by Wilbur Smith
‘Ah, Madame Cartier.’ Father Ignatius left the bed over which he was stooping and came towards her.
‘I heard that the relief train had arrived at Port Reprieve. I thought you would have left by now.’
‘Not yet, Father. Tomorrow morning.’
Ignatius was tall, six foot three or four, Bruce estimated, and thin. The sleeve of his brown cassock had been cut short as a concession to the climate and his exposed arms appeared to be all bone, hairless, with the veins blue and prominent. Big bony hands, and big bony feet in brown open sandals.
Like most tall, thin men he was round-shouldered. His face was not one that you would remember, an ordinary face with steel-rimmed spectacles perched on a rather shapeless nose, neither young nor old, nondescript hair without grey in it, but there was about him that unhurried serenity you often find in a man of God. He turned his attention to Bruce, scrutinizing him gently through his spectacles.
‘Good evening, my son.’
‘Good evening, Father.’ Bruce felt uncomfortable; they always made him feel that way. If only, he wished with envy, I could be as certain of one thing in my life as this man is certain of everything in his.
‘Father, this is Captain Curry.’ Shermaine’s tone was cold, and then suddenly she smiled again. ‘He does not care for people, that is why he has come to take you to safety.’
Father Ignatius held out his hand and Bruce found the skin was cool and dry, making him conscious of the moistness of his own.
‘That is most thoughtful of you,’ he said smiling, sensing the tension between them. ‘I don’t want to seem ungrateful, but I regret I cannot accept your offer.’
‘We have received reports that a column of armed bandits are only two hundred kilometres or so north of here. They will arrive within a day or two. You are in great danger, these people are completely merciless,’ Bruce urged him.
‘Yes,’ Father Ignatius nodded. ‘I have also heard, and I am taking the steps I consider necessary. I shall take all my staff and patients into the bush.’
‘They’ll follow you,’ said Bruce.
‘I think not.’ Ignatius shook his head. ‘They will not waste their time. They are after loot, not sick people.’
‘They’ll burn your mission.’
‘If they do, then we shall have to rebuild it when they leave.’
‘The bush is crawling with Baluba, you’ll end up in the cooking pot.’ Bruce tried another approach.
‘No.’ Ignatius shook his head. ‘Nearly every member of the tribe has at one time or another been a patient in this hospital. I have nothing to fear there, they are my friends.’
‘Look here, Father. Don’t let us argue. My orders are to bring you back to Elisabethville. I must insist.’
‘And my orders are to stay here. You do agree that mine come from a higher authority than yours?’ Ignatius smiled mildly. Bruce opened his mouth to argue further; then, instead, he laughed.
‘No, I won’t dispute that. Is there anything you need that I might be able to supply?’
‘Medicines?’ asked Ignatius.
‘Acriflavine, morphia, field dressings, not much I’m afraid.’
‘They would help, and food?’
‘Yes, I will let you have as much as I can spare,’ promised Bruce.
One of the patients, a woman at the end of the ward, screamed so suddenly that Bruce started.
‘She will be dead before morning,’ Ignatius explained softly. ‘There is nothing I can do.’
‘What’s wrong with her?’
‘She has been in labour these past two days; there is some complication.’
‘Can’t you operate?’
‘I am not a doctor, my son. We had one here before the trouble began, but he is here no longer – he has gone back to Elisabethville. No,’ his voice seemed to carry helpless regret for all the suffering of mankind, ‘No, she will die.’
‘Haig!’ said Bruce.
‘Pardon?’
‘Father, you have a theatre here. Is it fully equipped?’
‘Yes, I believe so.’
‘Anaesthetic?’
‘We have chloroform and pentothal.’
‘Good,’ said Bruce. ‘I’ll get you a doctor. Come on, Shermaine.’
– 11 –
‘This heat, this stinking heat!’ Wally Hendry mopped at his face with a grubby handkerchief and threw himself down on the green leather bunk. ‘You notice how Curry leaves me and you here on the train while he puts Haig up at the hotel and he goes off with that little French bit. It doesn’t matter that me and you must cook in this box, long as he and his buddy Haig are all right. You notice that, hey?’
‘Somebody’s got to stay aboard, Wally,’ André said.
‘Yeah, but you notice who it is? Always you and me – those high society boys stick together, you’ve got to give them that, they look after each other.’ He transferred his attention back to the open window of the compartment. ‘Sun’s down already, and still hot enough to boil eggs. I could use a drink.’ He unlaced his jungle boots, peeled off his socks and regarded his large white feet with distaste. ‘This stinking heat got my athlete’s foot going again.’
He separated two of his toes and picked at the loose scaly skin between. ‘You got any of that ointment left, André?’
‘Yes, I’ll get it for you.’ André opened the flap of his pack, took out the tube and crossed to Wally’s bunk.
‘Put it on,’ instructed Wally and lay back offering his feet. André took them in his lap as he sat down on the bunk and went to work. Wally lit a cigarette and blew smoke towards the roof, watching it disperse.
‘Hell, I could use a drink. A beer with dew on the glass and a head that thick.’ He held up four fingers, then he lifted himself on one elbow and studied André as he spread ointment between the long prehensile toes.
‘How’s it going?’
‘Nearly finished, Wally.’
‘Is it bad?’
‘Not as bad as last time, it hasn’t started weeping yet.’
‘It itches like you wouldn’t believe it,’ said Wally.
André did not answer and Wally kicked him in the ribs with the flat of his free foot.
‘Did you hear what I said?’
‘Yes, you said it itches.’
‘Well, answer me when I talk to you. I ain’t talking to myself.’
‘I’m sorry, Wally.’
Wally grunted and was silent a while, then:
‘Do you like me, André?’
‘You know I do, Wally.’
‘We’re friends, aren’t we, André?’
‘Of course, you know that, Wally.’
An expression of cunning had replaced Wally’s boredom.
‘You don’t mind when I ask you to do things for me, like putting stuff on my feet?’
‘I don’t mind – it’s a pleasure, Wally.’
‘It’s a pleasure, is it?’ There was an edge in Wally’s voice now. ‘You like doing it?’
André looked up at him apprehensively. ‘I don’t mind it.’ His molten toffee eyes clung to the narrow Mongolian ones in Wally’s face.
‘You like touching me, André?’
André stopped working with the ointment and nervously wiped his fingers on his towel.
‘I said, do you like touching me, André? Do you sometimes wish I’d touch you?’
André tried to stand up, but Wally’s right arm shot out and his hand fastened on André’s neck, forcing him down on to the bunk.
‘Answer me, damn you, do you like it?’
‘You’re hurting me, Wally,’ whispered André.
‘Shame, now ain’t that a shame!’
Wally was grinning. He shifted his grip to the ridge of muscle above André’s collar bone and dug his fingers in until they almost met through the flesh.
‘Please, Wally, please,’ whimpered André, wriggling face down on the bunk.
‘You love it, don’t you? Come on, answer me.’
‘Yes,
all right, yes. Please don’t hurt me, Wally.’
‘Now, tell me truly, doll boy, have you ever had it before? I mean for real.’ Wally put his knee in the small of André’s back, bearing down with all his weight.
‘No!’ shrieked André. ‘I haven’t. Please, Wally, don’t hurt me.’
‘You’re lying to me, André. Don’t do it.’
‘All right. I was lying.’ André tried to twist his head round, but Wally pushed his face into the bunk.
‘Tell me all about it – come on, doll boy.’
‘It was only once, in Brussels.’
‘Who was this beef bandit?’
‘My employer. I worked for him. He had an export agency.’
‘Did he throw you out, doll boy? Did he throw you out when he was tired of you?’
‘No, you don’t understand!’ André denied with sudden vehemence. ‘You don’t understand. He looked after me. I had my own apartment, my own car, everything. He wouldn’t have abandoned me if it hadn’t been for – for what happened. He couldn’t help it, he was true to me. I swear to you – he loved me!’
Wally snorted with laughter, he was enjoying himself now.
‘Loved you! Jesus wept!’ He threw his head back, for the laughter was almost strangling him, and it was ten seconds before he could ask: ‘Then what happened between you and your true blue lover? Why didn’t you get married and settle down to raise a family, hey?’ At the improbability of his own sense of humour Wally convulsed with laughter once more.
‘There was an investigation. The police – ooh! you’re hurting me, Wally.’
‘Keep talking, mamselle!’
‘The police – he had no alternative. He was a man of position, he couldn’t afford the scandal. There was no other way out – there never is for us. It’s hopeless, there is no happiness.’
‘Cut the crap, doll boy. Just give me the story.’
‘He arranged employment for me in Elisabethville, gave me money, paid for my air fare, everything. He did everything, he looked after me, he still writes to me.’
‘That’s beautiful, real true love. You make me want to cry.’
Then Wally’s laughter changed its tone, harsher now. ‘Well, get this, doll boy, and get it good. I don’t like queers!’ He dug his fingers in again and André squealed.
‘I’ll tell you a story. When I was in reform school there was a queer there that tried to touch me up. One day I got him in the shower rooms with a razor, just an ordinary Gillette razor. There were twenty guys singing and shouting in the other cubicles. He screamed just like they were all screaming when the cold water hit them. No one took any notice of him. He wanted to be a woman, so I helped him.’ Hendry’s voice went hoarse and gloating with the memory. ‘Jesus!’ he whispered. ‘Jesus, the blood!’ André was sobbing now, his whole body shaking.
‘I won’t – please, Wally, I can’t help it. It was just that one time. Please leave me.’
‘How would you like me to help you, André?’
‘No,’ shrieked André. And Hendry lost interest; he released him, left him lying on the bunk and reached for his socks.
‘I’m going to find me a beer.’ He laced on his boots and stood up.
‘Just you remember,’ he said darkly, standing over the boy on the bunk. ‘Don’t get any ideas with me, Bucko.’ He picked up his rifle and went out into the corridor.
Wally found Boussier on the verandah of the hotel talking with a group of his men.
‘Where’s Captain Curry?’ he demanded.
‘He has gone out to the mission station.’
‘When did he leave?’
‘About ten minutes ago.’
‘Good,’ said Wally. ‘Who’s got the key to the bar?’
Boussier hesitated.
‘The captain has ordered that the bar is to remain locked.’
Wally unslung his rifle.
‘Don’t give me a hard time, friend.’
‘I regret, monsieur, that I must obey the captain’s instructions.’
For a minute they stared at each other, and there was no sign of weakening in the older man.
‘Have it your way, then,’ said Wally and swaggered through the lounge to the bar-room door. He put his foot against the lock and the flimsy mechanism yielded to the pressure. The door flew open and Wally marched across to the counter, laid his rifle on it and reached underneath to the shelves loaded with Simba beer.
The first bottle he emptied without taking it from his lips. He belched luxuriously and reached for the second, hooked the cap off with the opener and inspected the bubble of froth that appeared at its mouth.
‘Hendry!’ Wally looked up at Mike Haig in the doorway.
‘Hello, Mike.’ He grinned.
‘What do you think you’re doing?’ Mike demanded.
‘What does it look like?’ Wally raised the bottle in salutation and then sipped delicately at the froth.
‘Bruce has given strict orders that no one is allowed in here.’
‘Oh, for Chrissake, Haig. Stop acting like an old woman.’
‘Out you get, Hendry. I’m in charge here.’
‘Mike,’ Wally grinned at him, ‘you want me to die of thirst or something?’ He leaned his elbows on the counter. ‘Give me a couple more minutes. Let me finish my drink.’
Mike Haig glanced behind him into the lounge and saw the interested group of civilians who were craning to see into the bar-room. He closed the door and walked across to stand opposite Hendry.
‘Two minutes, Hendry,’ he agreed in an unfriendly tone, ‘then out with you.’
‘You’re not a bad guy, Mike. You and I rubbed each other up wrong. I tell you something, I’m sorry about us.’
‘Drink up!’ said Mike. Without turning Wally reached backwards and took a bottle of Remy Martin cognac off the shelf. He pulled the cork with his teeth, selected a brandy balloon with his free hand and poured a little of the oily amber fluid into it.
‘Keep me company, Mike,’ he said and slid the glass across the counter towards Haig. First without expression, and then with his face seeming to crumble, Mike Haig stared at the glass. He moistened his lips, again older and tired-looking. With a physical wrench he pulled his eyes away from the glass.
‘Damn you, Hendry.’ His voice unnaturally low. ‘God damn you to hell.’ He hit out at the glass, spinning it off the counter to shatter against the far wall.
‘Did I do something wrong, Mike?’ asked Hendry softly. ‘Just offered you a drink, that’s all.’
The smell of spilt brandy arose, sharp, fruity with the warmth of the grape, and Mike moistened his lips again. The saliva jetting from under his tongue, and the deep yearning aching want in his stomach spreading outwards slowly, numbing him.
‘Damn you,’ he whispered. ‘Oh, damn you, damn you,’ pleading now as Hendry filled another glass.
‘How long has it been, Mike? A year, two years? Try a little, just a mouthful. Remember the lift it gives you. Come on, boy. You’re tired, you’ve worked hard. Just one – there you are. Just have this one with me.’
Mike wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, sweating now across the forehead and on his upper lip, tiny jewels of sweat squeezed out of the skin by the craving of his body.
‘Come on, boy.’ Wally’s voice hoarse with excitement; teasing, wheedling, tempting.
Mike’s hand closed round the tumbler, moving of its own volition, lifting it towards lips that were suddenly slack and trembling, his eyes filled with mingled loathing and desire.
‘Just this one,’ whispered Hendry. ‘Just this one.’
Mike gulped it with a sudden savage flick of his arm, one swallow and the glass was empty. He held it with both hands, his head bowed over it.
‘I hate you. My God, I hate you.’ He spoke to Hendry, and to himself, and to the empty glass.
‘That’s my boy!’ crowed Wally. ‘That’s the lad! Come on, let me fill you up.’
– 12 –
Bruce went in throu
gh the front door of the hotel with Shermaine trying to keep pace with him. There were a dozen or so people in the lobby, and an air of tension amongst them. Boussier was one of them and he came quickly to Bruce.
‘I’m sorry, Captain, I could not stop them. That one, that one with the red hair, he was violent. He had his gun and I think he was ready to use it.’
‘What are you talking about?’ Bruce asked him, but before Boussier could answer there was the bellow of Hendry’s laughter from behind the door at the far end of the lobby; the door to the bar-room.
‘They are in there,’ Boussier told him. ‘They have been there for the past hour.’
‘Goddam it to hell,’ swore Bruce. ‘Now of all times. Oh, goddam that bloody animal.’
He almost ran across the room and threw open the double doors. Hendry was standing against the far wall with a tumbler in one hand and his rifle in the other. He was holding the rifle by the pistol grip and waving vague circles in the air with it.
Mike Haig was building a pyramid of glasses on the bar counter. He was just placing the final glass on the pile.
‘Hello, Bruce, old cock, old man, old fruit,’ he greeted Bruce, and waved in an exaggerated manner. ‘Just in time, you can have a couple of shots as well. But Wally’s first, he gets first shot. Must abide by the rules, no cheating, strictly democratic affair, everyone has equal rights. Rank doesn’t count. That’s right, isn’t it Wally?’ Haig’s features had blurred; it was as though he were melting, losing his shape. His lips were loose and flabby, his jowls hung pendulously as an old woman’s breasts, and his eyes were moist.
He picked up a glass from beside the pyramid, but this glass was nearly full and a bottle of Remy Martin cognac stood beside it.
‘A very fine old brandy, absolutely exquisite.’ The last two words didn’t come out right, so he repeated them carefully. Then he grinned loosely at Bruce and his eyes weren’t quite in focus.
‘Get out of the way, Mike,’ said Hendry, and raised the rifle one-handed, aiming at the pile of glasses.
‘Every time she bucks, she bounces,’ hooted Haig, ‘and every time she bounces you win a coconut. Let her rip, old fruit.’
‘Hendry, stop that,’ snapped Bruce.
‘Go and get mucked,’ answered Hendry and fired. The rifle kicked back over his shoulder and he fell against the wall. The pyramid of glasses exploded in a shower of fragments and the room was filled with the roar of the rifle.