Mary was seated at the table. Once Henderson turned the knob on the primus stove and shuffled the kettle to check for water, Mary startled out of her meditative state and almost dropped her pipe.
They crossed eyes but didn't speak.
The only light in the shared kitchen space was the lamp that hung on a peg above the plastic basin that functioned as the sink, drowning the tent in a burnt orange color, like the warm glow of a fire.
The wind was wild outside.
As Henderson reached up to the cabinet, Mary realised how pale the man was. How dark his eyes were in contrast, and how he seemed to shrink into himself as he walked about the compact kitchen. Mary had seen Henderson look tired before, especially when they'd been younger and he'd put too much pressure on himself to finish the work, but this was on the particularly bad end of things. His hair was greasy. The wild, grey curls pushed back and tucked behind his ears, and she realised Henderson had been wearing the same shirt for the better part of the week.
"Bates?" He asked.
"Sleeping. Or sulking. Either way, he's not coming out."
"It's bad luck."
"Yeah, or bloody-mindedness."
"I called for Loiyangalani."
Mary frowned. "Is the line still good?"
His eyes fell down. "Don't credit the smoking."
"I'm not. Gerbrandy came to look for it. He's having problems with his lines. His got cut by the demesne."
"Bad luck?"
"Come on, Jacky…"
The mug settled on the counter with a clink. "You look absolutely horrible."
"You don't look much better. We're both awake at what," her head turned to her wrist out of habit, and finding her watch gone, guessed, "four in the morning? What's your excuse, old man?"
Henderson hummed, his amusement soothing the growing worry nagging in Mary's chest. She watched as Henderson pulled a tea bag out of the flimsy cardboard box left out on the counter, and ripped the packaging open, letting the sachet dangle into the cup. "I think you'll find, dear, that I've evolved past the need for sleep."
Mary's eyebrows rose, and she snorted. "I'll make sure to pass that along to Tessa." She watched as a smile tugged at Henderson's mouth. He let the silence linger and watched the tea shift into a deep shade of red.
"No, I," he paused, taking a breath, "I keep waking up. Figured a cup of tea would help."
All of the mirth vanished from her, leaving only unadulterated worry. Henderson looked down at his tea. The air was silent between them, but dense with emotion. She tipped back her head and studied the canvass above them. It stood taught, straining in the wind.
"Have you seen them, again?" She guessed.
"Every morning and evening, now. They are getting impatient."
"I know." Mary started, clearing her throat. "But what best to do about it?"
"Do you think it best to get Charles out?"
"Do you expect problems in Loiyangalani as well?"
"Don't you?"
"No."
"Wasn't — what's her name, the doctor, Hadebe— Hadebe's husband a leader of the Turkanees in the March rebellion of 1924?"
"Jacky, there are people in this world—I don't know how to say this so you will understand—who see too much to take sides."
"You talked to her."
It wasn't a question. Mary gave an affirmation, still. "She likened me with the governor."
"Why?"
"She knows."
"So do most." Henderson leant back on the counter, holding the steaming mug up to his chin. "So do I," he nearly whispered. "Did she say anything else?"
"Nothing that would imply an attack. And she's very fond of Charles, it's not him I'm worried about." She lay her hand flat onto the tabletop. "We should— take some safety measures. For the kids."
Henderson regarded her. His glance, calm at first, paused, remained fixed on her, then grew tense, and little by little became pervaded with defeat. Then he looked away and confessed:
"Gerbrandy took measures. He send someone to Nairobi when you were at Loiyangalani," he came closer, put down the cup and leant two heavy hands on the back of the chair on the opposite side of the table: "call came in this evening. As of tonight, this entire area is under their jurisdiction. They're sending people over."
Mary straightened. "Why didn't you tell me sooner?"
He made an aborted gesture. "I was going to wait till—"
"You're upset. You told me it wasn't going to affect—"
"We're the intruders, Mary." His tone defeated.
"They're threatening Gerbrandy's workers."
"Mary—"
"We must order everyone to wear side-arms. I am sorry, Jacky, but at this point—"
"Who will order me to fire it, Graves!?"
"It well might save your life!"
Henderson scowled. He turned his back and put his mug on the counter. The mounted tension reached its peak and dissipated and lingered only faintly in the far outreaches of the small space. Mary assumed a gentler tone and spoke to Henderson's back.
"I know you don't like it— don't assume I do, either," Mary made that indescribable gesture of a sort of authority mingled with rebellion and which does so well convey frustration, "these people fall under my responsibility, and I won't have them—"
"Eva Velazquez-Raquel was not your fault."
In the course of a few moments Mary Graves experienced, almost simultaneously, almost intermingled with each other, all possible emotions. Sorrow and furry warred with each other for dominance, when a deep-sated grief welled up from her stomach and overtook them all. The words had pierced her. When she came to, she breathed freely once more; but she could not have told whether what she felt was either too cold or too warm.
Henderson made an abortive gesture, "Trujillo. Anything that happened afterwards," another gesture, "that could — in a way — be solely contributed to your actions. But what happened to Eva was never your fault."
Henderson's eyes stood sad and apologetic. Mary fought for a linear thought to focus on, and, when she found it, spoke with a hoarse voice:
"What are we going to do if they were to approach Jackson? Wilson? Leigh—"
"—fine."
She fell silent. Heart beating wildly. Mary was grateful for Henderson's admission, his attempt to make peace. She wanted to say more, wanted, above all, to lie down and go back to sleep, but she was afraid. It's easier, Mary thought, to keep it all inside, contained, controlled. But in the dim and molten light of the kitchen, with her face halfway hidden in the shadows, she found she didn't mind being vulnerable. And she so wanted Henderson to get some rest.
"Who is it?" She asked, voice hoarse. "Who's division?"
"Grigg."
They were both silent. The atmosphere had grown faible once more, and the light seemed to have dimmed.
"We better go," Mary said. "We can talk tomorrow to keep awake. You get some rest."
"Alright." He said. His eyes were sad and accepting, but his shoulders had relaxed. "Rest is as good as sleep."
"No it isn't." Mary said.
"I'll try to get some."
"I'll clean up."
Get back to bed, it meant. Get some rest. I'll be here if you were to come back.
He moved from the corner to the passageway, squeezing her shoulder on the way.
"I'll take tomorrow's first."
Mary nodded the thanks she could not bring herself to say, and dragged her attention back to the present. A shudder went through her and she pressed the heels of her hands against her eyes. Elbows on the table.
For goodness's sake, the thought came. For goodness's sake— let not everything go to hell once again.