The Last Place God Made

ELEVEN

I had a contract run to make at nine o'clock, a mail pick-up which meant it could not be avoided. It was a tedious run. Sixty miles down-river, another fifty to a trading post at the headwaters of a small tributary to the west.

I cut it down to sixty-five miles by taking the shortest route between two points and flying across country over virgin jungle. A crazy thing to do and asking for trouble, but it meant I could do the round trip in a couple of hours. A brief pause to re-fuel in Manaus and I could be on my way to Landro by noon. Perhaps because of that, the elements decided to take a hand and I flew into Manaus, thunder echoing on the horizon like distant drums.

The rain started as I landed, an instant downpour that closed my world down to a very small compass indeed. I taxied to the hangar and the mechanics ran out in rubber ponchos and helped me get her inside.

The mail was waiting for me, they re-fuelled her quickly enough, but afterwards I could do nothing except stand at the edge of the hangar smoking cigarette after cigarette, staring out at the worst downpour since the rainy season.

After my meeting with Maria of the Angels I had felt surprisingly calm in spite of her story. For most of the morning I'd had things well under control, but now, out of very frustration, I wanted to get to Landro so badly that I could taste it. Wanted to see Hannah's face when I produced my wallet and passport, confronted him with the evidence of his treachery. From the start of things I had never really cared for him. Now it was a question of hate more than anything else and it was nothing to do with Joanna Martin.

Looking back on it all I think that what stuck in my throat most was the feeling that he had used me quite deliberately to further his own ends all along the line. There was a kind of contempt in that which did not sit easy.

According to the radio the situation at Landro was no better, so more for something to do than anything else, I borrowed the Crossley tender, drove into town and had a meal at a fish restaurant on the waterfront.

At the bar afterwards and halfway through my second large brandy, I became aware of a stranger staring out at me from the mirror opposite.

Small for his size as my grandmother used to say, long arms, large hands, but a hard, tough, competent-looking young man or was that only what I wanted to believe? The leather flying jacket gaped satisfactorily revealing the .45 automatic in the chest holster, the mark of the true adventurer, but the weary young face had to be seen to be believed.

Was this all I had to show for two long years? Was this what I'd left home for? I looked down through the rain at a stern-wheeler making ready to leave for the coast. It came to me then that I could leave now. Leave it all. Book passage using Hannah's famous credit system. Once in Belem I would be all right. I had a passport again. I could always work my passage to Europe from there. Something would turn up.

I rejected the thought as instantly as I had considered it. There was something here that had to be worked through to the end and I was a part of it. To go now would be to leave the story unfinished like a novel with the end pages missing and the memory of him would haunt me for the rest of my life. I had to lay Hannah's ghost personally, there could be no other way.

The rain still fell in a heavy grey curtain as I drove back to the airstrip and so continued for the rest of the afternoon. Most serious of all, by four o'clock the surface had turned into a thick, glutinous mud that would get worse before it got better. Much more of this and it would be like trying to take off in a ploughed field.

Another half-hour and it was obvious that if I did not go then I would not get away at all, had probably left it too late already. I told the mechanics it was now or never and got ready to leave.

I started the engine while still inside the hangar and gave it plenty of time to warm up, an essential factor under the circumstances. When I taxied out into the open, the force of the rain had to be felt to be believed. At the very best it was going to be an uncomfortable run.

The strip was five hundred yards long. Usually two hundred was ample for the Bristol's take-off but not today. My tail skidded from side to side, the thick mud sucked at the wheels, showering up in great fountains.

At two hundred yards, I hadn't even managed to raise the tail, at two-fifty I was convinced I was wasting my time, had better quit while still ahead and take her back to the hangar. And then, at three hundred and for no logical reason that I could see, the tail came up. I brought the stick back gently and we lifted into the grey curtain.

It took me two hours but I made it. Two hours of hell, for the rain and the dense mist it produced from the warm earth covered the jungle and river alike in a grey blanket, producing some of the worst flying conditions I have ever known.

To stay with the river with anything like certainty, I had to fly at fifty feet for most of the way, a memorable experience for at that altitude, if that is what it can be termed, there was no room for even the slightest error in judgement and the radio had packed in, the rain, as it turned out, which didn't help in the final stages, for conditions at Landro were no better than they had been at Manaus.

But by then I'd had it. I was soaked to the skin, bitterly cold and suffering badly from cramp in both legs. As I came abreast of the airstrip, Mannie ran out from the hangar. Everything looked as clear as it was ever going to be so I simply banked in over the trees and dropped her down.

It was a messy business, all hands and feet. The Bristol bounced once, then the tail slewed round and we skidded forward on what seemed like the crest of a muddy brown wave.

When I switched off, the silence was beautiful. I sat there plastered with mud from head to toe, the engine still sounding inside my head.

Mannie arrived a few seconds later. He climbed up on the lower port wing and peered over the edge of the cockpit, a look of awe on his face. ‘You must be mad,’ he said. ‘Why did you do it?’

‘A kind of wild justice, Mannie, isn't that what Bacon called it?’ He stared at me, puzzled as I stood and flung a leg over the edge of the cockpit. ‘Revenge, Mannie. Revenge.’

But by then I was no longer in control, which was understandable enough. I started to laugh weakly, slid to the ground and fell headlong into the mud.

I sat at the table in the hangar wrapped in a couple of blankets, a glass of whisky in my hands and watched him make coffee over the spirit stove.

‘Where's Hannah?’

‘At the hotel as far as I know. There was a message over the radio from Figueiredo to say he wouldn't be back till the morning because of the weather.’

‘Where is he?’

‘Fifteen miles up-river, that's all. Trouble at one of the villages.’

I finished the whisky and he handed me a mug of coffee. ‘What is it, Neil?’ he said gravely. ‘What's happened?’

I answered him with a question. ‘Tell me something? Hannah's bonus at the end of the contract? How much?’

‘Five thousand dollars.’ There was a quick wariness in his eyes as he said it and I wondered why.

I shook my head. ‘Twenty, Mannie.’

There was a short silence. He said, ‘That isn't possible.’

‘All things are in this best of all possible worlds, isn't that what they say? Even miracles, it seems.’

I took out my wallet and passport and threw them on the table. ‘I found her, Mannie — the girl who robbed me that night at The Little Boat — robbed me because Hannah needed me broke and in trouble. There was never any Portuguese pilot. If I hadn't turned up when I did he would have been finished.’

The breath went out from him like wind through the branches of a tree on a quiet evening. He slumped into the opposite chair, staring down at the wallet and passport.

After a while he said, ‘What are you going to do?’

‘I don't know. Finish this coffee then go and show him those. Should produce an interesting reaction.’

‘All right,’ Mannie said. ‘So he was wrong. He shouldn't have treated you that way. But, Neil, this was his last chance. He was a desperate man faced with the final end of things. No excuse, perhaps, but it at least makes what he did understandable.’

‘Understandable?’ I stood up, allowing the blankets to slip to the ground, almost choking on my anger. ‘Mannie, I've got news for you. I'll see that bastard in hell for what he's done to me.’

I picked up the wallet and passport, turned and plunged out into the rain.

I hadn't the slightest idea what I was going to do when I saw him. In a way, I was living from minute to minute. I'd had virtually no sleep for two nights now, remember, and things seemed very much to be happening in slow motion.

As I came abreast of the house I saw the Huna girl, Christina, standing on the porch watching me. I thought for a moment that Joanna or the good Sister might appear, not that it would have mattered.

I kept on going, putting one foot doggedly in front of the other. I must have presented an extraordinary sight, my face and clothing streaked with mud, painted for war like a Huna, soaked to the skin. People stopped talking on the verandas of the houses as I passed and several ragged children ran out into the rain and followed behind me, jabbering excitedly.

As I approached the hotel I heard singing and recognised the tune immediately, a song I'd heard often sung by some of the old R.F.C. hands round the mess piano on those R.A.F. Auxiliary weekend courses.

I was damned if I could remember the title, another proof of how tired I was. My name sounded clear through the rain as I reached the bottom of the hotel steps. I turned and found Mannie hurrying up the street.

‘Wait for me, Neil,’ he called, but I ignored him, went up the steps to the veranda, nodded to Avila and a couple of men who were lounging there and went inside.

Joanna Martin and Sister Maria Teresa sat at a table by the window drinking coffee. Figueiredo's wife stood behind the bar. Hannah sat on a stool at the far end, head back, singing for all he was worth.

He had, as the Irish say, drink taken, but he was far from drunk and his voice was surprisingly good. As the last notes died away the two women applauded, Sister Maria Teresa beaming enthusiastically, although the look on Joanna's face was more one of indulgence than anything else — and then she saw me and the eyes widened.

The door was flung open behind me as Mannie arrived. He was short of breath, his face grey, and clutched a shotgun to his chest.

Hannah said, ‘Well, damn me, you look like something the cat brought in. What happened?’

Mannie grabbed my arm. ‘No trouble, Neil.’

I pulled free, went along the bar slowly. Hannah's smile didn't exactly fade away, it simply froze into place, fixed like a death mask. When I was close I took out the wallet and passport and threw them on the bar.

‘I ran into an old friend of yours last night, Sam.’

He picked up the wallet, considered it for a moment. ‘If this is yours I'm certainly glad you've got it back, but I can't say I know what in the hell you're talking about.’

‘Just tell me one thing,’ I said. ‘The bonus. For five thousand read twenty, am I right?’

Joanna Martin moved into view. ‘What is all this?’

I stiff-armed her out of the way and he didn't like that, anger sparking in those blue eyes, the smile slipping. The solution, when it came, was so beautifully simple. I picked up the passport and wallet and stowed them away.

‘I'll do the Manaus mail run in the morning as usual,’ I said. ‘You can manage without me after that. I'll leave the Bristol there.’

I started to turn away. He grabbed me by the arm and jerked me round to face him again. ‘Oh, no you don't. We've got a contract.’

‘I know; signed, sealed, delivered. You can wipe your backside on it as far as I'm concerned.’

I think it was only then that he realised just how much trouble he was in. He said hoarsely, ‘But I've got to keep two planes in the air, kid, you know that. If I don't, those bastards in Belem invoke the penalty clause. I'll lose that bonus. Everything. I'm in hock up to my ears. They could even take the Hayley.’

‘Marvellous,’ I said. ‘I hope that means they keep you here for ever. I hope you never get out of this stinking hole.’

He hit me then, a good, solid punch that caught me high on the cheek, sending me back against the bar, glasses crashing to the floor.

I have never been much of a fighting man. The idea of getting into the ring to have your face reduced to pulp by a more skilful boxer than yourself just to show you're a man has always struck me as a poor kind of sport, but the life I had been living for the past two years had taught me a thing or two.

I lashed out with my left foot, catching him under the knee. He cried out and doubled over so I gave him my knee in the face for good measure.

He went back over a cane table with a crash. Both women cried out, there was a considerable amount of confused shouting which meant nothing to me for I had blood in my eye now with a vengeance.

I jumped on him as he started to get up and found him in better shape than he deserved, but then, I had forgotten that colossal strength of his. I got a fist under the ribs that almost took my breath away, another in the face and then my hands fastened around his throat.

We turned over and over, tearing at each other like a couple of mad dogs and then there was a deafening explosion that had us rolling apart in an instant.

Mannie stood over us clutching the shotgun, his face very pale. ‘Enough is enough,’ he said. ‘No more of this stupidity.’

In the silence, I was aware of Avila and his friends outside on the terrace peering in, of the anguish on Sister Maria Teresa's face, of Joanna Martin, watchful and somehow wary, glancing first at Hannah and then at me.

We got to our feet together. ‘All right, have it your way, Mannie, but I'm still clearing out in the morning.’

‘We've got a contract.’ It was a cry of agony and Hannah swayed, clutching at the table, blood streaming from his nose which, as I discovered later, I had broken with my knee.

I jerked my thumb at the shotgun. ‘I've got one of those too, Sam, remember? Try and stop me leaving in the morning and I'm just liable to use it.’

When I turned and walked out, nobody got in my way.

It was growing dark as I ploughed my way back through the hangar. I lit the lamp and poured another whisky. I put my head on my hands and closed my eyes and fireworks sparked off in the darkness. My legs ached, my face ached. I wanted nothing so much as sleep.

I sat up and found Joanna Martin standing at the edge of the hangar looking at me. We stared at each other in silence for quite some time. Finally I said, ‘Did he send you?’

‘If you do this to him he's finished,’ she replied.

‘I'd say he's just about earned it.’

Anger flared up in her suddenly. ‘Who in the hell do you think you are, Lord God Almighty? Haven't you ever made a mistake? The guy was desperate. He's sorry for what he's done. He'll make it up to you.’

I said, ‘What are you supposed to do next? Take me back to bed?’

She turned and walked out. I sat there staring into the darkness, listening to the rain and Mannie moved out of the shadows.

‘You too?’ I said. ‘What are you going to do? Tell me some cosy Hassidic story about some saintly old rabbi who always turned the other cheek and smiled gratefully when they spat on him?’

I don't know whether he'd come with the intention of appealing to me to think again. If he had, then that little speech of mine made him certainly think twice. He simply said, ‘I think you're wrong, Neil, taking all the circumstances into account, but it's your decision,’ and he turned and followed Joanna Martin.

By then I not only didn't give a damn, I was past caring about anything. I was getting out and nothing on this earth was going to stop me. Let that be an end of it.

I changed into dry clothes, climbed into my hammock, hitched a blanket around my shoulders and was almost instantly asleep.

I don't know what time the rain stopped, but I awakened to a beautiful morning at eight o'clock, having slept for twelve solid hours. I was sore all over and cramp, that occupational disease of pilots, grabbed at my legs as I sat up. My face ached and I peered in the mirror Mannie had fixed to one of the roof posts; I saw that both cheeks were badly swollen and discoloured with bruising.

There was a step behind me and Mannie appeared, wiping his hands on some cotton waste. He was wearing his overalls and there was grease on his face. The Bristol was parked out on the airstrip.

‘How do you feel?’ he asked.

‘Terrible. Is there any coffee?’

‘Ready on the stove. Just needs heating.’

I turned up the flame. ‘What have you been doing?’

‘My job,’ he said calmly. ‘You've got a mail run this morning, haven't you?’

‘That's right,’ I said deliberately.

He nodded towards the Bristol. ‘There she is. Ready and waiting for you.’

He turned away. I poured myself a mug of coffee and got ready to go. I had just finished packing my grip for the last time when Hannah arrived.

He looked terrible, the face badly bruised, the nose obviously out of alignment and the eyes were washed clean of all feeling. He wore his leather boots, breeches and an old khaki shirt, a white scarf looped around his neck. He carried the mail sack in his left hand.

He said calmly, ‘Are you still going through with this?’

‘What do you think?’

‘Okay,’ he said, still calm. ‘Suit yourself.’

He walked across to the Bristol, climbed up and stowed the sack in the observer's cockpit. I followed slowly, my grip in one hand, zipping up my jacket with the other.

Mannie stayed in the hangar, which didn't make me feel too good, but if that was the way he wanted it, then to hell with him. Quite suddenly I had an overwhelming desire to get away from that place. I'd had Landro, I'd had Brazil.

I put my foot on the lower port wing and climbed into the cockpit. Hannah waited patiently while I fastened my helmet and went through my checks. He reached for the propeller, I began to wind the starting magneto and gave him the signal. And then he did a totally unexpected thing. He smiled or at least I think that's what it was supposed to be and called, ‘Happy landings, kid.’ Then he pulled the propeller.

It almost worked. I fought against the impulse to cut the engine, turned into the wind before I could change my mind and took off. As I banked across the trees the government launch moved in to the jetty, Figueiredo standing in the stern. He waved his hat to me, I waved back, took a final look at Landro then turned south.

I had a good fast run and raised Manaus in an hour and forty minutes. There were a couple of cars parked by the tower as I came in. A rather imposing black Mercedes and an Oldsmobile. As I taxied towards the hangar, they started up and moved towards me. When I stopped, so did they.

A uniformed policeman slid from behind the wheel of a Mercedes and opened the rear door for the comandante who waved cheerfully and called a good morning. Three more policemen got out of the Oldsmobile, all armed to the teeth. Hannah and that damned contract of ours. So this was why he had been so cheerful?

I slid to the ground and took the hand the comandante so genially held out to me. ‘What's this? I don't usually rate a guard of honour.’

His eyes behind the dark glasses gave nothing away. ‘A small matter. I won't keep you long, my friend. Tell me, Senhor Figueiredo has a safe at his place of business, you are aware of this?’

I knew at once that it was about as bad as it could be. I said, ‘Along with everyone else in Landro. It's under the bar counter.’

‘And the key? I understand Senhora Figueiredo can be regrettably careless regarding its whereabouts.’

‘Something else well known to everyone in Landro,’ I said. ‘She hangs it behind the bar. Look — what is this?’

‘I had a message from Senhor Figueiredo over the radio half an hour ago to say that when he opened his safe this morning to check the contents after his absence, he discovered a consignment of uncut diamonds was missing.’

I took a deep breath. ‘Now, look here,’ I said. ‘Any one of fifty people could have taken them. Why pick on me?’

He nodded briefly, three of the policemen crowded in on me, the fourth climbed up into the observer's cockpit and threw out the mail sack and my grip which the comandante started to search. The man in the cockpit said something briefly in Portuguese that I couldn't catch and handed down a small canvas bag.

‘Yours, senhor?’ the comandante inquired politely.

‘I've never seen it before in my life.’

He opened the bag, peered inside briefly, then poured a stream of uncut diamonds into his left palm.

There was a terrible inevitability to it all after that, but I didn't go down without a struggle. The comandante didn't question me himself — not at first. I told my story from beginning to end and exactly as it had happened, to a surprisingly polite young lieutenant who wrote it all down and made no comment.

Then I was taken downstairs to a cell that was almost a parody of what you expected to find up-country in backward South American republics. There were at least forty of us crammed into a space fit for half that number. One bucket for urine, another for excrement and a smell that had to be experienced to be believed.

Most of the others were the sort who were too poor to buy themselves out of trouble. Indians in the main, of the kind who had come to town to learn the white man's big secret and who had found only poverty and degradation.

I pushed towards the window and most of them got out of my way respectfully out of sheer habit. A large, powerful-looking Negro in a crumpled linen suit and straw sombrero sat on a bench against the wall. He looked capable of most things and certainly when he barked an order, the two Indians sitting beside him got out of the way fast enough.

He smiled amiably. ‘You have a cigarette for me, senhor?’

As it happened, I had a spare packet in one of my pockets and he seized them avidly. I had a distinct feeling I had made the right gesture.

He said, ‘What have they pulled you in for, my friend?’

‘A misunderstanding, that's all,’ I told him. ‘I'll be released before the day's out.’

‘As God wills, senhor.’

‘And you?’

‘I killed a man. They called it manslaughter because my wife was involved, you understand? That was six months ago. I was sentenced by the court yesterday. Three years at hard labour.’

‘I suppose it could have been worse,’ I said. ‘Better than hanging.’

‘It is all one in the end, senhor,’ he said with a kind of indifference. ‘They are sending me to Machados.’

I couldn't think of a thing to say, for the very name was enough to frighten most people locally. A labour camp in the middle of a swamp two or three hundred miles from nowhere on the banks of the Negro. The sort of place from which few people seemed to return.

I said, ‘I'm sorry about that.’

He smiled sadly, tilted his hat over his eyes and leaned back against the wall.

I stood at the window which gave a ground-level view of the square at the front of the building. There weren't many people about, just a couple of horse-drawn cabs waiting for custom, drivers dozing in the hot sun. It was peaceful out there. I decided this must all be a dream, that I'd waken very soon and then the Crossley tender from the airstrip pulled up at the bottom of the steps and Hannah got out.

They came for me about two hours later, took me upstairs and left me outside the comandante's office with a couple of guards. After a while, the door opened and Hannah and the comandante emerged, shaking hands affably.

‘You have been more than helpful, my friend,’ the comandante said. ‘A sad business.’

Hannah turned and saw me. His face looked worse than ever for the bruising had deepened, but an expression of real concern appeared for all to see and he strode forward, ignoring the comandante's hand on his shoulder.

‘For God's sake, kid, why did you do it?’

I tried to take a swing at him and both guards grappled with me at once. ‘Please, Captain Hannah,’ the comandante said. ‘Better to go now.’

He took him firmly to the outer door and Hannah, a look of agony on his face now, called, ‘Anything, kid — anything I can do. Just ask.’

The comandante returned to his office, leaving the door ajar. After a couple of minutes, he called for me and the guards took me in. He sat at his desk examining a typed document for a while.

‘Your statement.’ He held it up. ‘Is there anything you wish to change?’

‘Not a word.’

‘Then you will please sign it. Please read it through first.’

I found it a fair and accurate account of what I had said, something to be surprised at, and signed it.

He put it on one side, lit a cigarillo and sat back. ‘Right, Senhor Mallory, facts only from now on. You have made certain accusations against my good friend Captain Hannah who, I may say, flew down especially at my request to make a statement.’

‘In which he naturally denies everything.’

‘I do not have to take his word for anything. The woman, Lola Coimbra — I have interviewed her personally. She rejects your story completely.’

I was sorry about that, in spite of my position — sorry for Lola more than for myself.

‘And this woman Maria,’ he went on. ‘The one you say assaulted you. Would it surprise you to know she is not known at the address you give?’

By then, of course, I had got past being surprised at anything, but still struggled to keep afloat. ‘Then where did I get the wallet and passport from?’

‘Who knows, senhor? Perhaps you've never been parted from them. Perhaps the whole affair was an elaborate plot on your part to gain Captain Hannah's sympathy so that he would offer you employment.’

Which took the wind right out of my sails. I struggled for words and said angrily. ‘None of this would stand up in a court of law for five minutes.’

‘Which is for the court to decide. Leaving all other considerations on one side, there is no question in my mind that you have a clear case to answer on the charge of being in unlawful possession of uncut diamonds to the value of…’ Here, he checked a document before him. ‘Yes, sixty thousand cruzeiros.’

Round about nine thousand pounds. I swallowed hard. ‘All right. I want to be put in touch with the British Consul in Belem and I'll need a lawyer.’

‘There will be plenty of time for that.’

He reached for an official-looking document with a seal at the bottom and signed it. I said, ‘What's that supposed to mean?’

‘The courts are under great pressure, my friend. This is a wild region. There are many wrong-doers. The scum of Brazil run here to hide. It may be at least six months before your case is heard.’

I couldn't believe my ears. I said, ‘What the hell are you talking about?’

He carried on as if I had not spoken. ‘For the present, you will be committed to the labour camp at Machados until your case comes to trial. As it happens a new batch of prisoners go up-river in the morning.’

He dismissed me, nodding at the guards to take me away, the last straw as far as I was concerned. ‘Listen to me, damn you!’ I reached across the desk, grabbing him by the front of the tunic.

It was about the worst thing I could have done. One of the guards jabbed the end of his club into my kidneys and I went down like a stone. Then they grabbed an arm each and took me down the two flights of stairs to the basement between them, feet dragging.

I was vaguely aware of the door of the cell being opened, of being thrown inside. I passed out for a while then and surfaced to find my Negro friend squatting beside me.

He held a lighted cigarette to my lips, his face expressionless. ‘The misunderstanding — it still exists?’

‘I think you could say that,’ I told him weakly. ‘They're sending me to Machados in the morning.’

He took it very philosophically. ‘Have courage, my friend. Sometimes God looks down through the clouds.’

‘Not today,’ I said.

I think the night which followed was the lowest point of my life, but the final humiliation was still to come. On the following morning, just before noon, the Negro, whose name turned out rather improbably to be Munro, a legacy from some Scottish plantation owner in the past, myself and about thirty other prisoners were taken out to the yard at the back to be fitted with leg and wrist irons for the trip up-river.

There was absolutely nothing to be done about it. I simply had to accept for the moment like everyone else and yet when the sergeant in charge got to me and screwed the ankle bracelets up tight, it seemed like the final nail in my coffin.

Just after that it started to rain. They left us standing in the open for another hour, during which we got soaked to the skin, unnecessary cruelty but the sort of thing to be expected from now on. Finally, we were formed into a column and marched away at a brisk shuffle towards the docks.

There was a cafȳ and bar at the corner of the square and there were plenty of people sitting on the veranda having coffee and an aperitif before lunch. Most of them stood up to get a good view as we went past, chains clanking.

Hannah's face jumped out at me instantly for although he was standing at the back of the crowd, he was easily visible because of his height. He had a glass of something or other in his right hand, actually raised it in a silent toast, then turned away and strolled casually inside.