse the wound. Matthew started to relax slightly.

‘Is it infected? What do these creatures carry? I guess I shouldn't have opened the windows.'

Silk raised a hand to still Matthew's talk. ‘They be after you. Now, first we stop the blood.'

In the additional light from the candles lit by Shanti, Matthew saw an array of small jars and pots and dried grasses. Silk began painting a variety of creams and oils across the puncture marks on Matthew's neck. The smells were strange and Matthew closed his eyes asking, ‘What's that, what's that one?'

In a slightly singsong voice, Silk reeled them off. ‘White lavender oil, dragon's blood, indigo blue, bergamot, oil of seven planets. Now you hold these musk leaves while I say the prayers.'

‘Oh, here it comes,' thought Matthew. But he sat still because after an initial flush of heat, his neck felt looser, the swelling and tightness seemed to have lessened. He supposed this was some sort of herbal remedy. But within minutes he felt sleepy, and he struggled to open his eyes. He was aware Silk was saying something about the Book of Moses, psalm 29, casting out evil spirits and then he heard no more.

Kevin arose early after a restless night. He was not normally a dawn riser, but he padded out onto the verandah and, noticing Matthew's door open, stuck his head inside.

‘Matthew?'

Seeing the room empty he was about to turn away but something caught his eye. He went to the bed and picked up the bloodied T-shirt. ‘Matthew . . . ?' He slammed into the bathroom, finding it empty but noting the blood in the sink
and a bloodied towel. ‘Jesus, what's happened . . .' he ran from the room.

In a few minutes a wide-eyed houseman and one of the maids stood gazing about Matthew's room. ‘We no hear nothin', chief.'

‘I'd better call Stewart Johns . . .' The houseman stooped by the bed. ‘Oh ma Lordy, dis be de devil. He bin bit.'

‘What?' Kevin spun around as the African man pointed at the floor. He hurried to his side. ‘What, what are you saying?'

‘Dere, chief. De devil bat.'

‘My God, is it a vampire bat?'

Matthew opened his eyes to discover he was lying on a small bed and the daylight was bright outside. He sat bolt upright, his hand going to his neck. There was a neat white cotton square taped in place. He suddenly felt stronger and ravenously hungry.