It was dark when he woke. He sat up quickly in the dark, listening, sensing, the night insects singing outside his window. He jerked his arm out and felt for Suzie: he felt only the rumpled blankets. ‘Suzie.’ It echoed shortly in the passage, muffled in the thatch. ‘Suzie!’ He jumped off the bed, pulled on a pair of shorts. Foreboding. What had wakened him? ‘Suzie!’ He crossed the room to the light switch, flicked it on. Nothing, the room remained black, only the patch of night light from the window, the noise of the insects, eerie. He felt himself blanch, a knocking in his ears, No lights, lines cut!
‘Suzie!’
He dashed across the room to the wooden box, rattled the lock. He felt feverishly for keys, found them, the padlock shook in his hands as he undid it, he pulled out the revolver. He broke the breach, felt the cartridges, snapped it to. He strode to the door, then stopped, listened. Only the insects and his own breath. He put his head carefully round the door and looked into the passage.
Murky, nothing.
He stepped into the passage, three four five paces to the telephone. He put his back to the wall, lifted the receiver, listened. Nothing, dead. He dropped it. So the lines were cut. The blood rushed up his neck.
‘Suzie!’ he screamed.
He howled, the howl of a beast protecting its mate, he rushed down the passage, gun first into the lounge. ‘You savages—’
He stopped, panting. Nothing. He kicked open the door of the dining-room. Nothing. He ran into the kitchen, nothing, back into the passage, down to the study. He flung open the study door and rushed in.
Nothing.
He saw his Winchester torch on the table. He grabbed it, switched it on, and turned back to the door. The beam fell on the table, a note scrawled on a piece of paper. He grabbed it.
Good-bye my love, my Joseph. Take care, Suzie Jefferson.
He slumped against the wall. He forgot about the lights and the telephone. He sobbed a dry sob. Suzie Suzie Suzie Suzie Jefferson.
He heard the faraway bellow of the bull, and he did not move. It came again, muffled far away, a bellow of anguish, he listened, holding his breath. Why was the bull crying at night? He listened, his hand tight around the revolver, no bellow came again, only the noises of the night insects. He pushed the chair back, stood up slowly in the dark, listening. Silence. He stood still, then he walked quickly into the passage, stopped, listened, strode into his bedroom. He pulled on a shirt, sat on the bed and put on his shoes. He listened, strode back to the passage and picked up the telephone again. Nothing, still dead. He put the receiver back. He walked quickly, lightly back down the passage, into the kitchen. A thin moon was rising over the black kopje, shining dull on the black silent bush. He went to the back door and stood listening. Only the insects. He drew back the bolt and swung the door open and stood back against the inside wall. Nothing happened. He looked at the door in the moonlight and his eyes widened. He stared at the door, a pounding in his ears, a cry stifled in this throat. He heard the bellow again, clearer now, he recognised the thing dangling there, pinned to his door, ragged, oozing, dripping blood, the bull’s testicles. He let go his breath.
‘You savage bastards—’
He plunged out the door, teeth clenched, he ran crouched across the yard, stopped, panting, behind a bush. He listened, peered, he ran on down the long path towards the paddock. His footsteps pounded the earth in the night, he ran crouched low, tensed for the black shape to leap out from behind a bush, panga upraised glinting in the moonlight. But only the thudding of his running and his heart and the night insects. Bastards! He crashed on down the path. He ran at the fence of the paddock, stopped against it, panting, searching the darkness.
The bull bellowed, a long groaning cry. Mahoney vaulted the fence and ran to the black shape. He flicked on his torch and his eyes peeled back.
Aarr—
The bull was standing, head low, eyes rolling, long ragged coils of intestines hanging down into the grass, ragged flaps of muscle hanging down, blood pumping out, the green grass black with blood. The bull stretched out his neck and his nostrils dilated, and he gave a bellow, dry and hissing and weak and air bubbled red and slimy out of the long hole in his guts. The kaffir cow lay on her side, a big round raw flat hole where her udder had been, her guts hanging out. She was breathing, blood pumping out with each breath, quivering. The calf lay twenty yards away, dead, in a tangle of its own intestines.
‘Christ!’
Hate, teeth clenched, he brought the revolver up between the bull’s eyes and pulled the trigger. Crack, the shot filled the night, the bull crumpled. ‘Bloody murderers—’ Crack, another shot, the cow kicked and was still. He filled his lungs and screamed.
‘You bloody murdering bastards, I’ll get you!’
He looked around him, in the dark paddock, and then he ran across the paddock towards the pigsties. He ran twenty paces and then stopped, his eyes wide: there was a new light and a new noise in the night, the whoosh and flash of petrol fire leaping up into the night sky, and the screams of pigs and the shrieks of chickens on fire. He stood still in the paddock and stared, his mouth panting open, tears of hate flickering in the leaping firelight. Then he gave a howl and he charged.
He ran across the paddock, he vaulted the fence and fell, he scrambled up, cursing, and ran towards the fires. He crashed through the bushes, branches tearing at his arms and clothes and face, he fell, scrambled up and ran on, swerving, blood from scratches running down his face, across his chest. The heat of the fire was on his face, leaping on his wild face. He crashed through the last belt of trees and bushes and stopped. The heat of the flames seared him, he shielded his face. The pigsty was ablaze, great flames leaping in the air, pigs screaming. The thatch above the housing was gone. The fire had caught the bushes in front of the sty, gaunt branches, red coals. He ran around the side of the sty, he ran to the wall, the fire threw him back. The boar was screaming, charging across the pigsty, petrol burning on his back, flesh on fire, the kaffir sow was caught in the sty, a burning beam filling the doorway, up to her udder in burning thatch, flesh burning, piglets kicking and screaming and running, on fire, screaming, keeling over, the stink of burning flesh. Mahoney ran back, and then charged the wall, feet up, kicking, he feel back on to the ground. The wall still stood. He got to his feet, tears running down his face. He raised the revolver, took aim, fired. Crack, crack, the boar and the sow dropped into the coals. He turned and ran on to the fowl runs. Chickens running, on fire, beating the air with their flaming wings, small birds shrivelled up, stumps of legs and wings twitching.
‘Cowards!’
The fire was well into the bushes, a million sparks leaping up into the air like the devil’s spawn, flames leaping on to bushes, fire running towards the house. He ran towards the boys’ huts. ‘Arthur—Arthur, where the hell are you – for God’s sake why aren’t you helping—?’
He ran through the dark into the compound, he kicked the hut door open, the light of the raging fire leapt into the room. His things were there, his blankets strewn aside. But empty.
He turned and made for the house. As he rounded the kopje he saw the fire had reached the house. The house was blazing.
It was nearly midnight. He was calm, he felt dead, dreamy, reckless, hate-filled, calm. It was very nice in its dead dreamy way, not to care any more, to be reckless, to be indifferent to others, indifferent to himself, save his determination to carry out his resolution, to be deadly, recklessly determined. It occurred to him that he was a coward, that he was escaping again from responsibility, but that didn’t matter either. Nothing mattered. He sat on the barstool, dry streaks of blood on his face, coal ashes on his face, scratches on his legs.
‘Barman give us two more Scotches here.’
Jackie sat tense beside him, very white, big brown eyes, wet, deep wet, face very white. She put her hand on his knee, he did not move.
‘Joseph, come home.’
He turned his head and looked at her, his eyes were clear and hard. He said
tonelessly: ‘Jackie, I’ve told you I made love to her. Not twelve hours ago. I love her. I am her, Jackie. She may be having my child. I cannot marry you, dearest, sweetest Jackie, because I love her. I cannot come home with you.’
She looked at him steadily, a new tear in each eye, and she gave a tiny nod.
‘Come home anyway. You need to sleep.’
‘Jackie, today I slept in Suzie’s arms. Do you know what it means to sleep in your love’s arms, Jackie? I will not be able to sleep in your arms, Jackie, nor in your house.’
She looked at him, very white, full red lip trembled once.
‘Where will you stay?’
‘Right here, until the sun rises, drinking Scotch.’
‘I’ll pick you up here in the morning.’
He looked at her steadily, he spoke dreamily.
‘In the morning, Jackie, I am going straight down the road to Army Headquarters.’
She closed her eyes desperately.
‘But what about your job in Jamaica?’
‘I don’t intend working for a bunch of bloody two-faced British.’
Her eyes pleaded. ‘Please come home and sleep on it. It’ll seem different in the morning.’
‘I’ve told you, Jackie.’
She opened her eyes.
‘But you’re a good lawyer, Joe. If you stay in Rhodesia there are more important things for you to do right here, you can be of greater service right here. It’s people of your calibre who’re needed here now to fight for sense and moderation in this mess—’
Mahoney did not blink, he shook his head dreamily, once.
‘Jackie, there is nothing more important, there is only one important thing left to do. And that is to fight. There is no more time left for moderation. There is no more room left for moderation and moderates. The black nationalists don’t want moderation in Rhodesia. Peking and Moscow do not want moderation in Rhodesia. Moderation is compromise, and, therefore, moderation is weakness. You cannot fight the enemy with compromise and weakness, Jackie, you must fight with all you’ve got. That is the tragedy, that is why there was UDI, that is the tragedy of UDI – you are forced to choose between black and white, you are driven to take up your cudgel in one camp or the other. The Rhodesians have made a stand. Now they must fight for it. First things first, and the first bloody thing is to kill the enemy before he kills you. Then when we have won, it will be the time for moderation. If there is anything left to build on, but ruins.’
She put her hand back on his knee.
‘Please, Joseph. Come home.’
He shook his head.
She looked at him, very white, full red lip trembled, ‘I will always wait for you, Joseph.’ He nodded once. He squeezed her hand. She slid off the barstool and walked very fast out of the bar.
Part Ten
Chapter Sixty-One
It was hot in the Zambezi Valley, pregnantly hot. The thunderclouds were black, low, making the afternoon dark. We met elephant and buffalo and also some lion that afternoon: the lion padded away into the jungle when they saw us but one of the prisoners said they were fanning out to hunt us down and they were so nervous I thought they were going to try to run away, handcuffs and all. We came to a good place to rest, behind the little kopje, and the sergeant put two of the lads on guard and we broke out our ration packs. The three prisoners sat in a row. The big one, Barnabas, was sullen but the other two were nervous and they were polite. We gave them a ration pack each and the two smiled nervously and clapped their hands but Barnabas just stared sullenly at the ground and refused to eat.
‘Okay Barnabas,’ the sergeant said and he took the ration pack back.
We sat back and had a smoke. There was another deep rumble of thunder over to the west. The sergeant looked at his map.
‘When we get back to the farm, get on to questioning these three right away.’
I nodded.
‘You won’t have any trouble getting the story from the two small ones,’ he said, ‘but friend Barnabas will take some time.’
‘He’ll talk too,’ I said, ‘they all talk, as soon as one talks they all start blaming each other.’
‘Don’t leave any marks,’ the sergeant said.
‘I won’t need to clout anyone,’ I said.
The sergeant nodded.
‘You’re a good interrogator, DA,’ he said. The sergeant could not get used to having a lawyer under him. The boys called me DA, from seeing Perry Mason on the television.
‘It’s not that I’m such a good interrogator,’ I said, ‘it’s that these blokes aren’t good terrorists. They aren’t trained enough or dedicated enough. And they’re dumb.’
The sergeant had the prisoners’ suitcase next to him. He opened it again and pulled out their clothes and looked at their three sub-machine-guns again. Two were Russian and the third was from Red China.
‘Cheap stuff,’ he said.
‘But they kill you just as dead,’ I said.
The sergeant shook his head.
‘Can you believe it?’ he asked. ‘Three terrorists sneaking through the jungle into Rhodesia and instead of each man carrying his own gear so he’s travelling light, they put all their gear and their guns into one heavy suitcase so that they can only stagger along. Ask them why, DA.’
I beckoned to the small one called Lazarus. He stood up and came over to us, his hands cuffed behind his back. His face was sweating and his legs were trembling. I asked him. He said ‘Ah—’ and looked embarrassed and then he told me. I turned to the sergeant.
‘He says it’s because the Party doesn’t trust him and the other one. He says lots of others were tricked into being trained. They were told they were being sent to America to learn engineering but they were sent to Peking instead and trained as saboteurs. The Party thinks they may defect so it sends blokes like him back into the country in threes with all their personal belongings in one suitcase and the man the Party trusts keeps the suitcase so the other two will stick with him.’
The sergeant and the lads were laughing. Lazarus looked embarrassed.
‘Very well, Lazarus,’ I said, ‘go sit down again.’
He looked relieved and walked back to his tree. The sergeant shook his head.
‘I feel quite sorry for him,’ I said.
‘Don’t feel sorry for him,’ the sergeant said. ‘He’d kill us if he was given a chance. I reckon we should shoot the bastards instead of handing them over to the police.’
‘Savages,’ Willie agreed.
‘I mean it’s pathetic,’ I said. ‘Lazarus here probably isn’t a bad chap. You can see he isn’t. He’s just dumb. The Party is just using him for their own ends. They fill his head with stories and slogans he can’t understand, they bully him into supporting them and then they bamboozle him into fighting for them, doing their dirty work for them.’
‘I don’t feel sorry for them,’ the sergeant said, ‘coming in here to create a reign of terror. Murders and bombings and Christ knows what. Life means nothing to these blokes, except their own. Christ, look how they’re always murdering and burning their own people if they don’t support them. Christ, Britain thinks these people can rule Rhodesia? You’d think they would’ve learned from what happened in the Congo and Ghana and Nigeria and Uganda and Christ-knows-whereall.’
‘Sarge,’ I said, ‘the British are not so stupid as to think these people can rule themselves. The British have learned that much. It’s just that it happens to suit Britain to give Rhodesia to the blacks, to get the other black states off her back. It suits Britain because if she makes herself unpopular she’ll lose trade.’ I nodded at the three blacks. ‘You say life and death means little to these blokes—’ I nodded at them again, ‘but it doesn’t mean much in Washington or Moscow or Peking, when money and power is at stake, mate, nor in Westminster. Particularly in Westminster. And that’s what power is, Sarge: trade and money. The whole world is a jungle, Sarge. The guys I hate are not the likes of Lazarus here, who shriek with glee when they come to
chop my head open, it’s the rotten stinking money-grabbing politicians at the top who use him. They appeal to his savagery, they use him as a cannon-fodder. Lazarus is just a football. Money rules the world, Sarge, not ideals. The British ain’t that dumb.’
The sergeant frowned. He was a Cockney, see, still had his old folks in London.
‘Aw,’ he said, ‘the British ain’t as bad as that, DA. They’re just misguided, like—’
‘Sarge—’ I opened the suitcase and pulled out one of the sub-machine-guns. I held it out to him. ‘See this, Sarge? This is a Chinese machine-gun, isn’t it? What does that mean?’
‘It means the Red Chinese are helping these blacks,’ Sarge said.
‘That’s right, Sarge. And why? Because by helping the blacks the Chinese will extend their sphere of power. Right?’
‘Right,’ Sarge said.
‘Right. Now the Americans and British are allies, aren’t they, and the Americans are fighting the Commies in Vietnam, aren’t they? But if you and I were American servicemen and this were a Vietnam jungle and we were capturing communist guerillas, Sarge, do you know what we would see on those weapons?’
‘What?’ Sarge said.
‘Made in Birmingham, Sarge, Made in England.’
The Zambezi ran through gorges for many miles from the Kariba dam wall down to Chirundu Bridge. The river ran hard and deep and wide and green and treacherous there, and the gorges were steep and very hard to climb and the land beyond them was rugged and very wild. Then, near Chirundu, the gorges sloped off and the great river ran out into the long wide Zambesi basin: that was where the terrorists tried to cross, and that was where most of our troops were, spread out in small patrols along the wild banks. But it was very difficult for terrorists to cross by the gorges, so our patrols here were fewer, and we covered a larger area. As the sergeant said, we marched our asses off.
The old wooden farmhouse was in a long wide ravine that broke into the southern gorge, about twelve miles below the dam wall. It was dark and rich-damp in the ravine, and it had been a banana farm before the trouble started. The ravine was one of the few points where terrorists could cross easily. Our patrol was lucky to have the farmhouse to live in: further downstream the boys only had tents. And Madara, the old black farm foreman, still lived in the compound behind the homestead with his wives and we hired them to do our cooking and washing. We had hacked a track out of the ravine through the bush, but it was very bad and it took four hours to reach Kariba Township in the jeep.
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