A song in the morning

** •

It was for Jack to start. There was casual amusement in Thiroko's expression. Jack saw a handsome man, soft chocolate skinned, mahogany eyed. He couldn't tell the age, anything between middle thirties and late forties.

He was Jack Curwen and he lived in Churchill Close, and he paid into a private medical scheme, and he voted to maintain the status quo. He was Jack Curwen standing in a run down school, shaking hands with a member of a revolutionary movement committed to the overthrow of a government half the world away. Preposterous enough to make him laugh, but his father had three weeks to live.

"I was brought here to meet someone from the African National Congress."

"There are many of us here, Comrade." A soft, swaying voice.

"I wanted to meet someone from the military wing of the A.N.C."

"Then you should be in South Africa where they are fighting the freedom war."

"I was told that if I came here I would meet someone from the Umkonto we Sizwe wing of the A.N.C."

"There is no war in London. The war is in our homeland."

Jack moved close to Thiroko.

"My name is Jack Curwen. I am an expert in explosives.

I have to meet, and urgently, someone from the military wing."

"Perhaps in a month such a person… "

"I don't have until next month. I've two days at most to meet someone from the military wing."

"What sort of person?" Thiroko's face was a mask.

"Someone who can make decisions and see them through."

"I doubt I am that person. There is no one from the military wing at a meeting such as this."

"I have to talk to you."

"You said that you wanted the military… "

Jack cut in. "I told you I don't have time to be pissed about. I can tell you how you are different from these creeps round you. Different face, different eyes, different hands."

"How different?"

"Different because they are a soldier's."

"Perhaps you are mistaken."

From behind Jack there was a burst of applause. He turned to see the stage filling.

"In this room you are the only man who is a soldier."

"Who are you, Mr Jack Curwen?"

"My father is going to hang in South Africa in three weeks. My father is an activist of the A.N.C."

The mask fell. Astonishment flooded Thiroko's face.

"Jeez Carew is my father."

The applause grew. The audience stamped their feet as they stood and clapped the principal speakers of the evening as they climbed onto the stage. Major Swart could no longer look behind him. He had seen the young man and Thiroko deep in talk. He had to stand with the rest and beat his palms together. He heard the chairwoman of the meeting coo her gratitude that their meeting was honoured by the presence of a distinguished guest from the A.N.C. headquarters whose name for security reasons could not be given out. He saw Thiroko going forward. The bastard didn't look a fit man. When the audience settled down, Swart looked behind him.

There was no sign of the young stranger.

His eyes darted to the door. He saw the back of Douglas Arkwright's duffel coat disappearing.

He sat with his mother in the living room. Sam was upstairs, in bed before Jack had returned. He held cupped in his two hands the mug of coffee she had made for him. His hands were rock still.

"My mind's made up. I'm going to South Africa."

"To see your Dad?"

"Yes."

"I've told you, Sam'll help you with the airfare."

"Not his business, it's mine."

"What does he mean to you?"

"As much as if I'd known him all my life."

His mother held a square of lace, dabbed it into her eyes.

"Will you have the strength when you go to see him, when you have to say goodbye to him?"

"It's not just to see him, Mum. I'm going there to bring my father home."