Whoever Fears the Sea by Justin Fox (english novels to improve english txt) 📕

Paul’s temple. The pain lanced through his head. ‘Ah, yes, my skipper visited you. He has moods. He will not hurt you.’

‘He did —’

‘He and his boys are new. They are still learning. We must make allowances. So, to return to our topic, perhaps a couple of hundred thousand dollars? Just to cover our, ah, running costs?’ He chuckled, turning the pulpy green ball around on his tongue.

‘I beg you, we don’t have that kind of money. I live in a two-room flat, smaller than this house. I get paid in South African rands, a worthless currency.’

‘There is always your government.’

‘They don’t care about a stupid white boy messing about in Somali waters.’

‘So you just want me to let you go!’ Mohamed bent forward, giggling loudly and almost spilling tea on his ma’awis. His expression grew suddenly angry: ‘Set you free? No, Paul, that is not what I have in mind at all. Farid! We will talk again. Go now.’

Paul was led back to his hut. The lock and chain clanked loudly and he heard Farid taking a seat outside.

Another day passed with no news. Paul’s only contact with the outside was Farid, who brought food and walked him to the long-drop toilet. Their conversation, however, was largely non-existent. In the evening, Farid gave him a plate of sticky rice and grey stew. Paul picked at the meat, but after trying it found the taste not too bad, somewhere between fish and goat. When Farid came to take the plate away, he asked what kind of meat it was. The man put one hand on top of the other and wiggled his thumbs. It was unmistakeably turtle.

Paul paced the room, wondering when Johan would begin to get suspicious about the long silence and make some calls. By phoning Kijani House or Kiwayu Lodge, he would learn about the Somali voyage and soon diplomatic and military processes would begin, both in South Africa and Kenya. But Paul also knew there was little that could be done to rescue hostages in remote lairs on the Somali coast.

After three days, Paul received a handwritten note from Mohamed: You are permitted to walk in the town as long as Farid is with you.

A chance to be outside: his spirits immediately lifted. Perhaps even a chance to make an escape. The door had been left slightly ajar. Paul joined his guard outside and they stood staring at each other for a moment, unsure what to do. Farid pointed his rifle up the street and Paul began walking, his minder following a few paces behind.

Sandy footpaths led from house to house beneath coconut palms. They passed a group of men playing bao on a porch and women sitting in doorways chopping cassava and tossing it into pans of sizzling oil. A game of street soccer took up a whole block in the village centre: dirty, smiling kids and a ball made of plastic packets bound together with string. He’d seen the same, happy scene on all his African travels. At the end of the road stood a small school with bullet-holed walls. Paul could hear children behind a fence chanting verses from the Koran in singsong voices. Despite the marks of conflict, Galoh was a picture of village harmony.

A tin-roofed house, only slightly larger than the rest, caught his attention. Two rows of shoes lay at the door and Paul glimpsed worshippers on their knees within. The house served as a mosque. It was the absence of trappings, the simplicity of the act of communing with Allah, that struck him. The faces of the men were soft; they had discarded worldly thoughts. This prayer was not a mere formula, but a heartfelt communion with God.

He saw a shop exterior covered with murals advertising the produce within, the images depicting essentials such as cans of oil and bags of flour. It was doing brisk trade. Poking his head through the doorway, he was surprised to see expensive items on the shelves. There was good whisky, imported tinned food, sunglasses and even a couple of iPods on a shelf. The Somali equivalent of Woolworths.

At the end of town, they came to a cluster of more affluent houses. These were made of cement blocks and had pitched roofs and steel windows. Some had satellite dishes. A handful of brand-new, black Toyota Hilux Surfs with tinted windows were parked outside. With one dusty main road and a couple of sandy side streets, Galoh didn’t seem prosperous enough for cars like these. Pirate economy, he reckoned.

Just then, a truck bounced into town, the driver sounding his trumpet-like horn. Two guards rode shotgun on top of the load. A crowd quickly filled the street and a scrum of buyers crowded round the tailgate as leafy bundles were unloaded. It was the daily khat delivery. There was shouting and shoving. The merchants, mostly tall women with colourful headdresses, had first pick, wrapping the rectangular bushels in canvas and setting off to sell to their clients.

Farid pointed at the beach and said, ‘You, come.’

Did the man have only two English words? Maybe the guard didn’t want him to witness the khat frenzy. In a strange way, Paul was beginning to warm to his keeper. The man’s silences were almost comforting. At least there was a kind of constancy there, a dependability even.

The sand was sparkling white and the shallows aquamarine. They walked along the water’s edge, the wavelets making a crisp slapping sound on the sand. Hoping to have a dip, Paul pointed at the sea and made a swimming motion with his arms. Farid shook his head, frowned, and pointed down the beach. Walking was clearly the designated activity and they were not to be deflected.

They passed piles of reeking nets and a flotilla of white skiffs drawn up on the sand with powerful Yamaha engines attached to their transoms. Despite himself, Paul