Текст книги "The Dark of the Sun"

Автор книги: Wilbur Smith

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Movement in the rear-view mirror of the tanker caught his eye. He stared

at it blankly. Then he twisted quickly in his seat and looked back.

"Christ!" he swore with fright.

From the edge of the jungle on both sides of the clearing Baluba were

swarming into the open. Hundreds of them running towards him, the

animal-skin kilts swirling about their legs, feather headdresses

fluttering, sun bright on the long blades of their pangas. An arrow rang

dully against the metal body of the tanker.

Bruce revved the engine, gripped the wheel hard with both hands and took

the tanker out on to the bridge. Above the sound of the guns he could

hear the shrill ululation, the excited squealing of two hundred Baluba.

It sounded very close, and he snatched a quick look in the mirror. What

he saw nearly made him lose his head and give the tanker full throttle.

The nearest Baluba, screened from the guns on the south bank by the

tanker's bulk, was only ten paces away.

So close that Bruce could see the tattoo marks on his face and chest.

With an effort Bruce restrained his right foot from pressing down too

hard, and instead he bore down on the repaired section of the bridge at

a sedate twenty miles an hour. He tried to close his mind to the

squealing behind him and the thunder of gunfire ahead of him.

The front wheels hit the new timbers, and above the other sounds he

heard them groan loudly, and felt them sag under him.

The tanker rolled on and the rear wheels brought their weight to bear.

The groan of wood became a cracking, rending sound. The tanker slowed as

the bridge subsided, its wheels spun without purchase, it tilted

sideways, no longer moving forward.

A sharp report, as one of the main trusses broke, and Bruce felt the

tanker drop sharply at the rear; its nose pointed upwards and it started

to slide back.

"Get outv his brain shrieked at him. "Get out, it's falling!" He reached

for the door handle beside him, but at that moment the bridge collapsed

completely. The tanker rolled off the edge.

Bruce was hurled across the cab with a force that stunned him, his legs

wedged under the passenger seat and his arms tangled in the strap of his

rifle. The tanker fell free and Bruce felt his stomach swoop up and

press against his chest as though he rode a giant roller coaster.

The sickening drop lasted only an instant, and then the tanker hit the

river. Immediately the sounds of gunfire and the screaming of

Baluba were drowned out as the tanker disappeared below the surface.

Through the windscreen Bruce saw now the cool cloudy green of water, as

though he looked into the windows of an aquarium. With a gentle rocking

motion the tanker sank– down through the green water.

"Oh, my God, not this!" He spoke aloud as he struggled up from the floor

of the cab. His ears were filled with the hiss and belch of escaping air

bubbles; they rose in silver clouds past the windows.

The truck was still sinking, and Bruce felt the pain in his eardrums as

the pressure built up inside the cab. He opened his mouth and swallowed

convulsively, and his eardrums squeaked as the pressure equalized and

the pain abated.

Water was squirting in through the floor of the cab and jets of it

spurted out of the instrument panel of the dashboard.

The cab was flooding.

Bruce twisted the handle of the door beside him and hit it with his

shoulder. It would not budge an inch. He flung all his weight against

it, anchoring his feet on the dashboard and straining until he felt his

eyeballs starting out of their sockets. It was jammed solid

by the immense pressure of water on the outside.

"The windscreen," he shouted aloud. "Break the windscreen." He groped

for his rifle. The cab had flooded to his waist as he sat in

the passenger's seat. He found the rifle and brought it dripping to his

shoulder. He touched the muzzle to the windscreen and almost fired. But

his good sense warned him.

Clearly he saw the danger of firing. The concussion in the confined cab

would burst his eardrums, and the avalanche of broken glass that would

be thrown into his face by the water pressure outside

would certainly blind and maim him.

He lowered the rifle despondently. He felt his panic being slowly

replaced by the cold certainty of defeat. He was trapped fifty feet

below the surface of the river. There was no way out.

He thought of turning the rifle on himself, ending the inevitable, but

he rejected the idea almost as soon as it had formed. Not that way,

never that way!

He flogged his mind, driving it out of the cold lethargic clutch of

certain death. There must be something. Think!

Damn you, think!

The tanker was still rocking; it had not yet settled into the ooze of

the river bottom. How long had he been under?

About twenty seconds. Surely it should have hit the bottom long ago.

Unless! Bruce felt hope surge into new life within him.

The tank! By God, that was it.

The great, almost empty tank behind him! The fivethousand-gallon

tank which now contained only four hundred gallons of gasoline – it

would have a displacement of nearly eighteen tons! It would float.

As if in confirmation of his hope, he felt his eardrums creak and pop.

The pressure was falling! He was rising.

Bruce stared out at green water through the glass. The silver clouds of

bubbles no longer streamed upwards; they seemed to hang outside the cab.

The tanker had overcome the initial impetus that had driven it far below

the surface, and now it was floating upwards at the same rate of ascent

as its bubbles.

The dark green of deep water paled slowly to the colour of

Chartreuse. And Bruce laughed. It was a gasping hysterical giggle and

the sound of it shocked him. He cut it off abruptly.

The tanker bobbed out on to the surface, water streamed from the

windscreen and through it Bruce caught a misty distorted glimpse of the

south bank.

He twisted the door handle and this time the door burst open readily,

water poured into the cab and Bruce floundered out against its rush,

With one quick glance he took in his position. The tanker had floated

down twenty yards below the bridge, the guns on the south bank

had fallen silent, and he could see no Baluba on the north bank. They

must have disappeared back into the jungle.

Bruce plunged into the river and struck out for the south bank.

Vaguely he heard the thin high shouts of encouragement from his

gendarmes.

Within a dozen strokes he knew he was in difficulties.

The drag of his boots and his sodden uniform was enormous.

Treading water he tore off his steel helmet and let it sink.

Then he tried to struggle out of his battle-jacket. It clung to his arms

and chest and he disappeared under the surface four times before he

finally got rid of it. He had breathed water into his lungs and his legs

were tired and heavy.

The south bank was too far away. He would never make it.

Coughing painfully he changed his objective and struck upstream against

the current towards the bridge.

He felt himself settling lower in the water; he had to force his arms to

lift and fall forward into each stroke.

1 Something plopped into the water close beside him. He paid no

attention to it; suddenly a sense of disinterest had come over him, the

first stage of drowning. He mistimed a breath and sucked in more water.

The pain of it goaded him into a fresh burst of coughing. He hung in the

water, gasping and hacking painfully.

Again something plopped close by, and this time he lifted his head. An

arrow floated past him – then they began dropping steadily around him.

Baluba hidden in the thick bush above the beach were shooting at him; a

gentle pattering rain of arrows splashed around his head. Bruce started

swimming again, clawing his way frantically upstream. He swam until he

could no longer lift his arms clear of the surface and the weight of his

boots dragged his feet down.

Again he lifted his head. The bridge was close, not thirty feet away,

but he knew that those thirty feet were as good as thirty miles.

He could not make it.

The arrows that fell about him were no longer a source f terror.

He thought of them only with mild irritation.

Why the hell can't they leave me alone? I don't want to play any more. I

just want to relax. I'm so tired, so terribly tired.

He stopped moving and felt the water rise up coolly over his mouth and

nose.

Hold on, boss. I'm coming." The shout penetrated through the grey fog of

Bruce's drowning brain. He kicked and his head rose once more above the

surface. He looked up at the bridge.

Stark naked, big belly swinging with each pace, thick legs flying, the

great dangling bunch of his genitals bouncing merrily, black as a

charging hippopotamus, Sergeant Major Ruffararo galloped out along the

bridge.

He reached the fallen section and hauled himself up on to the guard

rail. The arrows were falling around him, hissing down like angry

insects. One glanced off his shoulder without penetrating and

Ruffy shrugged at it, then launched himself up and out, falling in an

ungainly heap of arms and legs to hit the water with a splash.

"Where the hell are you, boss?" Bruce croaked a water-strangled reply

and Ruffy came ploughing down towards him with clumsy overarm

strokes.

He reached Bruce.

"Always playing around," he grunted. "Guess some guys never learn!" His

fist closed on a handful of Bruce's hair.

Struggling unavailingly Bruce felt his head tucked firmly under

Ruffy's arm and he was dragged through the water.

Occasionally his face came out long enough to suck a breath but mostly

he was under water. Consciousness receded and he felt himself going,

going.

His head bumped against something hard but he was too weak to reach out

his hand.

"Wake up, boss. You can have a sleep later." Ruffy's voice bellowed in

his ear. He opened his eyes and saw beside him the pile of the bridge.

"Come on. I can't carry you up here." Ruffy had worked round the side of

the pile, shielding them from arrows, but the current was strong here,

tugging at their bodies. Without the strength to prevent it Bruce's head

rolled sideways and his face flopped forward into the water.

"Come on, wake up." With a stinging slap Ruffy's open hand hit

Bruce across the cheek. The shock roused him, he coughed and a mixture

of water and vomit shot up his throat and out of his mouth and nose.

Then he blenched painfully and retched again.

"How's it feel now?" Ruffy demanded.

Bruce lifted a hand from the water and wiped his mouth.

He felt much better.

"Okay? Can you make it?" Bruce nodded.

"Let's go then." With Ruffy dragging and pushing him, he worked his way

up the pile. Water poured from his clothing as his body emerged, his

hair was plastered across his forehead and he could feel each breath

gurgle in his lungs.

"Listen boss. When we get to the top we'll be in the open again.

There'll be more arrows – not time to sit around and chat. We're going

over the rail fast and then run like hell, okay?" Bruce nodded again.

Above him were the floorboards of the bridge. With one hand he reached

up and caught an upright of the tie guard rail, and he hung there,-

without strength to pull himself the rest of the way.

"Hold it there," grunted Ruffy and Wriggled his shiny wet bulk up and

over.

The arrows started falling again; one pegged into the wood six inches

from Bruce's face and stood there quivering.

Slowly Bruce's grip relaxed. I can't hold on, he thought, I'm going.

Then Ruffy's hand closed on his wrist, he felt himself dragged up, his

legs dangled. He hung suspended by one arm and the water swirled

smoothly past twenty feet below.

Slowly he was drawn upwards, his chest scraped over the guard rail,

tearing his shirt, then he tumbled over it into an untidy heap on the

bridge.

Vaguely he heard the guns firing on the south bank, the flit and thump

of the arrows, and Ruffy's voice.

"Come on, boss. Get up." He felt himself being lifted and dragged along.

With his legs boneless soft under him, he staggered beside

Ruffy.

Then there were no more arrows; the timbers of the bridge became solid

earth under his feet. Voices and hands on him. He was being lifted, then

lowered face down on to the wooden floor of a truck. The rhythmic

pressure on his chest as someone started artificial respiration above

him, the warm gush of water up his throat, and

Shermaine's voice. He could not understand what she was saying, but just

the sound of it was enough to make him realize he was safe.

Darkly through the fog he became aware that her voice was the most

important sound in his life.

He vomited again.

Hesitantly at first, and then swiftly, Bruce came back from the

edge of oblivion.

"That's enough," he mumbled and rolled out from under Sergeant

Jacque who was administering the artificial respiration. The movement

started a fresh paroxysm of coughing and he felt Shermaine's hands on

his shoulders restraining him.

"Bruce, you must rest."

"No." He struggled into a sitting position. "We've got to get out into

the open," he gasped.

"No hurry, boss. We've left all the Balubes on the other bank.

There's a river between us."

"How do you know?" Bruce challenged him.

"Well-"

"You don't!" Bruce told him flatly. "There could easily be another few

hundred on this side." He coughed again painfully and then went on.

"We're leaving in five minutes, get them ready."

"Okay."

Ruffy turned to leave.

"Ruffy!"

"Boss?" He turned back expectantly.

"Thank you." Ruffy grinned self-consciously. "At's all right. I

needed a wash anyway."

"I'll buy you a drink when we get home." "I wont forget," Ruffy warned

him, and climbed down out of the truck.

Bruce heard him shouting to his boys.

"I thought I'd lost you." Shermaine's arm was still round his shoulders

and Bruce looked at her for the first time.

"My sweet girl, you won't get rid of me that easily," he assured her. He

was feeling much better now.

"Bruce, I want to – I can't explain-" Unable to find the words she

leaned forward instead and kissed him, full on the mouth.

When they drew apart, Sergeant Jacque and the two gendarmes with him

were grinning delightedly.

"There is nothing wrong with you now, Captain."

"No, there isn't," Bruce agreed. "Make your preparations for departure."

From the passenger seat of the Ford Bruce took one last look at the

bridge.

The repaired section hung like a broken drawbridge into the water.

Beyond it on the far bank were scattered a few dead Baluba, like

celluloid dolls in the sunlight. Far downstream the gasoline tanker had

been washed by the current against the beach. It lay on its side,

half-submerged in the shallows and the white Shell insignia showed

clearly.

And the river flowed on, green and inscrutable, with the jungle pressing

close along its banks.

"Let's get away from here," said Bruce.

Shermaine started the engine and the convoy of trucks followed them

along the track through the belt of thick river bush and into the open

forest again.

Bruce looked at his watch. The inside of the glass was dewed with

moisture and he lifted it to his ear.

"Damn thing has stopped. What's your time?"

"Twenty minutes to one."

"Half the day wasted," Bruce grumbled.

"Will we reach Msapa Junction before dark?"

"No, we won't. For two good reasons. Firstly, it's too far, and

secondly, we haven't enough gas."

"What are you going to do?" Her voice was unruffled, already she had

complete faith in him. I wonder how long it will last, he mused

cynically. At first you're a god. You have not a single human weakness.

They set a standard for You, and the standard is perfection. Then the

first time you fall short of it, their whole

world blows up.

"We'll think of something," he assured her.

"I'm sure you will," she agreed complacently and Bruce grinned.

The big joke, of course, was that when she said it he also believed it.

Damned if being in love doesn't make you feel one hell of a man.

He changed to English so as to exclude the two gendarmes in the back

seat from the conversation.

"You are the best thing that has happened to me in thirty years."

"Oh, Bruce." She turned her face towards him and the expression of

trusting love in it and the intensity of his own emotion struck Bruce

like a physical blow.

I will keep this thing alive, he vowed. I must nourish it with care and

protect it from the dangers of selfishness and familiarity.

"Oh, Bruce, I do love you so terribly much. This morning when -

when I thought I had lost you, when I saw the tanker go over into the

riven" She swallowed and now her eyes were full of tears. "it was as

though the light had gone – it was so dark, so dark and cold without

you." Absorbed with him so that she had forgotten about the road,

Shermaine let the Ford veer and the offside wheels pumped into the rough

verge.

"Hey, watch it!" Bruce cautioned her. "Dearly as I love you also, I have

to admit that you're a lousy driver. Let me take her."

"Do you feel up to it?"

"Yes, pull into the side." Slowly, held to the speed of the lumbering

vehicles behind them, they drove on through the afternoon. Twice they

passed deserted Baluba villages beside the road, the grass huts

disintegrating and the small cultivated lands about them thickly

overgrown.

"My God, I'm hungry. I've got a headache from it and my belly feels as

though it's full of warm water," complained Bruce.

"Don't think you're the only one. This is the strictest diet I've ever

been on, must have lost two kilos! But I always lose in the wrong

place, never on my bottom."

"Good," Bruce said. "I like it just the way it is, never shed an ounce

there." He looked over his shoulder at the two gendarmes. "Are you

hungry?" he asked in French.

"Mon Dieu!" exclaimed the fat one. "I will not be able to sleep tonight,

if I must lie on an empty stomach."

"Perhaps it will not be necessary." Bruce let his eyes wander off the

road into the surrounding bush. The character of the country had changed

in the last hundred miles.

"This looks like game country. I've noticed plenty of spoor on the road.

Keep your eyes open." The trees were tall and widely spaced

with grass growing beneath them. Their branches did not interlock so

that the sky showed through. At intervals there were open glades filled

with green swamp grass and thickets of bamboo and ivory palms.

(We've got another half hour of daylight. We might run into something

before then." In the rear-view mirror he watched the lumbering column of

transports for a moment. They must be almost out of gasoline by now,

hardly enough for another half hour's driving.

There were compensations however; at least they were in open country now

and only eighty miles from Msapa junction.

He glanced at the petrol gauge – half the tank. The Ranchero still had

sufficient to get through even if the trucks were almost dry.

Of course! That was the answer. Find a good camp, leave the convoy, and

go on in the Ford to find help.

Without the trucks to slow him down he could get through to Msapa

junction in two hours. There was a telegraph in the station office, even

if the junction was still deserted.

"We'll stop on the other side of this stream," said Bruce and slowed the

Ford, changed into second gear and let it idle down the steep bank.

The stream was shallow. The water hardly reached the hubcaps as they

bumped across the rocky bottom. Bruce gunned the Ford up the far bank

into the forest again.

"There!" shouted one of the gendarmes from the back seat and Bruce

followed the direction of his arm.

Standing with humped shoulders, close beside the road, bunched together

with mournfully drooping horns, heads held low beneath the massive

bosses, bodies very big and black, were two old buffalo bulls.

Bruce hit the brakes, skidding the Ranchero to a stop, reaching for his

rifle at the same instant. He twisted the door handle, hit the door with

his shoulder and tumbled out on to his feet.

With a snort and a toss of their ungainly heads the buffalo started to

run.

Bruce picked the leader and aimed for the neck in front of the plunging

black shoulder. Leaning forward against the recoil of the rifle he fired

and heard the bullet strike with a meaty thump. The bull slowed,

breaking his run. The stubby forelegs settled and he slid

forward on his nose, rolling as he fell, dust and legs kicking.

Turning smoothly without taking the butt from his shoulder, swinging

with the run of the second bull, Bruce fired again, and again the thump

of bullet striking.

The buffalo stumbled, giving in the legs, then he steadied and galloped

on like a grotesque rocking horse, patches of baldness grey on his

flanks, big-bellied, running heavily.

Bruce shifted the bead of the foresight on to his shoulder and fired

twice in quick succession, aiming low for the heart, hitting each time,

the bull so close he could see the bullet wounds appear on the dark

skin.

The gallop broke into a trot, with head swinging low, mouth open, legs

beginning to fold. Aiming carefully for the head Bruce fired again. The

bull bellowed – a sad lonely sound – and collapsed into the grass.

The lorries had stopped in a line behind the Ford, and now from each of

them swarmed black men. jabbering happily, racing each other, they

streamed past Bruce to where the buffalo had fallen in the grass beside

the road.

"Nice shooting, boss," said Ruffy. "I'm going to have me a piece of

tripe the size of a blanket."

"Let's make camp first."

Bruce's ears were still singing with gunfire. "Get the lorries into a

ring." IT see to it." Bruce walked up to the nearest buffalo and watched

for a while as a dozen men strained to roll it on to its back and begin

butchering it. There were clusters of grape-blue ticks in the folds of

skin between the legs and body.

A good head, he noted mechanically, forty inches at least.

"Plenty of meat, Captain. Tonight we eat thick!" grinned one of his

gendarmes as he bent over the huge body to begin flensing.

"Plenty," agreed Bruce and turned back to the Ranchero.

In the heat of the kill it was a good feeling: the rifle's kick and your

stomach screwed up with excitement. But afterwards you felt a little bit

dirtied; sad and guilty as you do after lying with a woman you do not

love.

He climbed into the car and Shermaine sat away from him, withdrawn.

"They were so big and ugly – beautiful," she said softly.

"We needed the meat. I didn't kill them for fun." But he thought with a

little shame, I have killed many others for fun.

"Yes," she agreed. "We needed the meat." He turned the car off the road

and signalled to the truck drivers to pull in behind him.

Later it was all right again. The meat-rich smoke from a dozen cooking

fires drifted across the camp. The dark tree tops silhouetted against a

sky full of stars, the friendly glow of the fires, and laughter, men's

voices raised, someone singing, the night noises of the bush insects and

frogs in the nearby stream – a plate piled high with grilled fillets and

slabs of liver, a bottle of beer from Rutty's hoard, the air at last

cooler, a small breeze to keep the mosquitoes

away, and Shermaine sitting beside him on the blankets.

Ruffy drifted across to them in one hand a stick loaded with meat from

which the juice dripped and in the other hand a bottle held by the

throat.

"How's it for another beer, boss?"

"Enough." Bruce held up his hand. "I'm full to the back teeth."

"You're getting old, that's for sure. Me and the boys going to finish

them buffalo or die trying."

He squatted on his great. haunches and his tone changed. "The trucks are

flat, boss. Reckon there's not a bucketful of gas in the lot of them."

"I want you to drain all the tanks, Ruffy, and pour it into the

Ford." Ruffy nodded and bit a hunk of meat off the end of the stick.

"Then first thing tomorrow morning you and i will go on to Msapa in the

Ranchero and leave everyone else here.

Lieutenant Hendry will be in charge."

"You talking about me?"

wally came from one of the fires.

"Yes, I'm going to leave you in charge here while Ruffy and I go on to

Msapa Junction to fetch help." Bruce did not look at Hendry and he had

difficulty keeping the loathing out of his voice. "Ruffy, fetch the map

will you?" They spread it on the earth and huddled round it. Ruffy held

the flashlight.

"I'd say we are about here." Bruce touched the tiny black vein of the

road. "About seventy, eighty miles to Msapa." He ran his finger along

it. "It will take us about five hours there and back. However, if the

telegraph isn't working we might have to go on until we meet a

patrol or find some other way of getting a message back to

Elisabethville." Almost parallel to the road and only two inches from it

on the large-scale map ran the thick red line that marked r. Wally

Hendry's slitty eyes the Northern Rhodesian horde narrowed even further

as he looked at it.

"Why not leave Ruffy here, and I'll go with you." Hendry looked up at

Bruce.

I want Ruffy with me if we meet any " Africans along the way." Also,

thought Bruce, I don't want to be left on the side of

the road with a bullet in my head while you drive on to Elisabethville.

"Suits me," grunted Hendry. He dropped his eyes to the map.

About forty miles to the border. A hard day's walk.

ruce changed to French and spoke swiftly. "Ruffy, hide the

diamonds behind the dashboard of your truck. That way we are certain

they will send a rescue party, even if we have to go to Elisabethville."

"Talk English, Bucko," growled Hendry, but Ruffy nodded and answered,

also in French.

"I will leave Sergeant Jacque to guard them." "NO!" said Bruce.

"Tell no one."

"Cut it oud" rasped Hendry. "Anything you say I want to

hear."

"We'll leave at dawn tomorrow," Bruce reverted to English.

"May I go with you?" Shermaine spoke for the first time.

"I don't see why not." Bruce smiled quickly at her, but Ruffy coughed

awkwardly, "Reckon that's not such a good idea, boss."

"Why?"

Bruce turned on him with his temper starting to rise.

"Well, boss," Ruffy hesitated, and then went on, "You, me and the lady

all shoving off towards Elisabethville might not look so good to the

boys. They might get ideas, think we're not coming back or something."

Bruce was silent, considering it.

"That's right," Hendry cut in. "You might just take it into your head to

keep going. Let her stay, sort of guarantee for the rest of us."

"I don't mind, Bruce. I didn't think about it that way. I'll stay."

"She'll have forty good boys looking after her, she'll he all right,"

Ruffy assured Bruce.

"All right then, that's settled. It won't be for long, Shermaine."

"I'll go and see about draining the trucks." Ruffy stood up.

"See you in the morning, boss."

"I'm going to get some more of that meat." Wally picked up the map

carelessly. "Try and get some sleep tonight, Curry. Not too much grumble

and grunt." In his exasperation, Bruce did not notice that Hendry had

taken the map.

It rained in the early hours before the dawn and Bruce lay in the back

of the Ranchero and listened to it drum on the metal roof. It was a

lulling sound and a good feeling to lie warmly listening to the rain

with the woman you love in your arms.

He felt her waking against him, the change in her breathing and the

first slow movements of her body.

There were buffalo steaks for breakfast, but no coffee.

They ate swiftly and then Bruce called across to Ruffy.

"Okay, Ruffy?"

"Let's go, boss." They climbed into the Ford and

Ruffy filled most of the seat beside Bruce. His helmet perched on the

back of his head, rifle sticking Out through the space where the

windscreen should have been, and two large feet planted securely on top

of the case of beer on the floor.

Bruce twisted the key and the engine fired. He warmed it at a fast idle

and turned to Hendry who leaned against the roof of the Ford and peered

through the window.

"We'll be back this afternoon. Don't let anybody wander away from

camp."

"Okay." Hendry breathed his morning breath full into Bruce's face.

"Keep them busy, otherwise they'll get bored and start fighting."

Before he answered Hendry let his eyes search the interior of the Ford

carefully and then he stood back.

"Ok, he said again. "On your way!" Bruce looked beyond him to where

Shermaine sat on the tailboard of a truck and smiled at her.

"Bon voyage!" she called and Bruce let out the clutch.

They bumped out on to the road amid a chorus of cheerfal farewells from

the gendarmes round the cooking fires and Bruce settled down to drive.

In the rear-view mirror he watched the camp disappear round the curve in

the road. There were puddles of rainwater in the road, but above them

the clouds had broken up and scattered across the sky.

"How's it for a beer, boss?" "Instead of coffee?" asked Bruce.

"Nothing like it for the bowels," grunted Ruffy and reached down to open

the case.

Wally Hendry lifted his helmet and scratched his scalp. His short red

hair felt stiff and wiry with dried sweat and there was a spot above his

right ear that itched. He fingered it tenderly.

The Ranchero disappeared round a bend in the road, the trees screening

it abruptly, and the hum of its motor faded.

Okay, so they haven't taken the diamonds with them. I had a bloody good

look around. I guessed they'd leave them.

The girl knows where they are like as not. Perhaps – no, she'd squeal

like a stuck pig if I asked.

Hendry looked sideways at Shermame; she was staring after the

Ranchero.

Silly bitch! Getting all broody now that Curry's giving her the rod.

Funny how these educated Johnnies like their women to have small tits -

nice piece of arse though.

Wouldn't mind a bit of that myself. Jesus, that would really get to Mr.

High Class Bloody Curry, me giving his pretty the business. Not a chance

though. These niggers think he's a god or something. They'd

tear me to pieces if I touched her. Forget about it! Let's get the

diamonds and take off for the border.

Hendry settled his helmet back on to his head and strolled casually

across to the truck that Ruffy had been driving the day before.

Got a map, compass, coupla spare clips of ammo – now all we need

is the glass.

He climbed into the cab and opened the cubby hole.

Bet a pound to a pinch of dung that they've hidden them somewhere in

this truck. They're not worried – think they've got me tied up here.