by Alan Judd
‘Oh yes.’
‘There’s no reason why we shouldn’t be friends.’
‘No, there isn’t.’
‘You do mean that, don’t you?’
‘Yes.’
He watched her go back into the bedroom. It was probably as well she was running away with Max; he would be able to protect her or get her out. She came back with a suitcase and her raincoat, looking smart and lively, just as whenever they had set off anywhere new together.
‘I booked a taxi,’ she said. ‘It should be down there by now.’ She put the suitcase by the door and turned to face him. The raincoat was folded like the blouse over her clasped hands. ‘I’m glad you came back in time for me to tell you. Otherwise I was going to have to leave a note and that would have seemed so unfriendly.’
‘Yes, it would.’ He felt as if he were floating.
‘Thank you for being so sweet about it.’
‘That’s all right.’
‘You will look after yourself, won’t you? Try not to get arrested.’
‘Okay.’
‘And we will stay friends, won’t we?’
‘Of course.’
She picked up the suitcase and smiled. ‘Don’t look so sad. You make me feel awful.’
‘I’m all right.’
‘Poor William. It’s not been a very good day for you, has it?’
‘Don’t worry, it’s all right.’
‘Take care.’
It was an expression she had adopted since working at the American school. He nodded. ‘And you.’
‘ ’Bye.’
‘Cheerio.’
He did not know how long he stood there after the door had closed. The music on the radio continued until the announcer made an identical announcement. William noticed that his teacup was empty. The more that happened, the less he felt. There was a growing blankness which stilled mental and emotional responses. The longer he stood the more likely it seemed that the blankness would envelop his physical responses as well. That would be an interesting phenomenon: for how long could one remain simply standing? Days and nights, presumably. Weeks in some cases, the sort that got into the Guinness Book of Records.
When he did move it was in a determined stupor. He thought of one thing at a time and, when that was done, moved on to the next. He poured more tea, ate six pieces of toast with cheese and Marmite, changed his shirt, pocketed his passport, cheque-book and cards, collected all the money he could find, polished his shoes. Finally, he turned off the lights and the radio and stood for a while on the balcony. The trees, moved by the breeze, were now rustling masses of denser dark. Beyond them the sea was a faint uneven line of foam. Beyond that was nothing but dark. He stared at the spot where Señor Finn’s fire used to burn. That was why they had been right to try. It would have worked if Manuel hadn’t liked his driver. He didn’t let himself imagine what might have happened – be happening – to Theresa and Box.
He left the building on foot. A few people were strolling, muffled against the warm night breeze, but most were no doubt comatose after the feast. Many of the street-lights were not working and voices, cigar smoke and relaxed rolling laughter floated through the darkness. William walked quickly towards the British Embassy. The leather soles of his polished veldtskoen sounded reassuringly purposeful. The people he passed did not seem excited. Perhaps they had not seen the news, or perhaps they had become used to this sort of thing. Twice he saw police cars travelling at speed and once an army lorry lurched round the corner, almost keeling over like a ship. There were distant sirens.
It was difficult to wake the embassy guard. William pressed the big brass bell at the gate for some time, feeling increasingly conspicuous. The guard when he came was querulous and smelled of alcohol. He told William that the visa office was not open until ten in the morning. William said again that he wished to speak to Mr Nightingale, Mr Feather or the ambassador. The guard repeated that no visas could be issued until ten. William showed him his passport to prove that he was British and did not require a visa. The guard said he knew someone in the visa office who, for a consideration, could speed up the process. William demanded to see Mr Nightingale. The guard said it was not possible at night; not even his friend in the visa office could fix that. William became angry and shouted that he was British.
The guard shrugged and held open the gate. ‘You come with me, señor.’
In the reception hall the guard pointed to a telephone and a list of numbers, then shuffled into an office and shut the door.
Of course, the ambassador did not live at the embassy. Nor did Nightingale or Feather. He should have thought of it, but his idea had been to avoid using the telephone. Now he would have to use it anyway. Nightingale and Feather shared the same home number. Nightingale answered. Yes, he had seen the news. He knew no details but it could have been worse. At least there was no mention of British involvement though the reference to foreign elements was worrying. They would seek a meeting with the Ministry of Foreign Affairs first thing in the morning in order to stress that, whatever appeared to be the case, there was no official British connection with the rebels. They could say that with their hands on their hearts. It was the one positive thing about the privatisation policy. They would also send congratulations to the president. With luck, embarrassment might be averted.
‘What about my friend?’ asked William.
‘Your friend? Oh, the little man, yes.’ He could sense Nightingale’s smile. ‘You think he was arrested, don’t you? Well, that’s all right, then. Nothing we can do.’
‘But shouldn’t we try to get him out?’
‘Why?’ Nightingale let the word fall like a drop of water.
‘Because he’s British. And there are others, not British but they—’
‘They got themselves into it. They tried to overthrow the government, they broke the law and they got caught. That’s what happened, isn’t it?’
‘Yes, but—’
‘It’s not our job to pull people out of the fire after they’ve jumped into it. We thought it was a bad idea from the start, as you know.’
William was trying not to argue. ‘I’d like you to send a message to London on Arthur’s behalf. I want them to know what’s happened.’
‘It’ll wait until tomorrow, won’t it? Nothing’s going to affect anything now.’
‘But it’s urgent. They ought to know.’
‘They haven’t asked, have they? Not exactly falling over themselves with enthusiasm.’ There was a pause. ‘Have you written it yet?’
‘No.’
‘Well, then. Bring it in in the morning and we’ll have a look.’
William was too angry to continue and, anyway, would have said all the wrong things. Nightingale was right, in a sense. He could see that. But was it enough to be right in that way? Whatever he had argued, it would have done nothing for Box and Theresa. He would have to use the EE(C).
The wind had got up. It buffeted about the sky, and the polished stars sped between ragged strips of cloud. The roses near the gate – in summer a good show, William remembered – were tossed wildly against the railings. He thought of the embassy parrot that raised its claw in greeting. What happened to parrots on nights like this?
He had closed the wrought-iron gates behind him and was already across the road in a smaller street when he heard the sirens. The street-lamps were still out and he stood by a dark wall as two police cars came up the road he had left. They stopped outside the embassy. Several policemen got out and stood looking through the gates until a gust of wind sent their caps spinning along the road. They chased after them, then huddled together as they sorted out which was whose. After that they got back in their cars and watched.
William moved on up the street, keeping close to the wall and, so far as his eyes would permit in the dark, spying out gates or gaps ahead. His heart beat faster and his legs felt weak but at least they weren’t trembling, as when he had danced with Theresa that afternoon. Was it really only a few hou
rs before? It seemed another life now. It was surely not coincidence that the police had arrived when they had. His call to Nightingale must have been monitored. Just as well he was prepared not to go back to the flat.
He did not make straight for the cemetery. That would be too much like running to a hole and hiding in it. He felt he should at least find out what was going on so that he would have more to report. He walked quickly towards the city centre. The wind sent paper, cardboard boxes, bottles and cans spinning and bouncing through the streets. A sheet of newspaper rose suddenly before him as high as the roof-tops, hovered, slid back down to the eaves, then shot out of sight like a thing possessed.
He walked more steadily as he neared his shop. He would check that, then the club – not for anything in particular, but just to see. It would be too dangerous to go near the palace and anyway he would have no hope of getting in. It might be possible, though, to ring Carlos, so long as he kept away from the embassy telephones or his own. There were still sirens and whenever he heard a vehicle he hid. Once, at a junction, seven or eight army lorries crossed on the red light, their canvas backs flapping in the wind. There were no sounds of gunfire and no people now. Perhaps a curfew had been announced.
He stopped well down the street from the shop. Three police cars and an army lorry were outside, their red tail-lights making a glow. The shop lights and his own office lights were also on. Figures moved to and fro. He stood in a doorway, knowing it was foolish to stay. Other police cars could come up the road and see him at any time. He was frightened and fascinated. Door by door, he edged up the road.
He stopped when he was near enough to hear their voices. The lorry’s engine was ticking over, its diesel throb shaking the vehicle. A policeman was reporting on one of the car radios. Several soldiers came out of the shop with boxes which they stacked in the lorry. Another soldier shouted to know how much there was, then gathered an armful of empty cardboard boxes and took them inside. Someone else shouted something indistinct.
William could see that what they were taking was all his office files and paper-work. It was strange to see familiar objects which he had come to regard as his own being handled as if – well, as if they were someone else’s. Perhaps the same was happening at the flat to his books, records, cutlery, clothes. It showed how independent things were. We did not own them. We had them on loan, like spouses. He was relieved not to be able to think very much about that. Watching his life being dismantled was a kind of freedom.
A group of policemen came out of the shop and walked slowly towards the car nearest him. He realised that he was too close. Two of the policemen put their hands to their caps as the wind gusted. They seemed concerned with someone in the centre of the group. When a driver opened the car door the interior lights came on and William recognised Ricardo. He was handcuffed to one of the policemen who held a truncheon in his other hand and every so often jabbed it into Ricardo’s stomach. He didn’t appear to jab hard but it was enough to make Ricardo double up each time, only to be jerked upright. Instead of putting him in the car they took him round to the front and forced him to his knees so that his face was inches from the headlights. The driver switched them on. They held him so that he had to kneel upright, his arms twisted behind him and his head pulled back by his hair. One of the policemen slapped his face and another, with a slow casual movement as if he were tossing a log on to a fire, laid his truncheon across the lower part of Ricardo’s back. Ricardo cried out. Behind them the soldiers carried boxes to and fro.
They were asking questions. William caught odd words and phrases. Two or three were repeated, interspersed by slaps and blows. Ricardo was half crying, half choking. They were asking where William was and where the secret signals were sent from. Ricardo kept saying he didn’t know, then was hit again. The blows to the body seemed to cause the most pain – the kidneys, William supposed, in that part of his mind that went on thinking whatever happened.
A gust of wind sent one of the policemen’s caps tumbling down the road. It stopped three or four yards from William. The others laughed. As the hatless one walked down the road, William flattened himself in the doorway. The man approached slowly, calling over his shoulder to the others. William pressed himself harder against the door, wishing he hadn’t seen what he had seen, wishing fervently that he had not come that far forward, that he was at home in England, going to work every day on the train, cocooned in routine. Another gust rolled the cap a couple of feet nearer. He felt like crying out, kicking the hat, running. He could hear the policeman’s boots on the cobbles. The policeman picked up his cap, laughed and shouted to the others. William caught the smell of the man’s breath. He had not been so frightened since childhood. The policeman’s steps receded. William stayed as he was, upright and unseeing. As he became less fearful he felt more ashamed, as if he had abandoned and betrayed Ricardo. He knew he had not but that did not lessen the feeling. The selfishness of his fear made him wretched and bitter.
He heard a car start and pull away and when he looked again there were only two police cars and the lorry. He slipped out of the doorway and walked back down the street – wanting to run the moment he turned the corner but not letting himself. He felt guilty about Ricardo. He thought of Ricardo’s daily evasions, his laziness, his complacency, his arrogance, his pride, but it did not make it any easier. If Ricardo had been kept informed the scheme probably would have worked. Instead, no one had thought of him and now he was going through all that.
He headed for the club. A few heavy drops of rain fell, the wind lessened, the streets were still deserted. As soon as he reached the square he looked carefully round for patrolling soldiers or policemen, but there seemed to be no one. The windows of the club were lit, the curtains drawn back, the front door open, though the other buildings in the square were either unlit or tightly shuttered. The few cars were parked where they had been. No sounds came from the club.
William approached. It was unnecessary and stupid, he knew. Probably he was walking into a trap but he felt he had to know, almost as if in atonement for his own freedom. He stood outside the main door and looked in. If they were waiting for him they could grab him now, he thought as he stepped forward. Inside were overturned chairs, a couple of broken bottles, an up-ended table. The sofas and armchairs were still in place but both the bars were in disarray. Spirit bottles had been wrenched from their holders, shelves ransacked. His footsteps sounded loudly on the big bare floorboards. In the dancing room a towel of the sort used in the massage rooms lay across the piano. On it was a woman’s black shoe. Coffee cups and saucers were on a couple of the tables and lying on the stage was a broken violin, its halves still joined by the strings. He stopped walking and listened: the only sounds were the rattling of the sash windows.
He went upstairs, not bothering to tread quietly. If there were anyone waiting, he wanted them to know he was coming. After climbing the main staircase he went along the corridor and up the narrow one that led to the massage rooms. He could hear before he reached the top that some of the air-conditioning units were still on. Most of the room doors were open. Two towels were on the floor and a man’s sock lay on the top stair.
He looked in each room. Two still had water in the baths, in one the shower was running. He turned it off. The school clocks said nine-forty. There was something touching about the way the time still faithfully announced itself after everything else had stopped.
He went to the room where he had been with Theresa and sat on the edge of the bed. He wanted more than anything to talk to her. He always had, but there had been so little time. He felt that the room should somehow suggest to others the significance it held for him. It should have a special feel, an atmosphere, but it was like all the others. The noise of the air-conditioners reminded him of Box’s EE(C). He hoped he would remember how to work it. He would go while it was dark because he couldn’t risk entering the grave in daylight. He no longer minded about getting into the grave; it was the living he hid from now.
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nbsp; He didn’t hear the footsteps until they were close. They were slow, as his own must have been. He sat without moving. If this was it, then it was it. There was nothing to do but wait. The steps came closer. He looked down and didn’t look up until they stopped at the door.
When he did he felt his face change. ‘You’re all right?’
‘Yes.’
‘I was so worried, I thought you’d been arrested.’
‘Not yet.’
She stood in the doorway looking exactly as when he had seen her last. She was obviously, wonderfully, all right. Her manner, though, was listless and her expression remote.
‘What happened?’ he asked.
‘Manuel Herrera was in the palace with his driver. He heard about it before anyone got to him. He alerted the security police and there was a fight and they freed the generals. Everything is finished.’ She spoke as if without interest. ‘There is a state of emergency and they have told all the people to stay indoors. Everyone is being arrested except Carlos. They don’t know how involved he was but even when they find out I think they will not arrest him yet because he is popular with the people. They will keep him president and prisoner.’
‘How did you get away?’
‘I was with Carlos and so I was not arrested. I walked out the way we came in with your car. The soldiers on the gate recognised me and let me through. I left Carlos. They will find out I was involved and then he will not want me again, so I left him first.’
‘What is he doing – Carlos?’
‘Whatever Herrera tells him. He is scared now, he is with his wife and children.’
‘Have they arrested many?’
‘Everyone who was here. That is why it is empty. They think it was planned here: Ines, the girls, Ricardo, El Lizard, everyone.’
‘I saw Ricardo. They had taken him to my shop, looking for me.’
‘They will torture them all.’
He got up. ‘We must hide.’
‘I will go to my family and warn them. They can hide. It’s better that I am found. Then they might leave my family alone. But you are British. You can leave, your embassy will protect you.’