Monkey Nuts (standard:mystery, 9117 words)
Author: Peter Ebsworth	Added: Nov 07 2003	Views/Reads: 3280/2492	Story vote: 0.00 (0 votes)
Sir Edmund is enjoying a quiet evening at his London club when he receives an unexpected visit from a stranger recently returned from Africa. The man claims to know the fate of Edmund's parents who were lost on an expedition sixty years before. A fate tha

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and a London winter, he wore a crumpled khaki colonial suit. Beneath 
this was an open neck shirt from which the collar had become partially 
detached, jutting out over the lapel of his jacket to produce a ragged, 
untidy look. His fair, almost bleached, hair was crudely cut and 
windblown into erratic peaks, which only added to a general air of 
dishevelment. 

Once in the member’s lounge, he paused, eyes roving restlessly as if
searching for someone. Quickly, Sir Edmund lifted his Times in the 
sincere hope that if the man wasn’t seeking out a particular someone, 
but just anyone, he would be safer hidden behind his newspaper. 
Avoiding eye contact was key in these situations. Much to his 
annoyance, he very shortly after heard hurried, clumping footsteps 
coming in his direction. 

‘Excuse me, are you Sir Edmund Lipton?’ he asked in a hoarse, slightly
breathless voice. In response, he lowered his paper sufficient only to 
see over the top, its half-mast position making it quite clear that he 
had not stopped but merely paused reading it out of common courtesy. In 
front of his chair stood the stranger, a man probably four decades 
younger than himself, somewhere in his early to mid-thirties. One 
jacket pocket bulged out heavily, as if crammed full of golf balls, 
causing the entire right side to hang lower than the left. The trouser 
legs of his suit were bunched at the bottom over the high sides of a 
pair of badly scuffed mountain boots. Although Edmund was certain that 
he had never met the man, there was nevertheless something familiar 
about the uncommonly protrusive ears and the rounded, slightly boyish 
shape of his face. Perhaps he had seen his photograph somewhere or 
listened to him hectoring from a soapbox at Hyde Park Corner, he seemed 
intense enough. 

‘That’s correct,’ he replied tersely, ‘but I’m afraid that you have the
better of me Sir.’ 

‘Braithwaite...the name’s Braitwaite,’ he glanced anxiously at the
elaborate Regency clock resplendent on the mantelpiece beside them, 
‘I’m most terribly sorry to arrive so late and unannounced. I realise 
that it’s an imposition, but I’ve come a very long way to see you...and 
I don’t have much time.’ 

‘How did you know that I would be at the Club tonight?’ 

‘I telephoned your home, your wife was really most helpful...told me
that you would be here...after I explained...’ 

‘Well, I’m sorry but now isn’t terribly convenient,’ he interrupted in a
gruff, impatient tone, raising the Times as if shutting a door, ‘by all 
means contact my secretary in the morning to explore the possibility of 
an appointment.’ 

‘Its about your parents...I know what happened to them.’ 

‘Rubbish!’ Edmund snapped, rising from his chair in a sudden rush of
anger, ‘I’ve been listening to damn fool theories about my parents 
disappearance all my life and I’ll be buggered if I’m going to waste my 
time listening to another...’ His protest tapered away once on his 
feet, as he was surprised and a little nonplussed to find the stranger 
wasn’t intimidated but held his ground. With only inches between them, 
Edmund stared angrily into the other’s eyes but found that the man’s 
gaze never wavered. Up close the younger man’s eyes seemed rheumy, as 
if he might be recovering from some tropical illness, but they were 
rock steady with resolution. 

‘I know Eddie,’ he hissed, ‘I’ve just returned from Gabon. I know
everything that happened.’ Unexpectedly, he grasped Edmund’s forearm to 
emphasis his words, ‘I don’t want anything from you. Just a little of 
your time. If you don’t listen to me tonight then it will be too late 
and you’ll never know the truth.’ 

There followed a long pause, while Edmund weighed his conviction that
the man was just another charlatan against his life long desire to know 
what had really happened all those years ago. In the end, it was a wish 
to avoid any more embarrassment in front of the other members that 
tipped the scales in the stranger’s favour causing him to concede. 

‘Oh for God’s sake sit down,’ he growled, indicating with a wave of his
hand the chair opposite his own. ‘I’ll give you ten minutes to convince 
me that you have information that is not already public knowledge. If 
you can’t then our meeting is over.’ 

The stranger moved over to slump into the winged-back without comment.
Before Edmund had sat back down himself, the man extracted what looked 
like some kind of brown, leathery skinned fruit from his bulging jacket 
pocket. Nimbly, he pulled out a single blade penknife from another and 
commenced to slice into it as Edmund settled into his chair, 
temporarily placing his newspaper onto the low table beside him. 

‘It was over sixty years ago, on the twenty-first of July 1872 that your
mother Alexandria and your father George Lipton left Portsmouth for 
Gabon. Your father was the nominal head of a small expedition, 
sponsored by the Geographical Society, to attempt to make contact a 
legendary Pygmy tribe called the Batwa, who were purported to live in 
the remote, and largely unexplored, Makokou region.’ 

‘Why do you say “nominal”,’ interrupted Edmund in a clipped tone, ‘he
was the head of the expedition.’ 

The younger man paused in his food preparations to glance up, meeting
Edmund’s accusing glare. 

‘What, a general medical practitioner appointed to lead an expedition to
classify and record plants, wildlife and native social structures in an 
unexplored African jungle, is that really likely?’ All the outer flesh 
had now been neatly removed from the unappetising fruit, revealing a 
large pale nut at the centre. Absently, he tossed the moist peel onto 
the fire causing a short spitting sizzle, ‘It was your mother who 
headed the expedition’ he declared, before popping the nut whole into 
his mouth. 

‘My mother simply went to support my father,’ Edmund responded
tentatively, knowing it was untrue, but wanting to probe the depth of 
the other man’s knowledge, ‘she felt that it was her duty to be by his 
side.’ 

Braitwaite shook his head, continuing to chew on the seemingly fibrous
fruit as he spoke, ‘I’m sure you know that it was the reverse. Your 
mother may have only been twenty-eight but she had established a 
formidable reputation in academic circles as a leading authority on 
anthropology. All her research articles were published under the name 
of Dr Samuel Armstrong, as women academics were still not taken 
seriously at that time. The Geographical Society was aware of her true 
identity, but actually listed Armstrong as a separate member of the 
expedition. Your father accepted that this was the opportunity of a 
lifetime for your mother, but was still Victorian enough to refuse to 
let her venture into Darkest Africa without him.’ 

‘I’m impressed,’ muttered Edmund, ‘when I did my own research I don’t
remember that information appearing in any of the newspaper reports 
from the time. It was my grandmother who explained to me the true state 
of affairs.’ 

With the slightest nod of acknowledgement, he continued ‘Besides your
parents, the expedition comprised Jonathan Kent a Cambridge lecturer in 
botany, a biologist, Arthur Watson the ‘old man’ of the party at 
forty-seven, and William Braithwaite a cartographer. The absence on 
departure of the fictional Dr Armstrong was explained to the press as 
being due to his having boarded early feeling unwell. All were members 
of the Royal Society Club as well as the Geographical Society itself.’ 

‘Ah yes, Braithwaite,’ interrupted Edmund, ‘I thought that you reminded
me of someone. Photographs of the expedition members were poor quality 
sepia, but you seem to bear more than a passing resemblance to the 
original, are you his grandson?’ 

‘Well...no...but I am related, very closely related.’ He looked away as
he spoke, breaking eye contact. 

‘Some speculation at the time that he was penniless, the theory was that
he only joined the expedition to escape his creditors,’ said Edmund. 

‘I thought that you had no time for speculation or theories, Sir Edmund.
That you were only interested in facts.’ 

‘Quite right I am. I apologise. Please carry on.’ 

‘Out of them all,’ Braithwaite continued, ‘Watson was the only one of
the party who had at least been to Africa, although not Gabon. At his 
insistence, every member of the expedition carried a small purse of 
gold sovereigns in addition to the beads and trinkets taken to appease 
the natives. Corrupt officials didn’t even accept letters of credit 
never mind a string of imitation pearls.’ A small trickle of juice 
trailed from the edge of his mouth, which he wiped away with a finger. 
Gathered on the tip, it formed a droplet resembling thin milk that he 
removed with a snake-quick lick of his tongue. ‘They departed from the 
South Dock, on the bright July day, on a rather dilapidated old 
freighter called ‘The Hope of Belfast’... 

Edmunds gaze drifted from the peculiar young man to settle on the
shifting shapes in the heart of the fire. The story continued, but the 
words seemed to become muffled as he remembered that day in July... 

* 

It had, indeed, been a fine day. Not a cloud in the sky. The Liptons had
travelled that morning on the train from London, with an excited 
seven-year old Edmund leaning out the window, eager to be the first to 
spy the sea. While he waited for it to appear, he helped his toy 
soldier defend the Empire from the relentless hoards of savage natives 
that were set upon capturing their train. Magnificent in his bright red 
tunic and Bearskin hat, the tin soldier was undoubtedly winning. Rifle 
tucked into his shoulder, head angled in the act of aiming, all he 
needed was a small boy’s hand and quick reactions to point him at the 
unpredictable enemy. Their attacks came from the backs of wild horses 
ridden up beside the train, from sneaking along the carriage step-board 
from both sides at once, from most everywhere. Some tribesmen with 
bones through their noses, even tried to enter their compartment by 
swinging down on short ropes from the carriage roof. Hostilities halted 
as the train emerged from behind a bank of low hills and the sea 
appeared. 

With a yelp of delight, he called out ‘Mommy, the sea. I can see the
sea!’ 

Now he was viewing it again in the heart of the fire with almost the
same clarity that he had seen it then. Only now, the memory of that sea 
made it seem threatening, as if painted in dark, thick oils then 
heavily varnished. Shiny, still and unforgiving in the glare of the 
sun. 

‘Eddie...’ his mother’s voice from the bench seat behind him, ‘come and
sit down Eddie. Your father and I want to talk to you before we arrive 
at the station.’ 

Reluctantly, he had pulled back into the private compartment, slipping
the Guardsman into the pocket of his jacket before pushing the window 
back up to smother the roar from the steam engine and still the buffet 
of the wind. When he turned around, he felt a sudden rush of 
trepidation as he saw the expressions on their faces. On one bench seat 
sat his mother and father, opposite them Nanny Ruth continued to look 
determinedly out of the window, her mouth pinched, her face pale. 
Mother held out a white-gloved hand, drawing him over to sit beside 
her. 

‘Your father and I will be going away for awhile Eddie...forever, they
were going away for ever ...but Nanny Ruth will be looking after 
you...’ 

‘Why can’t I come mommy... don’t leave me...?’ 

‘Because your father and I will have to be working very hard...and doing
a lot of travelling...we just won’t have any time to look after you.’ 

For what had seemed ages, as he remembered now, he had simply stared
into his mother’s soft hazel eyes. Finally, she had looked away when he 
asked, ‘Will you be gone very long?’ 

‘No, not so very long. Probably about nine months.’ 

At the time, he had no conception of how long nine months might be...a
long time, but not forever...so was uncertain how to feel. 

‘Now, let’s not get depressed,’ chirped up Nanny Ruth, ‘nine months is
not so very long, and look what I’ve got here in my basket.’ He could 
remember the crumpled brown-paper bag emerging from the wicker basket 
on the seat beside her. Inside had been sticky boiled sweets, all stuck 
together. She had broken one off for him and one for herself. She 
hadn’t offered to break any off for his parents. 

Everything else that had followed that day had degenerated into a
mishmash of faded memories. Except for one. He was standing on the 
quay, Nanny Ruth standing behind him with her hands resting on his 
shoulders, when his parents had come up to him to say their final 
goodbye. 

Nanny had positioned him at the foot of a causeway that seemed to him to
rise at an impossibly steep angle to a deck so high it merged with the 
clouds. First his father had tousled his hair and told him that he had 
to be strong because for the time being he would be the man of the 
house, but he was still to do everything that Nanny Ruth told him. Then 
he was gone. To be replaced by his mother, who knelt before him on the 
dirty granite quay, not caring that it would mark her emerald green 
skirt. Their eyes were level. She was crying, which started him crying 
even though he had been determined to be brave. A kiss, a final hug, 
then just as she rose up to leave he decided something very important. 

‘Mommy, wait,’ he groped in the pocket of his blue, sailor-suit jacket
to pull out the tin soldier. The Grenadier Guardsman was the pride of 
Edmund’s collection. About three inches high, painted in bright enamels 
and forever ready to shoot. It went everywhere with him, ready to fight 
whenever things got boring. ‘...take my soldier with you...you can give 
it me back when you come home.’ 

‘Thank you darling;’ she said, enveloping the body of the soldier within
her gloved hand so only his tall hat and rifle were visible, ‘I promise 
I’ll bring him back safe. You wait and see.’ Hurriedly, she had turned 
away, climbing the causeway without looking back. 

Deep inside Edmund, untouched by sixty years of living his life, the
seven-year-old Eddie was still waiting. 

* 

‘...over ten days by paddle steamer to reach the small inland town of
Makokou, on the southern edge of the Minkebe district. There they met 
with their appointed guide, a South African former mercenary, Kurt 
Luger.’ 

Turning his attention back to his uninvited guest, he noticed that the
man was once again foraging in his jacket to extract another fruit. 
There was a pause in the narration as once again he flicked out the 
stained blade and proceeded to skin away the outer coating. 

‘What are those ghastly things?’ asked Edmund. 

‘This?’ he said, holding up the half peeled fruit, the inner nut partly
exposed like the moist white within a bruised eye, ‘they’re called 
“Mangu Natang” in north-east Gabon, translates as “Monkey Nuts” but a 
bit different to the ones we’re used to.’ 

‘You seem very partial to them.’ 

‘Yes, it’s a habit I picked up in Gabon...but one that I fear I will
soon be forced to break.’ 

‘Although you have clearly done your research...’ said Edmund shaking
off the feeling of vulnerability engendered by the recollections of his 
mother, ‘there is still nothing that you have told me that I didn’t 
already know. That Luger led them into the Minkebe jungle region, along 
with thirty Bantu bearers, is a matter of public record. None of them 
were ever seen again. You could now tell me any cock-an-bull story and 
I couldn’t prove you wrong.’ 

‘But why would I tell you anything other than the truth, Eddie? When I
leave here tonight, I will never see or contact you again. I am simply 
here to fulfil a promise.’ 

‘A promise to who?’ 

‘Sorry Edmund, I can’t tell you that until I’ve told you what happened.
You’ll understand when I’ve finished.’ 

For a couple of minutes, a silence fell between them as the stranger
popped the skinned nut into his mouth and chewed. The sound reminded 
him of someone masticating with gum, a soft, muffled slurping sound 
that he found rather unsettling. As much to mask the sound as anything 
else, Edmund leant over and pulled another log from the basket beside 
hearth and tossed it onto the fire. Sparks scattered then died as with 
an audible swallow of the milky juice the visitor spoke again. 

‘The expedition travelled for five weeks into the high jungle country.
Sometimes they followed well-worn animal tracks but, more often, they 
had to cut their way through thick undergrowth. Kurt Luger was the best 
guide of his generation, perhaps the best ever. He led them, as 
directly as the terrain would allow, to the location of the only 
verified contact with a Batwa Pygmy.’ 

‘And still is, as far as I am aware,’ said Edmund. 

‘Indeed, but that is only because you are unaware of what happened to
the expedition,’ replied Braithwaite. ‘Five years previously a French 
mineral survey team had stumbled across a Batwa Warrior in a small 
clearing one hundred and fifteen miles Northwest of Belinga. Literally 
stumbled, the chap had been dragged there by a big cat, probably a 
Panther, which had run away mid-meal when it heard them coming.’ 

‘How could they be sure that it was a Batwa?’ asked Edmund. 

‘From the size and the skin decoration. The Batwa are a big people by
Pygmy standards, often up to five feet tall. And, of course, the body 
paint. The native they found was covered head-to-toe in white 
tiger-stripes. 

By the time the Society’s expedition arrived at the site there was,
obviously, no trace remaining of the incident. But in their report it 
said that one of the Frenchmen had carved a cross in the bark of a 
tree, and sure enough, there it was. So they knew it was the right 
place. After some discussion, the party decided to head north in the 
hope that they would pick up some sign of habitation. On the second day 
after leaving the clearing, one of the Bantu glimpsed a white shape, 
the size of a man, loping away from the sound of their approach. Luger 
and the Bantu gave chase, the bearers simply dropping their burdens in 
the excitement. George shouted for them to stop, to leave whatever or 
whoever it might be alone. But their blood was up. Discovery of a rare 
animal, dead or alive, could make a man’s fortune in those days. They 
wouldn’t be denied, not even Luger. Your father and mother, along with 
Kent, Watson and Braithwaite decided to remain with the supplies and 
await their return. If they followed, they’d most likely only get 
separated and lost in the jungle. They waited for three days. Neither 
Luger nor any of the Bantu ever came back. The expeditions waiting only 
ended when the Batwa arrived.’ 

Although he had barely finished swallowing the last one, Braithwaite was
already reaching for another Natang. Like a chain-smoker, thought 
Edmund, lighting the next cigarette with the remnant of the last. 

‘What saved them dying then and there, was that none of the party
carried any weapons and that the Batwa had never seen a white woman 
before. Rarely had they encountered any European explorers, only spied 
on them from the protection of the thickest undergrowth. None of them 
had ever seen a white woman until they saw your mother. Alexandria was 
by no means short, added to which she still managed to pin her hair 
which made her appear taller and stranger still, at least to a Pygmy. 
So this once, the Batwa decided on capture rather than slaughter.. 

They came in from all sides at once, preventing any of the party from
slipping past them. About twenty diminutive warriors, some carrying 
blow pipes, others long wooden spears with savage looking bone ends. 
One of them, clearly their leader, carried Luger’s Enfield rifle and 
wore a necklace made from human teeth. All of them were painted from 
head to toe in swirling white stripes that confused the eye when they 
passed through the shadows of the trees. Your father took control, 
telling everyone to keep calm and not to react to their prodding and 
probing, interspersed with sudden excited exchanges in the high pitched 
babble of their unknown dialect. He found that they understood some 
Bantu and, fortunately, he had picked up enough phrases from our 
bearers to bid them welcome and assure them that we meant no harm. 
Clearly they understood, but it made no difference to their threatening 
gestures. 

After a great deal of shouting between each other, the Pygmies took them
north. Each of the expedition had an appointed warrior holding a spear 
to their back.  Ahead of them walked the apparent leader of the group, 
who was also the tallest, while the rest salvaged as much of the 
expedition’s supplies and equipment as they could carry.’ 

‘Wait a minute,’ injected Edmond, ‘how can you possible know this amount
of detail? You would have had to have spoken to someone who had 
actually been there to know how the natives acted.’ 

‘I have read the account of someone who was there...William
Braithwaite...I happened upon his diaries while in Gabon.’ 

‘Where are these diaries now? Have you brought them back with you?’ 

‘No, they are in the possession of an ivory trader in Oyem. Cost me
enough just to be allowed to read them. There was no possibility of me 
affording to buy them.’ 

‘How on earth did...’ 

‘You must settle for that,’ he exclaimed, raising a hand to rub around
his eyes as if to massage away the tension, ‘I’m sorry, but listen to 
what I have to tell you and then you will understand.’ Slowly, he took 
a deep intake of breath then continued, ‘For over six hours they 
travelled without rest, all the time climbing higher onto the rolling 
hills and valleys of the Minkebe jungle region. Eventually...’ 

A quiet cough from close beside them interrupted Braithwaite’s narrative
once again. Charles had approached to hover politely but had remained 
unnoticed, shielded from Edmund’s sight by the extended wing of his 
chair. 

‘Yes Charles, what can we do for you?’ 

‘I wondered if either of you gentleman would care for a drink.’ 

‘That would be a fine idea...another brandy would be excellent.’ With
that, Edmund lifted his glass to his lips to swallow the half an inch 
of ruby liquid that remained. Once drained, he placed it onto the 
circular silver tray Charles offered out to him. 

‘And your guest...’ he enquired, turning towards Braithwaite. 

‘Water...just a glass of water,’ he was speaking and chewing at the same
time giving his voice a liquid, slightly nasal undertone. ‘With lemon, 
if you have any.’ 

‘Very good sir,’ said Charles, quietly withdrawing. 

Pausing only to swallow, Braitwaite continued his story. 

‘Slowly, the jungle began to thin as they gained height. Rainforest
became interspersed with deciduous trees and scattered pockets of 
grassland.  Eventually, they crested a barren rise to look down on a 
massive Batwa settlement. Scores of grass-roofed huts set within an 
encircling wall of tangled thorn bushes. Too exhausted to be 
frightened, it was with relief that they descended into the valley.  
Once at the bottom, they followed the perimeter of the impenetrable 
natural barrier until they came to a break, several feet wide that was 
the entrance to the compound. Just as they turned to enter, a pure 
white gorilla emerged, moving rapidly, propelled by feet and knuckles. 
Neither the ape nor their captors paid the slightest interest in each 
other. Once inside, the expedition realised why. Albino gorillas 
wandered freely between the huts in the manner of sacred cattle in a 
Hindu settlement. 

The expedition party soon realised that the apes appeared to present no
threat, being generally ignored by the human inhabitants. Their own 
arrival caused only mild interest as they were herded through the 
village. A general lethargy seemed to grip the natives. Many of those 
they passed appeared unwell. Those that turned to watch them pass 
revealed sunken eyes in gaunt hollow-cheeked faces. From inside the 
huts came low moans overlaid by the distressed wails of children. No 
one in the group spoke. In silence they were led towards the centre 
where there was a great meeting hall.  With a sweep of the Enfield, the 
leader directed them to enter the low-roofed, opened walled structure. 
Totally exhausted, they entered the shade to collapse onto the cool 
earthen floor and awaited their fate. 

Later that afternoon, the Elders arrived. Eight wizened natives, with
tight silver-grey curls and skin like mahogany bark. After entering the 
hall, they each sat crossed legged on the floor forming a crescent.  
For some while nothing was said, the old men just stared at them as if 
they were rare zoo animals. Your father made appeals to the flint-eyed 
old men in broken Bantu, but this produced no reaction. In frustration, 
he had risen to his feet to immediately be forced back to ground at 
spear point by the equally silent guards stationed behind them. 
Everyone seemed to simply be waiting, but none of the expedition could 
imagine for what. The answer came in the form of an old woman who 
entered from the opposite end to that used by the Elders, supported by 
two warriors. Shrunken by the years to under four foot, the surface of 
her face fractured by time, she more resembled a large monkey than a 
human being. She was led to stand beside the expedition, her diminutive 
height making her only slightly taller than your seated parents. To the 
party’s relief she spoke a broken, stumbling English.’ 

Trembling fingers fumbled for another nut fruit from a pocket that no
longer bulged. 

‘In the exchanges that followed, it became clear that the Council of
Elders wished only to establish that no more Europeans were coming 
before killing the ones who had already arrived. Whatever fascination 
our captors had held for your mother was not apparently shared by the 
Elders. Isolated and fiercely protective of their land and families, 
the pygmies had no interest in the outside world whatever form it took. 
Your father was the spokesman and this time it was because of him that 
their lives were saved. On the way through the village, he had come to 
the conclusion that the tribe were suffering from an outbreak of 
Cholera, a common killer throughout Western Africa. Through the old 
woman, he explained that he was a doctor and could help. His case was 
helped by the native woman knowing what a medical doctor actually was. 
She had been taken from their former village by Bantu when only a girl 
and had, for a time, worked in a European owned boarding house in 
Belinga. She had no interest in saving the lives of the expedition but 
she was prepared to do whatever it took to save the village’s 
children.’ 

Braithwaite abruptly stopped speaking, looking around the lounge with a
suddenly rather confused _expression. Almost as if he had forgotten 
where he was. 

‘You’ll have to excuse me for a couple of minutes; need to wash my
hands. I assume the toilets are still next to the Billiard Room?’ 

‘No, you must be thinking of somewhere else. They’re just before
Artefacts Room, on your right, always have been.’ 

Rising from out of the deep chair with the effortless ease of the young,
the stranger headed towards the door that led to the Artefacts Room 
without need for any further directions. 

As if he had been waiting for Braithwaite to move, Charles chose that
moment to return with the drinks. 

‘Your brandy sir,’ he said placing the glass on the table beside Edmund,
‘and your guest’s water, with lemon’ moving over to put it on the 
identical table by the chair opposite. 

To the steward’s bent back, Edmund asked, ‘Why do you refer to this
fellow as my guest Charles. I’ve never met the man before tonight.’ 

‘Well sir, there was a little confusion over the gentleman’s own
membership,’ when he straightened and turned Edmond saw that his long, 
narrow face was positively squeezed up with anxiety, ‘but because he 
said that he had come to see yourself, I entered him in the Visitors 
Book as your guest. I hope that is acceptable sir, I was trusting that 
you would support my decision by endorsing the entry prior to your 
departure this evening.’ 

‘Of course I will. Don’t worry about it old boy,’ Edmund smiled
reassuringly, ‘but tell me, what was the nature of the confusion?’ 

‘Oh, only an administrative error I’m sure,’ Charles responded,
seemingly having returned to his normal calm demeanour now that Edmund 
had agreed to accept the interloper as his guest, ‘the only Braithwaite 
I could find in the member register was a William Braithwaite who took 
out a lifetime membership in 1867.’ 

‘Well maybe the records are right, which would mean that this chap isn’t
a member.’ 

‘Possibly sir, but he had travel papers. His name is definitely William
Braithwaite, the entry date must be wrong, I’ll discuss the matter with 
the Secretary tomorrow.’ 

Believing their discussion to be finished, Charles made to move on. 

‘Oh, one last thing Charles,’ he stopped and turned back to face the
chair, ‘do you happen to know if the toilets have always been beside 
the Artefacts Room?’ 

‘As far as I know sir.’ 

‘Thank you, Charles.’ 

Again he made to withdraw, but then hesitated, ‘although come to think
of it, the workman fitting the heating system did remark that there 
were an uncommon number of redundant pipes leading in the general 
direction of the Billiards Room.’ 

Braithwaite returned as Charles moved away, sliding over to the Bridge
Table to ask the only two remaining members in the lounge whether they 
would care for a nightcap. 

When his guest arrived back by the fire, he took a moment to gaze the
length of the room with a rather wistful _expression. Perhaps memory 
was providing the caste for a now empty stage. Watching him standing 
there, Edmund hadn’t till then realised how bad a state the man was 
actually in. Pale and hollow eyed, his hair plastered to his brow 
having too energetically splashed his face in the washroom moments 
before. His suit was so crumpled he might have been sleeping in it and, 
something that must have been there all along but Edmund only now 
noticed, he hadn’t shaved for at least a couple of days. Bristle coated 
his chin and neck in a soft, white stubble that he could hardly believe 
he had missed noticing earlier. Snapping out of his reverie, the young 
man turned towards Edmund and gave a quick, somewhat embarrassed smile 
that revealed yellowed, worn teeth. Without comment, he sat back down, 
extracted another fruit then resumed his story. 

‘So, for a while their own lives were safe, while your father saved the
lives of others. Which is exactly what he did, the rest of the 
expedition acting as his assistants. 

While tending the sick, your mother noted that the movements of the
albino apes were not as random as she had first thought. Rather than 
the aimless wanderings of a sacred cow, the apes she observed and, 
indeed, came to recognise individually only made their way through the 
village to visit certain families. Always they returned to the same 
hut, to normally be given fruit and stroked like a family pet. They 
never stayed long, seemingly always restless to return to the jungle. 
Often, just before the gorilla left it would reach out and gently pat 
the arm of one of the Pygmy’s in a gesture that seemed strangely human. 
In discussion with the rest of the group it was decided that the apes 
must have become so tame that they could be taught to do this the same 
way that a dog came be taught to shake hands. Alexandria was quite 
excited by this discovery, and shared with your father the hope that 
they would be at the village long enough to further study this 
behaviour. Little did she suspect just how long she would have. 

After three months of boiling all drinking water and the administering
of the expedition’s entire Camphor supply, the deaths had ceased and 
the Cholera effectively eradicated. Through the entire period all 
members of the party were closely guarded and never allowed to leave 
the compound. Not even your father, whom some of the tribe had started 
to look on as some sort of God. But after the ‘night of celebration’ 
all that changed forever. 

The entire village joined in a feast of spit roasted deer and wild boar,
washed down with a thin, clear juice that made the head swim. Late into 
the evening, the music and dancing was paused while the Europeans were 
brought wooden bowls filled with white, glistening Mangu Natang. During 
their time in the village, they had noticed the adult natives often 
eating the nuts, but never the children. They had speculated that the 
nuts must have some symbolic significance. Possibly a right of passage, 
the equivalent of getting the key to the door at twenty-one. In all 
their meals since being captured, never once had they been given or 
offered the Mangu Natang. 

As if in confirmation of their theory, when the final nut had been eaten
the silent Pygmies gave out great yells of delight. The celebrations 
resumed with even greater gusto than previously and, perhaps most 
significantly, the shadowing guards withdrew. 

When they awoke the next morning, they all felt strangely agitated. Each
felt a great need, a terrible hunger that was not assuaged by eating or 
drinking. By midmorning, they had developed sweats, rapid heartbeats 
and even muscle spasms. Your father, who was himself effected every bit 
as badly as everyone else, compared it to the withdrawal symptoms that 
he had seen exhibited by Laudanum addicts at his Highgate clinic. 

In an attempt to find an explanation for their worsening condition,
George went in search of the old woman whose hut was at the western end 
of the village. He was gone for over two hours. Two interminable hours 
for those waiting as their withdrawal symptoms gradually worsened. 

When he returned he was sullen and preoccupied. In his hand he carried a
drawstring leather bag from which he pulled out a fistful of unpeeled 
Mangu nuts. 

‘Eat just one each. That’ll be enough to make you feel normal again, for
now.’ 

Then he explained what he had learnt. The Mangu nuts were highly
adictitive. Just one, never mind a bowlful, was enough. The Elders had 
decided that they would allow them to live, mercy in appreciation for 
saving the children, but prevent them from ever leaving by making them 
dependent on the Mangu Natang. Only they knew where the trees were 
located and so had total control over supply. No longer was there any 
need for them to be guarded. None of the Elders had eaten the Natang 
themselves but only the Elders new the location of the source. As young 
men they were given the choice; either to abstain from the nuts and 
know that they would one day weald the absolute power and control 
exercised by an Elder or take the Natang with its gift of preventing 
aging. If an individual continued to eat the nuts and avoided disease 
or accident they would remain unchanged for a lifespan of about a 
hundred years. However, over that time the body became less receptive 
to the drug meaning that more and more nuts had to be eaten to prevent 
the side effects. Ultimately, the victim couldn’t stop eating even to 
sleep. At any stage in their lives, if they stopped eating the nuts 
they would suffer agonising withdrawal symptoms and eventually be 
subject to ‘The Change’. But the old woman would not explain what ‘The 
Change’ was. All George had been able to establish was that she was not 
using an euphuism for death. It really was some form of physical 
transformation brought about by the build up of extraordinary chemicals 
present in the Mangu Natang.’ 

Edmund watched as Braithwaite threw more fruit peel onto the fire beside
them. Accumulating on top of the logs, it didn’t burn but simply 
smouldered, giving off an acrid aroma that made him think of burning 
flesh. Each pile of fruit another small carcass. 

‘So they became captive’ continued Braitwaite, ‘in a prison with no
bars. Over the days that followed they begged the Elders for an 
antidote, for any sort of answer that would one day allow them to 
return home. But there was no answer. By eating the nuts they had 
crossed the Rubicon, there was no return. Your parents were desperate 
for an answer that would allow them to return home to you. Many times 
over the years that followed they simply set off and let the 
consequences be damned. In the early days, the entire party attempted 
to return but later, only your parents were driven enough to go through 
the hellish withdrawal symptoms. It became difficult to bear after just 
twelve hours. After twenty-four it was impossible to function, 
impossible to press on through the jungle. Between these attempts, the 
members of the expedition searched the surrounding area in the hope of 
finding the Mangu trees from which the nuts came. Certainly, your 
parents would have come home to you if they could only have found 
enough nuts to survive the journey. But they found no sign of the 
distinctive fruit. Time passed. Months became years. Over time, they 
became part of village life. Eventually, after many years, Arthur 
Watson decided that his time was nearly at an end. No amount of Natang 
could stave off the withdrawal symptoms. One morning, he quietly said 
his goodbyes and walked off into the jungle. They never saw him again. 

Some weeks after Arthur left, your mother was talking with some village
women outside the compound, when she was approached by one of the 
albino gorillas. Over all the years, none of the apes had ever shown 
the slightest interest in any member of the expedition. Slowly, almost 
nervously, it had shuffled up to her then suddenly it had reached out 
and squeezed her arm in the manner so often observed with the native 
families. After the contact, it shuffled away to the edge of the 
jungle. Delighted to have finally been accepted by one of the 
creatures, your mother stood spellbound. Not at all scared, she’d been 
around the apes for so many years she had no concerns for her safety, 
simply fascinated as to what might happen next. Strangely, the gorilla 
didn’t leave but kept moving towards the forest edge and then part way 
back to Alex, as if wishing her to follow. So she did, scientific 
curiosity overcoming common sense. 

The gorilla led her deep into the jungle to eventually arrive at a
thirty-foot high escarpment, the face of which was split by a deep 
cleft that ran down its entire face to disappear into the forest floor. 
Next to this jagged entrance, the ape simply sat, totally ignoring her. 
But it was clear to Alex that this was journey’s end. Now that it had 
got her here, anything else was up to her. Believing that there had to 
be a reason she’d been led there, she squeezed through the jagged gap 
in the rock, to find that it opened out into a long, shallow valley. 
Before her lay a vast orchard of stunted, twisted little trees with a 
grey, dimpled bark that reminded her of Rhino hide. No higher than her 
chest, the spider-leg branches sagged under the weight of the Mangu 
Natang fruit. 

That same night, the remaining members of the expedition prepared to
leave. All they took was some rice cakes, drinking water, their 
remaining gold sovereigns and spare bags for the Natang. They dressed 
in their original clothes and replaced their sandals with the leather 
boots they had arrived in. Before dawn the next day, Alex led them to 
the secrete grove where they picked as many Natang as they could carry. 


It took over ten weeks to reach Port-Gentil and gain passage on a
freighter bound for Greenwich docks. Before they had even cleared the 
Makokou region, poor Jonathan Kent was bitten in the night by an 
anaconda and died within minutes. Only your parents and William 
Braithwaite boarded the ship. Without credible travel documents, the 
cost of their passage was exorbitant draining away all their remaining 
funds. 

Ten weeks was too long. They had been unable to carry enough nuts to
supply their ever-escalating consumption. Once in Port-Gentil they 
realised that if they pooled the remaining Natang, there would be 
enough to guarantee that at least one of them would have enough time 
remaining to get home. 

Both George and William insisted that it should be your mother. She was
terribly tempted but she had no way of knowing if you were alive or 
dead. In the end, she couldn’t bring herself to abandon your father 
after so many years together. So Braithwaite and your parents parted 
then and there, boarding the ship separately, pretending that they were 
strangers. When the ship docked in England, William Braithwaite was the 
only remaining member of the expedition. He set out to find you 
immediately the ship docked because he was honour bound to your parents 
and had only a little time.’ 

Edmund leant forward in his chair, hanging on every word. ‘But he never
found me. No one ever came to tell me what had happened, not until...’ 

‘You don’t understand Eddie, the ‘Chelsea Lady’ arrived at Greenwich
docks yesterday afternoon.’ 

‘So you are asking me to believe that you are William Braithwaite. The
same William Braithwaite who boarded that ship with my parents in 
1872?’ 

‘It’s the truth. Whether you choose to believe it is entirely up to you.
At least now you know.’ 

‘But you have already admitted that you learnt all this from the
diaries.’ 

‘They don’t exist. We had no materials, the Pygmies simply destroyed
anything in our supplies that was of no use to them.’ 

‘Why didn’t you tell me who you purported to be at the beginning? Why
the pretence of the imaginary diaries? Why refer to yourself in the 
third person?’ 

‘If I had told you who I am when I first arrived, would you have
listened?’ 

Edmund hesitated before responding, ‘...probably not. And you claim it
is these foul looking monkey nuts that have stopped you aging?’ 

With a conjuror’s flourish, Braithwaite held up one of the fruit nuts in
front of his face grasped between his thumb and forefinger. 

‘Yes. And this, God help me, is the last one I have with me.’ He rose
from his chair, as if to leave. ‘The rest are back at my lodgings. I 
must be going.’ 

‘Wait.’ Edmund leapt up, seizing Braithwaite by the arm. ‘You can’t go
yet. What has happened to my parents, are they still on the ship?’ 

‘Your parents will have experienced ‘The Change’ by now. They will no
longer even remember who they were, never mind who you are. It’s too 
late. In any event, I would image by now they will be dead. But if it 
is any consolation, your parents spoke of you often over the years. 
Wondering how you had grown up, whether you had married, hoping that 
you were happy. Missing you every day. They tried to come back, and at 
the end, they very nearly made it.’ 

‘But what is ‘The Change’? A change to what?’ 

‘I don’t know Edmund. And I don’t want to know. But the withdrawal
symptoms alone are enough to drive a man insane.’ 

Edmund released his grip, an _expression of bewilderment on his face. No
longer knowing what to believe. Then the connections came together in 
his mind. 

‘In the Times! Two albino gorillas were found on the ‘Chelsea Lady’.
Maybe it’s a complete physical transformation. Not just an allusion to 
a changed mental state.’ 

‘Were there? It does seem a hell off a coincidence. Maybe you’re right,
it would explain the affinity between the gorillas and the Batwa.’ 
Braithwaite paused for a moment, as if choosing his next words 
carefully. ‘Edmund, perhaps now that I have helped you and your family, 
you could help me?’ 

Something in his voice that hadn’t been there before cut through the
jumble of thoughts in Edmond’s head, grabbing his attention. Was there 
a slyness in the other man’s tone that he had not noticed before? 
‘Although I have only been back in London a few hours, it has been long 
enough to convince me that there is no longer anything here for me. 
Everything has changed beyond recognition; the world I knew has gone 
forever. In any case, I will soon be subject to ‘The Change’ myself, 
just as soon as my reserves of Natang run out. Better I return to 
Gabon. If I caught the South African postal flight in the morning, I 
could be back in Gabon by tomorrow night. I might just have a chance of 
returning to the hidden valley before I change. The only problem is 
that the seats on the mail flight are expensive, very expensive. Would 
you be a gentleman and give me some money to get me back? Two hundred 
pounds would do it. I think after what I’ve done for you tonight, it is 
little enough to ask.’ 

‘Oh very good.’ Edmund’s _expression hardened as he spoke, ‘you had me
near convinced. How long were you on the telephone to my wife? Did you 
tell her you were doing some research? Margaret loves to talk, to tell 
people details that that they would never find in any report. You’re 
nothing but a confidence man, a charlatan and a cheat. Everyone one 
knows about the disappearance of the Lipton expedition in Gabon. You 
happen to see the article in the Times and decide this could be an 
opportunity to take advantage of an old man, a very rich old man. All 
it needed was a morning doing general background research in the 
National Library, pad it out with some extra details from my wife, put 
on a worn, out of date suit, invest in a pocket full of nuts and come 
in here expecting to walk out with a year’s wages. You must think that 
I am a complete fool.’ 

‘No Eddie, you got it wrong I didn’t know anything about the article...’


‘Get out of sight now or I’ll call the police. And never call me Eddie
again or I’ll horsewhip you myself!’ 

* 

The impostor had refused to leave voluntarily, protesting his legitimacy
with a desperate fervour that convinced Edmund that at least the 
addictive nature of the monkey nuts was probably true. Charles had 
called a Constable to forcibly remove the young man. By the time he 
arrived, Braithwaite was in such a state of agitation that the officer 
declared that he was going to take him to the Police Station for a 
night in the cells. When the Officer ignored his pleas to first take 
him to his lodgings to pick up some ‘things’, it seemed his spirit 
broke. All resistance drained away. Shoulders slumped, arms hanging 
loose by his sides, he made a pathetic figure as he was led away. 

Shortly after his removal, Sir Edmund decided to leave for his hotel. It
was late, and the evening’s encounter had left him feeling shaken. In 
the lobby, he laid his newspaper on the burnished wood counter as he 
signed the visitors’ book. While he waited for Charles to fetch his hat 
and coat from the cloakroom, he looked again at the picture of the 
albino gorillas in their cage, wondering at what an idiot he had been 
to be taken in so easily by such a wildly extravagant story. Scanning 
the photograph again, he discovered that there might have been a third 
exotic creature brought back from Africa. Something unusual had settled 
on one of the gorillas, making him inspect the image more closely; 
possibly a large insect or a very small bird. He could make out a 
bulbous body with, what appeared to be, a thin straight tail, or wing, 
sticking out at an angle. But the poor light in the lobby defeated his 
efforts to see exactly what it was. 

When Charles returned from the cloakroom, a hat held loosely in one
hand, a black wool overcoat draped over his arm, Edmund said, ‘Charles, 
take a look at this photograph. What do think that is on the smaller 
ape’s hand.’ 

Charles laid the black greatcoat over the counter, carefully placing the
brushed-felt hat on top, then picked up the newspaper and held it close 
to his face, squinting in an attempt to decipher the picture. 

‘Hold on a moment sir, I’ve got a magnifying glass here somewhere.’
Bending down to rummage on a shelf beneath the counter, he soon 
straightened back up holding a silver-framed glass of which Sherlock 
Holmes would have been proud. ‘Now, let’s have better look.’ He went 
silent for a few seconds as he raised and lowered the glass to bring 
the image into focus and then announced ‘With all due respect sir, I 
don’t think that there’s anything on it’s hand, but something in it. I 
do believe that the creature is clutching a toy soldier. A Grenadier 
guard, if I’m not mistaken, as he looks to be wearing a Bearskin hat. 
Now isn’t that the strangest thing?’ 


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