“Of course you can, old boy,” said Trevelyan. “No one doubts it.”
“You think I’m good for nothing, don’t you?” said Jumbo, his voice trembling between aggression and self-pity. “You think just because I’ve had a little trouble in my life I’m not as good as you, don’t you? You all laugh at me, I know you do.” His bloodshot eyes stared angrily round. Then they clouded and he began to weep. “I know I’m no good. I know I’m no good.”
“Shut up, Jumbo,” said White in a kindly voice.
Jumbo’s face was streaked with tears. “I was always scared,” he sobbed. “Every single minute I was scared to death. I used to lie awake at night, scared to go to sleep. I’m no good, I was never any good. It was a bloody time, a bloody, bloody time.”
“No it wasn’t, Jumbo,” said Shrieve harshly. “It was the best time of your life, and you know it.” He could not keep the contempt out of his voice.
The others watched Jumbo uneasily. He pulled out a large red handkerchief and blew his nose thunderously. He remained, however, lachrymose. “It was you fellows that kept me going. I’d never’ve stuck it out if it hadn’t been for you fellows. You’re good chaps, good pals.”
“All good pals,” said Perkins. He belched softly.
“It ruined me, the war,” said Jumbo, beginning to feel better. “I might have been a decent chap like the rest of you, but the war broke my nerve. I know it was that.”
“I think it’s time I was going home,” said Trevelyan.
“I need you all,” said Jumbo. A last great sob racked his enormous frame and set his wattles trembling. “You’re my only friends. I haven’t a soul in the world except you chaps. Not a penny, not a friend.”
“You’ve got a fine new job, Jumbo,” said Trevelyan firmly.
“Yes, yes, I have. A good job. You’re right. I’m sorry, chaps. Got carried away a bit.”
“Time to go,” said Trevelyan. He called for the bill, then turned to Shrieve. “I suppose we don’t ask Jumbo to pay his share, do we?” he murmured.
“Does he usually?”
“Sometimes.”
“I’ll pay for him,” said Shrieve.
“No, no, we’ll divide it. But we might have the bill presented to him, don’t you think?”
“No, please not. I couldn’t bear it if he started crying again. One shouldn’t be cruel.”
“You’re too soft, Hugh.”
“Perhaps.”
The waiter brought the bill, and Trevelyan added a tip, then divided it by five, paid his share and passed it to Perkins, who put down some notes, saying, “All goes on expenses, you know. Never be like that again.”
When the plate reached Jumbo, he put his hand easily into his pocket, then went into a pantomime of horror.
“My God!” he said, searching feverishly, “my wallet’s been pinched! And there’s twenty-five quid in it!”
Laughton took the plate without a word, and Jumbo’s eyes followed the fluttering notes with anguish.
“What a simply terrible thing,” he said. “I can’t think where it can have happened.” He smacked his brow. “I know. A man bumped into me rather hard as I was getting out of the tube. That’s the way those people work, you know.”
“You should report it to the police,” said White shortly.
“The police?” said Jumbo, alarmed. “Oh, yes. Yes, I’d better. First thing tomorrow morning.”
“Why not now?” said White. “There’s bound to be a phone here somewhere.”
Jumbo looked anxiously at him and said, “I don’t expect they’ll be able to recover it, do you? I mean, the chap just bumped into me. I’d never recognise him. He’s probably thrown the wallet away somewhere. It’s a confounded nuisance.”
“Perhaps you just dropped it somewhere, Jumbo,” said Laughton. “It may have been handed in to a police station.”
“Yes, that’s possible, old chap. But you know, I’m pretty well certain that it was that chap at the tube station. I remember thinking it a bit odd of him not to apologise. But then people are so ill-mannered these days.” He was quite recovered now.
“Anyone for Victoria?” said Trevelyan.
“Me,” said Perkins. “I mean, I.” He was having difficulty in standing.
“I expect you need a breath of fresh air,” said Jumbo, taking him masterfully by the elbow. “A bit of a blow, eh?”
“Never be like that again,” said Perkins.
“It was very good to see you again,” said Trevelyan to Shrieve. “Are you around for long?”
“Yes, for a——” Shrieve suddenly remembered. “I mean, no. I’m flying back tomorrow morning. There seems to be some sort of trouble out there.”
“Bad luck,” said Trevelyan. “Let me know when you’re back in the country again, won’t you? It really has been such fun seeing you again.”
“Yes, Hugh,” said Laughton, “and we’ve spent so much time talking about ourselves that we’ve hardly heard anything about what you’ve been up to.”
“I don’t expect you’d find it very interesting.”
“We get stuck in our narrow little ways,” said Laughton. “I expect you find us all pretty dull.”
“Not at all,” said Shrieve. “You all seem more or less happy. What more could you ask?”
“We’re happy all right,” said White. “I am, anyway.”
They watched Jumbo help Perkins through the door.
“That one, though,” said White, “he’s more trouble than he’s worth. Did you tell him about it, Sidney?”
“Yes,” said Trevelyan. “Jumbo tried to touch him, of course.”
“He never gives up, does he?” said Laughton. “I wonder what that job of his is really like. It wouldn’t surprise me in the least if he was nothing more than a bottle-washer.”
“Poor Jumbo,” said Shrieve. “Do you suppose the war really did ruin him? I should have thought he was ruined long before it started.”
“He’s a rogue,” said Trevelyan. “He’s always been a rogue, and he always will be a rogue. Nothing will ever change him. We were his suckers, that’s all. One thing the war certainly taught me was that it’s no use being kind to rogues like Jumbo, they’ll simply try and soak you for everything you’ve got. Yet look at me. I gave my oath that I considered him a man of upright character. Not just once, either. Twice. Jumbo’s succeeded in making me perjure myself twice.”
“Come on,” said White, “we can’t stand here all night thinking up new names to call Jumbo. I’m for a taxi to Waterloo. Anyone coming?”
“I’ll be in Africa this time tomorrow,” said Shrieve.
“The best of luck, old chap,” said Trevelyan.
They went out through the door of the restaurant and into the street. Behind them the waiter locked the door and shot home the bolts. Outside it was warm, with the stars unusually-bright and the Milky Way like a lock of white hair on a glossy black head.
“Manage him all right, can you?” said Jumbo to Trevelyan. Perkins was leaning against the wall.
“Oh yes. Is there a cab rank anywhere?”
“Two on the way, Skipper,” said Jumbo proudly. “I got the fellow at the door to ring for them.”
The taxis were approaching.
“You can drop me off on the way,” said Shrieve to Trevelyan. “Goodbye, Jumbo.”
“Goodbye, dear fellow. And keep in touch, won’t you?”
“Never fear,” said Shrieve. He didn’t imagine he’d ever shake Jumbo off. “Goodbye.”
Doors slammed. Jumbo put his head in through Shrieve’s window and said, “I say, can either of you chaps lend me ten bob? I mean, having my wallet swiped, it’s going to be deuced awkward in the morning without a brass farthing in my pocket. I’m terribly sorry.”
Shrieve handed him a pound note, which Jumbo took quickly and stuffed into his trouser pocket. “Thanks a lot, Hughie, old fellow. I’ll pay you back at the next reunion, eh? That’ll make you come home again soon. Best of luck. And don’t let the nigg
ers eat you. Goodbye.” He waved as the taxi drew away.
“He got you in the end, then,” said Trevelyan.
“Oh, Jumbo always gets us in the end. It’s what he’s for. He brings us together once every so often to remind us that we’re all suckers.”
“It wasn’t a bad evening,” said Trevelyan, “all things considered. I’m not sure if I’ll go again, though. Six is a pretty poor showing, isn’t it? There were twenty-four of us to begin with. Four killed in action. Two have died since the war ended. Six of us tonight. That leaves half of us unaccounted for.”
“The last of the few,” said Shrieve.
“It’ll never be like that again,” said Perkins drowsily from his corner. “Not in our lifetimes it won’t.”
Mr Brachs sat at his desk, poring over the report from one of the London branches of his chain of restaurants. It was blindingly clear that the enemy was attacking on all fronts. Every single bottle was accounted for, even those broken. The discrepancy between tins coming in full and those going out empty was nil. The report was a transparent lie. It was a deliberate attempt to induce a feeling of false security. A true report would have indicated discrepancies. The enemy had infiltrated even the ranks of the counter-espionage.
Mr Brachs wrote alongside the names responsible for the report: All to be discharged. He did not notice the name of Lieutenant Ian Maxwell, R.N.V.R., retired, among the rest. No risks could be taken. The empire must be saved. If there was one traitor in a Legion, the whole Legion must die. There was no time for detailed investigation. Ruthlessness alone would succeed against a cunning and well-equipped enemy. Treason must be eliminated without mercy. The innocent must suffer with the guilty. That was the way in wars. The rain falleth on the just and the unjust equally. Atomic weapons scatter their deadly dust and the unconceived are born defective. The sins of the fathers are visited on the children, even unto the third and fourth generation. Even, if necessary, unto the fortieth and fiftieth. This was the age of total war.
Mr Brachs marked the report heavily in red pencil. He made a note on a pad to remind himself to call in a private detective agency to check on the security and reliability of the two agencies already working for him. Spies and counter-spies and counter-counter-spies, only thus could the enemy be outwitted. He turned to another folder, then pressed a button. The voice of Sammy Sweet, né Albert Swetman, filled the long office.
Mr Brachs turned up the volume and pressed another button that opened the shutters along his glass wall. London lay below him. The moon shone down on the city, the street-lamps like reflected stars in the foreground. A soft red glow arched above the distant invisible hills. Mr Brachs contemplated his empire.
*
“Sway, sway, everybody sway,
That’s the way,
Let’s all sway,
Sway, sway, everybody sway.
Let’s sway today
Like yesterday,
Sway, everybody sway.
Sway, sway, sway,
Sway, sway, sway,
When you feel that way
And you want to play,
Sway, sway, sway,
Everybody sway.”
The Swaymen took up the theme and jangled it from wall to wall. The Sway bounced off the enormous threatening Rothko to the long glass window, from door to desk.
Mr Brachs listened. He was pleased with Sammy Sweet. London would worship at his feet. London would lead the provinces. The Sway would be a huge success. Albert Swetman would be the idol of millions. Tied hand and foot with piano-wire, beaten on with drumsticks, watched by an indifferent naked girl, Sammy Sweet would nevertheless be a symbol of all that was decent in Young England, all that was best in the tradition of English singers. It was a tradition which Mr Brachs considered himself to have founded. He was proud of it.
Mr Brachs closed the shutters and switched off the tape-recorder. Then he went to a panel of the wall, pressed it in one corner and stood aside. The panel slid back, revealing a staircase. Mr Brachs went through, closing the panel behind him. He mounted the carpetless stairs, lit by a low-watt unshaded bulb. At the top of the stairs, he paused, then entered the drawing-room. Again there was no carpet, and the only furnishings were a plain deal table and a rush-bottomed kitchen chair. He glanced at a pile of papers on the table, pursed his lips, then went through to his bedroom. He switched on the light, another low-watt fly-blown bulb without a shade on a lamp which stood on an upturned crate beside the bed. There were no sheets or pillow-cases, and the blankets looked grimy. Mr Brachs undressed, revealing long woollen underwear which he kept on. He went in his socks to the bathroom next to the bedroom and cleaned his teeth. Then he came hack to the bedroom, went to the window and opened it wide. He spent several minutes doing deep-breathing exercises, then got into bed and picked up a Gideon Bible which he had once appropriated from a hotel in Chicago. He read for several minutes, then got out of bed again, knelt on the bare floor and prayed briefly. As he was taking off his socks, a terrible thought struck him. All flesh was grass. Was Sammy Sweet to be trusted? He would be a person of enormous power. He would earn millions for Mr Brachs. He would be coveted by rivals. He would be an immensely valuable piece of property. Could he be trusted?
Mr Brachs sat on his bed, doubts and misgivings crowding upon him. He had forgotten to turn off the sign which burned above the Building. He got up and went to the window and turned the switch. Sammy Sweet mixed with a low and untrustworthy class of musicians. Was his manager to be trusted?
Mr Brachs switched the sign on again. Who could an honest man of business trust in the modern world? The sign went off. Mr Brachs took off his glasses and rubbed his eyes. He switched the sign on. Fred Martin, was he loyal? Off went the sign. Albert Swetman? On. Burgess? Off. Bray? On.
Mr Brachs’s mind raced with innumerable suspicions.
*
A policeman in Trafalgar Square stood watching the sign go on and off. FREE, it said, then BRACHS. Then there was darkness. Then BRACHS and FREE again, briefly. It went on and off with bewildering rapidity.
“Can’t be right, that, can it?” said a man in a dark hat to the policeman. “Must be on the blink.”
“I think I’d better report it,” said the policeman. “They can be dangerous, them signs. Got a fire on your hands before you know where you are.”
“That’s right,” said the man in the dark hat.
They stood for a moment watching the sign frantically blinking on and off beneath the bright stars, like some mythical beast in its death agony. Then the policeman marched off to make his report.
13
THE “sickness” was over. No one had died for more than a fortnight, and those who had since sunk in their huts with the dreaded symptoms of apathy, silence and dejection were now out and about again as though nothing had happened. Twice before Shrieve’s hopes had been raised, only to be betrayed by relapses, all the more dispiriting for the few days of finger-crossing and hoping against hope which had preceded them. At last, however, it seemed that the Ngulu had really thrown off their possession by despair. The children, who had scarcely been affected, shouted and laughed, played their games, ran about, teased dogs, threw stones, just as in the old days. The old people sat in the sun and drowsed. To anyone who did not know it, the village gave the appearance of ancient peace and normal quietness.
But for the Ngulu there could never again be any normality like that of the past. The population figures revealed the true extent of the devastation. Where there had been eight hundred and seven Ngulu there were now five hundred and thirty-eight. Of these, one hundred and twenty-six were under fourteen and three hundred and sixty-three over fifty. Of adult women there remained forty; of adult males, nine. The sickness had attacked most strongly the most active members of the tribe. Of the chiefs to whom Shrieve had said goodbye there survived none; of their women, none. Of the hunters and warriors on whom the tribe depended for all its motive energy, there remained only the shaken and bewildered nine, overwhelmed
by the size of their responsibilities. In a few years most of the old people would be dead. Of the surviving adult women, at least half were past child-bearing: the menopause came early to the Ngulu. There would probably be no more than one hundred and eighty or ninety Ngulu in the world in ten years’ time. They would be the curious playthings of anthropologists. They might continue to survive for a hundred years, perhaps for several centuries, as a source of wonder to advanced peoples. They might equally disappear before the year 2060. None of the forty women was pregnant: the nine males showed for the moment little sexual enthusiasm. All would depend on the children, on whether or not they could find the will to procreate. The next ten years, bringing adolescence and potency would show whether or not that will existed.
Shrieve stood on the veranda of his bungalow and watched the sunlight striking the tops of the trees and beginning to reach down into the village. This was the best time of the day, when there was still a trace of coolness in the air and the rays of the sun were not blisteringly hot. A few dogs scratched themselves in pools of light along the mud track which was the main street. Children began to appear, picking the sleep from their eyes, yawning and rubbing their heads. It was a scene which tourists would have found “picturesque”: the naked children, like inhabitants of Eden, the stillness of early morning, the distant mountains still hazy on the horizon, the sun something to be enjoyed, not endured. But Shrieve had never been a tourist among the Ngulu. He had never even owned a camera, much to the disgust of professional anthropologists.
There was much work to be done—a detailed report to be written, with an appendix by the doctor and a foreword by Mackenzie; a memorandum for the university; letters to many people in many authorities. During the sickness the Ngulu had been visited by experts of many kinds—academic experts, medical experts, sociological experts, political experts, confident experts, worried experts and expert experts. None of them had been in the least useful, but all were anxious for particular details about the Ngulu’s illness and recovery.
The details, anyway, were now clear enough. Shrieve had learned much from Amy and a little from the survivors. Amy’s contact with him seemed to have saved her: she had never given in, she had found somewhere the moral courage to go on, to refuse to have any contact with the sickness. As Mackenzie had reported, she had locked herself in the bungalow and not allowed the children to go out at all. She had cut herself and her family off from the tribe completely. Only on Shrieve’s return had it seemed that she might collapse, as though the effort of disengagement had been too much for her. She had lain on their bed for two days, sweating and moaning, her eyes rolling and sightless. Only when Shrieve touched her did she become still, but he couldn’t spend all his time at her side. After the two days she had got up as though nothing had happened and continued her ordinary life, except for frequent and urgent demands for sexual satisfaction which Shrieve, in his agony of anxiety, had found hard to meet.
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