Abele stopped – somewhat randomly, it seemed to Ben – and with a curt 'Wait here' he climbed out of the car and approached a man sitting under the tattered canopy of what appeared to be a café, an earthenware cup in front of him. He spoke to the man and pointed at the car; the man nodded slowly, as though he understood what Abele was saying to him.

'He, um, he seems to know what he's doing.' Ben's father chose his words carefully. It was the first time he had addressed his son since the incident at the airfield, and Ben could tell from his voice that some of the confidence he had displayed earlier in the day had been knocked out of him.

'He was going to kill that man,' Ben observed pointedly.

'Yes, well…' his father blustered slightly, before giving up and speaking quietly. 'You did a good thing there, Ben. I'm proud of you. I, er, didn't really anticipate it being so dangerous here, I'll have to admit. And I feel a little uncomfortable with this gun. I don't want you to think that carrying a weapon like this is the right thing to do. I'll get done what I need to do, and we'll get out of here as soon as possible.' He smiled. 'I feel the Kenyan beaches calling, don't you?'

Ben inclined his head slightly, but he was only half listening, more interested in Abele's conversation with the man at the café table, and hardly noticing the small group of children who had congregated by the car and were looking at these two white men with unveiled curiosity. They failed to disperse as Abele strode back to the car. 'Your lodgings are just here, in a compound off the square.'

'Who was that man?' Ben asked.

'One of the mine managers,' Abele replied shortly.

'You know him?'

Abele shook his head. 'Only the managers have money in this village to buy malefu – palm wine,' he explained simply. 'He knew you were expected.'

Ben's father spoke. 'Did, er, did he say why there was no one at the airfield to pick us up – no one, um, official, I mean…'

Abele shrugged. 'Maybe the message that you were coming a day earlier did not get through. There is only one satellite telephone in the village, and often the connection is poor. Come, he told me where you will stay – I will show you.'

Carrying their luggage with an ease that still surprised Ben, Abele led them from the car through a rusty metal gate and into a small compound. It consisted of three stone buildings with wooden doors, all set around a central courtyard that housed the debris of daily life in these parts – large metal washing buckets, rusting grills for food, chunks of tree trunks dotted around as seats. But even though the courtyard itself suggested signs of life, there were none: the place was deserted. 'Where is everyone?' Ben asked in a slightly awed whisper.

Abele refused to answer. He just carried their things into one of the buildings. 'They're probably all sheltering from the sun,' Ben's dad said, before following Abele in. Ben looked up at the sky. The sun was low now – it would be setting soon – and the heat had begun to dissipate. If people were staying in their houses, that wasn't the reason.

He followed them into the building. Inside it was very simple. There were two beds – each little more than a mattress on a square concrete block with a mosquito net hanging from the ceiling. A rickety table with two chairs was the only other furnishing. At the back of the room was a door leading to an outdoor toilet, covered only by a sheet of the seemingly omnipresent corrugated iron. Abele dumped the luggage on the floor, then turned to Ben's dad. 'You should stay in here,' he told him. 'I will bring you food later.' He walked out without another word, closing the thin wooden door behind him.

It was dark in the hut, the only light coming from the small window, which was covered by a thick mosquito net. Ben's father placed the gun on the table with a certain amount of relief that he no longer had to carry it, then lay down on his bed. 'I think I'd like to get some rest,' he told his son, and within minutes he was asleep.

Ben, however, had other things on his mind. He knew Abele's concern for their welfare stemmed as much from his superstitions – whatever they were – as from the fact that this was a volatile place, so surely he could not expect dangerous encounters like the one they had just experienced to occur in the middle of the village.

Besides, he had a promise to keep.

From his bag he pulled a small cotton rucksack; then, for safe measure, he turned his attention to the gun. It was heavier than he expected, and on the side was a small grey safety catch, still in the off position. For a moment he shuddered to think that it could have gone off in his dad's hand at any moment; but with a gentle click he switched it on, then placed the gun in his bag, zipped it up and crept out of the room and through the gate of the compound.

The car had been driven away, though not by Abele, who was to be seen disappearing round a corner. Ben shrugged it off and looked around him. The central square was still almost deserted, but there were a few villagers going about their business. Ben approached one of them – an old man wearing a multicoloured but faded tunic. 'Excuse me!' he called, and the man stopped. He looked at Ben suspiciously, and took a faltering step backwards when he came too close. 'I'm looking for someone,' Ben said clearly and with what he hoped was a reassuring smile on his face.

The man shook his head, obviously not understanding what Ben was saying, so he tried again, this time in the best French he could muster. 'Je cherche quelqu'un…'

This time the man nodded, but the mistrust did not leave his eyes.

'Halima.' Ben spoke the name the cleaning lady had uttered.

In an instant, the man put his head down and walked away as though Ben had not even been there.

Ben made to follow him, but stopped himself. What had he said to this man? Why had he ignored him in that way? He looked around to find someone else he could ask; this time he selected a large woman with intricately plaited hair. But the response was the same – a hasty mutter and suddenly she was gone.

Then Ben remembered the children – as they had entered the village, they had seemed less wary of the strangers. He scanned around until he saw a single child – perhaps eight years old – sitting by himself under the branches of a tree, drawing in the dust with a twig. The boy only had one arm – another landmine casualty, Ben surmised. He approached him and with a smile said the word 'Halima?'

The little boy looked up at him. His dark brown eyes seemed unusually large on his face, and he had a serious expression. He nodded his head.

'Can you take me to her?' Ben asked, reinforcing his question by pointing at himself then making a walking movement with his fingers.

The little boy nodded again, stood up, and led the way.

The house to which he took Ben was located off the central square, down a winding little street that led to another clearing. The street itself was deserted, and as he walked down in silence, Ben noticed that some of the houses had an X marked on the door in what looked like red paint. He wanted to ask the boy what it meant, but knew that he would not be able to make himself understood.

Eventually the boy stopped and pointed at one of the doors, before silently turning and walking back up the street. Ben called a word of thanks after him, but it seemed to go unheard.

Suddenly he felt a sense of deep unease, alone in this strange place, not knowing who he was likely to find behind the door of this house. And whatever the marking on the door meant, he felt sure it was unlikely to announce good news. But he had come here to do something, so he took a deep breath and knocked three times on the door.

For a moment there was no answer, so he tried again. This time he heard a rustling from inside, and the door creaked gently open a few centimetres.