He gave up, and thought about Lucy. This relieved his feelings of tension and apprehension but soon became frustrating in a different way. He tried to think about his work. He conjured up the animal on which he had been working a few weeks ago, resurrected the intricate tangle of its anatomy and tried to make sense of it. He juggled with trunk segments, feeding appendages, mouth, gills and eyes. He saw them, quite clearly, and could summon up no interest. He thought of his parents, also possibly awake and anxious. He thought of his own innocent, ignorant alter ego of a few days ago, pondering which garments to pack, slamming the front door of the flat, swaying in the crowded Tube, checking in at the British Capricorn desk, drinking a coffee in the departure lounge cafeteria. And then his thoughts whipped away from these fixed points of existence to the other passengers in the plane and he saw them as they might be now, released to normal life, going about their business. The American mission-school teacher, chivvying small boys on a games pitch. The Indian paterfamilias, back behind the counter of his shop, ringing up a sale on the till. The Japanese, inspecting their rolls of developed film, some of which included shots of the interior of CAP 500, with perhaps a glimpse of Howard himself edging down the aisle. He pictured each and any of these people switching on a radio, picking up a newspaper, following with awe but also with benign detachment the unfolding of a crisis in which they no longer played a part. They had had their brush with public events, had been sucked for an instant into the current and then allowed to fall aside. They, like Howard, knew now which was preferable.
When it was almost daylight he plummeted into heavy sleep and woke to find the room empty except for Ted Wilmott; harsh yellow sunshine poured through the gaps in the shutters. He was instantly and dreadfully aware of where he was, and why.
He said, ‘Where’s everyone?’
‘Downstairs. There was some food brought.’ Ted’s speech was slurred in consequence of the missing teeth. He sat on the edge of his bed and looked as though he might be still in shock.
‘Can’t you eat?’ Howard inquired sympathetically.
‘I don’t want anything, anyway.’
‘You should try. Coffee, at least. I’ll bring some up, shall I?’
Ted shook his head. He was a thin, sallow youth with an acne problem. Which had no doubt until now been the most stressful factor in his life. By rights he should at this moment be behind the counter of the bank for which he worked in Nairobi, cashing someone’s cheque. Instead, he was minus several teeth and traumatized in a country of which he knew nothing.
Howard decided to report Ted’s condition to the nuns or to Molly Wright, and left the room. He had a wash in the bathroom with its row of basins and rusty shower attachments. There was a tattered handwritten notice on one wall – injunctions about not wasting water and observing the correct heures de silence. In the lavatory cubicles were childish graffiti: Zut pour les bonnes Soeurs!, a palm tree, a dog, a game of noughts and crosses. He wondered fleetingly about the convent’s previous occupants. Were they long gone? Or had they been hurriedly ejected in the last few days? He decided against this; the place had the feeling of having been abandoned over a considerable period.
He set off for the refectory. The walls, this morning, seemed to blaze with the building’s totems: the pink-faced Virgin whose saccharine smile greeted him at the bend on the stairs, the resurrected Christ surging skywards from a pulsating saffron bonfire, the blood-spattered Crucifixions, the fleshy purple Sacred Heart, the smirking troupes of angels. He turned into the refectory and found Lucy sitting alone at the end of a trestle table.
‘I have never been so close to iconoclasm. Did you get any sleep?’
‘Oh,’ she said. ‘The pictures. Perhaps we’ll get used to them. Not much. Did you? There’s coffee in that urn. I kept a couple of rolls for you.’
He fetched himself coffee, had a word with Molly Wright about Ted, and returned to Lucy. The room was milling with people. The french windows into the courtyard had been opened; outside, clotheslines had been improvised and were festooned with drying washing: shirts, pants, children’s garments.
Howard said, ‘Mostly, I can take a more or less tolerant view of organized religion. Just occasionally, I become outraged. This is one of the occasions.’
‘Did you feel like that before you became a scientist?’
‘Long before.’ He gulped down coffee, staring into the courtyard. ‘It’s getting very domestic out there. That washing. They’ll think we’re accepting this situation.’
‘People need to wash their clothes,’ said Lucy. ‘There’s no alternative.’
‘I suppose not.’ He dismissed the laundry. ‘As far as I can remember I was about ten when I first felt uneasy about dogmatic belief, and fourteen or so when I got outraged. By then I knew a bit of history and I’d heard of evolution.’
‘Which did the damage?’
‘Both equally, I imagine. The malevolence of fate and the problem of creation – both. Then when I became a palaeontologist there was a further dimension – the manipulation of the discipline. Man has traditionally been seen as created in the image of God. So early palaeontologists had to see evolution as a progression to higher and higher forms of life until it achieves Homo sapiens.’
‘Suppose,’ said Lucy, ‘that God is something else altogether. Supposing there were a God.’
‘Precisely. I’ve often thought about that. He, she or it must be laughing, in that case. Watching it all veer off in the wrong direction.’ He wiped a hand across his face. ‘How can we sit here talking about that? In the midst of this.’
‘Because it’s entirely sensible to do so. That way we’ll stay sane.’
He looked directly at her. ‘Anyway … You’re here.’
‘I’m here,’ said Lucy.
‘I kept thinking of that in the night. It did wonders.’
She said nothing to this. Instead, her hand strayed across the grainy, ink-stained surface of the table and brushed for an instant against his. The feel of her lingered on his skin. But she did not look at him, continuing to stare into her empty cup.
He said, ‘That poor bloke Ted is in a bit of a bad way. Mentally rather than physically.’
‘Oh dear. I thought he might be. Denise is in a dodgy state, too – she keeps being sick. It may just be the food, I suppose. Quite a lot of people have got stomach trouble. Molly Wright is dishing out Imodium right and left.’
‘Well, it’s hardly to be expected that we’ll all survive this in the pink of condition. Can I fetch you some more coffee?’
‘No, thanks. It’s peculiarly nasty. I don’t know how I’ve got through one cup. Sheer native grit.’ She suddenly beamed at him.
‘That’s better,’ said Howard. ‘It’s like the sun coming out, when you smile. Amazing. It makes me feel quite different. Could you do it again?’
‘Not to order. And we’re about to have company.’
James Barrow was coming from the other side of the room. He dumped himself opposite them. ‘Hi there. How are you two bearing up?’
‘Not too bad,’ said Lucy. Howard grunted and went to get himself another roll. James had been one of the most disruptive elements of the night, perpetually smoking and conferring in a maddening undertone with anyone who would comply. When Howard returned to his seat, James was advocating a more aggressive attitude to their captors.
‘We’re just bloody accepting the situation, aren’t we? God knows what’s going on in London and in my experience the FO people are a bunch of dithering bureaucrats but we need to damn well take a bit of initiative ourselves, not just settle in here like a lot of shell-shocked refugees. Look out there!’
He pointed into the courtyard, where one of the guards was teaching the older children a version of hopscotch. The guard squatted in the dust, tracing out a system of squares with a stick. The children clustered about him. The guard cast a pebble into the system of squares; he hopped. Olive-skinned and curly-haired, he looked about twenty. The children clamoured for
turns; they hopped, they shouted. The senior officer strolled into the courtyard, stood benignly watching for a few moments, and wandered off again.
‘This is just the sort of thing one’s read about. Identifying with the captors. Carry on like this and we’ll be saying thank you to them when they bring the rations. We’ll be rolling around with our paws in the air.’
‘You can’t very well forbid children to play,’ said Lucy.
‘Christ, no, I don’t mean that. I just mean I think we’re forgetting that we’ve been hijacked by a bunch of thugs, not rescued by some nice guys who’ve fixed up accommodation. We’re developing an attitude problem.’
Howard stared at the man in irritation. ‘What do you propose, then, mass insurrection? The first priority is to make sure that no one else gets hurt, I should have thought. There’s such a thing as expedient behaviour.’
‘Craven’s another word for it.’
‘That’s absurd,’ snapped Howard. ‘Just look rationally at …’
Lucy broke in. ‘Arguing won’t help. We’ve got to get along somehow with these people. That doesn’t mean we’re condoning what’s been done.’
James subsided. ‘OK, OK. I take your point. I can’t stand being made to feel so bloody helpless, that’s all. I’m a hustler, by nature. Right now I should be talking my way through Kenya. Greasing the odd palm. Fixing the guys who look like making difficulties. I do it around the world. Go somewhere and suss out the system and set things up so we can go in and make the movie. I feel as though I’ve had my balls cut off, in this situation.’
We’re none of us feeling so hot, Howard thought sourly. He kept silent, eyeing Barrow. A stocky man, tight-packed like a punchball. Fast-talking and insistent, moving in upon people with the indiscriminate confidence of one immersed in his own concerns. He had switched topics entirely now and was giving Lucy a rattle-paced account of some current film project. Go away, pleaded Howard silently. Before I lose my temper again.
Eventually, James Barrow moved off. Lucy, turning to catch Howard’s expression, said, ‘Come on – he’s not as bad as that. And you were raising doubts about the washing lines yourself, earlier.’
‘True. He was beginning to feel like the last straw, though.’
‘I’m afraid there may be further straws than him.’
It was ten o’clock. In the courtyard the children continued to play hopscotch. The air crew had found a quoit and were throwing it around half-heartedly. Someone was doing press-ups; someone else hung up a wet shirt and socks. Upstairs, a baby was screaming. From outside there came the rasp of insects and the continuous cheep of sparrows. Along the corridor a couple of the guards were shouting and laughing. Denise Sadler, whey-faced, sat staring into a coffee cup at another table.
‘Day Five,’ said Lucy. ‘The fifth day. How many will there be?’
7
Time and space became the dual torments; the dragging hours, the claustrophobic familiarity of their surroundings. Shackled to the passage of the day, they were flung into an inescapable intimacy with each feature of the place. The rusty taste of the tap-water, the echo of footsteps on the stone stairs, the movement of shadow around the courtyard. Those pictures. They learned, too, more than they wished to know of each other: the needling note of a particular voice, someone’s persistent gesture, the fads and neuroses of a bunch of strangers. Their guards became distinguishable, no longer a sequence of alien presences but the tall thin one and him with the squint and the curly-haired boy and the chain-smoker. There was nothing to do but wait, and the waiting itself became a further point of stress, exacerbating the crawl of the day, heightening the impact of everything seen or heard. They had moved imperceptibly into a different frame of reference – the confines of the building, its occupants and the progress of the hands on the clock at one end of the refectory. A round-faced clock, with roman numerals, its glass fly-blown, the manufacturer’s name in slanting script at the base: J. Bompierre et Cie, Lyon.
Every incident swelled to the status of an event. Molly Wright had an argument with the officer in charge about the non-arrival of promised supplies – nappies, soap, toilet paper. A child fell over in the courtyard and cut his knee. A midday meal was brought: rice, beans and a watery stew, with a tray of bananas and dates for afters. One of the air crew climbed the perimeter wall to look beyond and was vigorously reprimanded by the guard.
At times Lucy and Howard sat together in the refectory or against the courtyard wall. And then in a deliberate exercise of self-denial they would drift apart and fall in with someone else. Howard spent a while talking to the married couple who had been on their way to a safari holiday – a silver wedding treat, he learned, and now they quietly anguished not for themselves but for the pregnant daughter who would be worried out of her mind. ‘All I can think of,’ sighed the wife, ‘is how nearly we didn’t come. It was a toss-up between the wretched safari and the West Indies, right till the last moment.’ The husband was a wry, stoical man; he played game after game of patience, slapping the cards down on the refectory table and whistling through his teeth as his hand hovered above them. ‘We’ll be out of this sooner or later,’ he said. ‘One way or another. I’d have liked to put a bit of pressure on these blighters, though. Fay and I are still game for a hunger strike stunt, but if no one’s in favour that’s OK by us.’
Lucy, in the midafternoon, went up to the dormitory to work on her notes and found Paula and Jill, two of the British Capricorn stewardesses. ‘We’re feeling glum,’ said Paula. ‘Jill has this bloody great boil on her neck and I’ve got the jitters. We’re bad for morale, down there with the others. How’s yours? Morale, I mean.’
‘So-so.’
‘It was that fellow getting his face smashed in did for me. I’ve been queasy ever since. You realized suddenly …’ The girl flinched and looked away. She was sallow, with dark rings under her eyes. Lucy remembered her on the plane, trim and pert in the airline uniform, with that bright undiscriminating smile.
‘Do you ever think of this kind of thing, doing your job?’
‘Christ, no. I mean, you know it’s on the cards – a crash, anything – but it’s always going to be someone else, isn’t it? Not you. I still can’t believe this is for real, half of me can’t, anyway.’
‘What do you do?’ asked Jill. ‘In real life?’
‘I’m a journalist.’
‘I suppose you know about this place, then. Callimbia.’
‘Not a lot. Not enough. I’m wishing now I’d paid it more attention.’
‘What use would that be?’ Jill shrugged. ‘It’s still none of our business, is it? Whatever’s going on here. And we’re having to suffer. To be quite honest, I think our government should hand back these people and the hell with it. What about us? They’re involved. We’re not.’ Her hand strayed to her neck. ‘This bloody thing hurts like mad now.’
‘Don’t touch it, you’ll make it worse,’ advised Paula. ‘You know something? I’ve been all over the world, in the last few years. You name it – I’ve been there. And what that means is, you sit by swimming-pools and suss out the currency and the shopping facilities and you reckon you know everything. You’re the expert. Sri Lanka? Oh, yes – been there. Mexico City, Johannesburg, Bangkok – know them all, inside out. And you don’t know a damn thing, do you? And after this I don’t ever want to. I’ll stop in Ealing, thanks very much. If I ever get back to Ealing.’
‘I’m sure you’ll get back to Ealing,’ said Lucy.
There had been the sound of booted feet on the stairs. One of the guards – him with the squint – stood now in the doorway. He jerked his head at them. ‘Come!’
They stared. Paula got to her feet, uncertainly.
‘Come where?’ said Lucy.
‘Come down.’
‘Why?’
‘Officer says come.’
He hustled them ahead of him down the stairs. In the corridor stood the interpreter, flanked by the officer on duty and another guard. The interpre
ter appeared agitated. As they approached he turned and pointed at once to Lucy, speaking to the officer. Then he addressed Lucy.
‘You must come with me, please.’
‘Why?’
‘Miss Faulkner, yes?’
‘Yes, but why must I come?’
‘Where are you taking her?’ demanded Paula, her voice rising shrilly. ‘What’s this about? You can’t just …’
The interpreter cut her off. ‘No one else is concerned. Please go. Miss Faulkner … This way. There is a car.’ He began to move Lucy towards the convent doors, putting a hand on her arm.
Lucy shook him off. ‘No.’ She backed against the wall. ‘Where are you taking me? Why me, anyway?’
‘There is nothing to worry about.’
‘That’s for me to say,’ said Lucy. ‘And I am worried.’
‘It is for a short time only. I bring you back here myself very soon.’
‘Maybe. But I prefer not to go at all.’
Jill and Paula were no longer there. The interpreter hesitated. The officer said something sharply in an undertone and moved towards Lucy. The interpreter gestured him back. He lowered his voice. ‘I am instructed to bring you to Samara Palace.’
Lucy gazed at him. ‘Why?’
The interpreter cleared his throat. ‘You will be received by His Excellency the President.’
‘Why me?’
‘His Excellency has expressed a wish to meet you. It is a very great honour.’
‘Why does he want to meet me?’
‘That is interesting,’ said the interpreter. He coughed again, and fingered his tie. His glance fell upon Lucy’s face before flickering away again. ‘It appears that His Excellency happened to notice your passport photograph. It appears that you remind him of his mother.’
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