Free Ahmed's Revenge by Richard Wiley

out to mark the spot,” I told him. As I spoke I could feel my voice growing stronger, an improving posture wriggling up my spine.
    â€œThere are paraffin camp lanterns in that shed too, and there is extra paraffin in a can. Fill the lanterns and light them all—while we’re digging they will keep the animals away.”
    Our generator was behind the workers’ dormitory, so I got up and marched that way. And since my father decided to come with me, I asked him to hold the torch that I’d taken from the Land Rover’s glove box. Even though it was darker behind the dormitory than it was in front, I was able to start the generator quickly, pushing all its levers into neutral in the weak torchlight.
    While the generator was warming up my father swung the light, and I saw that even back behind the dormitory things had been disturbed while I was gone. Oil barrels had been wrenched out from against the building’s wall, one of them turned on its side, its cap removed, and oil spilt everywhere. I pulled the hose from the turned-over barrel and placed it in one of the standing ones. If the intruders had smashed the lights, then having a working generator wouldn’t mean much, so without waiting any longer I threw the switch that took it out of neutral, quickly supplying power to our house, the dormitory, and the pond. To my surprise the generator immediately bogged down with the size of its load. Not only had they not broken any lights, but every light we had was on.
    I was about to tell my father that we should forget digging Jules’s grave, that we should find Detective Mubia and regroup inside the house, when a sudden blast of sound filled the air, stopping me cold. It was music, I think, but it was incredibly loud. My father put his hands over his ears and shouted, but just as I reached to throw the switch, which would cut off everything and pitch us into darkness once more, the volume went down and I understood that I was hearing a Mozart piano sonata, a favourite of Jules’s and mine and something from our record collection inside.
    I was once again about to cast us into darkness, very worried now and sure that there were people in my house, when the music stopped and a human voice took its place.
    â€œMr Minister of Wildlife, Retired,” the voice said. “We have been steadfast, we have kept our part of the bargain without fail. Now you must keep yours.”
    My poor father had taken his fingers from his ears and was looking through the light as if his time had come.
    â€œWhat do you want?” he asked weakly. “Who is speaking to me? Who is there?” Then I did throw the switch, so that darkness and silence came back to us.
    â€œListen, Daddy,” I whispered, “I think it’s a recording. I think that voice is on a tape along with the Mozart.”
    I was pretty sure I was right, since we didn’t have a microphone and since the voice had been amplified at the same level as the turned-down music. Also, Jules often used to complain that his speakers no longer had much clarity, and I could hear Jules’s complaint in the reproduced quality of the sound.
    â€œYou wait here,” I said. “I’ll go see.”
    There was a bench behind the dormitory. I thought I knew that if anyone was intent on injuring us they would have done so when we arrived, but nonetheless I took a moment to pull the bench into a nearby thicket and place my father on it there. In the dark he was impossible to see. He stayed quiet when I told him to, and he didn’t try to get up and follow me when I walked away.
    Because our generator had failed many times before, I knew better than anyone how to approach our house in the dark. The house had many windows but only two doors, and if there were people inside, I was sure they’d be watching the doors. I was fit from all those years of working hard, so I chose an obscure window, one that let me fall silently to the