Blood Diamonds – A Short Story

 Lance slept. Sheets damp and crumpled. Outside a siren wailed. The pale light that pierced the curtains could have meant it was almost evening. A day that had had much prospect had perished stillborn like the last four.

            He dreamed about Mart because he still owed him, languishing there in his doorway in the middle of the night, looking apologetic.

            ‘They want their money Lance,’ Mart had said. ‘Serious.’

            ‘What d’you think they’ll do about it?’

            ‘It’s up to 20k now. You can’t screw with those guys, I told you that.’

            ‘So what’s the worst? The worst they would do?’

            ‘You don’t want to go there. They’ll mess you up. A kicking. Break some bones. It’s a reputation thing.’

            ‘I can handle it.’

Mart looked unconvinced.

‘Anyway, soon I’ll be able to pay. In a week. Maybe two. I’ve got a deal going down. You know I’m good for it, Mart.’

            ‘Used to be, mate. I just don’t know any more. Maybe they’ll cut you. With a blade. That’s their style. They’re not gonna wait a week. Anyway, what kind of deal? Come on mate, you just a washed up pap with a habit.’ Mart picked up Lance’s Nikon and aimed the lens at him. The image popped into focus with a beep, Lance’s hand defensive in front of his face.

‘Don’t. Give it to me.’

            ‘Just joking around Lance.’ Mart weighed the camera in his hand. Grinned. Moved to throw it against the wall.

            Then Lance woke up.

            He promised himself that in the morning he’d call the doctor. His iPhone on the bedside table was on silent and he fretted about calls or texts that he was missing. He should be hungry, but appetite was a distant memory. Sometimes he was hot, sometimes cold. Right now he was cold. He wrapped himself tighter in the sheets. He should check his phone.

*

            A ceiling fan stirred the thin air but not enough to make a difference. The African’s forehead was bunched up and pimples glistened there. He wore faded, shabby military fatigues with patches where badges had been removed, and Dunlop wellies beneath the table. He looked feverish. In a corner of the room an AK 47 was propped against the wall like an ancient artefact. A wall safe hung open. Lance tried not to look at the contents, like a demonstration of fidelity. He sat on a wooden chair with two spindles missing from the backrest facing the table.

            ‘You sure about this, man?’ On the other side of the table the African was passing something intricate from hand to hand.

            ‘I don’t know what else to do. I need the money,’ said Lance.

            ‘You know it’s a turning point? Once you take these.’

            They didn’t look like much. A few dull pebbles. ‘I need it Caz.’

            Caz poured them into a small envelope and sealed it. Tossed it across the table. He looked disappointed. ‘We’re friends Lance. I’m worried about you,’ he said. ‘But don’t let me down. With the money, I mean. I got people to pay.’

            ‘I’ll wire it when I get back. Don’t worry. You can trust me. And… here,’ He slid the rugged bodied Nikon across the table. ‘Security.’

            Caz shook his head. ‘I don’t want your camera.’

            ‘It’s worth five thousand dollars. Maybe more.’

            ‘In London maybe. Not here. It’s not worth zip here.’

            So, Lance swung the Nikon onto his shoulder as he eased himself out of the chair, grateful. Caz passed a hand over his brow then reached up and took Lance’s hand in an unpleasant damp grasp. ‘Look after yourself.’

            Lance wondered if he would ever see him again.

*

            In the night he thought he heard banging on the door. It penetrated his dreams. Maybe it was a part of the dreams. Rents in the curtains let in the sunshine and it felt hot on his cheek. Just another hour’s sleep, then check the time. Check his phone maybe. He willed himself to roll over but couldn’t summon the energy, so he lay there on his left side facing the window, wincing at the light. When he covered his eyes they felt bulbous beneath his palm. His groin ached: He needed the bathroom but he could last a bit longer. He was listless.

*

He killed some time by the pool. It was small and the water was a suspect green. Prostitutes languished on loungers with threadbare towels. One of them kept looking at him. She was no more than 13, he thought. She wore a leopard skin bikini and fake Gucci sunglasses so you couldn’t see her eyes. Her belly was swollen with early pregnancy or malnutrition, he couldn’t tell which. Perspiration coursed down his bare back, and he felt its tickle. The girl was applying sun tan lotion from a Luis Vuitton handbag. It was creamy white against her black skin. The sun bore down. She flashed a smile. Good teeth, like pearls. He ached for a cold drink, so he signalled to a waiter. There were three of them gathered at the thatched bar laughing and flapping their tin trays, but they ignored him. Lowry-like, with matchstick limbs – all of their boxy white jackets had sleeves that were too long, like they only made them in one size. His throat was so dry it stirred him into wakefulness. He could still hear the waiters laughing.

*

‘I want to make an emergency appointment.’

            Lying on his back with his eyes closed, wishing the call to be over.

            ‘What are the symptoms?’

            ‘Fluey. Bad head. Aching limbs. Cough.’ He coughed away from the phone, as if to support his case.

‘Best to get plenty of rest and fluids.’

‘I’ve been like this for three days. Four. Not going out. Sleeping. I don’t have any appetite.’

‘Ring back in the morning and make an appointment with your GP.’

‘Isn’t it morning?’

The voice explained that no, it was no longer morning and after the call he squinted at the time on his phone. 12:53. It was a shock. He decided to sleep for an hour then maybe try to eat something.

They were banging on the door again in his dream – or in reality. He fumbled for his phone. 14 missed calls. The last text said ‘u r dead’. Nice. Like in a movie.

He couldn’t put it off any longer, so he dialled Vaughn who answered on the second ring.

‘Vaughn it’s Lance.’

‘Happy days,’ said Vaughn without pleasure

‘I’ve got something for you. Like we talked about.’

There was a hissing sound, like sucking teeth. ‘Yes. I was thinking about that.’

‘I want a hundred K. They told me they could be worth three times that.’

‘Uncut? Good Heavens.’ Vaughn tutted with distaste. ‘You didn’t bring them in yourself, I hope?’

‘Yes.’

More tutting. A long pause. What sounded like tapping on a keyboard. Then a rustling as Vaughn resettled the phone against his ear. ‘You still there?’ said Lance.

‘Look old boy.. sorry to break it to you and all that. But – all that effort – doubt they’re worth anything like that. Whatever did you pay for them? They’re what we call blood diamonds in the trade, you know.’

‘Do you want them or not?’

‘Not sure to be frank, old chap. Risky, dealing in those kind of stones. Nowadays..’

‘I thought you said…’

‘I know, I know. I’ve been thinking, like I said. Since we spoke. Been asking around – like you would. Some of my more colourful contacts. Congo you said?’

‘Liberia.’ Lance had his hand on his forehead. He could feel the sticky heat there ‘You said risky? How risky?’

‘Might be stuck with them, old chap. Wouldn’t want that. Not after paying you. Uncertified diamonds, y’see. Buyers are an educated bunch these days, the buggers. More’s the pity.’ Wistful. ‘Ethical buyers you see, that’s my problem, that’s what we have these days. They want provenance.’ Lance imagined him rolling his piggy eyes.

‘Not everyone cares,’ said Lance, feeling the last of his energy drain away.

‘Dead right, old chap. Got it in one. Question of value. With Kimberly Certification—one price. Without it—another price entirely.’

‘So where does that leave me?’

‘Bring ‘em over if you like. I’ll take a look. Can’t say fairer than that. But prepare yourself, old chap. Never worth as much as you think.’

‘I need the money, Vaughn,’ he said, not meaning to sound desperate.

‘Do what I can. Old times sake. All that. Bring ‘em into the shop. All I can say.’ Awkward silence.  ‘You still at the paper?’

‘Not for a long time.’

*

He still hadn’t eaten. How long was it now? He slept again, then woke with a tight chest and a throat that felt crackly like a paper bag. His head throbbed. He reached for his phone and dialled 111. Just the flu, he was sure. The trick was to butch it out.

A health screener with a Scottish accent walked him through some routine questions. ‘Can you describe the pains in your chest?’

‘I don’t have any pains. Just a tightness.’

‘I see. And what form do the pains take?’

‘I don’t have any pains in my chest,’ he said again, losing hope.

‘I understand. Tell me more about this tightness.’

‘What can I tell you? It’s just tight.’

‘And are there shooting pains?’ said the voice, measuring him for a stroke.

‘I don’t have—fuck, what’s the use.’ He ended the call, rested his head on the pillows, which were damp and unsupportive. He thought he should plump them up. Drifted a while on the edge of sleep while he considered this.

*

Barefoot children sprang and skipped around him in a flurry of dust as he walked down the mud street with the envelope in his pocket. The envelope felt bigger: A huge presence. All at once he stopped, crouched, shot off a few frames. The sun was high. Colours vibrant. He relished whir and click of the Nikon’s shutter and the kids dispersed like a flock of ragged sheep, but quickly reformed, holding up their skinny arms for money. It made him laugh and he tossed a handful of worthless Liberian five-dollar coins into the air. He flipped through the pictures on the camera’s display—some good ones—and held out the back of the camera by the barrel for them to see, but they were only interested in the nickel coins and thrust their palms towards him again, yelling in Kreyol, every other word of which he understood.

A baked and dusty plum coloured Peugeot bumped over the ruts towards him, and he hailed it like a London cab. When he dipped his head to get in it was like stepping into a sauna. The radio played loud music. And what if they caught him in customs? He could roll up the small envelope and put in the battery compartment of his camera. Nobody had ever asked him to open that in all his time in Africa. All those bleak trouble spots. In and out. That’s how he’d met Caz. A Liberian rebel without much of a cause wearing a beard like Che Guevara, who affected a limp, like from a war wound. That was before the coke habit stopped Lance traveling. The battery compartment was a good place to hide diamonds…

*

Still there last time he checked, he thought with a rush of clarity. The diamonds in the battery compartment. But where was his camera? He sat up in sudden panic and swung himself around on the bed so quickly his head spun. Then, standing naked in the centre of the room he shivered. The bed was a wreck. The camera  forgotten he headed for the bathroom, chest constricted. He placed a hand on his ribcage and pressed, then in the bathroom he leaned over the toilet seat, waiting for the bile to rise. He heaved into the toilet. A gush of relief as the tightness in his chest evaporated. Panic at the crimson stream that cascaded into the bowl, splashing red teardrops on the sides.

            ‘Shit!’ He wiped his mouth—saw the blood smeared on the side of his hand. ‘Shit, shit shit.’

            Fatigue descended like a heavy drape. He leaned against the sink. What to do? He knew what it was. What it had to be. Remembered Caz’s damp hand, once casual, now momentous. He leaned. Threw up again in the toilet. Brown this time, like diarrhoea. He would dial 111 again. But first he needed to rest. It could still be the flu. A bad case.

            He threw himself back into bed and gathered the sheets around him. A coughing fit made him curl up, and there was a metallic taste in his mouth. Maybe he should dial emergency services? That’s what he should do. As soon as he’d had some rest. Half an hour to get his strength back, then dial 999. He should eat something.

            When Lance awoke, he knew he’d exaggerated everything.  The night was a magnifier of problems. He coughed, but couldn’t taste blood anymore. He opened his eyes, closed them again. Another 30 minutes sleep. Then he’d call.

Somebody was at the door down the hall. Not banging but laying in wait. He heard shuffling and raised himself from the pillow. There were muddy streaks on the pillow, and he tried to avoid realising he’d been bleeding from his ears. Shit.

            There was nothing he could do while somebody was waiting there in the hallway. He didn’t want anyone to hear his voice on the phone. Best to sleep some more: so he lowered his head back onto the pillow and drifted. He thought there was a queue of traffic in the road because he could hear engines idling.

*

They were inflating his chest. He could feel it swelling and tightening. They’d put something inside him in the hospital. But when he woke up he wasn’t in hospital. He propped himself on his elbows fighting for breath. Coughed, and with the cough a stream of blood and stringy tissue that soaked the bedclothes. He could feel the liquid seeping through the sheets onto his bare torso. He turned onto his side, curled up his legs. Felt like he was drowning, fluids in his sinuses. His chest heaved and now the sheets were sodden with blood. That was it then. A certainty, he thought, and he felt almost relieved. From a shitty back room in Monrovia to a bed in North London. Ebola.

*

When they wrenched open the front door and stepped into the hallway there was a smell of bad food. The bedroom door was open. They were big men and they moved with a heavy gait, like weightlifters, rolling their shoulders. One held a baseball bat and he dragged it along the wall leaving a dirty trail. It echoed in the passage.

            Lance had been dead for some time when they entered the room, which was streaked with blood and tissue like an abattoir. He lay on his back wrapped in a sticky brown shroud. Gripped in his left hand was a camera with a big lens that stared. The man with the baseball bat dropped it with a rattle.