98.4

by Christopher Hodder-Williams

  Aeroplanes jog and wobble slightly on the tick-over. My bones seemed to rattle along with the loose equipment lying improperly on the floor. I remember the smell from the plastic padding, the whirr of the gyro on the instrument panel, the clicking and snapping of successive switches which worked the thing they said they worked — so there was no last minute reprieve due to mechanical failure.

  My fury at feeling so scared, when Simmonds apparently was not, was expressed in a sudden realization that he was less intelligent. After all, there were fundamental differences in our racial culture. I would give him a piece of my mind the moment he had saved my life.

  Simmonds’ black face became the symbol of the hated primitive races, the jungle blacks who relied too much on superstition. The witch doctor was somewhere mixed up in all this. I was colour-prejudiced to the white in my lips.

  For this idiot tribesman was impassive, controlled, detached from reality. You could almost see the welts of his tribal markings giving the game away through his evil skin. The man was out to kill me: his own life didn’t matter because this was a murder on behalf of his race.

  ‘All set?’ he asked, not smiling.

  ‘All set,’ I grinned.

  Simmonds’ enormous black hand slid the throttle wide and gave it the half twist to fix it there.

  He waited for a long time, trying to set fire to the engine, of course. The ritual death would be even more meaningful if conducted in flames. The engine temperature rose majestically across the dial and Simmonds nodded happily when he got the maximum possible revs out of the tormented motor.

  He took the brakes off and we lurched forward.

  Sand is soft. Some sand’s softer than others. Often you can tell if the going is liable to be too rough before it’s anything like too late to stop.

  We hit the soft stuff straight away; and to my outraged amazement this hooligan-nigger must have been asleep or something because he took no notice of it at all, just ploughed on like an ape. It was perfectly clear to my superior mind that the starboard wing would dig in the sea when we side-slipped and turn us into a ball of fire.

  We cleared the soft patch and assumed a more promising speed on the harder stuff.

  It was clear we could not conceivably recover our needed rate of acceleration in time. I knew the only thing left to do was scuttle the machine fairly painlessly at this early stage.

  The problem was to decide how to do it. I allowed myself to run through the various possibilities, glancing fretfully across at the Mgiriama at my side as I dared myself through the varied courses open to me.

  The airspeed indicator was starting to register something ...

  Well, I might cut the ignition switches. But somehow this seemed too inconclusive. We could, after all, start again. And although I would unquestionably get out first, it seemed cruel to allow a fanatic Mau-Mau to die disenchanted. At that instant the nigger mouthed: ‘That is my Vee-one.’

  Vee-one is the instant that you are finally committed to take-off.

  It means you can’t stop in time anyway.

  I couldn’t think where this bushman had picked up such a term. They’re like parrots ...

  We cleared the cliff by five feet and banked hard right over the water.

  ‘You’re very silent,’ said Simmonds, much later.

  ‘You’ll never know why.’

  ‘No? I saw your face during take-off.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘You’re like all the others underneath, boy!’

  ‘Damn you for knowing it.’

  ‘Damn you for thinking it.’ Then he burst out laughing. ‘I didn’t think we’d get off, either. But I hated you so goddam much I rose clear off the ground.’ He shook his head. ‘I have to admit it: sheer levitation is kind of primitive.’

  *

  We reached my flat by five to ten. I took the stairs two at a time and begged the gods to make everything All Right. Gnawing at my heart was the conviction that Louise would be by now dead or dying. She would be lying white-lipped in a doorway after trying to telephone twelve hours before. I was the biggest slob in town; neglecting her, using her, kidding myself to suit my own book. I burst into the flat and Louise said: ‘What a wreck you look, darling! I’ve run the bath and this time it will really be you that’s in it!’

  By noon I was with Chindale. He was furious and refused to listen to me. The hotel was more awful than ever and it seemed there was a bout of ashtray-rationing. The floor became littered with tiny cigarettes and Chindale’s disposition was that of someone who had been played through on the green by the club bounder.

  ‘You great bum,’ he said. ‘All that rigmarole with your half-baked Black Box!’ He picked it up in disgust. ‘You played the same crumby tape over twice! They’ve known for two days.’

  I sat in glum silence.

  Chindale wasn’t through yet, though. ‘Eh? Isn’t that a masterpiece? You were so greedy on the girl that your cover went for a burton. How much of my money have you spent? Eh? — on her? God, you are a fool!’

  ‘But yesterday?’

  ‘Yesterday!’ He sneered at me. ‘They come along to attend your absurd bathroom dramatics. They know perfectly well who Louise is. I’ve had to lay on a private detective to keep watch on her — in case they got so impatient with your tomfoolery that they interrogated her.’

  ‘Did they?’

  ‘No. I shouldn’t think they needed to.’

  (Christ!) ‘But did they know where I went?’

  ‘No. I provided a small diversion ... it’s too boring to go into details but at least it took care of things while you played cops and robbers down in Somerset. I hope it was worth it. I’m longing to fire you. It would make up for almost everything if I could cancel this cheque.’ He handed me the week’s wages. ‘Now shoot. Then I’ll tell you what has to be done.’

  After my account of things he looked ten years older. ‘You’re worth it,’ he managed. ‘What a pity.’

  I said: ‘Surely our own security wallahs in Britain must be aware of what goes on down there?’

  He looked at me with beady-eyed appeal. ‘Please, Yenn! I told you.’ He got up and paced ... unusual for him ‘They’ve probably heard of an NCBM and within limits they will know what it’s for. They’ll assume that Group Three is under full control of the Pentagon and under treaty they have an obligation to respect an ally’s secrecy. People like Tim Fine — with their blind allegiance to the flag and all that — merely “do their duty” — and you know what that means.’ He glanced at me with brief accusation. ‘It’s what you did yourself in St Tropez.’ His look became a dark one. ‘Maybe your left eye didn’t know what your right eye was doing.’

  I shifted him from my optical problems and said: ‘I’ve met your contacts.’

  He grunted, sobered now. ‘Both men are under fire and an investigation is doing its nut to get them. Seale Taggard hasn’t the power of an Ed Murrow and McCarthyism is far from dead. Where and when did they approach you? — I knew they were in town and guessed they would.’

  ‘There was a concert at the Festival Hall.’

  ‘Oh, that. I see ... Commander Duncan is a good man.’

  I nodded. ‘I shall be making contact with him’

  ‘— inside Group Three? You’ll find it tough placing that call!’

  ‘Still, they can’t know I was on that sub.’

  ‘You mean they don’t know so far. Well, you might make it. What did you think of this man Taggard?’

  ‘I hardly saw him. He sat in the car with Louise while I talked with Duncan.’

  Do you see where he fits in? — I mean, with the Schwartz woman?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Well ... think about it. Now look out of the window. Then you might understand my choice of hotel.’

  Dizzily below the traffic was ingeniously packed into an insoluble mosaic. Only this time the snarl-lip was due to a line of blue buses that had pulled up outside a new building in Park Lane, one block between us and the Hilt
on. Long-haired humanity was unscrambling from the transport. Bunches of youths, hampered by guitar cases and heavy amplifiers, staggered up the entrance steps as press photographers used up film and flash to record the moment. I exclaimed: ‘The television studios! But that enterprise shouldn’t be till Wednesday.’

  ‘Even guitar groups rehearse.’

  I was looking out for Michael Nobody, but at this distance even his shock of hair wouldn’t be discernible. I asked Chindale: ‘Where do these youngsters fit in?’

  ‘They don’t. Not now. They’re a right load of rebels.’

  ‘I saw them at it. But how did “The Scene” suit Stergen in the first place?’

  Chindale at his most infuriating: ‘When is a planet not a planet?’

  This time I didn’t let his air of mystique get under my skin. ‘It seems to boil down to what that music really means,’ I said. ‘Why does Holst keep turning up like a cheap signature tune on some DJ’s programme?’

  ‘Think about Taggard.’

  ‘I am.’ I cast my mind back to those few brief moments on the car park when I’d seen him. ‘He’s no Ed Murrow,’ I said. ‘He’s bloated from too much high living.’

  ‘Think so?’

  ‘Obviously you don’t.’

  ‘If I was in the habit of making snap judgements, Nigel. I wouldn’t have hired you. When did you last see his TV show?’

  I shrugged. ‘Some years back. He covered some student uprising at Berkeley, California.’

  ‘And was he “bloated” then? ... Taggard’s troubles don’t originate with gastronomic indulgence.’

  ‘What then?’

  ‘You don’t know?’ I was chucked a crooked smile. ‘You’ve been too obsessed with Vince Halliard’s contribution.’

  I said irritably: ‘It was you who kept telling me to remember.’

  ‘So you remembered. Okay. But don’t just settle back because that epic happened to solve your own rigged-out amnesia. Your activities are like the bloody Rake’s Progress. And judging from what you’ve told me about Simmonds you seem to be finding out about yourself to the exclusion of much more crucial matters.’ He glowered. ‘There are altogether too many moments of truth.’

  ‘All right, then. From what you’re hinting about Taggard’s link with Jemma, I think I can see why he would have pursued an interest in delinquent teenagers. And at the risk of going off half-cocked —’

  ‘— Don’t sulk, either’

  ‘— my guess is that Taggard had some personal motive for helping misguided flowers, like the kids from San Francisco ... but then personal motives bore you.’

  He said impassively: ‘It’s only your personal motives that bore me.’

  ‘Suppose, for instance, he got interested in why some of the teenagers were encouraged to take drugs? — Suppose he began tracing what happened to them —’

  ‘How?’ Chindale was intensely watching me now.

  ‘Police records? ... Jemma hailed from Chicago, where the police records are automated. Say Taggard managed to break the code ... tap into the computer, somehow. He’d have enough on the kids to do some serious tracing.’

  ‘Go on. I think you’re warm.’ Chindale got up, glared down into the street where the buses disgorged the youths. ‘What else is automated?’

  ‘Hospital records! Taggard could have followed right through, found out there was an unaccountable gap in the medical history each time.’

  ‘Like when?’

  ‘Like when the teenagers were shipped by submarine across to Bishops Bight for some sort of processing!’

  ‘Yes, but what sort?’

  ‘God knows. But it would have to be something which made the kids useful to Stergen’s line of research.’

  ‘Maybe. But how? Stergen didn’t chop them up.’

  ‘No. He played them music ...’ I thought a bit. ‘Did you ever try interrogating Michael?’

  ‘Have you? ... Michael sits on the fence.’

  ‘A wall, you mean.’

  Chindale flicked up an appreciative look. ‘Yes. Like Humpty Dumpty he talks gibberish and makes the words mean whatever he likes.’

  A pause. I cut it by saying: ‘You know, Charles, we’ve-probably got all the facts already, but just can’t put them together again. I’m not giving up on Michael Nobody yet. If he’s right next door the opportunity is too neat to miss. I have a feeling he could be goaded into telling me why Taggard’s fat arse is now so unsuited to the TV throne.’

  ‘He might.’

  ‘What about Taggard himself? Is he still in England?’

  ‘Yes. But he’s due for a Senate grilling tomorrow’ and he won’t duck that. I’ll be on the plane with him, just to make sure. If he doesn’t face it he’ll be useless from now on.’

  ‘You’re fighting his case in Washington?’

  ‘I’m going to try.’

  ‘And me? What are my orders?’

  ‘Dammit, if you don’t know now —’

  ‘— Good. If I’m to have the initiative instead of playing straight man to you I can get on with it.’

  Chindale prepared to leave. ‘That TV show is to be networked in the States. Live, by satellite. The only way of stopping it is at source — here.’

  I said, ‘That isn’t enough. Obviously the only reason why Group Three haven’t piled on the pressure to stop it going on the air is because Wednesday it’ll be a redundant exposure. It isn’t going to affect their plans.’

  ‘You think I don’t know that? — But leave things as they are and Group Three can’t go back. So even if I can pressure Washington into putting on the brakes, they won’t work if the applecart is incontrovertibly overturned on Wednesday.’ He stared at me, and suddenly I guessed his mind.

  He’d been methodically manipulating me into what I was now about to say. My pulse-rate doubled but I still said it. ‘That isn’t enough. If Group Three arc really playing Russian roulette I’ve got to get inside Group Three and stop the weapons getting off the pad.’

  He said instantly: ‘That’s what I hoped you’d say. You have just forty hours. How will you get in?’

  ‘Louise got in. The night of the accident. I’ll talk to her, find out where that entrance is. The one she must have used.’

  ‘I thought you might,’ he said innocently. ‘And you can’t go back to your flat. So I’ve had her brought here.’

  ‘You think of everything.’

  ‘I try. Oh ... I almost forgot.’ He took a bulky object out of an enormous trouser pocket and plonked it in front of me.

  It was the Christmas-stocking mouth organ. ‘They’ve rifled your place but they left this for you. You do have the weirdest past. Did you serenade Ruth with it?’

  *

  So the initiative was with me. Surprisingly, I felt calm. Somehow, over the years, I’d always known I would have to undo the knot of St Tropez my own way. It wasn’t so much Destiny as Logic.

  Equally logical was Louise’s appearance in the doorway of the bar. She’d been waiting with Chindale’s people outside. Now he’d gone and she was ready. She had her hands in her pockets where the coat hung loose.

  It had meaning. It meant I would take my time. Close to the deadline though I was, I needed love before I could hammer out against hatred.

  TWELVE

  I don’t understand about love. Perhaps what sex really is amounts to a perpetual attempt to find out. Each time, though, the outcome is in conflict with what you thought you knew before.

  Louise had from the first instant been almost painfully exciting, but I hadn’t really known her softness. In the over-hygiene of that clinical hotel suite — even the WC had a plastic seal with the bizarre legend ‘germless for you’ upon it — I learned this thoughtful side of her. Till then I thought I’d never wanted to be mothered. Certainly Louise’s sex appeal was far removed from anything matronly. Yet now as we lay quietly I felt that she was somehow in a position to bring about the absolution of all my sins.

  Gently, she said: ‘Darling, it was
n’t really for security reasons that you forgot things —’ I’d been telling her about St Tropez. ‘You know why you did.’

  ‘Yes, of course. But I don’t know why you’re having anything to do with such a moral coward.’

  But she wasn’t going to respond to my call for easy reassurance. ‘It’s given you a lot to do,’ she said.

  I couldn’t help grinning. ‘The Labours of Hercules aren’t quite my speed.’

  ‘Well, he wasn’t forty-one.’

  — This was when her ear-rings became acutely important. They were enormous, orange discs with a half moon bangle on each.

  ‘What’s the matter with them?’ she asked.

  ‘They’re in the way.’

  They clinked as I placed them with precision on the bedside table.

  There was a kiss in tender slow motion, until I tore her clothes away. I felt trance-like. Her voice came to me from outer space as she whispered: ‘It seems being forty-one is no excuse.’

  ‘Remind me later to do my tasks.’

  ‘Much later.’ Then she gave me the frankest look I’ve ever received. ‘Still feeling middle class?’ she breathed.

  ‘You’d hate it if —’

  ‘— if you really let go? Why? What’re you afraid of? Scared of the kinks?’

  ‘Yes, because you’re perfect.’

  ‘That’s dishonest. You know I’m not. What am I anyway? So scrumptious that you must leave me looking intact? You’re grinding your teeth. Do whatever that means.’

  ‘And use you?’

  ‘Darling, yes!’

  *

  ‘If you don’t keep to that next time I’ll tell the neighbours all about it.’

  ‘So you’re not just a whore, you’re a blackmailer.’

  ‘Then come here and pay up.’

  *

  Sunlight was rouging through pink curtains, tinting Louise’s prone body. But the gap in the curtain permitted a brilliant, thin shaft to alight on the ear-rings.

  She reached out lazily for them. ‘The sun thinks it’s daytime,’ she said.

  ‘Funny. I couldn’t sec a thing.’ I clipped on an ear-ring for her.

  She turned over to accept the other one. ‘And finally you blew out the nightlight. How does it feel?’