Read Online Black Mischief by Carl Hancock - Free Book Online Page B

recognised his truth, he was disappointed. Above all, he wanted his father to say something. Just a word would have been enough. Nothing.
    He turned on the hot tap again and let the water run until it was up to his neck. He became drowsy and was only roused by the distant sound of water sloshing about.
    â€˜What the …!’
    In seconds he had switched off the tap and leaped out onto a flood of rapidly cooling water. The floor drains were unable to cope with the unexpected deluge. Like a child stamping through puddles, Reuben splashed up and down the tiled floor.
    â€˜Make waves! Make waves!’
    His feet were following the rhythm of his words. When weariness got the better of him, he stamped into his bedroom rubbing himself down in a fit of wild laughter. He put on the voice of an angry Phillys, the maid who looked after his room.
    â€˜Bwana Rubai, what have you done? Your mama will not be pleased to hear about this!’
    He came to a sudden halt. Wrapping the towel around his wet body, he stared blankly.
    â€˜Bwana Rubai, what have you done?’
    In his own voice this time. ‘You, me, yes, I did this thing and someone will notice. Someone out there will have to pay attention.’
    He flopped down onto the bottom of his bed. There, less than two metres away was a framed family portrait on his dressing table. It was the only photo he had of Julius. But it was not his brother, not any of his family that caught his attention. They were standing around a gleaming piece of yellow and silver machinery, Julius’s new toy, a large BMW motorcycle.
    He threw down his towel and took the photo over to his bed, focused his gaze on the bike and began to dream.
    Three weeks later the dream began to become a reality. The afternoon was warm and still and as he eased the newly polished bike down the driveway, Reuben was dry-mouthed and nervous. Bernard, the house mechanic, had taught him to handle the superb piece of German engineering, watched over him and built up his confidence. Now he was on his own. He enjoyed the squeak of his new leathers as he moved his arms to steer through the lodge gate and out onto the public road. At least he knew that he looked the part.
    When Julius first brought the bike home, Papa had persuaded the Nairobi council to lay a half mile strip of top grade tarmac to replace the murram road right outside the main entrance. This had become a practice track where Julius gradually built up his speed on timed runs. Reuben had it fixed in his mind that his brother had once hit a hundred and ninety for a marked two hundred metre run. But, as usual, Julius became bored with his new toy and never rode the machine on any of the planned long distance safaris to the coast and the Uganda border. And he disliked the sweats he raised under the riding gear. No, a car was a much superior vehicle. For now, Bernard would keep the bike in good order but out of sight.
    Reuben’s plans for the big, yellow machine were less ambitious. For the first time in his life he was willingly playing the sporty type. The prospect of danger was thrilling. His aim was to tame the powerful beast enough to get himself down into town and tear along Uhuru Highway and any other main road that took his fancy. He would be the mystery rider that turned heads with his speed and daring. If the cops ever managed to pull him over, all the better. The Nation and The Standard would enjoy printing stories about the wild son of the Big Man. He would be noticed, perhaps even by his father. For now it would be gentle runs around the block.
    For half an hour he rode up and down the stretch of tarmac, shifting through the low gears, weaving and turning and successfully keeping his balance. He wondered if he should try something a little faster, just push it a little harder, test the timing device that Julius had brought over from Germany to make recording speeds easy and reliable, all at the touch of a button. The bike itself seemed to