was nearby, and he completed a cursory inspection of the exhibits within an hour. He ignored the adjacent snake park and headed towards Langata Road and the Nairobi National Park, but became lost among the roundabouts and found himself instead on Ngong Road.
Riley had his Nairobi map and found he was quite near Kibera. He decided to find the Circularian orphanage while he was in the neighbourhood. The address heâd seen in Dominguesâs file was Kibera Gardens Road. The name evoked a tree-lined boulevard and flowered verges, but the reality was a rutted, rubbish-strewn length of road with potholes the size of small lakes, which the Land Rover drove into rather than bumped over. The dumped car parts that had been thrown into the ruts to fill them reared up like ramparts against invaders.
The very modest dwellings that lined the road might have originally been white, but the reddish mud had migrated halfway up the walls, suggesting an inundation of Biblical proportions.
The road eventually petered out in a dead-end or, more correctly, met a wall of corrugated iron, cardboard and packing-case timber that emerged from the surrounding slums. It was, in fact, a collection of dwellings and small dukas , or shops, that appeared to have been there for a very long time.
A number of curious faces watched as Riley climbed out of the Land Rover and looked around. He noticed a sign partially obscured by a tattered-leaf banana tree and went to check it out. Circularian Orphanage it proclaimed. He looked at the building behind it: it had a high, flat façade into which were set tall window frames, giving it the appearance of a small church.
Riley pushed open the rusted iron gate and went to the door. It was fastened with a heavy lock and chain. He peered through the grimy windows and saw a large open space with not a stick of furniture or sign of life.
He sat on the doorstep, overwhelmed by disappointment. He hadnât quite realised it before, but heâd been pinning a lot on hishope of finding the boy who Melissa had sponsored. Somehow, in his grief, heâd imagined that meeting the boy would reestablish some kind of connection with his wife. He couldnât bear the fact that she was gone and heâd never see her again. His head dropped to his hands as the memory of that terrible night in 2002 washed over him yet again.
Â
The Kuta night had been hot and heavy. Bali was wrapped as if in a foetid cocoon. On Jalan Legian, the earthy dank odour of open drains merged with the aromas of roasting chicken, groundnuts and aromatic spices dripping into the hawkersâ smoky braziers. Fumes from bemos, minibuses and motor scooters cast a blue haze over the strip and its many bars, restaurants and food stalls. Tourists, harassed by touts and pimps, wandered among the neon lights, engaged in the never-ending search for the next diversion.
Riley and Melissa had walked hand in hand along the street. The bars were fun, but they were past all that. They had been heading home to bed and the resumption of their afternoonâs love-making, when Melissa remembered she had left her cowboy hat in the restaurant.
âIâll get it,â Riley said.
âNo, donât bother. Iâll buy another. Theyâre so cheap,â she said.
âAre you kidding? I love you in that hat. Wait here.â And he left his wife window-shopping at the goldsmithâs display next to the Sari Club.
His wife. They had lived together for years, but Riley had felt it was important they make a stronger commitment to each other. Theyâd been married for a week now, and he knew that Melissa felt as he didâthat their vows had formed the catalyst for an even greater love, one that they knew was forever.
He passed Paddyâs Bar, which throbbed with light and sound. From the end of the crowded veranda, a dozen drunken footballers bawled boorish remarks to every passing female.
Mark entered the restaurant where
Riley had his Nairobi map and found he was quite near Kibera. He decided to find the Circularian orphanage while he was in the neighbourhood. The address heâd seen in Dominguesâs file was Kibera Gardens Road. The name evoked a tree-lined boulevard and flowered verges, but the reality was a rutted, rubbish-strewn length of road with potholes the size of small lakes, which the Land Rover drove into rather than bumped over. The dumped car parts that had been thrown into the ruts to fill them reared up like ramparts against invaders.
The very modest dwellings that lined the road might have originally been white, but the reddish mud had migrated halfway up the walls, suggesting an inundation of Biblical proportions.
The road eventually petered out in a dead-end or, more correctly, met a wall of corrugated iron, cardboard and packing-case timber that emerged from the surrounding slums. It was, in fact, a collection of dwellings and small dukas , or shops, that appeared to have been there for a very long time.
A number of curious faces watched as Riley climbed out of the Land Rover and looked around. He noticed a sign partially obscured by a tattered-leaf banana tree and went to check it out. Circularian Orphanage it proclaimed. He looked at the building behind it: it had a high, flat façade into which were set tall window frames, giving it the appearance of a small church.
Riley pushed open the rusted iron gate and went to the door. It was fastened with a heavy lock and chain. He peered through the grimy windows and saw a large open space with not a stick of furniture or sign of life.
He sat on the doorstep, overwhelmed by disappointment. He hadnât quite realised it before, but heâd been pinning a lot on hishope of finding the boy who Melissa had sponsored. Somehow, in his grief, heâd imagined that meeting the boy would reestablish some kind of connection with his wife. He couldnât bear the fact that she was gone and heâd never see her again. His head dropped to his hands as the memory of that terrible night in 2002 washed over him yet again.
Â
The Kuta night had been hot and heavy. Bali was wrapped as if in a foetid cocoon. On Jalan Legian, the earthy dank odour of open drains merged with the aromas of roasting chicken, groundnuts and aromatic spices dripping into the hawkersâ smoky braziers. Fumes from bemos, minibuses and motor scooters cast a blue haze over the strip and its many bars, restaurants and food stalls. Tourists, harassed by touts and pimps, wandered among the neon lights, engaged in the never-ending search for the next diversion.
Riley and Melissa had walked hand in hand along the street. The bars were fun, but they were past all that. They had been heading home to bed and the resumption of their afternoonâs love-making, when Melissa remembered she had left her cowboy hat in the restaurant.
âIâll get it,â Riley said.
âNo, donât bother. Iâll buy another. Theyâre so cheap,â she said.
âAre you kidding? I love you in that hat. Wait here.â And he left his wife window-shopping at the goldsmithâs display next to the Sari Club.
His wife. They had lived together for years, but Riley had felt it was important they make a stronger commitment to each other. Theyâd been married for a week now, and he knew that Melissa felt as he didâthat their vows had formed the catalyst for an even greater love, one that they knew was forever.
He passed Paddyâs Bar, which throbbed with light and sound. From the end of the crowded veranda, a dozen drunken footballers bawled boorish remarks to every passing female.
Mark entered the restaurant where
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