Free One Blood by Graeme Kent Page A

company even used a local boss to represent the
kanakas
on the island. A bloke called Dontate.’
    So Joe Dontate was involved, thought Kella. That would make matters difficult. The Westerner was a hard man with a lot of clout in the Roviana Lagoon as a hereditary chieftain. Presumably he was making a nice profit out of any brokering deal in which he was engaged on Alvaro, and would not give up his role easily.
    ‘These negotiations were all right with your head office, were they?’ he asked.
    ‘My head office would do a deal with Old Nick himself as long as the logs kept coming out and the shareholders got their dividends,’ said Michie bitterly. ‘All they want is a smooth-running operation here, even if they have to send somebody in to kick my arse every now and then.’
    ‘I’m told there’s a local independence group that doesn’t think much of your presence on this island,’ Kella said. ‘Could they have been involved?’
    ‘They’re just a bunch of cowboys,’ said Michie dismissively. ‘They’re even led by a sheila, for God’s sake. A local
kanaka
called Mary Gui. Do you know her?’ Kella shook his head. ‘She runs the rest-house at Munda for Joe Dontate.’ Michie scowled. ‘Thinks she’s God’s gift,’ he went on. ‘She’s formed this movement called the SIIP, the Solomon Islands Independence Party. It’s about as effective as a chocolate teapot. Believe me, all they’re good for is holding meetings and distributing pamphlets. They wouldn’t attack my blokes.’ The logging boss slurped his coffee gloomily. ‘Gui’s just come back from Aussie university and knows it all. Can you imagine that? A
kanaka
bitch with a degree!’
    ‘As a matter of fact,’ said Kella mildly, ‘I have two degrees, from Australian and British universities.’
    ‘Christ,’ said Michie. ‘Now why doesn’t that surprise me? What have I got?
Nada
. I don’t even have a certificate of good attendance from a Hong Kong brothel. Pig-ignorant jokers like me are going to have scarcity value soon. Just who the hell are you anyway?’
    ‘I’ve told you, I’m—’
    ‘I don’t mean the copper shit. How did you get my men back to work so fast?’
    ‘Oh, that. I said a prayer for them,’ said Kella simply.
    Michie looked at him suspiciously across the desk. ‘Are you jerking my chain?’ he asked.
    ‘No,’ said Kella. ‘Among the Lau people, I happen to be a custom priest, as well as a police officer.’
    ‘You mean you’re a …’ Michie searched for the phrase and then came up with it triumphantly, ‘a magic man!’
    ‘That’s what they’re called in this district. Guadalcanalpeople call them
vele
men. On Malaita, and especially among my Lau people, I’m the
aofia
, the peacemaker.’
    ‘But you can’t be,’ said Michie. ‘For God’s sake, you’re an educated man! How do you reconcile that with this spirit mumbo-jumbo?’
    ‘Perhaps one man’s mumbo-jumbo is another man’s faith,’ said Kella, a sliver of steel entering his voice.
    Michie grunted. ‘Well, what do you want?’ he asked. ‘Normally I wouldn’t give you the time of day, but I owe you for that business at the temple that I didn’t even know was there. Don’t forget, though, I can have you thrown off this island any time I want.’
    Kella decided that it was time to crack the whip. ‘No, you can’t,’ he said. ‘You’ve got too much going against you on Alvaro. Your Japanese bosses expect you to keep an uninterrupted flow of high-grade timber moving out; you’ve upset the local islanders by uprooting them from their custom land; most of your technicians are a bunch of gutless white rubbish men on the run from one thing or another; you’ve upset a local freedom-fighting group, and you depend for your labour on a force of hairy-arsed Malaitans who could take over your whole logging camp whenever they wanted to.’
    Michie did not reply for a moment. His face still betrayed no emotion. The man was probably a pretty