The Dark of the Sun

The Dark Of The Sun by Wilbur Smith

“I don’t like the idea,” announced Wally Hendry, and belched. He moved his tongue round his mouth getting the taste of it before he went on. “I think the whole idea stinks like a ten-day corpse.” He lay sprawled on one of the beds with a glass balanced on his naked chest

and he was sweating heavily in the Congo heat.

“Unfortunately your opinion doesn’t alter the fact that we are going.” Bruce Curry went on laying out his shaving tackle without looking up.

“You shoulda told them to keep it, told them we were staying here in Elisabethville, - why didn’t you tell them that, hey?” o Hendry picked up his glass and swallowed the contents.

“Because they pay me not to argue.” Bruce spoke without interest and looked at himself in the fly-spotted mirror above the washbasin.

The face that looked back was sundarkened with a cap of close-cropped black hair; soft hair that would be unruly and inclined to curl if it were longer.

Black eyebrows slanting upwards at the corners, green eyes with a heavy fringe of lashes and a mouth which could smile as readily as it

could sulk. Bruce regarded his good looks without pleasure. It was a long time since he had felt that emotion, a long time since his mouth had either smiled or sulked. He did not feel the old tolerant affection for his nose, the large slightly hooked nose that rescued his face from prettiness and gave him the air of a genteel pirate.

“Jesus!” growled Wally Hendry from the bed. “I’ve had just about a gutsful of this nigger army. I don’t mind fighting but I don’t fancy going hundreds of miles out into the bush to play nursemaid to a bunch of bloody refugees.”

“It’s a hell of a life,” agreed Bruce absently and spread shaving-soap on his face. The lather was very white against his tan. Under a skin that glowed so healthily that it appeared to have been freshly oiled, the muscles of his

shoulders and chest changed shape as he moved. He was in good

condition, fitter than he had been for many years, but this fact gave him no more pleasure than had his face.

“Get me another drink, Andre.” Wally Hendry thrust his empty glass into the hand of the man who sat on the edge of the bed.

The Belgian stood up and went across to the table obediently.

“More whisky and less beer in this one,” Wally instructed, turned once more to Bruce and belched again. “That’s what I think of the idea.” As Andre poured Scotch whisky into the glass and filled it with beer Wally hitched around the pistol in its webbing holster until it hung between his legs.

“When are we leaving?” he asked.

“There’ll be an engine and five coaches at the goods yard first thing tomorrow morning. We’ll load up and get going as soon as possible.” Bruce started to shave, drawing the razor down from temple to chin and leaving the skin smooth and brown behind it.

“After three months of” fighting a bunch of greasy little Gurkhas

I was looking forward to a bit of fun. - I haven’t even had a pretty in all that time - now the second day after the ceasefire and they ship us out again.”

“C’est laguerre,” muttered Bruce, his face twisted in the

act of shaving.

“What’s that mean?” demanded Wally suspiciously.

“That’s war,” Bruce translated.

“Talk English, Bucko.” It was the measure of Wally Hendry that after six months

in the Belgian Congo he could neither speak nor understand a

single word of French.

There was silence again, broken only by the scraping of Bruce’s razor and the small metallic sound as the fourth man in the hotel room stripped and cleaned his FN rifle.

“Have a drink, Haig,” Wally invited him.

“No, thanks.” Michael Haig glanced up, not trying to conceal his distaste as he looked at Wally.

“You’re another snotty bastard - don’t want to drink with me, hey?

Even the high-class Captain Curry is drinking with me. What makes you so goddam special?”

“You know that I don’t drink.” Haig turned his attention back to his weapon, handling it with easy familiarity. For

all of them the ugly automatic rifles had become an extension of their own bodies. Even while shaving Bruce had only to drop his hand to reach the rifle propped against the wall, and the two men on the bed had theirs on the floor beside them.

“You don’t drink!” chuckled Wally. “Then how did you get that

complexion, Bucko? How come your nose looked like a ripe plum?” Haig’s mouth tightened and the hands on his rifle stilled.

“Cut it out, Wally,” said Bruce without heat.

“Haig don’t drink,” crowed Wally, and dug the little Belgian in the ribs with his thumb, “get that, Andre! He’s a tee-bloody-total!

My old man was a tee total also; sometimes for two, three months at a

time he was tee total, and then he’d come home one night and sock the old lady in the clock so you could hear her teeth rattle from across the street.” His laughter choked him and he had to wait for it to clear before he went on.

“My bet is that you’re that kind of tee total, Haig. One drink and you wake up ten days later; that’s it, isn’t it?

One drink and - pow! - the old girl gets it in the chops and the kids don’t eat for a couple of weeks.” Haig laid the rifle down carefully on the bed and looked at Wally with his jaws clenched, but

Wally had not noticed.

He went on happily.

“Andre, take the whisky bottle and hold it under Old Teetotal

Haig’s nose. Let’s watch him slobber at the mouth and his eyes stand out like a pair of dog’s balls.” Haig stood up. Twice the age of Wally - a man in his middle fifties, with grey in his hair and the refinement of his features not completely obliterated by the marks that life had left upon them. He had arms like a boxer and a powerful set to his shoulders. “It’s about time YOU learned a few manners, Hendry. Get on your feet.”

“You wanta dance or something? I don’t waltz, - ask

Andre. He’ll dance with you - won’t you, Andre?” Haig was balanced on the balls of his feet, his hands closed and raised slightly. Bruce

Curry placed his razor on the shelf above the basin, and moved quietly

round the table with soap still on his face to take up a position from which he could intervene. There he waited, watching the two men.

“Get up, you filthy gutter-snipe.”

“Hey, Andre, get that. He talks pretty, hey? He talks real pretty

“I’m going to smash that ugly face of yours right into the middle of the place where your brain should have been.”

“Jokes! This boy is a natural comic.” Wally laughed, but there was something wrong with . the sound of it. Bruce knew then that Wally was not going to fight. Big arms and swollen chest covered

with ginger hair, belly flat and hard, looking, thick-necked below the wide flat-featured face with its little Mongolian eyes; but Wally wasn’t going to fight.

Bruce was puzzled: he remembered the night at the road bridge and he knew that Hendry was no coward, and yet now he was not going to take up Haig’s challenge.

Mike Haig moved towards the bed.

“Leave him, Mike.” Andre spoke for the first time, his voice soft as a girl’s. “He was only joking. He didn’t mean it

“Hendry, don’t think I’m too much of a gentleman to hit you because you’re on your back. Don’t make that mistake.”

“Big deal,” muttered Wally. “This boy’s not only a comic, he’s a bloody hero also.” Haig stood over him and lifted his right hand with the fist, bunched like a hammer, aimed at Wally’s face.

“Haig!” Bruce hadn’t raised his voice but its tone checked the older man.

“That’s enough, said Bruce.

“But this filthy little-“

“Yes, I know,” said Bruce. “Leave him!”

With his fist still up Mike Haig hesitated, and there was no movement in the room. Above them the corrugated iron roof popped loudly as it

expanded in the heat of the Congo midday, and the only other sound was

Haig’s breathing. He was panting and his face was congested with blood.

“Please, Mike,” whispered Andre. “He didn’t mean it.” Slowly

Haig’s anger changed to disgust and he dropped his hand, turned away and picked up his rifle from the other bed.

“I can’t stand the smell in this room another minute. I’ll wait for you in the truck downstairs, Bruce.”

“I won’t be long,” agreed Bruce as Mike went to the door.

“Don’t push your luck, Haig,” Wally called after him.

“Next time you won’t get off so easily.” In the doorway Mike Haig swung quickly, but, with a hand on his shoulder, Bruce turned him

again.

“Forget it, Mike,” he said, and closed the door after him.

“He’s just bloody lucky that he’s an old man,” growled Wally.

“Otherwise I’d have fixed him good.” “Sure,” said Bruce. “It was decent of you to let him go.” The soap had dried on his face and he wet his brush to lather again.

“Yeah, I couldn’t hit an old bloke like that, could I?” “No.” Bruce smiled a little. “But don’t worry, you frightened the hell out of him.

He won’t try it again.”

“He’d better notv warned Hendry. “Next time

I’ll kill the old bugger.” No, you wont, thought Bruce, you’ll back down again as you have just done, as you’ve done a dozen times before.

Mike and I are the only ones who can make you do it; in the same way as an animal will growl at its trainer but cringe away when he cracks the whip. He began shaving again.

The heat in the room was unpleasant to breathe; it drew the perspiration out of them and the smell of their bodies blended sourly with stale cigarette smoke and liquor fumes.

“Where are you and Mike going?” Andre ended the long silence.

“We’re going to see if we can draw the supplies for this trip. If we have any luck we’ll take them down to the goods yard and have Ruffy put an armed guard on them overnight,” Bruce answered him, leaning over the basin and splashing water up into his face.

“How long will we be away?” Bruce shrugged. “A week - ten days’.

He sat on his bed and pulled on one of his jungle boots. “That is, if we don’t have any trouble.” “Trouble, Bruce?” asked Andre.

“From Msapa Junction we’ll have to go two hundred miles through country crawling with Baluba.”

“But we’ll be in a train,” protested

Andre. “They’ve only got bows and arrows, they can’t touch us.”

“Andre, there are seven rivers to cross - one big one and bridges are easily destroyed. Rails can be torn up.” Bruce began to lace the boot.

“I don’t think it’s going to be a Sunday school picnic.”

“Christ. I

think the whole thing stinks,” repeated Wally moodily.” Why are we going anyway?”

“Because, Bruce began patiently, “for the last three months the entire population of Port Reprieve has been cut off from the rest of the world. There are women and children with them. They are fast running out of food and the other necessities of life.” Bruce paused to light a cigarette, and then went on talking as he exhaled.

“All around them the Baluba tribe is in open revolt, burning, raping and killing indiscriminately. As yet they haven’t attacked the town but it won’t be very long until they do.

Added to which there are rumours that rebel groups of Central

Congolese troops and of our own forces have formed themselves into bands of heavily-armed shufta. They also are running amok through the northern part of the territory.

Nobody knows for certain what is happening out there, but whatever it is you can be sure it’s not very pretty. We are going to fetch those people in to safety.”

“Why don’t the U.N. people send out a plane?” asked Andre.

“No landing field.”

“Helicopters?”

“Out of range.”

“For my money the bastards can stay there,” grunted Wally. “If the Balubas fancy a

little man steak, who are we to do them out of a meal? Every man’s entitled to eat and as long as it’s not me they’re eating, more power to their teeth, say?” He placed his foot against Andre’s back and straightened his leg suddenly, throwing the Belgian off the bed on to his knees.

“Go and get me a pretty.”

“There aren’t any, Wally. I’ll get you another drink.” Andre scrambled to his feet and reached for Wally’s empty glass, but Wally’s hand dropped on to his wrist.

“I said pretty, Andre, not drink.”

“I don’t know where to find them, Wally.” Andre’s voice was desperate. “I don’t know what to say

to them even.”

“You’re being stupid, Bucko. I might have to break your arm.” Wally twisted the wrist slowly. “You know as well as I that the bar downstairs is full of them. You know that, don’t you?”

“But what do I say to them?” Andre’s face was contorted with the pain of his twisted wrist.

“Oh, for Christ’s sake, you stupid bloody frog-eater - just go down and flash a banknote. You don’t have to say a dicky bird.”

“You’re hurting me, Wally.”

“No? You’re kidding!” Wally smiled at him, twisting harder, his slitty eyes smoky from the liquor, and Bruce could see he was enjoying it. “Are you going, BUcko? Make up your mind -

get me a pretty or get yourself a broken arm

“All right, if that’s what you want. I’ll go. Please leave me, I’ll go,” mumbled Andre.

“That’s what I want.” Wally released him, and he straightened up massaging his wrist.

“See that she’s clean and not too old. You hear me?”

“Yes, Wally.

I’ll get one.” Andre went to the door and Bruce noticed his expression. It was stricken beyond the pain of a bruised wrist. What lovely creatures they are, thought Bruce, and I am one of them and yet apart from them. I am the watcher, stiffed by them as much as I would be by a bad play. Andre went out.

“Another drink, Bucko?” said Wally expansively. “I’ll even pour you one.” “Thanks,” said Bruce, and started on the other boot.

Wally brought the glass to him and he tasted it. It was strong, and the mustiness of the whisky was ill-matched with the sweetness of the beer, but he drank it.

“You and I, said Wally, “we’re the shrewd ones. We drink ,cause we want to, not “cause we have to. We live like we want to live, not

like other people think we should. You and I got a lot in common, Bruce. We should be friends, you and I. I mean us being so much alike.” The drink was working in him now, bluffing his speech a little.

“Of course we are friends - I count you as one of my very dearest, Wally.” Bruce spoke solemnly, no trace of sarcasm showing.

“No kidding?” Wally asked earnestly. “How’s that, hey?

Christ, I always thought you didn’t like me. Christ, you never can tell, isn’t that right? You just never can tell,” shaking his head in wonder, suddenly sentimental with the whisky. “That’s really true?

You like me. Yeah, we could be buddies. How’s that, Bruce? Every guy needs a buddy. Every guy needs a back stop.” “Sure,” said Bruce.

“We’re buddies. How’s that, hey?”

“That’s on, Bucko!” agreed Wally with deep feeling, and I feel nothing, thought Bruce, no disgust, no

pity - nothing. That way you are secure; they cannot disappoint you, they cannot disgust you, they cannot sicken you, they cannot smash you up again.

They both looked up as Andre ushered the girl into the room. She had a sexy little pug face, painted lips - ruby on amber.

“Well done, Andre,” applauded Wally, looking at the girl’s body.

She wore high heels and a short pink dress that flared into a skirt from her waist but did not cover her knees.

“Come here, cookie.” Wally held out his hand to her and she crossed the room without hesitation, smiling a bright professional smile. Wally drew her down beside him on to the bed.

Andre went on standing in the doorway. Bruce got up and shrugged into his camouflage battle-jacket, buckled on his webbing belt and adjusted the bolstered pistol until it hung comfortably on his outer thigh.

“Are you going?” Wally was feeding the girl from his glass.

“Yes.” Bruce put his slouch hat on his head; the red, green and white Katangese sideflash gave him an air of artificial gaiety.

“Stay a little, - come on, Bruce.”

“Mike is waiting for me.” Bruce

picked up his rifle.

“Muck him. Stay a little, we’ll have some fun.”

“No, thanks.”

Bruce went to the door.

“Hey, Bruce. Take a look at this.” Wally tipped the girl backwards over the bed, he pinned her with one arm across her chest while she struggled playfully and with the other hand he swept her

skirt up above her waist.

“Take a good look at this and tell me you still want to go! The girl was naked under the skirt, her lower body shaven so that her plump little sex pouted sulkily.

“Come on, Bruce,” laughed Wally. “You first. Don’t say I’m not your buddy.” Bruce glanced at the girl, her legs scissored and her body wriggled as she fought with Wally. She was giggling.

“Mike and I will be back before curfew. I want this woman out of here by then,” said Bruce.

There is no desire, he thought as he looked at her, that is all finished. He opened the door.

“Curry!” shouted Wally. “You’re a bloody nut also. Christ, I

thought you were a man. Jesus Christ! You’re as bad as the others.

Andre, the doll boy. Haig, the rummy. What’s with you, Bucko? It’s women with you, isn’t it? You’re a bloody nut-case also!” Bruce closed the door and stood alone in the passage.

The taunt had gone through a chink in his armour and he clamped his mind down on the sting of it, smothering it.

It’s all over. She can’t hurt me any more. He thought with determination, remembering her, the woman, not the one in the room he had just left but the other one who had been his wife.

“The bitch,” he whispered, and then quickly, almost guiltily, “I

do not hate her. There is no hatred and there is no desire.”

The lobby of the Hotel Grand Leopold 11 was crowded. There Were gendarmes carrying their weapons ostentatiously, talking loudly, lolling against walls an dover the bar; women with them, varying in colour from black through to pastel brown, some already drunk; a few

Belgians still with the stunned disbelieving eyes of the refugee, one of the women crying as she rocked her child on her lap; other white men in civilian clothes but with the alertness about them and the quick

restless eyes of the adventurer, talking quietly with Africans in business suits; a group of journalists at one table in damp shirtsleeves, waiting and watching with the patience of vultures. And everybody sweated in the heat.

Two South African charter pilots hailed Bruce from across the room.

“Hi, Bruce. How about a snort?”

“Dave. Carl.” Bruce waved. “Big

hurry now - tonight perhaps.”

“We’re flying out this afternoon.” Carl

Engelbrecht shook his head. “Back next week.”

“We’ll make it then,” Bruce agreed, and went out of the front door into the Avenue du Kasai.

As he stopped on the sidewalk the whitewashed buildings bounced the glare into his face. The naked heat made him wince and he felt fresh sweat start out of his-body beneath his battle-suit. He took the dark glasses from his top pocket and put them on as he crossed the street to

the Chev three-tanner in which Mike Haig waited.

“I’ll drive, Mike.”

“Okay.” Mike slid across the seat and Bruce stepped up into the cab. He started the truck north down the Avenue du

Kasai.

“Sorry about that scene, Bruce.”

“No harm done.”

“I shouldn’t have lost my temper like that.” Bruce did not answer, he was looking at the deserted buildings on either side. Most of them had been looted and all of them were pock-marked with shrapnel from the mortar bursts. At intervals along the sidewalk were parked the burnt out bodies of automobiles looking like the carapaces of long-dead beetles.

“I shouldn’t have let him get through to me, and yet the truth hurts like hell.” Bruce was silent but he trod down harder on the

accelerator and the truck picked up speed. I don’t want to hear, he thought, I am not your confessor - I just don’t want to hear. He turned into the Avenue I’Etoile, headed towards the zoo.

“He was right, he had me measured to the inch, persisted Mike.

“We’ve all got our troubles, otherwise we wouldn’t be here.” And then, to change Mike’s mood, “We few, we happy few. We band of brothers.” Mike grinned and his face was suddenly boyish. “At least we have the distinction of following the second oldest profession - we, the mercenaries. “The oldest profession is better paid and much more fun,” said Bruce and swung the truck into the driveway of a double-storeyed residence, parked outside the front door and switched off the engine.

Not long ago the house had been the home of the chief accountant of Union Mini&e du Haut, now it was the billet of V section, Special

Striker Force, commanded by Captain Bruce Curry.

Half a dozen of his black gendarmes were sitting on the low wall of the verandah, and as Bruce came up the front steps they shouted the greeting that had become traditional since the United Nations intervention.

“U. N. - Merde!”

“Ah!” Bruce grinned at them in the sense of companionship that had grown up between them in the past months.

“The cream of the Army o Katanga I He offered his cigarettes around and stood chatting idly for a few minutes before asking, “Where’s Sergeant Major?” One of the gendarmes jerked a thumb at the glass doors that led into the lounge and Bruce went through with Mike behind him.

Equipment was piled haphazardly on the expensive furniture, the stone fireplace was half filled with empty bottles, a gendarme lay snoring on the Persian carpet, one of the oil paintings on the wall had been ripped by a bayonet and the frame hung askew, the imbuia-wood coffee table tilted drunkenly towards its broken leg, and the whole lounge smelled of men and cheap tobacco.

“Hello, Ruffy, said Bruce.

“Just in time, boss.” Sergeant Major Ruffararo grinned delightedly from the armchair which he was overflowing.

“These goddam Arabs have run fresh out of folding stuff.” He gestured at the gendarmes that crowded about the table in front of him.

“Arab” was Ruffy’s word of censure or contempt, and bore no relation to a man’s nationality.

Ruffy’s accent was always a shock to Bruce. You never expected to hear pure Americanese come rumbling out of that huge black frame. But three years previously Ruffy had returned from a scholarship tour of the United States with a command of the idiom, a diploma in land husbandry, a prodigious thirst for bottled beer (preferably Schlitz, but any other was acceptable) and a raving dose of the Old Joe.

The memory of this last, which had been a farewell gift from a high yellow sophomore of U. C.L. A returned most painfully to Ruffararo when he was in his cups; so painfully that it could be assuaged only by throwing the nearest citizen of the United States.

Fortunately, it was only on rare occasions that an American and the necessary five or six gallons of beer were assembled in the same vicinity so that Ruffy’s latent race antipathy could find expression.

A throwing by Ruffy was an unforgettable experience, both for the victim and the spectators. Bruce vividly recalled that night at the

Hotel Lido when he had been a witness at one of Ruffy’s most spectacular throwings.

The victims, three of them, were journalists representing

publications of repute. As the evening wore on they talked louder; an

American accent has a carry like a well-hit golf ball and Ruffy recognized it from across the terrace. He became silent, and in his silence drank the last gallon which was necessary to tip the balance.

He wiped the froth from his upper lip and stood up with his eyes fastened on the party of Americans.

“Ruffy, hold it. Hey!” - Bruce might not have spoken.

Ruffy started across the terrace. They saw him coming and fell

into an uneasy silence.

The first was in the nature of a practice throw; besides, the man was not aero-dynamically constructed and his stomach had too much wind resistance. A middling distance of twenty feet.

“Ruffy, leave them!” shouted Bruce.

On the next throw Ruffy was getting warmed up, but he put excessive loft into it. Thirty feet; the journalist cleared the terrace and landed on the lawn below with his empty glass still clutched in his hand.

“Run, you fool!” Bruce warned the third victim, but he was paralysed.

And this was Ruffy’s best ever, he took a good grip neck and seat of the pants - and put his whole weight into it. Ruffy must have known that he had executed the perfect throw, for his shout of

“Gonorrhoea!”

as he launched his man had a ring of triumph to it.

Afterwards, when Bruce had soothed the three Americans, and they had recovered sufficiently to appreciate the fact that they were privileged by being party to a record throwing session, they all paced out the distances. The three journalists developed an almost proprietary affection for Ruffy and spent the rest of the evening buying him beers and boasting to every newcomer in the bar. One of them, he who had been thrown last and farthest, wanted to do an article on Ruffy - with pictures. Towards the end of the evening he was talking wildly of whipping up sufficient enthusiasm to have a man-throwing event included in the Olympic Games.

Ruffy accepted both their praise and their beer with modest gratitude; and when the third American offered to let Ruffy throw him again, he declined the offer on the grounds that he never threw the same man twice. All in all, it had been a memorable evening.

Apart from these occasional lapses, Ruffy had a more powerful body and happier mind than any man Bruce had ever known, and Bruce could not

help liking him. He could not prevent himself smiling as he tried to reject Ruffy’s invitation to play cards.

“We’ve got work to do now, Ruffy. Some other time.”

“Sit down, boss,” Ruffy repeated, and Bruce grimaced resignedly and took the chair opposite him.

“How much you going to bet?” Ruffy leaned forward.

Bruce laid a thousand-franc note on the table; “when that’s gone, then we go.”

“No hurry,” Ruffy soothed him. “We got all day.” He dealt the three cards face down. “The old Christian monarch is in there somewhere; all you got to do is find him and it’s the easiest mille you ever made.”

“in the middle,” whispered the gendarme standing beside Bruce’s chair. “That’s him in the middle.”

“Take no notice of that mad Arab - he’s lost five mille already this morning,” Ruffy advised.

Bruce turned over the right-hand card.

“Mis-luck,” crowed Ruffy. “You got yourself the queen of hearts.”

He picked up the banknote and stuffed it into his breast pocket.

“She’ll see you wrong every time, that sweetfaced little bitch.”

Grinning, he turned over the middle card to expose the jack of spades with his sly eyes and curly little mustache. “She’s been shacked up there with the jack right under the old king’s nose.” He turned the king face up.

“Look you at that dozy old guy - he’s not even facin in the right direction.” Bruce stared at the three cards and he felt that sickness in his stomach again. The whole story was there; even the man’s name

was right, but the jack should have worn a beard and driven a red Jaguar and his queen of hearts never had such innocent eyes. Bruce spoke abruptly. “That’s it, Ruffy. I want you and ten men to come with me.”

“Where we going?”

“Down to Ordinance - we’re drawing special supplies.”

Ruffy nodded and buttoned the playing cards into his top pocket while he selected the gendarmes to accompany them; then he asked Bruce, “We might need some oil; what you think, boss?” Bruce hesitated; they had

only two cases of whisky left of the dozen they had looted in August.

The purchasing power of a bottle of genuine Scotch was enormous and

Bruce was loath to use them except in extraordinary circumstances. But now he realized that his chances of getting the supplies he needed were remote, unless he took along a substantial bribe for the quartermaster.

“Okay, Ruffy. Bring a case.” Ruffy came up out of the chair and clapped his steel helmet on his head. The chin straps hung down on each side of his round black face.

A “A full case?” He grinned at Bruce. “You want to buy a battleship?”

“Almost,” agreed Bruce; “go and get it.” Ruffy disappeared into the back area of the house and returned almost immediately with a case of Grant’s Stand awl”

fast under one arm and half a dozen bottles of Simba beer held by their necks between the fingers of his other hand.

“We might get thirsty,” he explained.

The gendarmes climbed back into the back of the truck with a clatter of weapons and shouted cheerful abuse at their fellows on the

verandah. Bruce, Mike and Ruffy crowded into the cab and Ruffy set the whisky on the floor and placed two large booted feet upon it.

“What’s this all about, boss?” he asked as Bruce trundled the truck down the drive and turned into the Avenue I’Etoile. Bruce told him and when he had finished Ruffy grunted noncommittally and opened a bottle of beer with his big white chisel-blade teeth; the gas hissed softly and a little froth ran down the bottle and dripped onto his lap.

“My boys aren’t going to like it,” he commented as he offered the open bottle to Mike Haig. Mike shook his head and Ruffy passed the bottle to Bruce.

Ruffy opened a bottle for himself and spoke again. “They going to hate it like hell.” He shook his head. “And there’ll be even bigger trouble when we get to Port Reprieve and pick up the diamonds.” Bruce glanced sideways at him, startled. “What diamonds?”

“From the dredgers,” said Ruffy. “You don’t think they’re sending us all that way just to bring in these other guys.

They’re worried about the diamonds, that’s for sure!” Suddenly, for Bruce, much which had puzzled him was explained. A half-forgotten conversation that he had held earlier in the year with an engineer from

Union Mine jumped back into his memory. They had discussed the three diamond dredgers that worked the gravel from the bed of the Lufira swamps. The boats were based on Port Reprieve and clearly they would have returned there at the beginning of the emergency; they must still be there with three or four months” recovery of diamonds on board.

Something like half a million sterling in uncut stones. That was the reason why the Katangese Government placed such priority on this expedition, the reason why such a powerful force was being used, the reason why no approaches had been made to the U.N. authorities to conduct the rescue.

Bruce smiled sardonically as he remembered the human itarian arguments that had been given to him by the Minister of the Interior.

“It is our duty, Captain Curry. We cannot leave these people to the notsotender mercy of the tribesmen. It is out duty as civilized human beings.” There were others cut off in remote mission stations and government outposts throughout southern Kasai and Katanga; nothing had been heard of them for months, but their welfare was secondary to that of the settlement at Port.

Reprieve.

Bruce lifted the bottle to his lips again, steering with one hand and squinting ahead through the windscreen as he drank. All right, we’ll fetch them in and afterwards an ammunition box will be loaded on to a chartered aircraft, and later still there will be another deposit to a numbered account in Zurich. Why should I worry? They’re paying me for it.

“I don’t think we should mention the diamonds to my boys.” Ruffy spoke sadly. “I don’t think it would be a good idea at all.” Bruce slowed the truck as they ran into the industrial area beyond the railway line. He watched the buildings as they passed, until he recognized the one he wanted and swung off the road to stop in front of the gate. He blew a blast on the hooter and a gendarme came out and inspected his pass minutely. Satisfied, he shouted out to someone beyond the gate and it swung open. Bruce drove the truck through into the yard and switched off the engine.

There were half a dozen other trucks parked in the yard, all emblazoned with the Katangese shield and surrounded by gendarmes in uniforms patchy with sweat. A white lieutenant leaned from the cab of one of the trucks and shouted.

“Ciao, Bruce!”

“How things, Sergio?” Bruce answered him.

“Crazy! Crazy!” Bruce smiled. For the Italian everything was crazy. Bruce remembered that in July, during the fighting at the road bridge, he had bent him over the bonnet of a Land Rover and with a bayonet dug a piece of schrapnel out of his hairy buttocks - that had also been crazy.

“See you around,” Bruce dismissed him and led Mike and Ruffy across the yard, to the warehouse. There was a sign on the large double doors Dp& Ordinance - Aim& du Katanga and beyond them at a desk in a glass cubicle sat a major with a pair of Gandhi-type steel-rimmed spectacles perched on a face like that of a jovial black toad. He looked up at Bruce.

“Non,” he said with finality. “Non, non.” Bruce produced his requisition form and laid it before him. The major brushed it aside

contemptuously.

“We have not got these items, we are destitute. I cannot do it.

No! I cannot do it. There are priorities. There are circumstances to consider. No, I am sorry.” He snatched a sheaf of papers from the side of his desk and turned his whole attention to them, ignoring Bruce.

“This requisition is signed by Monsieur le President,” Bruce pointed out mildly, and the major laid down his papers and came round from behind the desk. He stood close to Bruce with the top of his head on a level with Bruce’s chin.

“Had it been signed by the Almighty himself, it would be of no use. I am sorry, I am truly sorry.” Bruce lifted his eyes and for a second allowed them to wander over the mountains of stores which packed the interior of the warehouse. From where he stood he could identify

at least twenty items that he needed. The major noticed the gesture and his French became so excited that Bruce could only make out the repeated use of the word

“Non’. He glanced significantly at Ruffy and the sergeant major stepped forward and placed an arm soothingly about the major’s shoulders; then very gently he led him, still protesting, out into the yard and across to the truck. He opened the door of the cab and the major saw the case of whisky.

A few minutes later, after Ruffy had prised open the lid with his bayonet and allowed the major to inspect the seals on the caps, they returned to the office with Ruffy carrying the case.

“Captain,” said the major as he picked up the requisition from the desk. “I see now that I was mistaken. This is indeed signed by

Monsieur le President. It is my duty to afford you the most urgent priority.” Bruce murmured his thanks and the major beamed at him. “I

will give you men to help you.”

“You are too kind. It would disrupt your routine. I have my own men.” Excellent,” agreed the major and waved a podgy hand around the warehouse. “Take what you need.” Again Bruce glanced at his wristwatch. It was still twenty minutes before the curfew ended at 06.00 hours. Until then he must fret away the time watching Wally Hendry finishing his breakfast. This was a spectacle without much appeal, for Hendry was a methodical but untidy eater.

“Why don’t you keep your mouth closed?” snapped Bruce irritably, unable to stand it any longer.

“Do I ask you your business?” Hendry looked up from his plate.

His jowls were covered with a ginger stubble of beard, and his eyes were inflamed and puffy from the previous evening’s debauchery. Bruce looked away from him and checked his watch again.

The suicidal temptation to ignore the curfew and set off immediately for the railway station was very strong. It required an effort to resist it. The least he could expect if he followed that course was an arrest by one of the patrols and a delay of twelve hours while he cleared himself, the worst thing would be a shooting incident.

He poured himself another cup of coffee and sipped it slowly.

Impatience has always been one of my weaknesses, he reflected; nearly

every mistake I have ever made stems from that cause. But I have improved a little over the years. - at twenty I wanted to live my whole life in a week. Now I’ll settle for a year.

He finished his coffee and checked the time again. Five minutes

before six, he could risk it now. It would take almost that long to get out to the truck.

“If you are ready, gentlemen.” He pushed back his chair and picked up his pack, slung it over his shoulder and led the way out.

Ruffy was waiting for them, sitting on a pile of stones in one of the corrugated iron goods sheds. His men squatted round a dozen small fires on the concrete floor cooking breakfast.

“Where’s the train?”

“That’s a good question, boss,” Ruffy congratulated him, and Bruce groaned.

“It should have been here long ago,” Bruce protested, and Ruffy shrugged.

“Should have been is a lot different from is.”

“Goddamnit! We’ve still got to load up. We’ll be lucky if we get away before noon,” snapped Bruce. “I’ll go up to the station master.” I “You’d better take him a present, boss. We’ve still got a case left.”

“No, hell!”

Bruce growled. “Come with me, Mike.” With Mike beside him they crossed the tracks to the main platform and clambered up on to it. At the far end a group of railway officials stood chatting and Bruce fell upon them furiously.

Two hours later Bruce stood beside the coloured engine driver on the footplate and they puffed slowly down towards the goods yard.

The driver was a roly-poly little man with a skin too dark for mere sunburn and a set of teeth with bright red plastic gums.

“Monsieur, you do not wish to proceed to Port Reprieve?” he asked anxiously.

“Yes.”

“There is no way of telling the condition of the permanent way. No traffic has used it these last four months.”

“I know. You’ll have to proceed with caution.”

“There is a United Nations barrier across the lines near the old aerodrome, protested the man.

“We have a pass.” Bruce smiled to soothe him; his bad temper was abating now that he had his transport. “Stop next to the first shed.”

With a hiss of steam brakes the train pulled up beside the concrete platform and Bruce jumped down.

“All right, Ruffy,” he shouted. “Let’s get cracking.” Bruce had placed the three steel-sided open trucks in the van, for they were the easiest to defend. From behind the breast-high sides the Bren guns could sweep ahead and on both flanks. Then followed the two passenger coaches, to be used as store rooms and officer’s quarters; also for accommodation of the refugees on the return journey.

A Finally, the locomotive in the rear, where it would be least vulnerable and would not spew smoke and soot back over the train.

The stores were loaded into four of the compartments, the windows

shuttered and the doors locked. Then Bruce set about laying out his defences. In a low circle of sandbags on the roof of the leading coach he sited one of the Brens and made his own post. From here he could look down over the open trucks, back at the locomotive, and also command an excellent view of the surrounding country.

The other Brens he placed in the leading truck and put Hendry in command there. He had obtained from the major at Ordinance three of the new walkie-talkie sets; one he gave to the engine driver, another to Hendry up front, and the third he retained in his emplacement; and his system of communication was satisfactory.

It was almost twelve o’clock before these preparations were complete and Bruce turned to Ruffy who sat on the sandbags beside him.

“All set?”

“All set, boss.”

“How many missing?” Bruce had learned from experience never to expect his entire command to be in any one place at any one time.

“Eight, boss.”

“That’s three more than yesterday; leaves us only fifty-two men. Do you think they’ve taken off into the bush also?” Five of his men had deserted with their weapons on the day of the ceasefire.

Obviously they had gone out into the bush to join one of the bands of shufta that were already playing havoc along the main roads: ambushing all unprotected traffic, beating up lucky travellers and murdering those less fortunate, raping when they had the opportunity, and generally enjoying themselves.

“No, boss. I don’t think so, those three are good boys.

They’ll be down in the cite indigne having themselves some fun; guess they just forgot the time.” Ruffy shook his head. “Take us about half an hour to find them; all we do is go down and visit all the knock-shops. You want to try?”

“No, we haven’t time to mess around if we are going to make Msapa junction before dark. We’ll pick them up again when we get back.” Was there ever an army since the Boer War that treated desertion so lightly, Bruce wondered.

He turned to the radio set beside him and depressed the transmit button.

“Driver.”

“Oui, monsieur.”

“Proceed - very slowly until we approach the United Nations barrier. Stop well this side of it.”

“Oui, monsieur.” They rolled out of the goods yard, clicking over the points; leaving the industrial quarter on their right with the

Katangese guard posts on the Avenue du Cmieti&e intersection; out through the suburbs until ahead of them Bruce saw the U.N. positions and he felt the first stirring of anxiety. The pass he carried in the breast pocket of his jacket was signed by General Rhee Singh, but before in this war the orders of an Indian general had not been passed by a Sudanese captain to an Irish sergeant. The reception that awaited them could be exciting.

“I hope they know about us.” Mike Haig lit his cigarette with a show of nonchalance, but he peered over it anxiously at the piles of fresh earth on each side of the tracks that marked the position of emplacements.

“These boys have got bazookas, and they’re Irish Arabs,” muttered

Ruffy. “I reckon it’s the maddest kind of Arabs there is - Irish. How would you like a bazooka bomb up your throat, boss?”

“No, thanks, Ruffy,” Bruce declined, and pressed the button of the radio.

“Hendry!” In the leading truck Wally Hendry picked up his set and, holding it against his chest, looked back at Bruce.

“Curry?”

“Tell your gunners to stand away from the Brens, and the rest of them to lay down their rifles.”

“Right Bruce watched him relaying the order, pushing them back, moving among the gendarmes who

crowded the forward trucks. Bruce could sense the air of tension that had fallen over the whole train, watched as his gendarmes reluctantly laid down their weapons and stood empty handed staring sullenly ahead at the U.N. barrier.

“Drived” Bruce spoke again into the radio. “Slow down.

Stop fifty metres this side of the barrier. But if there is any shooting open the throttle and take us straight through.”

“Oui, monsieur.” Ahead of them there was no sign of a reception committee, only the hostile barrier of poles and petrol drums across the line.

Bruce stood upon the roof and lifted his arms above his head in a gesture of neutrality. It was a mistake; the movement changed the passive mood of the gendarmes in the trucks below him. One of them lifted his arms also, but his fists were clenched.

“U. N. - merde!” he shouted, and immediately the cry was taken up.

“U. N. - merde! U.N. - merde!” They chanted the war cry - laughing at first, but then no longer laughing, their voices rising sharply.

“Shut up, damn you,” Bruce roared and swung his open hand against the head of the gendarme beside him, but the man hardly noticed it.

His eyes were glazing with the infectious hysteria to which the African is so susceptible; he had snatched up his rifle and was holding it across his chest; already his body was beginning to jerk convulsively

as he chanted.

Bruce hooked his fingers under the rim of the man’s steel helmet and yanked it forward over his eyes so the back of his neck was exposed; he chopped him with a judo blow and the gendarme slumped forward over the sandbags, his rifle slipping from his hands.

Bruce looked up desperately; in the trucks. below him the hysteria was spreading.

“Stop them - Hendry, de Surrier! Stop them for God’s sake.” But his voice was lost in the chanting.

A gendarme snatched up his rifle from where it lay at his feet; Bruce saw him elbow his way towards the side of the truck to begin firing; he was working the slide to lever a round into the breech.

“Mwembe!” Bruce shouted the gendarme’s name, but his voice could not penetrate the uproar.

In two seconds the whole situation would dissolve into a pandemonium of tracer and bazooka fire.

Poised on the forward edge of the roof, Bruce checked for an instant to judge the distance, and then he jumped.

He landed squarely on the gendarme’s shoulders, his weight throwing the man forward so his face hit the steel edge of the truck, and they went down together on to the floor.

The gendarme’s finger was resting on the trigger and the rifle fired as it spun from his hands. A complete hush followed the roar of the rifle and in it Bruce scrambled to his feet, drawing his pistol from the canvas holster on his hip.

“All right he panted, menacing the men around him.

“Come on, give me a chance to use this!” He picked out one of his sergeants and held his eyes. “You! I’m waiting for you - start shooting!” At the sight of the revolver the man relaxed slowly and the madness faded from his face. He dropped his eyes and shuffled awkwardly.

Bruce glanced up at Ruffy and Haig on the roof, and raised his voice.

“Watch them. Shoot the first one who starts it again.”

“Okay, boss.” Ruffy thrust forward the automatic rifle in his hands. “Who’s it going to be?” he asked cheerfully, looking down at them. But the mood had changed. Their V

Awl attitudes of defrance gave way to sheepish embarrassment and a small buzz of conversation filled the silence.

“Mike,” Bruce yelled, urgent again. “Call the driver, he’s trying to take us through!” The noise of their passage had risen, the driver accelerating at the sound of the shot, and now they were racing down towards the U.N. barrier.

Mike Haig grabbed the set, shouted an order into it, and immediately the brakes swooshed and the train jolted to a halt not a hundred yards short of the barrier.

Slowly Bruce clambered back on to the roof of the coach.

“Close?” asked Mike.

“My God!” Bruce shook his head, and lit a cigarette with slightly unsteady hands. “Another fifty yards-!” Then he turned and stared coldly down at his gendarmes.

“Canaille! Next time you try to commit suicide don’t take me with you.” The gendarme he had knocked down was now sitting up, fingering the ugly black swelling above his eye. “My friend,” Bruce turned on him, “later I will have something for your further discomfort!” Then to the other man in the emplacement beside him who was massaging his neck, “And for you also! Take their names, Sergeant Major.”

“Sir!” growled

Ruffy.

“Mike.” Bruce’s voice changed, soft again. “I’m going ahead to

toss the blarney with our friends behind the bazookas. When I give you the signal bring the train through.”

“You don’t want me to come with you?” asked Mike.

“No, stay here.” Bruce picked up his rifle, stung it over his shoulder, dropped down the ladder on to the path beside the tracks, and walked forward with the gravel crunching beneath his boots.

An auspicious beginning to the expedition, he decided grimly, tragedy averted by the wink of an eye before they had even passed the outskirts of the city.

At least the Mickies hadn’t added a few bazooka bombs to the altercation. Bruce peered ahead, and could make out the shape of helmets behind the earthworks.

Without the breeze of the train’s passage it was hot again, and

Bruce felt himself starting to sweat.

“Stay where you are, Mister.” A deep brogue from the emplacement nearest the tracks; Bruce stopped, standing on the wooden crossties in the sun. Now he could see the faces of the men beneath the helmets:

unfriendly, not smiling.

“What was the shooting for?” the voice questioned.

“We had an accident.”

“Don’t have any more or we might have one also.”

“I’d not be wanting that, Paddy.” Bruce smiled thinly, and the

Irishman’s voice had an edge to it as he went on.

“What’s your mission?”

“I have a pass, do you want to see it?”

Bruce took the folded sheet of paper from his breast pocket.

“What’s your mission?” repeated the Irishman.

“Proceed to Port Reprieve and relieve the town.” & “We know about you.” The Irishman nodded. “Let me see the pass.” Bruce left the tracks, climbed the earth wall and handed the pink slip to the

Irishman. He wore the three pips of a captain, and he glanced briefly at the pass before speaking to the man beside him.

“Very well, Sergeant, you can be clearing the barrier now.”

“I’ll call the train through?” Bruce asked, and the captain nodded again.

“But make sure there are no more accidents - we don’t like hired killers.”

“Sure and begorrah now, Paddy, it’s not your war you’re a-fighting either,” snapped Bruce and abruptly turned his back on the man, jumped down on to the tracks and waved to Mike Haig on the roof of

the coach.

The Irish sergeant and his party had cleared the tracks and while the train rumbled slowly down to him Bruce struggled to control his irritation. - the Irish captain’s taunt had reached him.

Hired killer, and of course that was what he was. Could a man sink any lower?

As the coach drew level with where he stood, Bruce caught the hand rail and swung himself aboard, waved an ironical farewell to the Irish captain and climbed up on to the roof.

“No trouble?” asked Mike.

“A bit of lip, delivered in music-hall brogue,” Bruce answered)

“but nothing serious.” He picked up the radio set.

“Driver.”

“Monsieur?”

“Do not forget my instructions.”

“I will not exceed forty kilometres the hour, and I shall at all times be prepared for an emergency stop.”

“Good!” Bruce switched off the set and sat down on the sandbags between Ruffy and Mike.

Well, he thought, here we go at last. Six hours run to Msapa

Junction. That should be easy. And then - God knows, God alone knows.

The tracks curved, and Bruce looked back to see the last whitewashed buildings of Elisabethville disappear among the trees.

They were out into the open savannah forest.

Behind them the black smoke from the loco rolled sideways into the trees; beneath them the crossties clattered in strict rhythm, and ahead the line ran arrow straight for miles, dwindling with perspective until it merged into the olive-green mass of the forest.

Bruce lifted his eyes. Half the sky was clear and tropical blue, but in the north it was bruised with cloud, and beneath the cloud grey rain drifted down to meet the earth.

The sunlight through the rain spun a rainbow, and the cloud shadow moved across the land as slowly and as darkly as a herd of grazing buffalo.

He loosened the chin strap of his helmet and laid his rifle on the roof beside him.

“You’d like a beer, boss?”

“Have you any?”

“Sure.” Ruffy called to one of the gendarmes and the man climbed down into the coach and came back with half a dozen bottles. Ruffy opened two with his teeth. Each time half the contents frothed out and splattered back along the wooden side of the coach.

“This beer’s as wild as an angry woman,” he grunted as he passed a bottle to Bruce.

“It’s wet anyway.” Bruce tasted it, warm and gassy and too sweet.

“Here”: how! said Ruffy.

Bruce looked down into the open trucks at the gendarmes who were settling in for the journey. Apart from the gunners at the Brens, they were lying or squatting in attitudes of complete relaxation and most of them had stripped down to their underwear. One skinny little fellow was already asleep on his back with his helmet as ! pillow and the tropical sun beating into his face.

Bruce finished his beer and threw the bottle overboard.

Ruff opened another and placed it in his hand without comment.

“Why we going so slowly, boss?”

“I told the driver to keep the speed down - give us a chance to stop if the tracks have been torn up.”

“Yeah. Them Balubas might have done that - they’re mad Arabs all of them.” The warm beer drunk in the sun was having a soothing effect on bruce. He felt at peace, now, withdrawn from the need to make decisions, to participate in the life around him.

“Listen to that train-talk,” said Ruffy, and Bruce focused his hearing, on the clicketv-chock of the crossties.

“Yes, I know. You can make it say anything you want it to,” agreed Bruce.

“And it can sing,” Ruffy went on. “It’s got real music in it, like this.” He inflated the great barrel of his chest, lifted his head and let it come.

His voice was deep but with a resonance that caught the attention

of the men in the open trucks below them. Those who had been sprawled in the amorphous shapes of sleep stirred and sat up. Another voice joined in humming the tune, hesitantly at first, then more confidently; then others took it up, the words were unimportant, it was the rhythm that they could not resist. They had sung together many times before and like a well-trained choir each voice found its place, the star performers leading, changing the pace, improvising, quickening until the original tune lost its identity and became one of the tribal chants. Bruce recognize it as a planting song. It was one of his

favourites and he sat drinking his lukewarm beer and letting the

singing wash round him, build up into the chorus like storm waves, then fall back into a tenor solo before rising once more.

And the train ran on-through the sunlight towards the rain clouds in the north.

Presently Andre came out of the coach below him and picked his way forward through the men in the trucks until he reached Hendry. The two of them stood together, Andre’s face turned up towards the taller man and deadly earnest as he talked.

“Doll boy” Hendry had called him, and it was an accurate description of the effeminately pretty face with the big toffee eyes; the steel helmet he wore seemed too large for his shoulders to carry.

I wonder how old he is; Bruce watched him laugh suddenly, his face still turned upwards to Hendry; not much over twenty and I have never seen anything less like a hired killer.

“How the hell did anyone like de Surrier get mixed up in this?” His voice echoed the thought, and beside him Mike answered.

“He was working in Elisabethville when it started, and he couldn’t return to Belgium. I don’t know the reason but I guess it was something personal. When it started his firm closed down. I suppose this was the only employment he could find.”

“That Irishman, the one at the barrier, he called me a hired killer.” Thinking of Andre’s position in the scheme of things had turned Bruce’s thoughts back to his own status.

“I hadn’t thought about it that way before, but I suppose he’s right. That is what we are.” Mike Haig was silent for a moment, but when he spoke there was a stark quality in his voice.

“Look at these hands!” Involuntarily Bruce glanced down.

at them, and for the first time noticed that they were narrow with long moulded fingers, possessed of a functional beauty, the hands of an artist.

“Look at them,” Mike repeated, flexing them slightly; they were fashioned for a purpose, they were made to hold a scalpel, they were

made to save life.” Then he relaxed them and let them drop on to the rifle across his lap, the long delicate fingers incongruous upon the blue metal. “But look what they hold now!” Bruce stirred irritably.

He had not wanted to provoke another bout of Mike Haig’s soul-searching. Damn the old fool - why must he always start this, he knew as well as anyone that in the mercenary army of Katanga there was a taboo upon the past. It did not exist. “Ruffy,” Bruce snapped, aren’t you going to feed your boys?”

“Right now, boss.” Ruffy opened another beer and handed it to Bruce. “Hold that - it will keep your mind off food while I rustle it up.” He lumbered off along the root of

the coach still singing.

“Three years ago, it seems like all eternity,” Mike went on as though Bruce had not interrupted. “Three years ago I was a surgeon and now this.-The desolation had spread to his eyes, and Bruce felt his pity for the man deep down where he kept it imprisoned with all his other emotions.

“I was good. I was one of the best. Royal College.

Harley Street. Guy’s.” Mike laughed without humour, with bitterness. “Can you imagine my being driven in my Rolls to address the College on my advanced technique of cholecystectorny?”

“What happened?” The question was out before he could stop it, and Bruce realized how near to the surface he had let his pity rise. “No, don’t tell me. It’s your business. I don’t want to know.”

“But I’ll tell you, Bruce, I want to. It helps somehow, talking about it.” At first, thought Bruce, I wanted to talk also, to try and wash the pain away with words.

Mike was silent for a few seconds. Below them the singing rose

and fell, and the train ran on through the forest.

“It had taken me ten hard years to get there, but at last I had done it. A fine practice; doing the work I loved with skill, earning

the rewards I deserved. A wife that any man would have been proud of, a lovely home, many friends, too many friends perhaps; for success breeds friends the way a dirty kitchen breeds cockroaches.” Mike pulled out a handkerchief and dried the back of his neck where the wind could not reach.

“Those sort of friends mean parties,” he went on. “Parties when you’ve worked all day and you’re tired; when you need the lift that you

can get so easily from a bottle. You don’t know if you have the

weakness for the stuff until it’s too late; until you have a bottle in the drawer of your desk; until suddenly your practice isn’t so good any more.” Mike twisted the handkerchief around his fingers as he ploughed doggedly on. “Then you know it suddenly. You know it when your hands dance in the morning and all you want for breakfast is that, when you can’t wait until lunchtime because you have to operate and that’s the only way you can keep your hands steady. But you know it finally and

utterly when the knife turns in your hand and the artery starts to spurt and you watch it paralysed - you watch it hosing red over your gown and forming pools on the theatre floor.” Mike’s voice dried up then and he tapped a cigarette from his pack and lit it. His shoulders were hunched forward and his eyes were full of shadows of his guilt.

Then he straightened up and his voice was stronger.

“You must have read about it. I was headlines for a few days, all the papers But my name wasn” Haig in those days.

I got that name off a label on a bottle in a bar-room.

“Gladys stayed with me, of course, she was that type. We came out to Africa. I had enough saved from the wreck for a down payment on a tobacco farm in the Centenary block outside Salisbury. Two good seasons and I was off the bottle.

Gladys was having our first baby, we had both wanted one so badly.

It was all coming right again.” Mike stuffed the handkerchief back in his pocket, and his voice lost its strength again, turned dry and husky.

“Then one day I took the truck into the village and on the way home I stopped at the club. I had been there often before, but this time they threw me out at closing time and when I got back to the farm

I had a case of Scotch on the seat beside me.” Bruce wanted to stop

him; he knew what was coming and he didn’t want to hear it.

“The first rains started that night and the rivers came down in

flood. The telephone lines were knocked out and we were cut off. In the morning—” Mike stopped again and turned to Bruce.

“I suppose it was the shock of seeing me like that again, but in the morning Gladys went into labour. It was her first, and she wasn’t so young any more. She was still in labour the

next day, but by then she was too weak to scream. I remember how peaceful it was without her screaming and pleading with me to help.

You see she knew I had all the instruments I needed. She begged me to help. I can remember that; her voice through the fog of whisky. I

think I hated her then. I think I remember hating her, it was all so confused, so mixed up with the screaming and the liquor.

But at last she was quiet. I don’t think I realized she was dead.

I was simply glad she was quiet and I could have peace.” He dropped his eyes from Bruce’s face.

“I was too drunk to go to the funeral. Then I met a man in a bar-room, I can’t remember how long after it was, I can’t even remember where. it must have been on the Copperbelt. He was recruiting for

Tshombe’s army and I signed up; there didn’t seem anything else to do.”

Neither of them spoke again until a gendarme brought food to them, hunks of brown bread spread with tinned butter and filled with bully beet and pickled onions. They ate in silence listening, to the singing, and Bruce said at last: “You needn’t have told me.”

“I know.”

“Mike-” Bruce paused.

“Yes?”

“I’m sorry, if that’s any comfort.”

“It is,” Mike said.

“It helps to have - not to be completely alone. I like you, Bruce.” He blurted out the last sentence and Bruce recoiled as though Mike had spat in his face.

You fool, he rebuked himself savagely, you were wide open then.

You nearly let one of them in again.

Remorselessly he crushed down his sympathy, shocked at the effort it required, and when he picked up the radio the gentleness had gone from his eyes.

“Hendry,” he spoke into the set, “don’t talk so much. I put you up front to watch the tracks.” From the leading truck Wally Hendry looked round and forked two fingers at Bruce in a casual obscenity, but he turned back and faced ahead.

“You’d better go and take over from Hendry,” Bruce told Mike.

“Send him back here.” Mike Haig stood up and looked down at Bruce.

“What are you afraid of?” his voice softly puzzled.

“I gave you an order, Haig.”

“Yes, I’m on my way.”

The aircraft found them in the late afternoon. It was a Vampire

jet of the Indian Air Force and it came from the north.

They heard the soft rumble of it across the sky and then saw it glint like a speck of mica in the sunlight above the storm clouds ahead of them.

“I bet you a thousand francs to a handful of dung that this Bucko don’t know about us,” said Hendry with anticipation, watching the jet turn off its course towards them.

“Well, he does now,” said Bruce.

Swiftly he surveyed the rain clouds in front of them.

They were close; another ten minutes” run and they would be under them, and once there they were safe from air attack for the belly of the clouds pressed close against the earth and the rain was a thick blue-grey mist that would reduce visibility to a few hundred feet. He

switched on the radio.

“Driver, give us all the speed you have - get us into that rain.”

“Oui, monsieur, I came the acknowledgement and almost immediately the puffing of the loco quickened and the clatter of the crossties changed its rhythm.

“Look at him come,” growled Hendry. The jet fell fast away against the backdrop of cloud, still in sunlight, still a silver

point of light, but growing.

Bruce clicked over the band selector of the radio, searching the ether for the pilot’s voice. He tried four wavelengths and each time found only the crackle and drone of static, but with the fifth came the gentle sing-song of Hindustani. Bruce could not understand it, but he

could hear that the tone was puzzled. There was a short silence on the radio while the pilot listened to an instruction from the Kamina base which was beyond the power of their small set to receive, then a curt affirmative, “He’s coming in for a closer look,” said Bruce, then raising his voice, “Everybody under cover - and stay there.” He was not prepared to risk another demonstration of friendship.

The jet came cruising in towards them under half power, yet incredibly fast, leaving the sound of its engine far behind it, sharklike above the forest. Then Bruce could see the pilot’s head through the canopy; now he could make out his features. His face was very brown beneath the silver crash helmet and he had a little mustache, the same as the jack of spades. He was so close that Bruce saw the exact moment that he recognized them as Katangese; his eyes

showed white and his mouth puckered as he swore. Beside Bruce the radio relayed the oath with metallic harshness, and then the jet was banking away steeply, its engine howling in full throttle, rising, showing its swollen silver belly and the racks of rockets beneath its wings.

“That frightened seven years” growth out of him,” laughed Hendry.

“You should have let me blast him. He was close enough for me to hit him in the left eyeball.”

“You’ll get another chance in a moment,” Bruce assured him grimly. The radio was gabbling with consternation as the jet dwindled back into the sky. Bruce switched quickly to their own channel.

“Driver, can’t you get this thing moving?”

“Monsieur, never before has she moved as she does now.” Once more he switched back to the jet’s frequency and listened to the pilot’s excited voice. The jet was turning in a wide circle, perhaps fifteen miles away. Bruce glanced at the piled mass of cloud and rain ahead of them; it was moving down to meet them, but with ponderous dignity.

“If he comes back,” Bruce shouted down at his gendarmes, twe can be sure that it’s not just to look at us again. Open fire as soon as he’s in range. Give him everything you’ve got, we must try and spoil his aim.” Their faces were turned uptowards him, subdued by the awful inferiority of the earthbound to the hunter in the sky.

Only Andre did not look at Bruce; he was staring at the aircraft with his jaws clenching nervously and his eyes too large for his face.

Again there was silence on the radio, and every head turned back to watch the jet.

“Come on, Bucko, come on!” grunted Hendry impatiently. He spat into the palm of his right hand and then wiped it down the front of his jacket. “Come on, we want you.” With his thumb he flicked the safety catch of his rifle on and off, on and off.

Suddenly the radio spoke again. Two words, obviously acknowledging an order, and one of the words Bruce recognised. He had heard it before in circumstances that has burned it into his memory.

The Hindustani word

“Attack!” “All right,” he said and stood up. “He’s coming!” The wind fluttered his shirt against his chest. He settled his helmet firmly and pumped a round into the chamber of his FN.

“Get down into the truck, Hendry,” he ordered.

“I can see better from here.” Hendry was standing beside him, legs planted wide to brace himself against the violent motion of the train.

“As you like,” said Bruce. “Ruffy, you get under cover.”

“Too damn hot down there in that box,” grinned the huge Negro.

“You’re a mad Arab too,” said Bruce.

“Sure, we’re all mad Arabs.” The jet wheeled sharply and stooped

towards the forest, levelling, still miles out on their flank.

“This Bucko is a real apprentice. He’s going to take us from the side, so we can all shoot at him. If he was half awake he’d give it to us up the bum, hit the loco and make sure that we were all shooting over the top of each other,” gloated Hendry.

Silently, swiftly it closed with them, almost touching the tops of the trees. Then suddenly the cannon fire sparkled lemon-pale on its nose and all around them the air was filled with the sound of a thousand whips. Immediately every gun on the train opened up in reply.

The tracers from the Brens chased each other out to meet the plane and the rifles joined their voices in a clamour that drowned the cannon fire.

Bruce aimed carefully, the jet unsteady in his sights from the lurching of the coach; then he pressed the trigger and the rifle

juddered against his shoulder. From the corner of his eye he saw the empty cartridge cases spray from the breech in a bright bronze stream, and the stench of cordite stung his nostrils.

The aircraft slewed slightly, flinching from the torrent of fire.

“He’s yellow!” howled Hendry. “The bastard’s yellow!”

“Hit him!”

roared Ruffy. “Keep hitting him.” The jet twisted, lifted its nose so that the fire from its cannons passed harmlessly over their heads.

Then its nose dropped again and it fired its rockets, two from under each wing. The gunfire from the train stopped abruptly as everybody ducked for safety; only the three of them on the roof kept shooting.

Shrieking like four demons in harness, leaving parallel lines of white smoke behind them, the rockets came from about four hundred yards out and they covered the distance in the time it takes to draw a deep breath, but the pilot had dropped his nose too sharply and fired too late. The rockets exploded in the embankment of the tracks below them.

The blast threw Bruce over backwards. He fell and rolled, clutching desperately at the smooth roof, but as he went over the edge his fingers caught in the guttering and he hung there. He was dazed with the concussion, the guttering cutting into his fingers, the shoulder strap of his rifle round his neck strangling him, and the gravel of the embankment rushing past beneath him.

Ruffy reached over, caught him by the front of his jacket and lifted him back like a child.

“You going somewhere, boss?” The great round face was coated with dust from the explosions, but he was grinning happily. Bruce had a confused conviction that it would take at least a case of dynamite to make any impression on that mountain of black flesh.

Kneeling on the roof Bruce tried to rally himself. He saw that the wooden side of the coach nearest the explosions was splintered and torn and the roof was covered with earth and pebbles. Hendry was sitting beside him, shaking his head slowly from side to side; a small trickle of blood ran down from a scratch on his cheek and dripped from his chin. In the open trucks the men stood or sat with stunned

expressions on their faces, but the train still raced on towards the rain storm and the dust of the explosions hung in a dense brown cloud above the forest far behind them.

Bruce scrambled to his feet, searched frantically for the aircraft and found its tiny shape far off above the mass of cloud.

The radio was undamaged, protected by the sandbags from the blast.

Bruce reached for it and pressed the transmit button.

“Driver, are you all right?”

“Monsieur, I am greatly perturbed.

“You’re not alone,” Bruce assured him. “Keep this train going.”

“Oui, monsieur.” Then he switched to the aircraft’s frequency.

Although his ears were singing shrilly from the explosions, he could hear that the voice of the pilot had changed its tone. There was a slowness in it, a breathless catch on some of the words. He’s frightened or he’s hurt, thought Bruce, but he still has time to make another pass at us before we reach the storm front.

His mind was clearing fast now, and he became aware of the complete lack of readiness in his men.

“Ruffy!” he shouted. “Get them on their feet. Get them ready.

That plane will be back any second now.” Ruffy jumped down into the truck and Bruce heard his palm slap against flesh as he began to bully them into activity. Bruce followed him down, then climbed over into the second truck and began the same process there.

“Haig, give me a hand, help me get the lead out of them.” Further removed from the shock of the explosion, the men in this truck reacted readily and crowded to the side, starting to reload, checking their weapons, swearing, faces losing the dull dazed expressions.

Bruce turned and shouted back, “Ruffy, are any of your lot hurt?”

“Couple of scratches, nothing bad.” On the roof of the coach Hendry was standing again, watching the aircraft, blood on his face and his rifle in his hands.

“Where’s Andre?” Bruce asked Haig as they met in the middle of the truck.

“Up front. I think he’s been hit.” Bruce went forward and found

Andre doubled up, crouching in a corner of the truck, his rifle lying beside him and both hands covering his face. His shoulders heaved as though he were in pain.

Eyes, thought Bruce, he’s been hit in the eyes. He reached him and stooped over him, pulling his hands from his face, expecting to see blood.

Andre was crying, his cheeks wet with tears and his eyelashes gummed together. For a second Bruce stared at him and then he caught the front of his jacket and pulled him to his feet. He picked up

Andre’s rifle and the barrel was cold, not a single shot had been fired out of it. He dragged the Belgian to the side and thrust the rifle

into his hands.

“I’m going to be standing here beside you.” he snarled, If you do that again I’ll shoot you. Do you understand?”

“I’m sorry, Bruce.” Andre’s lips were swollen where he had bitten them; his face was smeared with tears and slack with fear. “I’m sorry. I couldn’t help it.” Bruce ignored him and turned his attention back to the aircraft. It was turning in for its next run.

He’s going to come from the side again, Bruce thought; this time he’ll get us. He can’t miss twice in a row.

In silence once more they watched the jet slide down the valley between two vast white mountains of cloud and level off above the forest. Small and dainty and deadly it raced in towards them.

One of the Bren guns opened up, rattling raucously, sending out tracers like bright beads on a string.

“Too soon,” muttered Bruce. “Much too soon; he must be all of a mile out of range.” But the effect was instantaneous. The jet swerved, almost hit the tree tops and then over-corrected, losing its line of approach.

A howl of derision went up from the train and was immediately lost in the roar as every gun opened fire. The jet loosed its remaining rockets, blindly, hopelessly, without a chance of a hit. Then it climbed steeply, turning away into the cloud ahead of them. The sound of its engines receded, was muted by the cloud and then was gone.

Ruffy was performing a dance of triumph, waving his rifle over his head. Hendry on the roof was shouting abuse at the clouds into which the jet had vanished, one of the Brens was still firing short ecstatic bursts, someone else was chanting the Katangese war cry and others were taking it up. And then the driver in the locomotive came in with his whistle, spurting steam with each shriek.

Bruce stung his rifle over his shoulder, pushed his helmet on to the back of his head, took out a cigarette and lit it, then stood watching them sing and laugh and chatter with the relief from danger.

Next to him Andre leaned out and vomited over the side; a little of it came out of his nose and dribbled down the front of his battle-jacket. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.

“I’m sorry, Bruce. I’m sorry, truly I’m sorry,” he whispered.

And they were under the cloud, its coolness slumped over them like air from an open refrigerator. The first heavy drops stung Bruce’s cheek and then rolled down heavily washing away the smell of cordite, melting the dust from Ruffy’s face until it shone again like washed coal.

Bruce felt his jacket cling wetly to his back.

“Ruffy, two men at each Bren. The rest of them can get back into the covered coaches. We’ll relieve every hour.” He reversed his rifle so the muzzle pointed downwards. “De Surrier, you can go, and you as well, Hendry.”

“I’ll stay with you, Bruce.”

“All right then.” The gendarmes clambered back into the covered coaches still laughing and chattering, and Ruffy came forward with a ground sheet and handed it to

Bruce.

“The radios are all covered. If you don’t need me, boss, I got some business with one of those Arabs in the coach.

He’s got near twenty thousand francs on him; so I’d better go and give him a couple of tricks with the cards.”

“One of these days I’m going to explain your Christian monarchs to the boys. Show them that the odds are three to one against them,” Bruce threatened.

“I wouldn’t do that, boss,” Ruffy advised seriously. “All that money isn’t good for them, just gets them into trouble.”

“Off you go then. I’ll call you later,” said Bruce. “Tell them I said “well done

I’m proud of them.” “Yeah. I’ll tell them,” promised Ruffy.

Bruce lifted the tarpaulin that covered the set.

“Driver, desist before you burst the boiler!” The abandoned flight of the train steadied to a more sedate pace, and Bruce tilted his helmet over his eyes and pulled the ground sheet up around his mouth before he leaned out over the side of the truck to inspect the rocket damage.

“All the windows blown out on this side and the woodwork torn a

little, he muttered. “But a lucky escape all the same.”

“What a miserable comic-opera war this is,” grunted Mike Haig. “That pilot had the right idea: why risk your life when it’s none of your business.”

“He was wounded,” Bruce guessed. “I think we hit him on his first run.”

Then they were silent, with the rain driving into their faces, slitting their eyes to peer ahead along the tracks. The men at the Brens huddled into their brown and green camouflage groundsheets, all their jubilation of ten minutes earlier completely gone. They are like cats, thought Bruce as he noticed their dejection, they can’t stand being wet.

“It’s half past five already.” Mike spoke at last. “Do you think we’ll make Msapa junction before nightfall?”

“With this weather it will be dark by six.” Bruce looked up at the low cloud that was prematurely bringing on the night. “I’m not going to risk travelling in the dark.

This is the edge of Baluba country and we can’t use the headlights oftheloco.”

“You going to stop then?” Bruce nodded. What a stupid bloody question, he thought irritably. Then he recognized his irritation as reaction from the danger they had just experienced, and he spoke to make amends.

“We can’t be far now - if we start again at first light we’ll reach Msapa before sun-up.”

“My God, it’s cold,” complained Mike and he shivered briefly.

“Either too hot or too cold,” Bruce agreed; he knew that it was also reaction that was making him garrulous. But he did not attempt to stop himself. “That’s one of the things about this happy little planet of ours: nothing is in moderation. Too hot or too cold, either you are hungry or you’ve overeaten, you are in love or you hate the world-” “Like you?” asked Mike.

“Dammit, Mike, you’re as bad as a woman. Can’t you conduct an objective discussion without introducing personalities?” Bruce demanded. He could feel his temper rising to the surface, he was cold and edgy, and he wanted a smoke.

“Objective theories must have subjective application to prove

their worth,” Mike pointed out. There was just a trace of an amused smile on his broad ravaged old face.

“Let’s forget it then. I don’t want to talk personalities,” snapped Bruce; then immediately went on to do so.

“Humanity sickens me if I think about it too much. De Surrier puking his heart out with fear, that animal Hendry, you trying to keep off the liquor, Joan-” He stopped himself abruptly.

“Who is Joan?”

“Do I ask you your business?” Bruce flashed the standard reply to all personal questions in the mercenary army of

Katanga.

“No. But I’m asking you yours - who is Joan?” All right. I’ll tell him. If he wants to know, I’ll tell him.

Anger had made Bruce reckless.

“Joan was the bitch I married.”

“So, that’s it then!”

“Yes -

that’s it! Now you know. So you can leave me alone.”

“Kids?”

“Two - a boy and a girl.” The anger was gone from Bruce’s voice, and the raw naked pain was back for an instant. Then he rallied and his voice was neutral once more.

“And none of it matters a damn. As far as I’m concerned the whole human race - all of it - can go and lose itself. I don’t want any part of it.”

“How old are you, Bruce?”

“Leave me alone, damn you!”

“How old are you?”

“I’m thirty.”

“You talk like a teenager.”

“And I feel like an

old, old man.” The amusement was no longer on Mike’s face as he asked.

“What did you do before this?”

“I slept and breathed and ate - and got trodden on.”

“What did you do for a living?”

“Lawyer.”

“Were you successful?”

“How do you measure success? If you mean, did I make money, the answer is yes.” I made enough to pay off the house and the car, he thought bitterly, and to contest custody of my children, and finally to meet the divorce settlement. I had enough for that, but, of course, I had to sell my partnership.

“Then you’ll be all right,” Mike told him. “If you’ve succeeded once you’ll be able to do it again when you’ve recovered from the shock; when you’ve rearranged your life and taken other people into it

to make you strong again.”

“I’m strong now, Haig. I’m strong because there is no one in my life. That’s the only way you can be secure, on your own. Completely free and on your own.”

“Strong!” Anger flared in

Mike’s voice for the first time.

“On your own you’re nothing, Curry. On your own you’re so weak I

could piss on you and wash you away!” Then the anger evaporated and

Mike went on softly, “But you’ll find out - you’re one of the lucky ones. You attract people to you. You don’t have to be alone.”

“Well, that’s the way I’m going to be from now on.”

“We’ll see,” murmured Mike.

“Yes, we’ll see,” Bruce agreed, and lifted the tarpaulin over the radio.

Driver, we are going to halt for the night. It’s too dark to proceed with safety.” Brazzaville Radio came through weakly on the set and the static was bad, for outside the rain still fell and thunder rolled around the sky like an unsecured cargo at sea.

Our Elisabethville correspondent reports that elements of the

Kantangese Army in the South Kasai province today violated the ceasefire agreement by firing upon a low-flying aircraft of the United

Nations command. The aircraft, a Vampire jet fighter of the Indian Air

Force, returned safely to its base at Kamina airfield. The pilot, however, was wounded by small arms fire. His condition is satisfactory.

“The United Nations Commander in Katanga, General Rhee, has lodged a strong protest with the Kantange se government-” The announcer’s voice was overlaid by the electric crackle of static.

we winged him!” rejoiced Wally Hendry. The scab on his cheek had dried black, with angry red edges.

“Shut up,” snapped Bruce, “we’re trying to hear what’s happening.”

“You can’t hear a bloody thing now. Andre, there’s a bottle in my pack. Get it! I’m going to drink to that coolie with a bullet up his-” Then the radio cleared and the announcer’s voice came through loudly.

at Senwati Mission fifty miles from the river harbour of Port

Reprieve. A spokesman for the Central Congolese Government denied that the Congolese troops were operating in this area, and it is feared that a large body of armed bandits is taking advantage of the unsettled conditions to-” Again the static drowned it out.

“Damn this set muttered Bruce as he tried to tune it.

stated today that the removal of missile equipment from the

Russian bases in Cuba had been confirmed by aerial reconnaissance-“

“That’s all that we are interested in.” Bruce switched off the radio.

“What a shambles! Ruffy, where is Senwati Mission?”

“Top end of the swamp, near the Rhodesian border.”

“Fifty miles from Port Reprieve,” muttered Bruce, not attempting to conceal his anxiety.

“It’s more than that by road, boss, more like a hundred.”

“That should take them three or four days in this weather, with time off for looting along the way,” Bruce calculated.

“It will be cutting it fairly fine. We must get through to Port

Reprieve by tomorrow evening and pull out again at dawn the next day.”

“Why not keep going tonight?” Hendry removed the bottle from his lips to ask. “Better than sitting here being eaten by mosquitoes.”

“We’ll stay,” Bruce answered. “It won’t do anybody much good to derail this lot in the dark.” He turned back to

Ruffy.

“Three-hour watches tonight, Sergeant Major. Lieutenant Haig will

take the first, then Lieutenant Hendry, then Lieutenant de Surrier, and

I’ll do the dawn spell.”

“Okay, boss. I’d better make sure my boys aren’t sleeping.” He left the compartment and the broken glass from the corridor windows crunched under his boots.

“I’ll be on my way also.” Mike stood up and pulled the ground sheet over his shoulders.

“Don’t waste the batteries of the searchlights, Mike.

Sweep every ten minutes or so.”

“Okay, Bruce.” Mike looked across at Hendry. “I’ll call you at nine o’clock.”

“Jolly good show, old fruit.” Wally exaggerated Mike’s accent. “Good hunting, what!” and then as Mike left the compartment, “Silly old bugger, why does he have to talk like that?” No one answered him, and he pulled up his shirt behind.

“Andre what’s this on my back?”

“It’s a pimple.”

“Well, squeeze it then.” Bruce woke in the night, sweating, with the mosquitoes whining about his face. Outside it was still raining and occasionally the reflected light from the searchlight on the roof of the coach lit the interior dimly.

On one of the bottom bunks Mike Haig lay on his back.

His face was shining with sweat and he lolled his head from side to side on the pillow. He was grinding his teeth - a sound to which

Bruce had become accustomed, and he preferred it to Hendry’s snores.

“You poor old bugger,” whispered Bruce.

From the bunk opposite, Andre de Surrier whimpered.

In sleep he looked like a child with dark soft hair falling over his forehead.

The sun was hot before it cleared the horizon. It lifted a warm mist from the dripping forest. and the rain petered out in the dawn.

As they ran north the forest thickened, the trees grew closer together and the undergrowth beneath them was coarser than it had been around

Elisabethville.

Through the warm misty dawn Bruce saw the water tower at Msapa

junction rising like a lighthouse above the forest, its silver paint streaked with brown rust. Then they came round the last curve in the tracks and the little settlement huddled before them.

It was small, half a dozen buildings in all, and there was about it the desolate aspect of human habitation reverting to jungl. Beside the tracks stood the water tower and the raised concrete coal bins.

Then the station buildings of wood and iron, with the large sign above the verandah:

MSAPA JUNCTION. Elevation 963m.

There was an avenue of casia flora trees with very dark green foliage and orange flowers; and beyond that, on the edge of the forest, a row of cottages.

One of the cottages had been burned, its ruins were fire blackened

and tumbled; and the gardens had lost all sense of discipline with three months’neglect.

“Driver, stop beside the water tower. You have fifteen minutes to fill your boiler.”

“Thank you, monsieur.” With a heavy sigh of steam the loco pulled up beside the tower.

“Haig, take four men and go back to give the driver a hand.”

“Okay, Bruce.” Bruce turned once more to the radio.

“Hendry.”

“Hello there.”

“Get a patrol together, six men, and search those cottages. Then take a look at the edge of the bush, we don’t want any unexpected visitors.” Wally Hendry waved an acknowledgement from the leading truck, and Bruce went on: “Put de

Surrier on.” He watched Hendry pass the set to Andre

“De Surner, you are in charge of the leading trucks in Hendry’s absence. Keep Hendry covered, but watch the bush behind you also. They could come from there.” Bruce switched off the set and turned to Ruffy. “Stay up here

on the roof, Ruffy. I’m going to chase them up with the watering. If you see anything, don’t write me a postcard, start pooping off.” Ruffy nodded. “Have some breakfast to take with you.” He proffered an open bottle of beer.

“Better than bacon and eggs.” Bruce accepted the bottle and climbed down on to the platform. Sipping the beer he walked back along the train and looked up at Mike and the engine driver in the tower.

“Is it empty?” he called up at them.

“Half full, enough for a bath if you want one,” answered Mike.

“Don’t tempt me.” The idea was suddenly very attractive, for he could smell his own stale body odour and his eyelids were itchy and swollen from mosquito bites. “My kingdom for a bath.” He ran his fingers over his jowls and they rasped over stiff beard.

He watched them swing the canvas hose out over the loco. The chubby little engine driver clambered up and sat astride the boiler as

he fitted the hose.

A shout behind him made Bruce turn quickly, and he saw Hendry’s patrol coming back from the cottages. They were dragging two small prisoners with them.

“Hiding in the first cottage,” shouted Hendry. “They tried to leg it into the bush.” He prodded one of them with his bayonet. The child cried out and twisted in the hands of the gendarme who held her.

“Enough of that.” Bruce stopped him from using the bayonet again and went to meet them. He looked at the two children.

The girl was close to puberty with breasts like insect bites just starting to show, thin-legged with enlarged kneecaps out of proportion to her thighs and calves. She wore only a dirty piece of trade cloth drawn up between her legs and secured around her waist by a length of bark string, and the tribal tattoo marks across her chest and cheeks and forehead stood proud in ridges of scar tissue.

“Ruffy.” Bruce called him down from the coach. “Can you speak to them?” Ruffy picked up the boy and held him on his hip. He was younger than the girl - seven, perhaps eight years old. Very dark-skinned and completely naked, as naked as the terror on his face.

Ruffy grunted sharply and the gendarme released the girl.

She stood trembling, making no attempt to escape.

Then in a soothing rumble Ruffy began talking to the boy on his hip; he smiled as he spoke and stroked the child’s head. Slowly a little of the fear melted and the boy answered in a piping treble that

Bruce could not understand.

“What does he say?” urged Bruce.

“He thinks we’re going to eat them,” laughed Ruffy. “Not enough

here for a decent breakfast.” He patted the skinny little arm, grey with crushed filth, then he gave an order to one of the gendarmes. The man disappeared into the coach and came back with a handful of chocolate bars. Still talking, Ruffy peeled one of them and placed it in the boy’s mouth. The child’s eyes widened appreciatively at the taste and he chewed quickly, his eyes on Ruffy’s face, his answers now muffled with chocolate.

At last Ruffy turned to Bruce.

“No trouble here, boss. They come from a small village about an hour’s walk away. just five or six families, and no war party. These kids sneaked across to have a look at the houses, pinch what they could perhaps, but that’s all.” “How many men at this village?” asked Bruce, and Ruffy turned back to the boy. In reply to the question he held up the fingers of both hands, without interrupting the chewing.

“Does he know if the line is clear through to Port Reprieve? Have they burnt the bridges or torn up the tracks?” Both children were dumb to this question. The boy swallowed the last of his chocolate and looked hungrily at Ruffy, who filled his mouth again.

“Jesus,” muttered Hendry with deep disgust. “Is this a creche or something. Let’s all play ring around the roses.”

“Shut up,” snapped

Bruce, and then to Ruffy, “Have they seen any soldiers?” Two heads shaken in solemn unison.

“Have they seen any war parties of their own people?” Again solemn negative.

“All right, give them the rest of the chocolate,” instructed

Bruce. That was all he could get out of them, and time was wasting. He glanced back at the tower and saw that Haig and the engine driver had finished watering. For a further second he studied the boy. His own son would be about the same age now; it was twelve months since - Bruce stopped himself hurriedly. That way lay madness.

Hendry, take them back to the edge of the bush and turn them loose. Hurry up. We’ve wasted long enough.”

“You’re telling me!”

grunted Hendry and beckoned to the two children. With Hendry leading and a gendarme on each side they trotted away obediently and disappeared behind the station building.

“Driver, are your preparations complete?”

“Yes, monsieur, we are ready to depart.”

“Shovel all the coal in, we’ve gotta keep her rolling.” Bruce smiled at him, he liked the little man and their stilted exchanges gave him pleasure.

“Pardon, monsieur.”

“It was an imbecility, a joke - forgive me.”

“Ah, a joke!” The roly-poly stomach wobbled merrily.

“Okay, Mike,” Bruce shouted, “get your men aboard. We are, -” A

burst of automatic gunfire cut his voice short. It came from behind the station buildings, and it battered into the heat-muted morning with such startling violence that for an instant Bruce stood paralysed.

“Haig,” he yelled, “get up front and take over from de Surrier.”

That was the weak point, and Mike’s party ran down the train.

“You men.” Bruce stopped the six gendarmes. “Come with me.” They fell in behind him, and with a quick glance Bruce assured himself that the train was safe. All along its length rifle barrels were poking out protectively, while on the roof Ruffy was dragging the Bren round to cover the flank. A charge by even a thousand Baluba must fail before the fire power that was ready now to receive it.

“Come on,” said Bruce and ran, with the gendarmes behind him, to the sheltering wall of the station building.

There had been no shot fired since that initial burst, which could mean either that it was a false alarm or that Hendry’s party had been overwhelmed by the first rush.

The door of the station master’s office was locked. Bruce kicked and it crashed open with the weight of his booted foot behind it.

I’ve always wanted to do that, he thought happily in his excitement, ever since I saw Gable do it in San Francisco.

“You four - inside! Cover us from the windows.” They crowded into the room with their rifles held ready. Through the open door Bruce saw the telegraph equipment on the table by the far wall; it was clattering metallically from traffic on the Elisabethville-Jadotville line. Why is it that under the stimulus of excitement my mind always registers irrelevances? Which thought is another irrelevancy, he decided.

“Come on, you two, stay with me.” He led them down the outside

wall, keeping in close to its sheltering bulk, pausing at the corner to check the load of his rifle and slip the selector on to rapid fire.

A further moment he hesitated. What will I find around this corner? A hundred naked savages crowded round the mutilated bodies of

Hendry and his gendarmes, or … ?

Crouching, ready to jump back behind the wall, rifle held at high port across his chest, every muscle and nerve of his body cocked like a hair-trigger, Bruce stepped sideways into the open.

Hendry and the two gendarmes stood in the dusty road beyond the first cottage. They were relaxed, talking together, Hendry reloading his rifle, cramming the magazine with big red hands on which the gingery hair caught the sunlight. A cigarette dangled from his lower lip and he laughed suddenly, throwing his head back as he did so and the cigarette ash dropped down his jacket front. Bruce noticed the long dark sweat stain across his shoulders.

The two children lay in the road fifty yards farther on.

Bruce was suddenly cold, it came from inside, a cramping coldness of the guts and chest. Slowly he straightened up and began to walk towards the children. His feet fell silently in the powder dust and the only sound was his own breathing, hoarse, as though a wounded beast followed close behind him. He walked past Hendry and the two gendarmes

without looking at them; but they stopped talking, watching him

uneasily.

He reached the girl first and went down on one knee beside her, laying his rifle aside and turning her gently on to her back.

“This isn’t true,” he whispered. “This can’t be true.” The bullet had taken half her chest out with it, a hole the size of a coffee cup, with the blood still moving in it, but slowly, oozing, welling up into it with the viscosity of new honey.

Bruce moved across to the boy; he felt an almost dreamlike sense of unreality.

“No, this isn’t true.” He spoke louder, trying to undo it with words.

Three bullets had hit the boy; one had torn his arm loose at the shoulder and the sharp white end of the bone pointed accusingly out of the wound. The other bullets had severed his trunk almost in two.

It came from far away, like the rising roar of a train along a tunnel. Bruce could feel his whole being shaken by the strength of it, he shut his eyes and listened to the roaring in his head, and with his eyes tight closed his vision was filled with the colour of blood.

“Hold on!” a tiny voice screamed in his roaring head.

“Don’t let go, fight it. Fight it as you’ve fought before.” And he clung like a flood victim to the straw of his sanity while the great roaring was all around him. Then the roar was muted, rumbling away, gone past, a whisper, now nothing.

The coldness came back to him, a coldness more vast than the flood had been.

He opened his eyes and breathed again, stood up and walked back to where Hendry stood with the two gendarmes.

“Corporal,” Bruce addressed one of the men beside Hendry; and with a shock he heard that his own voice was calm, without any trace of the fury that had so nearly carried him away on its flood.

“Corporal, go back to the train. Tell Lieutenant Haig and

Sergeant Major Ruffararc, that I want them here.” Thankfully the man went, and Bruce spoke to Wally Hendry in the same dispassionate tone.

“I told you to turn them loose,” he said.

“So they could run home and call the whole pack down on us - is that what you wanted, Bucko?” Hendry had recovered now, he was defiant, grinning.

“So instead you murdered them?”

“Murdered! You crazy or something, Bruce? They’re Balubes, aren’t they? Bloody man-eating

Balubes!” shouted Hendry angrily, no longer grinning. “What’s wrong

with you man? This is war, Bucko, war. C’est laguerre, like the man said, c’est laguerre!” Then suddenly his voice moderated again.

“Let’s forget it. I did what was right, now let’s forget it; what’s two more bloody Balubes after all the killing that’s been going on?

Let’s forget it.” Bruce did not answer, he lit a cigarette and looked beyond Hendry for the others to come.

“How’s that, Bruce? You willing we just forget it?” persisted

Hendry.

“On the contrary, Hendry, I make you a sacred oath, and I call upon God to witness it.” Bruce was not looking at him, he couldn’t trust himself to look at Hendry without killing him. “This is my promise to you: I will have you hanged for this, not shot, hanged on good hemp rope. I have sent for Haig and Ruffararo so we’ll have plenty of witnesses. The first thing I do once we get back to

Elisabethville will be to turn you over to the proper authorities.”

“You don’t mean that!”

“I have never meant anything so seriously in my life.”

“Jesus, Bruce!-” Then Haig and Ruffy came; they came running until they saw, and they stopped suddenly and stood uncertainly in the bright sun, looking from Bruce to the two frail little corpses lying in the road.

“What happened?” asked Mike.

“Hendry shot them,” answered Bruce.

“What for?”

“Only he knows.”

“You mean he - he just killed them, just shot them down?”

“Yes.” “My God,” said Mike, and then again, his voice dull with shock, my God.”

“Go and look at them, Haig. I want you to look closely so you remember.” Haig walked across to the children.

“You too, Ruffy. You’ll be a witness at the trial.” Mike Haig and

Ruffy walked side by side to where the children lay, and stood staring down at them. Hendry shuffled his feet in the dust awkwardly and then went on loading the magazine of his rifle.

“Oh, for Chrissake!” he blustered. “What’s all the fuss?

They’re just a couple of Balubes.” Wheeling slowly to face him

Mike Haig’s face was a yellowish colour with only his cheeks and his nose still flushed with the tiny burst of veins beneath the surface of the skin, but there was no colour in his lips. Each breath he drew

sobbed in his throat. He started back towards Hendry, still breathing that way, and his mouth was working as he tried to force it to speak.

As he came on he unslung the rifle from his shoulder.

“Haig! said Bruce sharply.

“This time - you you bloody - this is the last,-” mouthed Haig.

“Watch it, Bucko!” Hendry warned him. He stepped back, clumsily trying to fit the loaded magazine on to his rifle.

Mike Haig dropped the point of his bayonet to the level of

Hendry’s stomach.

“Haig!” shouted Bruce, and Haig charged surprisingly fast for a man of his age, leaning forward, leading with the bayonet at Hendry’s

stomach, the incoherent mouthings reaching their climax in a formless bellow.

“Come on, then!” Hendry answered him and stepped forward. As they came together Hendry swept the bayonet to one side with the butt of his own rifle. The point went under his armpit and they collided chest to chest, staggering as Haig’s weight carried them backwards. Hendry dropped his rifle and locked both arms round Haig’s neck, forcing his head back so that his face was tilted up at the right angle.

“Look out, Mike, he’s going to butt!” Bruce had recognized the move, but his warning came too late. Hendry’s head jerked forward and

Mike gasped as the front of Hendry’s steel helmet caught him across the bridge of his nose. The rifle slipped from Mike’s grip and fell into the road, he lifted his hands and covered his face with Spread fingers and the redness oozed out between them.

Again Hendry’s head jerked forward like a hammer and again Mike gasped as the steel smashed into his face and fingers.

“Knee him, Mike!” Bruce yelled as he tried to take up a position from which to intervene, but they were staggering in a circle, turning like a wheel and Bruce could not get in.

Hendry’s legs were braced apart as he drew his head back to Strike again, and Mike’s knee went up between them, all the way up with power into the fork of Hendry’s crotch.

Breaking from the clinch, his mouth open in a silent scream of agony, Hendry doubled up with both hands holding his lower stomach, and sagged slowly on to his knees in the dust.

Dazed, with blood running into his mouth, Mike fumbled with the canvas flap of his holster.

“I’ll kill you, you murdering swine.” The pistol came out into his right hand; short-barrelled, blue and ugly.

Bruce stepped up behind him, his thumb found the nerve centre below the elbow and as he dug in the pistol dropped from Mike’s paralysed hand and dangled on its lanyard against his knee.

Ruffy, stop him,” Bruce shouted, for Hendry was clawing painfully at the rifle that lay in the dust beside him.

“Got it, boss!” Ruffy stooped quickly over the crawling body at his feet, in one swift movement opened the flap of the holster, drew the revolver and the lanyard snapped like cotton as he jerked on it.

They stood like that: Bruce holding Haig from behind, and Hendry crouched at Ruffy’s feet. The only sound for several seconds was the hoarse rasping of breath.

Bruce felt Mike relaxing in his grip as the madness left him; he unclipped his pistol from his lanyard and let it drop.

“Leave me, Bruce. I’m all right now.”

“Are you sure? I don’t

want to shoot you.”

“No, I’m all right.”

“If you start it again, I’ll have to shoot you. Do you understand?” Yes, I’ll be all right now. I

lost my senses for a moment.” :You certainly did,” Bruce agreed, and released him.

They formed a circle round the kneeling Hendry, and Bruce spoke.

“If either you or Haig start it again you’ll answer to me, do you hear me?” Hendry looked up, his small eyes slitted with pain. He did

not answer.

“Do you hear me?” Bruce repeated the question and Hendry nodded.

“Good! From now on, Hendry, you are under open arrest.

I can’t spare men to guard you, and you’re welcome to escape if you’d like to try. The local gentry would certainly entertain you most handsomely, they’d probably arrange a special banquet in your honour.”

Hendry’s lips drew back in a snarl that exposed teeth with green slimy stains on them.

“But remember my promise, Hendry, as soon as we get back to,-“

“Wally, Wally, are you hurt?” Andre came running from the direction of the station. He knelt beside Hendry.

“Get away, leave me alone.” Hendry struck out at him impatiently and Andre recoiled.

“De Surrier, who gave you permission to leave your post?

Get back to the train.” Andre looked up uncertainly, and then back to Hendry.

“De Surrier, you heard me. Get going. And you also, Haig.” He watched them disappear behind the station building before he glanced once more at the two children. There was a smear of blood and melted chocolate across the boy’s cheek and his eyes were wide open in an expression of surprise. Already the flies were settling, crawling

delightedly over the two small corpses.

“Ruffy, get spades, Bury them under those trees.” He pointed at the avenue of casia flora. “But do it quickly.” He spoke brusquely so that how he felt would not show in his voice.

“Okay, boss. I’ll fix it.”

“Come on, Hendry,” Bruce snapped, and

Wally Hendry heaved to his feet and followed him meekly back to the train.

Slowly from Msapa junction they travelled northwards through the

forest. Each tree seemed to have been cast from the same mould, tall and graceful in itself, but when multiplied countless million times the effect was that of numbing monotony. Above them was a lane of open sky with the clouds scattered, but slowly regrouping for the next assault, and the forest shut in the moist heat so they sweated even in the wind of the train’s movement.

“How is your face?” asked Bruce and Mike Haig touched the parallel swellings across his forehead where the skin was broken and discoloured.

“It will do,” he decided; then he lifted his eyes and looked across the open trucks at Wally Hendry. “You shouldn’t have stopped me, Bruce.” Bruce did not answer, but he also watched Hendry as he leaned uncomfortably against the side of the leading truck, obviously favouring his injuries, his face turned half away from them, talking to

Andre.

“You should have let me kill him,” Mike went on. “A man who can shoot down two small children in cold blood and then laugh about it afterwards-!” Mike left the rest unsaid, but his hands were opening and closing in his lap.

“It’s none of your business, said Bruce, sensitive to the implied rebuke. “What are you? One of God’s avenging angels?”

“None of my business, you say?” Mike turned quickly to face Bruce. “My God, what kind of man are you? I hope for your sake you don’t mean that.”

“I’ll tell you in words of one syllable what kind of man I am, Haig,” Bruce answered flatly. “I’m the kind that minds my own bloody business, that lets other people lead their own lives. I am ready to take reasonable measures to prevent others flouting the code which society has drawn up

for us, but that’s all. Hendry has committed murder; this I agree is a bad thing, and when we get back to Elisabethville I will bring it to the attention of the people whose business it is.

But I am not going to wave banners and quote from the Bible and froth at the mouth.”

“That’s all?”

“That’s all.”

“You don’t feel sorry for those two kids?”

“Yes I do. But pity doesn’t heal bullet wounds; all “it does is distress me. So I switch off the pity - they can’t use it.”

“You don’t feel anger or disgust or horror at Hendry?”

“The same thing applies,” explained Bruce, starting to lose patience again. “I could work up a sweat about it if I let myself loose on an

emotional orgy, as you are doing.”

“So instead you treat something as evil as Hendry with an indifferent tolerance?” asked Mike.

“Jesus Christ!” grated Bruce. “What the hell do you want me to do?”

“I want you to stop playing dead. I want you to be able to recognize evil and to destroy it.” Mike was starting to lose his temper also; his nerves were taut.

“That’s great! Do you know where I can buy a secondhand crusader

outfit and a white horse, then singlehanded I will ride out to wage war on cruelty and ignorance, lust and greed and hatred and poverty-“

“That’s not what I-” Mike tried to interrupt, but Bruce overrode him, his handsome face flushed darkly with anger and the sun. “You want me to destroy evil wherever I find it. You old fool, don’t you know that it has a hundred heads and that for each one you cut off another hundred grow in its place?”

“Don’t you know that it’s in you also, so to destroy it you have to destroy yourself?”

“You’re a coward, Curry!

The first time you burn a finger you run away and build yourself an asbestos shelter,-“

“I don’t like being called names, Haig. Put a leash on your tongue.” Mike paused and his expression changed, softening into a grin.

“I’m sorry, Bruce. I was just trying to teach you-“

“Thank you,” scoffed Bruce, his voice still harsh; he had not been placated by the

apology. “You are going to teach me, thanks very much! But what are you going to teach me, Haig? What are you qualified to teach? “How to find success and happiness” by Laughing. “Haig who worked his way down to a lieutenancy in the black army of Katanga - how’s that as a title for your lecture, or do you prefer something more technical like: “The applications of alcohol to spiritual research-””

“All right, Bruce. Drop it, I’ll shut up,” and Bruce saw how deeply he had wounded

Mike. He regretted it then, he would have liked to unsay it. But that’s one thing you can never do.

Beside him Mike Haig was suddenly much older and more tired looking, the pouched wrinkles below his eyes seemed to have deepened in the last few seconds, and a little more of the twinkle had gone from his eyes. His short laughter had a bitter humourless ring to it.

“When you put it that way it’s really quite funny.”

“I punched a little low,” admitted Bruce, and then, perhaps I should let you shoot

Hendry. A waste of ammunition really, but seeing that you want to so badly,” Bruce drew his pistol and offered it to Mike butt first, “use mine.” He grinned disarmingly at Mike and his grin was almost impossible to resist; Mike started to laugh. It wasn’t a very good joke, but somehow it caught fire between them and suddenly they were laughing together.

Mike Haig’s battered features spread like warm butter and twenty

years dropped from his face. Bruce leaned back against the sandbags with his mouth wide open, the pistol still in his hand and his long lean body throbbing uncontrollably with laughter.

There was something feverish in it, as though they were trying with laughter to gargle away the taste of blood and hatred. It was the laughter of despair.

Below them the men in the trucks turned to watch them, puzzled at first, and then beginning to chuckle in sympathy, not recognizing the sickness of that sound.

Hey, boss,” called Ruffy. “First time I ever seen you laugh like you meant it.” And the epidemic spread, everyone was laughing, even

Andre de Surrier was smiling.

Only Wally Hendry was untouched by it, silent and sullen, watching

them with small expressionless eyes.

They came to the bridge over the Cheke in the middle of the afternoon. Both the road and the railway crossed it side by side, but after this brief meeting they diverged and the road twisted away to the left. The river was padded on each bank by dense dark green bush; three hundred yards thick, a matted tangle of Thorn and tree fern with the big trees growing up through” it and bursting into flower as they reached the sunlight.

“Good place for an ambush,” muttered Mike Haig, eyeing the solid green walls of vegetation on each side of the lines.

“Charming, isn’t it,” agreed Bruce, and by the uneasy air of alertness that had settled on his gendarmes it was clear that they agreed with him.

The train nosed its way carefully into the river bush like a steel snake along a rabbit run, and they came to the river.

Bruce switched on the set.

“Driver, stop this side of the bridge. I wish to inspect it before entrusting our precious cargo to it.”

“Oui, monsieur.” The Cheke river at this point was fifty yards wide, deep, quick-flowing and angry with flood water which had almost covered the white sand beaches along

each bank. Its bottle-green colour was smoked with mud and there were whirlpools round the stone columns of the bridge.

“Looks all right,” Haig gave his opinion. “How far are we from

Port Reprieve now?” Bruce spread his field map on the roof of the coach between his legs and found the brackets that straddled the convoluted ribbon of the river.

“Here we are.” He touched it and then ran his finger along the stitched line of the railway until it reached the red circle that marked Port Reprieve. “About thirty miles to 90, another hour’s run.

We’ll be there before dark.”

“Those are the Lufira hills.” Mike Haig pointed to the blue smudge that only just showed above the forest ahead of them.

“We’ll be able to see the town from the top,” agreed Bruce. “The river runs parallel to them on the other side, and the swamp is off to the right, the swamp is the source of the river.” He rolled the map and passed it back to Ruffy who slid it into the plastic map case.

“Ruffy, Lieutenant Haig and I are going ahead to have a look at the bridge. Keep an eye on the bush.”

“Okay, boss. You want a beer to take with you?”

“Thanks.” Bruce was thirsty and he emptied half the bottle before climbing down to join Mike on the gravel embankment.

Rifles unslung, watching the bush on each side uneasily, they hurried forward and with relief reached the bridge and went out into the centre of it.

“Seems solid enough commented Mike. “No one has tampered with it.”

“It’s wood.” Bruce stamped on the heavy wild mahogany timbers.

They were three feet thick and stained with a dark t chemical to inhibit rotting.

“So, it’s wood?” enquired Mike.

“Wood burns,” explained Bruce. “It would be easy to burn it down.” He leaned his elbows on the guard rail, drained the beer bottle and dropped it to the surface of the river twenty feet below. There was a thoughtful expression on his face.

“Very probably there are Baluba in the bush’- he pointed at the banks -‘watching us at this moment. They might get the same idea. I

wonder if I should leave a guard here?” Mike leaned on the rail beside him and they both stared out to where the river took a bend two hundred yards downstream; in the crook of the bend grew a tree twice as tall as any of its neighbours. The trunk was straight and covered with smooth silvery bark and its foliage piled to a high green steeple against the clouds. It was the natural point of focus for their eyes as they weighed the problem.

“I wonder what kind of tree that is. I’ve never seen one like it before.” Bruce was momentarily diverted by the grandeur of it. “It looks like a giant blue gum.”

“It’s quite a sight,” Mike concurred.

“I’d like to go down and have a closer,-” Then suddenly he stiffened and there was an edge of alarm in his voice as he pointed.

“Bruce, there! What’s that in the lower branches?”

“Where?” Just above the first fork, on the left-” Mike was pointing and suddenly

Bruce saw it. For a second he thought it was a leopard, then he realized it was too dark and long.

“It’s a man,” exclaimed Mike.

“Baluba,” snapped Bruce; he could see the shape now and the sheen

of naked black flesh, the kilt of animal tails and the headdress of feathers. A long bow stood up behind the man’s shoulder as he balanced on the branch and steadied himself with one hand against the trunk. He was watching them.

Bruce glanced round at the train. Hendry had noticed their agitation and, following the direction of Mike’s raised arm, he had spotted the Baluba. Bruce realized what Hendry was going to do and he

opened his mouth to shout, but before he could do so Hendry had snatched his rifle off his shoulder, swung it up and fired a long, rushing, hammering burst.

1 “The trigger-happy idiot,” snarled Bruce and looked back at the tree. Stabs of white bark were flying from the trunk and the bullets reaped leaves that fluttered down like crippled insects, but the Baluba had disappeared.

The gunfire ceased abruptly and in its place Hendry was shouting with hoarse excitement.

“I got him, I got the bastard.”

“Hendry!” Bruce’s voice was also hoarse, but with anger, “Who ordered you to fire?”

“He was a bloody

Baluba, a mucking big bloody Baluba.

Didn’t you see him, hey? Didn’t you see him, man?”

“Come here, Hendry.”

“I got the bastard,” rejoiced Hendry.

“Are you deaf? Come here!” While Hendry climbed down from the truck and came towards them Bruce asked Haig:

“Did he hit him?”

“I’m not sure. I don’t think so, I think he jumped. If he had been hit he’d have been thrown backwards, you know how it knocks them over.” “Yes,” said Bruce, “I know.” A .300 bullet from an FN struck with a force of well over a ton. When you hit a man there was no doubt about it. All right, so the Baluba was still in there.

Hendry came up, swaggering, laughing with excitement.

“So you killed him, hey?” Bruce asked.

“Stone dead, stone bloody deadv “Can you see him?”

“No, he’s down in the bush.”

“Do you want to go and have a look at him, Hendry? Do you want to go and get his ears?” Ears are the best trophy you can take

from a man, not as good as the skin of a blackmaned lion or the great bossed hams of a buffalo, but better than the scalp. The woolly cap of an

African scalp is a drab thing, messy to take and difficult to cure.

You have to salt it and stretch it inside out over a helmet; even then it smells badly. Ears are much less trouble and Hendry was an avid collector. He was not the only one in the army of Katanga; the taking of ears was common practice.

“Yeah, I want them.” Hendry detached the bayonet from the muzzle of his rifle. “I’ll nip down and get them.”

“You can’t let anyone go in there, Bruce. Not even him,” protested Haig quietly.

“Why not? He deserves it, he worked hard for it.”

“Only take a minute.” Hendry ran his thumb along the bayonet to test the edge. My

God! He really means it, thought Bruce; he’d go into that tangled stuff for a pair of ears - he’s not brave, he’s just stupendously lacking in imagination.

“Wait for me, Bruce, it won’t take long.” Hendry started back.

“You’re not serious, Bruce?” Mike asked.

“No,” agreed Bruce, “I’m not serious,” and his voice was cold and hard as he caught hold of Hendry’s shoulder and stopped him.

“Listen to me! You have no more chances - that was it.

I’m waiting for you now, Hendry. just once more, that’s all.

Just once more.” Hendry’s face turned sullen again.

“Don’t push me, Bucko.”

“Get back to the train and bring it across,” said Bruce contemptuously and turned to Haig.

“Now we’ll have to leave a guard here. They know we’ve gone across and they’ll burn it for a certainty, especially after that little

fiasco.”

“Who are you going to leave?”

“Ten men, say, under a sergeant.

We’ll be back by nightfall or tomorrow morning at the latest. They should be safe enough. I doubt there is a big war party here, a few strays perhaps, but the main force will be closer to the town.”

“I hope you’re right.” “So do I” said Bruce absently, his mind busy with the problem of defending the bridge. “We’ll strip all the sand” bags off the coaches and build an emplacement here in the middle of the roadway, leave two of the battery-operated searchlights and a case of flares with them, one of the Brens and a couple of cases of grenades. Food and water for a week. No, they’ll be all right.” The train was rolling down slowly towards them - and a single arrow rose from the edge of the jungle. Slowly it rose, curving in flight and falling towards the train, dropping faster now, silently into the mass of men in the leading truck.

So Hendry had missed and the Baluba had come up stream through the thick bush to launch his arrow in retaliation. Bruce sprang to the guard rail and, using it as a rest for his rifle, opened up in short bursts, searching the green mass and seeing it tremble with his bullets. Haig was shooting also, hunting the area from which the arrow had come.

The train was up to them now and Bruce slung his rifle over his shoulder and scrambled up the side of the truck.

He pushed his way to the radio set.

Driver, stop the covered coaches in the middle of the bridge,” he snapped, and then he switched it off and looked for Ruffy.

“Sergeant Major, get all those sandbags off the roof into the roadway.” While they worked, the gendarmes would be protected from further arrows by the body of the train.

“Okay, boss.” va

“Kanaki.” Bruce picked his most reliable sergeant. “I am leaving you here with ten men to hold the bridge for us.

Take one of the Brens, and two of the lights.—” Quickly Bruce issued his orders and then he had time to ask Andre: “What happened to that arrow? Was anyone hit?”

“No, missed by a few inches. Here it is.”

“That was a bit of luck.” Bruce took the arrow from Andre and inspected it quickly. A light reed, crudely fletched with green leaves and with the iron head bound into it with a strip of rawhide. It

looked fragile and ineffectual, but the barbs of the head were smeared thickly with a dark paste that had dried like toffee.

“Pleasant,” murmured Bruce, and then he shuddered slightly. He could imagine it embedded in his body with the poison purple-staining the flesh beneath the skin. He had heard that it was not a comfortable death, and the irontipped reed was suddenly malignant and repulsive.

He snapped it in half and threw it out over the side of the bridge before he jumped down from the truck to supervise the building of the guard post.

“Not enough sandbags, boss.”

“Take the mattresses off all the

bunks, Ruffy.” Bruce solved that quickly. The leather-covered coir pallets would stop an arrow with ease.

Fifteen minutes later the post was completed, a shoulder-high ring of sandbags and mattresses large enough to accommodate ten men and

their equipment, with embrasures sited to command both ends of the bridge.

“We’ll be back early tomorrow, Kanaki. Let none of your men leave this post for any purpose; the gaps between the timbers are sufficient for purposes of sanitation.”

“We shall enjoy enviable comfort, Captain.

But we will lack that which soothes.” Kanaki grinned meaningly at

Bruce.

“Ruffy, leave them a case of beer.”

“A whole case?” Ruffy made no attempt to hide his shocked disapproval of such a prodigal order.

“Is my credit not good?”

“You credit is okay, boss,” and then he changed to French to make his protest formal. “My concern is the replacement of such a valuable commodity.”

“You’re wasting time, Ruffy!

from the bridge it was thirty miles to Port Reprieve.

They met the road(] again six miles outside the town; it crossed under them and disappeared into the forest again to circle out round the high ground taking the easier route into Port Reprieve. But the railroad climbed up the hills in a series of traverses and came out at the top six hundred feet above the town. On the stony slopes the forest found meagre purchase and the vegetation was sparser; it did not obscure the view.

Standing on the roof Bruce looked out across the Lufira swamps to the north, a vastness of poisonous green swamp grass and open water, disappearing into the blue heat haze without any sign of ending. From its southern extremity it was drained by the Lufira river. The river was half a mile wide, deep olive-green, ruffled darker by eddies of

wind across its surface, fenced into the very edge of the water by a solid barrier of dense river bush. In the angle formed by the swamp and the river was a headland which protected the natural harbour of

Port Reprieve. The town was on a spit of land, the harbour on one side and a smaller swamp on the other. The road came round the right-hand side of the hills, crossed a causeway over the swamp and entered the single street of the town from the far side.

There were three large buildings in the centre of the town opposite the railway yard, their iron roofs bright beacons in the sunlight; and clustered round them were perhaps fifty smaller thatched dwellings.

Down on the edge of the harbour was a long shed, obviously a workshop, and two jetties ran into the water.

The diamond dredgers were moored alongside; three of them, ungainly black hulks with high superstructures and blunt ends.

It was a place of heat and fever and swamp smells, an ugly little village by a green reptile river.

“Nice place to retire,” Mike Haig grunted.

“Or open a health resort,” said Bruce.

Beyond the causeway, on the main headland, there was another cluster of buildings, just the tops were showing above the forest.

Among them rose the copper-clad spire of a church.

“Mission station,” guessed Bruce.

“St. Augustine’s,” agreed Ruffy. “My first wife’s little brudder got himself educated there. He’s an attache to the ministry of something or other in Elisabethville now, doing damn good for himself.”

Boasting a little.

“Bully for him,” said Bruce.

The train had started angling down the hills towards the town.

“Well, I reckon we’ve made it, boss.”

“I reckon also; all we have to do is get back again.”

“Yes sir, I

reckon that’s all.” And they ran into the town.

There were more than forty people in the crowd that lined the platform to welcome them.

We’ll have a heavy load on the way home, thought Bruce as he ran his eye over them. He saw the bright spots of women’s dresses in the throng. Bruce counted four of them. That’s another complication; one day I hope I find something in this life that turns out exactly as expected, something that will run smoothly and evenly through to its right and logical conclusion. Some hope, he decided, some bloody hope.

The joy and relief of the men and women on the platform was pathetically apparent in their greetings. Most of the women were crying and the men ran beside the train like small boys as it slid in along the raised concrete platform.

All of them were of mixed blood, Bruce noted. They varied in colour from creamy yellow to charcoal. The Belgians had certainly left

much to be remembered by.

Standing back from the throng, a little aloof from the general jollification, was a half-blooded Belgian. There was an air of authority about him that was unmistakable. On one side of him stood a large bosomy woman of his own advanced age, darker skinned than he was; but Bruce saw immediately that she was his wife. At his other hand stood a figure dressed in a white open-necked shirt and blue jeans that

Bruce at first thought was a boy, until the head turned and he saw the long plume of dark hair that hung down her back, and the unmanly double pressure beneath the white shirt.

The train stopped and Bruce jumped down on to the platform and

laughingly pushed his way through the crowds towards the Belgian.

Despite a year in the Congo, Bruce had not grown accustomed to being kissed by someone who had not shaved for two or three days and who smelled strongly of garlic and cheap tobacco. This atrocity was committed upon him a dozen times or more. before he arrived before the

Belgian.

“The Good Lord bless you for coming to our aid, Monsieur Captain.”

The Belgian recognized the twin bars on the front of Bruce’s helmet and

held out his hand. Bruce had expected another kiss, so he accepted the handshake with relief.

“I am only glad that we are in time,” he answered.

“May I introduce myself - Martin Boussier, district manager of

Union Miniere Corporation, and this is my wife, Madame Boussier.” He was a tall man, but unlike his wife, sparsely fleshed. His hair was completely silver and his skin folded, toughened and browned by a life under the equatorial sun. Bruce took an instant liking to him. Madame

Boussier pressed her bulk against Bruce and kissed him heartily. Her mustache was too soft to cause him discomfort and she smelled of toilet soap, which was a distinct improvement, decided Bruce.

“May I also present Madame Cartier,” and for the first time Bruce looked squarely at the girl. A number of things registered in his mind simultaneously: the paleness of her skin which was not unhealthy but had an opaque coolness which he wanted to touch, the size of her eyes which seemed to fill half her face, the unconscious provocation of her lips, and the use of the word Madame before her name.

“Captain Curry - of the Katanga Army,” said Bruce. She’s too young to be married, can’t be more than seventeen.

She’s still got that little girl freshness about her and I bet she smells like an unweaned puppy.

“Thank you for coming, monsieur.” She had a throatiness in her voice as though she were just about to laugh or to make love, and Bruce added three years to his estimate of her age. That was not a little girl’s voice, nor were those little girl’s legs in the jeans, and little girls had less under their shirt fronts.

His eyes came back to her face and he saw that there was colour in her cheeks now and sparks of annoyance in her eyes.

My God, he thought, I’m ogling her like a matelot on shore leave.

He hurriedly transferred his attention back to Boussier, but his throat felt constricted as he asked: “How many are you?”

“There are forty-two of us, of which five are women and two are children.” Bruce nodded, it was what he had expected. The women could ride in one of the covered

coaches. He turned and surveyed the railway yard.

“Is there a turntable on which we can revolve the locomotive?” he asked Boussier.

“No, Captain.” They would have to reverse all the way back to

Msapa Junction, another complication. It would be more difficult to keep a watch on the tracks ahead, and it would mean a sooty and uncomfortable journey.

“What precautions have you taken against attack, monsieur?”

“They are inadequate, Captain,” Boussier admitted. “I have not sufficient men to defend the town - most of the population left before the emergency. Instead I have posted sentries on all the approaches and I

have fortified the hotel to the best of my ability. It was there we intended to stand in the event of attack.” Bruce nodded again and glanced up at the sun. It was already reddening as it dropped towards the horizon, perhaps another hour or two of daylight.

“Monsieur, it is too late to entrain all your people and leave before nightfall. I intend to load their possessions this evening. We will stay overnight and leave in the early morning.) “We are all anxious to be away from this place; we have twice seen large parties of

Baluba on the edge of the jungle.”

“I understand,” said Bruce. “But

the dangers of travelling by night exceed those of waiting another twelve hours.”

“The decision is yours,” Boussier agreed. “What do you wish us to do now?”

“Please see to the embarkation of your people. I

regret that only the most essential possessions may be entertained.

We wil be almost a hundred persons.”

“I shall see to that myself,” Boussier assured him, “and then?”

“Is that the hotel?” Bruce pointed across the street at one of the large double-storeyed buildings. It was only two hundred yards from where they stood.

“Yes, Captain.” “Good,” said Bruce. “It is close enough. Your people can spend the night there in more comfort than aboard the train.” He looked at the girl again; she was watching him with a small smile on her face. It was a smile of almost maternal amusement, as though she were watching a little boy playing at soldiers. Now it was

Bruce’s turn to feel annoyed. He was suddenly embarrassed by his uniform and epaulettes, by the pistol at his hip, the automatic rifle across his shoulder and the heavy helmet on his head.

“I will require someone who is familiar with the area to accompany me, I want to inspect your defences,” he said to Boussier.

“Madame Cartier could show you,” suggested Boussier’s wife artlessly. I wonder if she noticed our little exchange, thought Bruce.

Of course she did. All women have a most sensitive nose for that sort of thing.

“Will you go with the captain, Shermaine?” asked Madame Boussier.

“As the captain wishes.” She was still smiling.

“That is settled then,” said Bruce gruffly. “I will meet you at the hotel in ten minutes, after I have made arrangements here.” He

turned back to Boussier. “You may proceed with the embarkation, monsieur.” Bruce left them and went back to the train.

“Hendry,” he shouted, “you and de Surrier will stay on board. We are not leaving until the morning but these people are going to. load their stuff now. In the meantime rig the searchlights to sweep both sides of the track and make sure the Brens are properly sited.” Hendry grunted an acknowledgement without looking at Bruce.

“Mike, take ten men with you and go to the hotel. I want you there in case of trouble during the night.”

“Okay, Bruce.”

“Ruffy.”

“Take a gang and help the driver refuel.”

“Okay, boss.

Hey, boss!”

“Yes.” Bruce turned to him.

“When you go to the hotel, have a look-see maybe they got some beer up there. We’re just about fresh out.”

“I’ll keep it in mind.”

“Thanks, boss.” Ruffy looked relieved. “I’d hate like hell to die of thirst in this hole.” The townsfolk were streaming back towards the hotel.

The girl Shermaine walked with the Boussiers, and Bruce heard

Hendry’s voice above him.

“Jesus, look what that pretty has got in her pants. What ever it is, one thing is sure: it’s round and it’s in two pieces, and those pieces move like they don’t belong to each other.”

“You haven’t any work to do Hendry?” Bruce asked harshly.

“What’s wrong, Curry?” Hendry jeered down at him. “You got plans yourself? Is that it, Bucko?” “She’s married,” said Bruce, and immediately was surprised that he had said it.

“Sure,” laughed Hendry. “All the best ones are married; that don’t mean a thing, not a bloody thing.”

“Get on with your work,” snapped Bruce, and then to Haig, “Are you ready? Come with me then.”

When they reached the hotel Boussier was waiting for them on the open verandah. He led Bruce aside and spoke quietly.

“Monsieur, I don’t wish to be an alarmist but I have received some most disturbing news. There are brigands armed with modern weapons raiding down from the north.

The last reports state that they had sacked Senwati Mission about

three hundred kilometres north of here.”

“Yes,” Bruce nodded, “I know about them. We heard on the radio.”

“Then you will have realized that they can be expected to arrive here very soon.”

“I don’t see them arriving before tomorrow afternoon; by then we should be well on our way to Msapa Junction.”

“I hope you are right, Monsieur. The atrocities committed by this General Moses at Senwati are beyond the conception of any normal mind. He appears to bear an almost pathological hatred for all people of European descent.” Boussier hesitated before going on. “There were a dozen white nuns at Senwati.

I have heard that they-“

“Yes,” Bruce interrupted him quickly; he did not want to listen to it. “I can imagine. Try and prevent these stories circulating amongst your people. I don’t want to have them panic.”

“Of course,” Boussier nodded.

“Do you know what force this General Moses commands?” “It is not more than a hundred men but, as I have said, they are all armed with modern weapons. I have even heard that they have with them a cannon of some description, though I think this unlikely. They are travelling in a convoy of stolen vehicles and at Senwati they captured a gasoline tanker belonging to the commercial oil c omparues.

“I see,” mused Bruce. “But it doesn’t alter my decision to remain here overnight. However, we must leave at first light tomorrow.”

“As you wish, Captain.”

“Now, monsieur,” Bruce changed the subject, “I

require some form of transport. Is that car in running order?” He

pointed at a pale green Ford Ranchero station wagon parked beside the verandah wall.

“It is. It belongs to my company.” Boussier took a key ring from his pocket and handed it to Bruce. “Here are the keys.

The tank is full of gasoline.” “Good,” said Bruce. “Now if we can find Madame Cartier. ” She was waiting in the hotel lounge and she stood up as Bruce and Boussier came in.

“Are you ready, madame?”

“I await your pleasure,” she answered, and Bruce looked at her sharply. just a trace of a twinkle in her dark blue eyes suggested that she was aware of the double meaning. They walked out to the Ford and Bruce opened the door for her.

“You are gracious, monsieur.” She thanked him and slid It into the seat. Bruce went round to the driver’s side and climbed in beside her.

“It’s nearly dark,” he said.

“Turn right on to the Msapa junction road, there is one post there.” Bruce drove out along the dirt road through the town until they came to the last house before the causeway.

“Here,” said the girl and Bruce stopped the car. There were two men there, both armed with sporting rifles. Bruce spoke to them. They had seen no sign of Baluba, but they were both very nervous. Bruce made a decision.

“I want you to go back to the hotel. The Baluba will have seen the train arrive; they won’t attack in force, we’ll be safe tonight.

But they may try and cut a few throats if we leave you out here.” The

two half-breeds gathered together their belongings and set off towards the centre of town, obviously with lighter hearts.

“Where are the others?” Bruce asked the girl.

“The next post is at the pumping station down by the river, there are three men there.” Bruce followed her directions. Once or twice as

he drove he glanced surreptitiously at her. She sat in her corner of the seat with her legs drawn up sideways under her. She sat very still, Bruce noticed. I like a woman who doesn’t fidget; it’s soothing. Then she smiled; this one isn’t soothing. She is as disturbing as hell!

She turned suddenly and caught him looking again, but this time she smiled.

“You are English, aren’t you, Captain?”

“No, I am a Rhodesian,” Bruce answered.

“It’s the same,” said the girl. “You speak French so very badly that you had to be English.” Bruce laughed. “Perhaps your English is better than my French,” he challenged her.

“it couldn’t be much worse,” she answered him in his own language.

“You are different when you laugh, not so grim, not so heroic. Take the next road to your right.” Bruce turned the Ford down towards the harbour.

“You are very frank,” he said. “Also your English is excellent.”

“Do you smoke?” she asked, and when he nodded she lit two cigarettes and passed one to him.

“You are also very young to smoke, and very young to be married.”

She stopped smiling and swung her legs off the seat.

“Here is the pumping station,” she said.

“I beg your pardon. I shouldn’t have said that.”

“It’s of no importance.”

“It was an impertinence,” Bruce demurred.

“It doesn’t matter.” Bruce stopped the car and opened his door.

He walked out on to the wooden jetty towards the pump house, and the boards rang dully under his boots. There was a mist coming up out of the reeds round the harbour and the frogs were piping in fifty different keys. He spoke to the men in the single room of the pump station.

“You can get back to the hotel by dark if you hurry.”

“Oui, monsieur,” they agreed. Bruce watched them set off up the road before they went to the car. He spun the starter motor and above the noise of it the girl asked: “What is your given name, Captain Curry?”

“Bruce.”

She repeated it, pronouncing it’Bruise’, and then asked: “Why are you a soldier?”

“For many reasons.” His tone was flippant.

“You do not look like a soldier, for all your badges and your

guns, for all the grimness and the frequent giving of orders.”

“Perhaps

I am not a very good soldier.” He smiled at her.

“You are very efficient and very grim except when you laugh. But

I am glad you do not look like one,” she said.

“Where is the next post?”

“On the railway line. There are two men there. Turn to your right again at the top, Bruce.”

“You are also very efficient, Shermaine.” They were silent having used each other’s names.

Bruce could feel it again, between them, a good feeling, warm like new bread. But what of her husband, he thought, I wonder where he is, and what he is like. Why isn’t he here with her?

“He is dead,” she said quietly. “He died four months ago of malaria.” With the shock of it, Shermaine answering his unspoken question and also the answer itself, Bruce could say nothing for the moment, then: “I’m sorry.”

“There is the post,” she said, “in the cottage with the thatched roof.” Bruce stopped the car and switched off the engine. In the silence she spoke again.

“He was a good man, so very gentle. I only knew him for a few months but he was a good man.” She looked very small sitting beside him in the gathering dark with the sadness on her, and Bruce felt a great wave of tenderness wash over him. He wanted to put his arm round her

and hold her, to shield her from the sadness. He searched for the words, but before he found them, she roused herself and spoke in a matter-of-fact tone.

“We must hurry, it’s dark already.” At the hotel the lounge was filled with Boussier’s employees; Haig had mounted a Bren in one of the upstairs windows to cover the main street and posted two men in the kitchens to cover the back. The civilians were in little groups, talking quietly, and their expressions of complete doglike trust as

they looked at Bruce disconcerted him.

“Everything under control, Mike?” he asked brusquely.

“Yes, Bruce. We should be able to hold this building against a sneak attack. De Surrier and Hendry, down at the station yard, shouldn’t have any trouble either.”

“Have these people,” Bruce pointed at the civilians, “loaded their luggage?”

“Yes, it’s all aboard. I

have told Ruffy to issue them with food from our stores.”

“Good.” Bruce felt relief-, no further complications so far.

“Where is old man Boussier?”

“He is across at his office.”

“I’m going to have a chat with him.” Unbidden, Shermaine fell in beside

Bruce as he walked out into the street, but he liked having her there.

Boussier looked up as Bruce and Shermaine walked into his office.

The merciless glare of the petromax lamp accentuated the lines at the corners of his eyes and mouth, and showed up the streaks of pink scalp beneath his neatly combed hair.

“Martin, you are not still working!” exclaimed Shermaine, and he smiled at her, the calm smile of his years.

“Not really, my dear, just tidying up a few things. Please be seated, Captain.” He came round and cleared a pile of heavy leather-bound ledgers off the chair and packed them into a wooden case on the floor, went back to his own chair, opened a drawer in the desk, brought out a box of cheroots and offered one to Bruce.

“I cannot tell you how relieved I am that you are here, Captain.

These last few months have been very trying. The doubt. The anxiety.”

He struck a match and held it out to Bruce who leaned forward across the desk and lit his cheroot. “But now it is all at an end; I feel as though a great weight has been lifted from my shoulders.” Then his voice sharpened. “But you were not too soon. I have heard within the

last hour that this General Moses and his column have left Senwati and are on the road south, only two hundred kilometres north of here. They will arrive tomorrow at their present rate of advance.” “Where did you hear this?” Bruce demanded.

“From one of my men, and do not ask me how he knows.

There is a system of communication in this country which even after all these years I do not understand. Perhaps it is the drums, I

heard them this evening, I do not know.

However, their information is usually reliable.”

“I had not placed them so close,” muttered Bruce. “Had I known this I might have risked

travelling tonight, at least as far as the bridge.”

“I think your decision to stay over the night was correct.

General Moses will not travel during darkness - none of his men would risk that - and the condition of the road from Senwqti after

three months neglect is such that he will need ten or twelve hours to cover the distance.”

“ I hope you’re right.” Bruce was worried. “I’m not sure that we shouldn’t pull out now.”

“That involves a risk also, Captain,” Boussier pointed out.

“We know there are tribesmen in close proximity to the town. They have been seen. They must be aware of your arrival, and might easily have wrecked the lines to prevent our departure. I think your original decision is still good.”

“I know.” Bruce was hunched forward in his chair, frowning, sucking on the cheroot. At last he sat back and the frown evaporated. “I can’t risk it. I’ll place a guard on the causeway, and if this Moses gentleman arrives we can hold him there long enough to embark your people.”

“That is probably the best course,” agreed Boussier. He paused, glanced towards the open windows and

lowered his voice. “There is another point, Captain, which I wish to bring to your attention.”

“Yes?”

“As you know, the activity of my company in Port Reprieve is centred on the recovery of diamonds from the Lufira swamps.” Bruce nodded.

“I have in my safe” - Boussier jerked his thumb at the heavy steel door built into the wall behind his desk - “nine and a half thousand carats of gem-quality diamonds and some twenty-six thousand carats of industrial diamonds.”

“I had expected that.” Bruce kept his tone noncommittal.

It may be as well if we could agree on the disposition and handling of these stones.” “How are they packaged?” asked Bruce.

“A single wooden case.”

“Of what size and weight?”

“I will show

you.” Boussier went to the safe, turned his back to them and they heard the tumblers whirr and click. While he waited Bruce realized suddenly that Shermaine had not spoken since her initial greeting to Boussier.

He glanced at her now and she smiled at him. I like a woman who knows when to keep her mouth shut.

Boussier swung the door of the safe open and carried a small wooden case across to the desk.

“There,” he said.

Bruce examined it. Eighteen inches long, nine deep and twelve

wide. He lifted it experimentally.

“About twenty pounds weight,” he decided. “The lid is sealed.”

“Yes,” agreed Boussier, touching the four wax imprints.

“Good,” Bruce nodded. “I don’t want to draw unnecessary attention to it by placing a guard upon it.”

“No, I agree.” Bruce studied the case a few seconds longer and then he asked: “What is the value of these stones?” Boussier shrugged. “Possibly five hundred million francs.” And Bruce was impressed; half a million sterling. Worth

stealing, worth killing for.

“I suggest, monsieur, that you secrete this case in your luggage.

In your blankets, say. I doubt there will be any danger of theft until we reach Msapa Junction. A thief will have no avenue of escape. Once we reach Msapa junction I will make other arrangements for its safety.”

“Very well, Captain.” Bruce stood up and glanced at his watch. “Seven o’clock, as near as dammit. I will leave you and see to the guard on the causeway. Please make sure that your people are ready to entrain before dawn tomorrow morning.”

“Of course.” Bruce looked at Shermaine and she stood up quickly.

Bruce held the door open for her and was just about to follow her when a thought struck him.

“That mission station - St. Augustine’s, is it? I suppose it’s deserted now?”

“No, it’s not.” Boussier looked a little shamefaced.

“Father Ignatius is still there, and of course the patients at the hospital.”

“Thanks for telling me.” Bruce was bitter.

“I’m sorry, Captain. It slipped my mind, there are so many things to think of.”

“Do you know the road out to the mission?” he snapped at

Shermaine. She should have told him.

“Yes, Bruce.”

“Well, perhaps you’d be good enough to direct me.”

“Of course.” She also looked guilty.

Bruce slammed the door of Boussier’s office and strode off towards the hotel with Shermaine trotting to keep pace with him. You can’t rely on anyone, he thought, not anybody!

And then he saw Ruffy coming up from the station, looking like a big bear in the dusk. With a few exceptions, Bruce corrected himself

“Sergeant Major.”

“Hello, boss.”

“This General Moses is closer to us than we reckoned.

He’s reported two hundred kilometres north of here on the Senwati road.” Ruffy whistled through his teeth. “Are you going to take off now, Boss?”

“No, I want a machine-gun post on this end of the causeway.

If they come we can hold them there long enough to get away. I want you to take command.”

“I’ll see to it now.”

“I’m going out to the mission - there’s a white priest there. Lieutenant Haig is in command while I’m away.”

“Okay, boss.”

“I’m sorry, Bruce. I should have told you.” Shermaine sat small and repentant at her end of the Ranchero.

“Don’t worry about it,” said Bruce, not meaning it.

“We have tried to make Father Ignatius come in to town.

Martin has spoken to him many times, but he refuses to move.”

Bruce did not answer. He took the car down on to the causeway, driving carefully. There were shreds of mist lifting out of the swamp and drifting across the concrete ramp.

Small insects, bright as tracer in the headlights, zoomed in to squash against the windscreen. The froggy chorus from the swamp honked

and clinked and boomed deafeningly.

“I have apologized,” she murmured.

“Yes, I heard you,” said Bruce. “You don’t have to do it again.”

She was silent, and then: “Are you always so bad-tempered?” she asked in English.

“Always,” snapped Bruce, “is one of the words which should be eliminated from the language.”

“Since it has not been, I will continue to use it. You haven’t answered my question: are you always so bad-tempered?”

“I just don’t like balls-ups.”

“What is balls-up, please?”

“What has just happened: a mistake, a situation precipitated by inefficiency, or by somebody not using his head.”

“You never make balls-up, Bruce?”

“It is not a polite expression, Shermaine. Young ladies of your refinement do not use it.” Bruce changed into French.

“You never make mistakes?” she corrected herself Bruce did not answer. That’s quite funny, he thought - never make mistakes! Bruce

Curry, the original balls-up.

Shermaine held one hand across her middle and sat up straight.

“Bonaparte,” she said. “Cold, silent, efficient.”

“I didn’t say that-” Bruce started to defend himself.

Then in the glow from the dash light he saw her impish expression and he could not stop himself; he had to grin.

“All right, I’m acting like a child.” “You would like a cigarette?” she asked.

“Yes, please.” She lit it and passed it to him.

“You do not like-” she hesitated, “mistakes. Is there anything you do like?”

“Many things,” said Bruce.

“Tell me some.” They bumped off the end of the causeway and Bruce accelerated up the far bank.

“I like being on a mountain when the wind blows, and the taste of the sea. I like Sinatra, crayfish thertnidor, the weight and balance of a Purdey Royal, and the sound of a little girl’s laughter. I like the first draw of a cigarette lit from a wood fire, the scent of jasmine, the feel of silk; I also enjoy sleeping late in the morning, and the thrill of forking a queen with my knight. Shadows on the floor of a forest please me. And, of course, money. But especially I like women who do not ask too many questions.”

“Is that all?”

“No, but it’s a start.”

“And apart from - mistakes, what are the things you do not like.”

“Women who ask too many questions,” and he saw her smile.

“Selfishness except my own, turnip soup, politics, blond pubic hairs, Scotch whisky, classical music and hangovers.”

“I’m sure that is not

all.”

“No, not nearly.”

“You are very sensual. All these things are of the senses.”

“Agreed.”

“You do not mention other people. Why?”

“Is this the turn-off to the mission?”

“Yes, go slowly, the road is bad.

Why do you not mention your relationship to other people?”

“Why do you ask so many questions? Perhaps I’ll tell you some day.” She was silent

a while and then softly: “And what do you want from life - just those things you have spoken of? Is that all you want?”

“No. Not even them.

I want nothing, expect nothing; that way I cannot be disappointed.”

Suddenly she was angry. “You not only act like a child, you talk like one.”

“Another thing I don’t like: criticism.”

“You are young. You have brains, good looks-“

“Thank you, that’s better.” and you are a fool.” :That’s not so good. But don’t fret about it.” I won’t, don’t worry,” she flamed at him. “You can-” she searched for something devastating. “You can go jump out of the lake.”

“Don’t you mean into?”

“Into, out of, backwards, sideways. I don’t care!”

“Good, I’m glad we’ve got that settled. There’s the mission, I can see a light.” She did not answer but sat in her corner, breathing heavily, drawing so hard on her cigarette that the glowing up lit the interior of the Ford.

The church was in darkness, but beyond it and to one side was a long low building. Bruce saw a shadow move across one of the windows.

“Is that the hospital?”

“Yes.” Abruptly Bruce stopped the Ford beside the small front verandah and switched off the headlights and the ignition.

“Are you coming in?”

“No.”

“I’d like you to present me to Father

Ignatius.” For a moment she did not move, then she threw open her door and marched up the steps of the verandah without looking back at Bruce.

He followed her through the front office, down the passage, past the clinic and small operating theatre, into the ward.

Ah, Madame Cartier.” Father Ignatius left the bed over which he

was stooping and came towards her.

“I heard that the relief train had arrived at Port Reprieve.

I thought you would have left by now.”

“Not yet, Father. Tomorrow morning.” Ignatius was tall, six foot three or four, Bruce estimated, and thin. The sleeve of his brown cassock had been cut short as a concession to the climate and his exposed arms appeared to be all bone, hairless, with the veins blue and prominent. Big bony hands, and big bony feet in brown open sandals.

Like most tall, thin men he was round-shouldered. His face was not one that you would remember, an ordinary face with steel-rimmed spectacles perched on a rather shapeless nose, neither young nor old, nondescript hair without grey in it, but there was about him that unhurried serenity you often find in a man of God. He turned his attention to Bruce, scrutinizing him gently through his spectacles.

“Good evening, my son.”

“Good evening, Father.” Bruce felt uncomfortable; they always made him feel that way. If only, he wished with envy, I could be as certain of one thing in my life as this man is certain of everything in his.

“Father, this is Captain Curry.” Shermaine’s tone was cold, and then suddenly she smiled again. “He does not care for people, that is why he has come to take you to safety.” Father Ignatius held out his hand and Bruce found the skin was cool and dry, making him conscious of the moistness of his own.

“That is most thoughtful of you,” he said smiling, sensing the tension between them. “I don’t want to seem ungrateful, but I regret I

cannot accept your offer.”

“We have received reports that a column of armed bandits are only two hundred kilometres or so north of here.

They will arrive within a day or two. You are in great danger, these people are completely merciless,” Bruce urged him.

“Yes, Father Ignatius nodded. “I have also heard, and I am taking the steps I consider necessary. I shall take all my staff and patients into the bush.” “They’ll follow you,” said Bruce.

“I think not.” Ignatius shook his head. “They will not waste their time. They are after loot, not sick people.”

“They’ll burn your mission.”

“If they do, then we shall have to rebuild it when they leave.”

“The bush is crawling with Baluba, you’ll end up in the cooking pot.” Bruce tried another approach.

“No.” Ignatius shook his head. “Nearly every member of the tribe has at one time or another been a patient in this hospital. I have nothing to fear there, they are my friends.”

“Look here, Father. Don’t let us argue. My orders are to bring you back to Elisabethville. I

must insist.”

“And my orders are to stay here. You do agree that mine come from a higher authority than yours?” Ignatius smiled mildly.

Bruce opened his mouth to argue further; then, instead, he laughed.

“No, I won’t dispute that. Is there anything you need that I

might be able to supply?”

“Medicines?” asked Ignatius.

“Acriflavine, morphia, field dressings, not much I’m afraid.”

“They would help, and food?”

“Yes, I will let you have as much as I can spare,” promised Bruce.

One of the patients, a woman at the end of the ward, screamed so suddenly that Bruce started.

“She will be dead before morning,” Ignatius explained softly.

“There is nothing I can do.”

“What’s wrong with her?”

“She has been in

labour these past two days; there is some complication.”

“Can’t you operate?” am not a doctor, my son. We had one here before the trouble began, but he is here no longer - he has gone back to Elisabethville.

No,” his voice seemed to carry helpless regret for all the suffering of mankind, “No, she will die.” “Haig!” said Bruce.

“Pardon?”

“Father, you have a theatre here. Is it fully equipped?”

“Yes, I believe so.”

“Anaesthetic?”

“We have chloroform and pentothal.” “Good, said Bruce. “I’ll get you a doctor. Come on, Shermaine.” This heat, this stinking heat!” Wally Hendry mopped at his face with a grubby handkerchief and threw it on the green leather bunk.

“You notice how Curry leaves me and you here on the train while he puts Haig up at the hotel and he goes off with that little French bit.

It doesn’t matter that me and you must cook in this box, long as he and his buddy Haig are all right. You notice that, hey?”

“Somebody’s got to stay aboard, Wally,” Andre said.

“Yeah, but you notice who it is? Always you and me those high society. boys stick together, you’ve got to give them that, they look after each other.” He transferred his attention back to the open window of the compartment.

“Sun’s down already, and still hot enough to boil eggs. I could

use a drink.” He unlaced his jungle boots, peeled off his socks and regarded his large white feet with distaste.

“This stinking heat got my athlete’s foot going again.” He separated two of his toes and picked at the loose scaly skin between.

“You got any of that ointment left, Andre?”

“Yes, I’ll get it for you.”

Andre opened the flap of his pack, took out the tube and crossed to

Wally’s bunk.

“Put it on,” instructed Wally and lay back offering his feet.

Andre took them in his lap as he sat down on the bunk and went to work.

Wally lit a cigarette and blew smoke towards the roof, watching it disperse.

“Hell, I could use a drink. A beer with dew on the glass and a head that thick.” He held up four fingers, then he lifted himself on one elbow and studied Andre as he spread ointment between the long prehensile toes.

“How’s it going?”

“Nearly finished, Wally.”

“Is it bad?”

“Not as bad as last time, it hasn’t started weeping yet.”

“it itches like you

wouldn’t believe it,” said Wally.

Andre did not answer and Wally kicked him in the ribs with the flat of his free foot, “Did you hear what I said?” “Yes, you said it itches.”

“Well, answer me when I talk to you. I ain’t talking to myself.”

“I’m sorry, Wally.” Wally grunted and was silent a while, then: “Do you like me, Andre?”

“You know I do, Wally.”

“We’re friends, aren’t we, Andre?”

“Of course, you know that, Wally.” An expression of cunning had replaced Wally’s boredom.

“You don’t mind when I ask you to do things for me, like putting stuff on my feet?”

“I don’t mind - it’s a pleasure, Wally.”

“It’s a pleasure, is it?” There was an edge in Wally’s voice now. “You like doing it?” Andre looked up at him apprehensively. “I don’t mind it.”

His molten toffee eyes clung to the narrow Mongolian ones in Wally’s face.

“You like touching me, Andre?” Andre stopped working with the ointment and nervously wiped his fingers on his towel.

“I said, do you like touching me, Andre? Do you sometimes wish

I’d touch you?” Andre tried to stand up, but Wally’s right arm shot out

and his hand fastened on Andre’s neck, forcing him down on to the bunk.

“Answer me, damn you, do you like it?”

“You’re hurting me, Wally,” whispered Andre.

“Shame, now ain’t that a shame!” Wally was grinning. He shifted his grip to the ridge of muscle above Andre’s collar bone and dug his fingers in until they almost met through the flesh.

“Please, Wally, please,” whimpered Andre, wriggling face down on the bunk.

“You love it, don’t you? Come on, answer me.”

“Yes, all right, yes. Please don’t hurt me, Wally.”

“Now, tell me truly, doll boy, have you ever had it before?

I mean for real.” Wally put his knee in the small of Andre’s back, bearing down with all his weight.

“No!” shrieked Andre. “I haven’t. Please, Wally, don’t hurt me.”

“You’re lying to me, Andre. Don’t do it.”

“All right. I was lying.”

Andre tried to twist his head round, but Wally pushed his face into the bunk.

“Tell me all about it - come on, doll boy.”

“It was only once, in

Brussels.”

“Who was this beef bandit?”

“My employer. I worked for him.

He had an export agency.”

“Did he throw you out, doll boy? Did he throw you out when he was tired of you?”

“No, you don’t understand!”

Andre denied with sudden vehemence. “You don’t understand. He looked after me. I had my own apartment, my own car, everything. He :

wouldn’t have abandoned me if it hadn’t been for,- for what happened. He couldn’t help it, he was true to me. I swear to you - he loved me!” Wally snorted with laughter, he was enjoying himself now.

“Loved you! Jesus wept!” He threw his head back, for the laughter was almost strangling him, and it was ten seconds before he could ask:

“Then what happened between you and your true blue lover? Why didn’t you get married and settle down to raise a family, hey?” At the improbability of his own sense of humour Wally convulsed with laughter once more.

“There was an investigation. The police - ooh! you’re hurting me, Wally.”

“Keep talking, rnarnselle!”

“The police - he had no alternative. He was a man of position, he couldn’t afford the scandal.

There was no other way out - there never is for us. It’s hopeless, there is no happiness.”

“Cut the crap, doll boy. just give me the story.”

“He arranged employment for me in Elisabethville, gave me money, paid for my air fare, everything. He did everything, he looked after me, he still writes to me.”

“That’s beautiful, real true love.

You make me want to cry.

Then Wally’s laughter changed its tone, harsher now.

“Well, get this, doll boy, and get it good. I don’t like queers!”

He dug his fingers in again and Andre squealed.

“I’ll tell you a story. When I was in reform school there was a queer there that tried to touch me up. One day I got him in the shower rooms with a razor, just an ordinary Gillette razor. There were twenty guys singing and shouting in the other cubicles. He screamed just like they were all screaming when the cold water hit them. No one took any notice of him. He wanted to be a woman, so I helped him.” Hendry’s voice went hoarse and gloating with the memory.

“Jesus!” he whispered. “Jesus, the blood!” Andre was sobbing now, his whole body shaking.

“Don’t - please, Wally, I can’t help it. It was just that one time. Please leave me.”

“How would you like me to help you, Andre?”

“No,” shrieked Andre. And Hendry lost interest; he released him, left

him lying on the bunk and reached for his socks.

“I’m going to find me a beer.” He laced on his boots and stood up.

“Just you remember,” he said darkly, standing over the boy on the bunk. “Don’t get any ideas with me, Bucko.” He picked up his rifle and went out into the corridor.

Wally found Boussier on the verandah of the hotel talking with a group of his men.

“Where’s Captain Curry?” he demanded.

“He has gone out to the mission station.”

“When did he leave?”

“About ten minutes ago.”

“Good,” said Wally. “Who’s got the key to the bar?” Boussier hesitated.

“The captain has ordered that the bar is to remain locked.” Wally unslung his rifle.

“Don’t give me a hard time, friend.”

“I regret, monsieur, that I

must obey the captain’s instructions.” For a minute they stared at each other, and there was no sign of weakening in the older man.

“Have it your way, then,” said Wally and swaggered through the lounge to the bar-room door. He put his foot against the lock and the flimsy mechanism yielded to the pressure. The door flew open and Wally marched across to the counter, laid his rifle on it and reached underneath to the shelves loaded with Simba beer.

The first bottle he emptied without taking it from his lips. He belched luxuriously and reached for the second, hooked the cap off with the opener and inspected the bubble of froth that appeared at its mouth.

“Hendry! Wally looked up at Mike Haig in the doorway.

“Hello, Mike.” He grinned.

“What do you think you’re doing?” Mike demanded.

“What does it look like?” Wally raised the bottle in salutation and then sipped delicately at the froth.

“Bruce has given strict orders that no one is allowed in here.”

“Oh, for Chrissake, Haig. Stop acting like an old woman.”

“Out you get, Hendry. I’m in charge here.”

“Mike,” Wally grinned at him, you

want me to die of thirst or something?” He leaned his elbows on the counter.

“Give me a couple more minutes. Let me finish my drink.” Mike

Haig glanced behind him into the lounge and saw the interested group of civilians who were craning to see into the bar-room. He closed the door and walked across to stand opposite Hendry.

“Two minutes, Hendry,” he agreed in an unfriendly tone, then out with you.”

“You’re not a bad guy, Mike. You and I rubbed each other up wrong. I tell you something, I’m sorry about us.” “Drink up!” said

Mike. Without turning Wally reached backwards and took a bottle of

Remy Martin cognac off the shelf. He pulled the cork with his teeth, selected a brandy balloon with his free hand and poured a little of the oily amber fluid into it.

“Keep me company, Mike,” he said and slid the glass across the counter towards Haig. First without expression, and then with his face seeming to crumble, older and tired-looking. Mike Haig stared at the glass. He moistened his lips again, With a physical wrench he pulled

his eyes away from the glass.

“Damn you, Hendry.” His voice unnaturally low. “God damn you to hell.” He hit out at the glass, spinning it off the counter to shatter against the far wall.

“Did I do something wrong, Mike?” asked Hendry softly.

“Just offered you a drink, that’s all.” The smell of spilt brandy arose, sharp, fruity with the warmth of the grape, and Mike moistened his lips again.

The saliva jetting from under his tongue, and the deep yearning aching want in his stomach spreading outwards slowly, numbing him.

“Damn you,” he whispered. “Oh, damn you, damn you,” pleading now as Hendry filled another glass.

“How long has it been, Mike? A year, two years? Try a little, just a mouthful. Remember the lift it gives you. Come on, boy.

You’re tired, you’ve worked hard. Just one - there you are. just have this one with me.” Mike wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, sweating now across the forehead and on his upper lip, tiny jewels of sweat squeezed out of the skin by the craving of his body.

“Come on, boy.” Wally’s voice hoarse with excitement; teasing, wheedling, tempting.

Mike’s hand closed round the tumbler, moving of its own volition, lifting it towards lips that were suddenly slack and trembling, his eyes filled with mingled loathing and desire.

“Just this one,” whispered Hendry. “Just this one.” Mike gulped

it with a sudden savage flick of his arm, one swallow and the glass was empty. He held it with both hands, his head bowed over it.

“I hate you. My God, I hate you.” He spoke to Hendry, and to himself, and to the empty glass.

“That’s my boy!” crowed Wally. “That’s the lad! Come on, let me fill you up.” ruce went in through the front door of the hotel with

Shermaine trying to keep pace with him. There were a dozen or so people in the lobby, and an air of tension amongst them. Boussier was

one of them and he came quickly to Bruce.

“I’m sorry, Captain, I could not stop them. That one, that one with the red hair, he was violent. He had his gun and I think he was ready to use it.”

“What are you talking about?” Bruce asked him, but before Boussier could answer there was the bellow of Hendry’s laughter from behind the door at the far end of the lobby; the door to the bar-room.

“They are in there,” Boussier told him. “They have been there for the past hour.”

“Goddarn it to hell,” swore Bruce. “Now of all times.

Oh, goddam that bloody animal.” He almost ran across the room and threw open the double doors. Hendry was standing against the far wall with a tumbler in one hand and his rifle in the other. He was holding the rifle by the pistol grip and waving vague circles in the air with it.

Mike Haig was building a pyramid of glasses on the bar counter.

He was just placing the final glass on the pile.

“Hello, Bruce, old cock, old man, old fruit,” he greeted Bruce, and waved in an exaggerated manner. “Just in time, you can have a couple of shots as well. But Wally’s first, he gets first shot. Must abide by the rules, no cheating, strictly democratic affair, everyone has equal rights. Rank doesn’t count. That’s right, isn’t it Wally?”

Haig’s features had blurred; it was as though he were melting, losing his shape.

His lips were loose and flabby, his jowls hung pendulously as an old woman’s breasts, and his eyes were moist.

He picked up a glass from beside the pyramid, but this glass was nearly full and a bottle of Remy Martin cognac stood beside it.

“A very fine old brandy, absolutely exquisite.” The last two words didn’t come out right, so he repeated them carefully. Then he grinned loosely at Bruce and his eyes weren’t quite in focus.

“Get out of the way, Mike,” said Hendry, and raised the rifle one-handed, aiming at the pile of glasses.

“Every time she bucks, she bounces, hooted Haig, and every time she bounces you win a coconut. Let her rip, old fruit.”

“Hendry, stop that,” snapped Bruce.

“Go and get mucked,” answered Hendry and fired. The rifle kicked back over his shoulder and he fell against the wall. The pyramid of glasses exploded in a shower of fragments and the room was filled with the roar of the rifle.

“Give the gentleman a coconut!” crowed Mike.

Bruce crossed the room with three quick strides and pulled the rifle out of Hendry’s hand.

“All right, you drunken ape. That’s enough.”

“Go and muck yourself,” growled Hendry. He was massaging his wrist; the rifle had twisted it.

“Captain Curry,” said Haig from behind the bar, “you heard what my friend said. You go and muck yourself sideways to sleep.”

“Shut up, Haig.”

“This time I’ll fix you, Curry,” Hendry growled. “You’ve been on my back too long - now I’m going to shake you off!”

“Kindly descend from my friend’s back, Captain Curry,” chimed in Mike Haig. “He’s not a howdah elephant, he’s my blood brother. I will not allow you to persecute him.”

“Come on, Curry. Come on there!” said Wally.

“That’s it, Wally. muck him up.” Haig filled his glass again as he spoke. “Don’t let him ride you.”

“Come on then, Curry.” “You’re drunk,” said Bruce.

“Come on then; don’t talk, man. Or do I have to start it?”

“No, you don’t have to start it,” Bruce assured him, and lifted the rifle butt-first under his chin, swinging it up hard.

Hendry’s head jerked and he staggered back against the wall.

Bruce looked at his eyes; they were glazed over. That will hold him, he decided; that’s taken the fight out of him.

He caught Hendry by the shoulder and threw him into one of the chairs. I must get to Haig before he absorbs any more of that liquor, he thought, I can’t waste time sending for Ruffy and I can’t leave this thing behind me while I work on Haig.

“Shermaine,” he called. She was standing in the doorway and she came to his side. “Can you use a pistol?” She nodded. Bruce unclipped his Smith & Wesson from its lanyard and handed it to her.

“Shoot this man if he tries to leave that chair. Stand here where he cannot reach you.”

“Bruce-” she started.

“He is a dangerous animal. Yesterday he murdered two small

children and, if you let him, he’ll do the same to you.

You must keep him here while I get the other one.” She lifted the

pistol, holding it with both hands and her face was even paler than was usual.

“Can you do it?” Bruce asked.

“Now I can, she said and cocked the action.

“Hear me, Hendry.” Bruce took a handful of his hair and twisted his face up. “She’ll kill you if you leave this chair.

Do you understand? She’ll shoot you.”

“Muck you and your little

French whore, Fuck you both.

I bet that’s what you two have been doing all evening in that car - playing “hide the sausage” down by the riverside.” Anger flashed through Bruce so violently that it startled him. He twisted Hendry’s hair until he could feel it coming away in his hand. Hendry squirmed with pain.

“Shut that foul mouth - or I’ll kill you.”

He meant it, and suddenly Hendry knew he meant it.

“Okay, for Chrissake, okay. just leave me.” Bruce loosened his grip and straightened up.

“I’m sorry, Charmaine,” he said.

“That’s all right - go to the other one.” Bruce went to the bar counter, and Haig watched him come.

“What do you want, Bruce? Have a drink.” He was nervous. “Have a

drink, we are all having a little drink. All good clean fun, Bruce.

Don’t get excited.”

“You’re not having any more; in fact, just the opposite,” Bruce told him as he came round the counter. Haig backed away in front of him.

“What are you going to do?” I’ll show you, said Bruce and caught him by the wrist, turning him quickly and lifting his arm up between

his shoulder-blades.

“Hey, Bruce. Cut it out, you’ve made me spill my drink.” “Good,” said Bruce and slapped the empty glass out of his hand. Haig started to struggle. He was still a powerful man but the liquor had weakened him and Bruce lifted his wrist higher, forcing him on to his toes.

“Come along, buddy boy,” instructed Bruce and marched him towards the back door of the bar-room. He reached round Haig with his free hand, turned the key in the lock and opened the door.

“Through here, he said and pushed Mike into the kitchens. He kicked the door shut behind him and went to the sink, dragging Haig with him.

“All right, Haig, let’s have it up,” he said and changed his grip quickly, thrusting Haig’s head down over the sink.

There was a dishtowel hanging beside it which Bruce screwed into a ball; then he used his thumbs to open Haig’s jaws and wedged the towel between his back teeth.

“Let’s have all of it.” He probed his finger down into Haig’s throat, it came up hot and gushing over his hand, and he fought down his own nausea as he worked. When he had finished he turned on the

cold tap and held Haig’s head under it, washing his face and his own hand.

“Now, I’ve got a little job for you, Haig.”

“Leave me alone, damn you,” groaned Haig, his voice indistinct beneath the rushing tap.

Bruce pulled him up and held him against the wall.

“There’s a woman in childbirth at the mission. She’s going to die, Haig. She’s going to die if you don’t do something about it.”

“No,” whispered Haig. “No, not that. Not that again.”

“I’m taking you there.”

“No, please not that. I can’t - don’t you see that I can’t.”

The little red and purple veins in his nose and cheeks stood out in vivid contrast to his pallor. Bruce hit him openhanded across the face

and the water flew in drops from his hair at the shock.

“No,” he mumbled, “please Bruce, please.” Bruce hit him twice more, hard. Watching him carefully, and at last he saw the first

flickering of anger.

Damn you, Bruce Curry, damn you to hell.”

“You’ll do,” rejoiced

Bruce. “Thank God for that.” He hustled Haig back through the bar-room. Shermaine still stood over Hendry, holding the pistol.

“Come on, Shermaine. You can leave that thing now. I’ll attend to him when we get back.” As they crossed the lobby Bruce asked

Shermaine. “Can you drive the Ford?”

“Yes.”

“Good,” said Bruce. “Here are the keys. I’ll sit with Haig in the back. Take us out to the mission.” Haig lost his balance on the front steps of the hotel and

nearly fell, but Bruce caught him and half carried him to the car. He pushed him into the back seat and climbed in beside him. Shermaine slid in behind the wheel, started the engine and U-turned neatly across the street.

“You can’t force me to do this, Bruce. I can’t, I just can’t,” Haig pleaded.

“We’ll see,” said Bruce.

“You don’t know what it’s like. You can’t know. She’ll die on the table.” He held out his hands palms down. “Look at that, look at them. How can I do it with these?” His hands were trembling violently.

“She’s going to die anyway,” said Bruce, his voice hard.

“So you might as well do it for her quickly and get it over with.

Haig brought his hands up to his mouth and wiped his lips.

“Can I have a drink, Bruce? That’ll help. I’ll try then, if you give me a drink.” “No,” said Bruce, and Haig began to swear. The filth poured from his lips and his face twisted with the effort. He cursed

Bruce, he cursed himself, and God in a torrent of the most obscene language that Bruce had ever heard. Then suddenly he snatched at the door handle and tried to twist it open. Bruce had been waiting for this and he caught the back of Haig’s collar, pulled him backwards across the seat and held him there. Haig’s struggles ceased abruptly and he began to sob softly.

Sharmaine drove fast; across the causeway, up the slope and into the side road. The headlights cut into the darkness and the wind drummed softly round the car. Haig was still sobbing on the back seat.

Then the lights of the mission were ahead of them through the trees and Shermaine slowed the car, turned in past the church and pulled up next to the hospital block.

Bruce helped Haig out of the car, and while he was doing so the side door of the building opened and Father Ignatius came out with a petromax lantern in his hand. The harsh white glare of the lantern lit them all and threw grotesque shadows behind them. It fell with special cruelty on Haig’s face.

“Here’s your doctor, Father,” Bruce announced.

Ignatius lifted the lantern and peered through his spectacles at

Haig.

Is he sick?” No, Father,” said Bruce. “He’s drunk.”

“Drunk? Then he can’t operate?”

“Yes, he damn well can!” Bruce took Haig through the door and along the passage to the little theatre. Ignatius and

Sharmaine followed them.

“Sharmaine, go with luther and help him bring the woman,” Bruce ordered, and they went; then he turned his attention back to Haig.

“Are you so far down there in the slime that you can’t understand me!”

“I can’t do it, Bruce. It’s no good.”

“Then she’ll die. But this much is certain: you are going to make the attempt.”

“I’ve got to have a drink, Bruce.” Haig licked his lips. “It’s burning me up inside, you’ve got to give me one.”

“Finish the job and I’ll give you a whole case.”

“I’ve got to have one now.”

“No.” Bruce spoke with finality.

“Have a look at what they’ve got here in the way of instruments. Can

you do it with these?” Bruce crossed to the sterilizer and lifted the lid, the steam came up out of it in a cloud. Haig looked in also.

“That’s all I need, but there’s not enough light in here, and I

need a drink.”

“I’ll get you more light. Start cleaning up.”

“Bruce, please let me-“

“Shut up,” snarled Bruce. “There’s the basin. Start getting ready.” Haig crossed to the handbasin; he was more steady on his feet and his features had firmed a little. You poor old bastard, thought Bruce, I hope you can do it. My God, how much I hope you can.

“Get a move on, Haig, we haven’t got all night.”

Bruce left the room and went quickly down the passage to the ward.