Ben, in the World: The Sequel to the Fifth Child

by Doris Lessing

  ‘And how much are you paying him?’

  ‘A lot. When you put everything together, and add it all up—clothes for Ben, the luggage, the trip on the aeroplane, the passport—that was a hundred for a start—and Richard—that’s the contact—then it all adds up. And there’s the hotel, too. But even so it’s peanuts compared with what there’s in it for us.’

  ‘Well, don’t spend it before you have it, that’s all.’

  ‘Look, Reet, I know you think I’m barmy, but it’ll work, you’ll see.’

  ‘Luck, that’s all,’ said Rita. ‘They have sniffer dogs, they check the luggage.’

  ‘Sometimes they do. But they aren’t going to bother with a load of tourists going to Nice. And that goes for the French narks too. They’ll be watching planes from Colombia and the East, not a nice little harmless plane from London.’

  There was one thing Rita didn’t know. The plan was for three cases: one very big, stuffed with packets of cocaine, with a layer of clothing over it, which would be checked in at the desk; one with Ben’s things in it; and one to take on the plane. When Rita heard that Johnston planned to fill this one too with the deadly packets, possibly heroin, she screamed, she shouted, she even assaulted him, so he had to hold her fists. ‘You know they pick cases to check, just at random, they could easily pick Ben’s take-on case.’ He soothed her and promised her, said he wouldn’t do it, if she was upset about it, but in fact he did not keep this promise: Ben was to go through to the plane and on to it carrying the dangerous case.

  ‘The whole thing is mad,’ Rita kept saying. ‘And poor Ben—it’s cruel, I think. Just imagine him in prison.’

  ‘It’s just because he’s so weird that it’s going to work.’

  It did work. There was a period while Johnston and Rita could not believe how much things were changing; the difference between their circumstances now, and what was possible to them was too great. Johnston was not so stupid to allow large sums of money to appear in a bank account, but large sums found their way deviously to him over the next few months. He gave Rita enough to buy a restaurant in Brighton, which did well. She could have married, but did not. Sometimes Johnston came to see her, meetings precious to them both, since only they understood how narrowly they had escaped lives of prison and crime.

  Johnston had seen on a television programme that it was easy to buy a title and right to land from impoverished (and surely cynical?) aristocrats, for sums that now seemed to him negligible. He did this, became a lord of a manor, but was soon restless and knew he had made a mistake. He did not like doing nothing. He became owner of a very superior car-hire firm, chauffeuring the rich and the famous, mostly around London, and employed the kind of person whom once he would have thought of as far above him. He enjoyed his life, loved his Rolls-Royces and Mercedes, and cultivated respectability. His children, when he got them, went to good private schools. So you could say that this part of our tale had a happy ending.

  On the morning of the great gamble Ben was dressed by Rita—Johnston supervising—in a bespoke shirt and a good jacket. Rita was crying, when Johnston put Ben into one of the minicabs, and instructed the driver exactly what to do. The last thing Ben said was, ‘When am I coming home?’ ‘We’ll see,’ said Johnston, and Rita turned away so Ben would not see her guilty face.

  He allowed himself to be driven to Heathrow, though he was feeling sick. The driver parked in Short-term Parking, and got a trolley for the bags, a black one, a red one, a blue one. He took Ben to the club-class check-in desk, handed in Ben’s passport, took it back with the boarding pass, and nudged Ben when he was asked if he had forbidden items, and if he had packed the bags himself. Rita had told him over and over again that he must say that yes, he had packed them himself. He remembered, after a hesitation. The check-in girl had taken in ‘Film Actor’ on the passport, and was staring at Ben during her ministrations to his cases and the boarding card. This stare did not discompose Ben, he was so used to it. The driver, a Nigerian, who was being paid a good bit extra, walked with Ben to Fast Track, gave him his carry-on case, the blue one, his passport and the boarding card, and told him, ‘Go through there.’ When Ben hesitated he gave Ben a little push, and stood back to watch him go, so he could report back.

  Ben was by himself, and he was terrified, his mind whirling with everything he had to remember. He showed his boarding card to the official, who glanced at it, and stared at him, and went on staring until the next traveller claimed his attention. Now there was a difficult bit. Over and over again Rita and Johnston had told him what to do. Ahead would be a kind of black box, with an opening that had things hanging down. He must go to it and put his case on the shelf there. The case would disappear into the opening, and he must look for the metal arch, close to, go through it when told, and then a man would search him, feel his pockets and down his thighs. Ben had said, ‘What for?’ And they had said, ‘Just to make sure you’re all right.’ The word ‘guns’ would have scared him. This was the part Rita feared most, because she knew how unpredictably Ben reacted to being touched.

  Ben saw the machine ahead. It seemed to him frightful, and he wanted to run away. He knew he must go on. There was no one waiting to help him. He stood with his case in his hand, helpless, until a man behind him said, ‘Put it there—look.’ And when Ben did not move he took the case and put it into the machine. This unknown helper went ahead of him to the arch, since Ben hesitated, and so Ben saw what he had to do.

  Meanwhile his holdall was moving through the x-ray machine. Under the top layer of clothing, among paper packets of the terrible white powder, were inserted here and there toilet things, scissors, a nail-file, clippers, a razor—all in metal which would show up on the screen. But this was the key moment, when ill-luck might lay its hands on Ben and—unless Ben remembered, when interrogated, never to say Rita’s name or Johnston’s—on them too.

  If the girl at the x-ray machine was doing her job, absorbed in it, the official whose job it was to frisk Ben hardly touched him. He was staring at the shoulders, the great chest, thinking, Good God! What is this? Ben was grinning. It was from terror, but what this official saw was the smile of a celebrity used to being recognised—he saw plenty of celebrities. If he had laid his hands closely on Ben he would have found him trembling, sweating, cold—but he waved Ben on. Now Ben had to remember to retrieve his case from the machine’s exit. He did not know that here was his moment of greatest danger: descriptions of what he had to do were not put to him in terms of danger. But luck held: ‘Is this your case, sir?’ was not said to Ben, but to the man coming after him. Ben stood there grinning, and then, understanding at last that this blue case jiggling there beside him was his, remembered instructions, took it up and went on towards…He was in a daze, and a dazzle, feeling sick and cold. This great space with its lights, its crowds, the shops, the colours, so much movement and noise—in any case it would have frightened him, but he knew that he must remember, must remember…He was on the edge of sending out little whimpers of helplessness, but then he saw that just ahead a man behind a desk was waving him on and he must show his passport. It was in his hand. How had it got there? He couldn’t remember…But the official merely glanced at it and back at Ben. What he was thinking was, If he is a film star then I’ve never seen him in anything.

  Now Ben was standing well beyond the line of passport desks and he did not know what to do next. He had been told there would be someone there looking out for him, Johnston’s friend, and yes, there he was, a young man was hurrying forward, scared eyes on Ben’s face.

  It was at this point that something happened that had not been foreseen. Johnston—had he been watching—would have said, ‘That’s it! I’ve done it!’ Barring some really unfair bad luck he would shortly be the owner of several million pounds sterling.

  The young man, Ben’s minder, was—literally—shaking with relief, and from the reaction. He arrived directly in front of Ben, trying to smile, saying hurriedly, ‘I’m Johnston’s friend, I�
�m Richard.’

  Ben said, ‘I’m cold. I want my jersey.’ He put down the holdall, and tried to unzip it, not seeing at first the tiny lock. He said, ‘Where is the key? Why is it locked up?’

  Richard Gaston (but he had many names in his life) had arrived in London yesterday on the ferry from Calais, and had spent hours with Johnston being given instructions for this day’s events, and for afterwards, in Nice. He travelled out to Heathrow on the Underground, stood at a distance watching the scene with the minicab driver and Ben at check-in, had gone separately through passport control and customs, with the economy travellers, had waited for Ben to emerge, all the time enlarging his ideas of himself with reflected glory from Johnston, who was so clever. He had had many doubts about this scene, just like Rita, but look, it had succeeded.

  And here was Ben, bending down, tugging at the zip, pulling at the lock. It was evident that those hands could tear the holdall apart, if Ben decided to do it that way. Richard imagined those packets scattered everywhere, the security people coming up…

  ‘I’m cold,’ said Ben.

  It was a warm afternoon and Ben already had a jerkin on over his shirt—a very posh shirt, as Richard noted.

  ‘You can’t be cold,’ was Richard’s injudicious order to Ben. ‘Now, come on. We’ve cut it a bit fine. They’re boarding. Don’t be difficult, now.’

  These words had an effect which caused Richard to jump back and away from Ben, who was apparently about to grip him by the arms and then…Ben was seething with rage.

  ‘I want my jersey!’ shouted Ben. ‘I’ve got to have my jersey!’

  Richard was scared, but not numbed by it. He was rallying himself. He had been told that Ben was a bit funny…he had moods…he had to be humoured…he was a bit simple. ‘But he’s all there, so don’t treat him like a dummy.’

  These descriptions of Ben, scattered through the hours of discussion with Johnston, seemed to Richard all off the point. Johnston would call this ‘a mood’, would he? Richard was sending nervous glances all around. Was anyone watching? Well, they soon would, if Ben went on shouting.

  If that zip broke, if that little lock sprang open…

  Richard said, gasping, ‘Listen, Ben, listen, mate. We’re going to miss the plane. You’ll be OK in the plane. They’ll give you a blanket.’

  Ben stood up, letting the holdall fall. Richard couldn’t know it, but it was the word ‘blanket’ that reached him. The old woman had used to say, ‘Take this blanket, Ben, wrap yourself up a bit. The heating’s a bit low tonight.’

  Richard saw that things had changed: Ben was no longer breathing pure murder. Now, unwittingly, he added to his advantage, ‘Johnston wouldn’t want you to spoil it now. You’ve done good, Ben. You’re right on. You’re a bit of a wonder, Ben.’

  It was the word good.

  Ben picked up the holdall, went with Richard along the corridors, the moving pavements, to the right places. It had all been nicely judged: they would be in the middle of the crowd of people boarding. At the desk Ben found his passport and boarding card in his hand, put there by this new friend, who had taken them from him, it seemed, while they argued—Ben had let them fall as he wrestled with the zip and the lock—and then on they walked, along and down and around and down, and then there was a door and by it a smiling female, who directed the two to club class. Ben stood helpless in the aisle, and Richard took the case from him and slid it up into the bin, feeling as if he were handling a snake. He had told Johnston that on no account would he touch that case, so that he could tell any interrogator that he knew nothing about it, but now he saw how foolish that had been. Ben was in his seat, the seatbelt was fastened across him, and Richard was about to ask for a blanket, and then explain to Ben about the take-off, the flight—there would be clouds underneath them and then…But Ben had fallen asleep.

  What a good thing, thought Richard. What a relief.

  Ben slept until they landed and people were getting off. Ben was dazed and it seemed he hardly knew who Richard was. He forgot the precious case when the time came to stand up and pull it down. Richard hauled it down for him, and carried it all the way to the luggage carousel. Almost at once the great black bag appeared—the dangerous one—and then the red one, with Ben’s things in it.

  ‘When are we going on the plane?’ asked Ben. He had expected something like the trip he had made with Johnston over London in the little plane.

  Richard did not answer: ahead was the last hazard, Customs, but they were not bothering. In a moment the two were out in the sunshine, and then, with the bags, in a taxi. Richard was sitting back in his seat, eyes closed, still shaking with the terror of it all. He knew very well that it was only luck that had saved them even while he thought admiringly of Johnston. He wanted badly to sleep: he understood why Ben had gone to sleep, from strain, on the plane. During that ride, Ben was silent. For one thing, his eyes hurt, because of the glitter of the sun on the sea—he did not at first understand that great scoop of shining blue, which was nothing like the seaside at home. He felt sick, too: he hated cars, he always had. Then they were on a pavement, with people everywhere, and Richard led Ben to a table where he sat, pushing a chair towards him. Ben sat, as if this might be a trap, and the chair could close around him like jaws. It was mid-afternoon. They were under a little umbrella but the tiny patch of shade did not do much for Ben’s painful eyes. He sat with them half-closed. The waiter came: coffee for Richard, but Ben wanted orange juice, he hated coffee. Cakes came, but Ben never did like cake much, so Richard ate them. And there they sat, hardly talking, Ben trying to take in what he could of the glitter and clamour of the scene around him through half-closed eyes. It was a busy street, and a busy café, and no one was taking any notice of them. Then, suddenly, a man appeared by the table, and Richard said to him, ‘The black one and the blue one.’ Ben watched as this person, an apparition composed of bright light and noise, disappeared towards a taxi with the two cases. Only Ben and Richard watched. No one else, whether idling on the pavement, or sitting at the café tables, or driving past, so much as glanced at the two cases, one very large, one of an ordinary size, whose contents would soon be added to the rivers of poison that circulate everywhere in the world. Ben was confused. He had thought the blue one, that he had carried through the machines and the officials, was his, but it seemed not. This red one was his. And there was something else that he was at last just beginning to take in—he had been too confused to understand. All around him people were talking loudly, but he did not understand what they said. Rita had told him that everyone would talk French, but it was all right, Johnston’s friend was British and would talk English and look after him—but he had not known that he was going to sit at a table in this foreign country understanding nothing, but nothing, of what was going on around him. And that man, the one who had gone off with the bags, had understood Richard talking English, but to the taxi driver he had spoken in French. Exhaustion was numbing Ben again.

  ‘And so that’s that,’ said Richard, and he had to say it, to mark or define the accomplishment of the deed, but he knew Ben had no idea of what had happened.

  ‘I’m going to take you to the hotel,’ he said to Ben.

  A lot of discussion had gone into the choice of hotel. Rita had said, a cheap one, where people are friendly—meaning herself. Johnston had said, ‘No, a good hotel. They’ll speak English. In a cheap hotel they’ll only speak French.’

  ‘He won’t know how to cope with a good hotel,’ said Rita, but she was wrong. It all went brilliantly. Ben had only to sign his name at the hotel desk, while people smiled at him, because he was a film star, and then followed by smiles he was led to a lift by Richard. He hesitated there because of his fear of lifts, but Richard pushed him into it, and it was only two floors, no more than a moment. In his room he was at once at ease, because it reminded him of his childhood, his home. So much was this so that he looked at the window to see if there were bars. Then he went to them, to look out: much lower down than
the windows of Mrs Biggs’ flat in Mimosa House, Halley Street. He strolled about the room, the grin gone from his face, and Richard, slumped into a chair, watching, knew that everything was going to be easy. All he had to do was show Ben the bathroom and how the shower worked, and the air conditioning. Then he said that he must go, but he would be back soon to take Ben to supper.

  He left Ben sitting in a chair looking up through open windows at a blue, hot sky.

  He telephoned Johnston, but only said, ‘It’s OK—yes, it’s all right.’

  Johnston heard this, and at once ran up Rita’s stairs to tell her, and went off into fantasies of doing it all again: he would fetch Ben back, and repeat the triumph. But Rita brought him down to earth. ‘Stop it, Johnston. You’ve got away with it this time.’

  When Richard returned, Ben was splashing and shouting in the shower, apparently quite happy, but the first thing he said, as he came out to dry himself and get dressed, was, ‘When can I go back home?’

  Richard took him to a proper restaurant, mostly because he wanted to eat well for once: he was having a thin time of it. But he might just as well have gone to a McDonald’s. Ben would only drink juice, and, saying he was hungry, ate a big steak, leaving the frites and the salad, and then wanted another. Afterwards Richard took him strolling along the front, to look at the sea, then another café, then to an evening show with dancing and singing. Richard could not make out what Ben thought of it all: he agreed to everything but only when he was eating seemed to show real enjoyment.

  At the hotel Richard counted some money into Ben’s hand, and said, ‘You won’t need it, but in case. And I’ll be here early tomorrow.’ His orders were to see that Ben could manage ordinary day-to-day things. Then he took a big packet of money down to the hotel safe, and checked it, in Ben’s name, for he knew, from watching Ben’s unobservant ways, that if he carried that money, thieves would have had it all off him in a day.