Текст книги "The Dark of the Sun"

Автор книги: Wilbur Smith

сообщить о нарушении

Текущая страница: 6 (всего у книги 16 страниц)

thrill of forking a queen with my knight. Shadows on the floor of a

forest please me. And, of course, money. But especially I like women who

do not ask too many questions."

"Is that all?"

"No, but it's a start."

"And apart from – mistakes, what are the things you do not like."

"Women who ask too many questions," and he saw her smile.

"Selfishness except my own, turnip soup, politics, blond pubic hairs,

Scotch whisky, classical music and hangovers."

"I'm sure that is not

all."

"No, not nearly."

"You are very sensual. All these things are of the senses."

"Agreed."

"You do not mention other people. Why?"

"Is this the turn-off to the mission?"

"Yes, go slowly, the road is bad.

Why do you not mention your relationship to other people?"

"Why do you ask so many questions? Perhaps I'll tell you some day." She

was silent

a while and then softly: "And what do you want from life – just those

things you have spoken of? Is that all you want?"

"No. Not even them.

I want nothing, expect nothing; that way I cannot be disappointed."

Suddenly she was angry. "You not only act like a child, you talk like

one."

"Another thing I don't like: criticism."

"You are young. You have brains, good looks-"

"Thank you, that's better." and you are a fool." :That's not so good.

But don't fret about it." I won't, don't worry," she flamed at him. "You

can-" she searched for something devastating. "You can go jump out of

the lake."

"Don't you mean into?"

"Into, out of, backwards, sideways. I don't care!"

"Good, I'm glad we've got that settled. There's the mission, I can see a

light." She did not answer but sat in her corner, breathing heavily,

drawing so hard on her cigarette that the glowing up lit the interior of

the Ford.

The church was in darkness, but beyond it and to one side was a long low

building. Bruce saw a shadow move across one of the windows.

"Is that the hospital?"

"Yes." Abruptly Bruce stopped the Ford beside the small front verandah

and switched off the headlights and the ignition.

"Are you coming in?"

"No."

"I'd like you to present me to Father

Ignatius." For a moment she did not move, then she threw open her door

and marched up the steps of the verandah without looking back at Bruce.

He followed her through the front office, down the passage, past the

clinic and small operating theatre, into the ward.

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?" 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." This heat, this stinking heat!" Wally

Hendry mopped at his face with a grubby handkerchief and threw it 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," Andre 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, Andre?"

"Yes, I'll get it for you."

Andre 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.

Andre 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 Andre 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.

Andre 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, Andre?"

"You know I do, Wally."

"We're friends, aren't we, Andre?"

"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?" Andre 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, Andre?" Andre stopped working with the ointment

and nervously wiped his fingers on his towel.

"I said, do you like touching me, Andre? Do you sometimes wish

I'd touch you?" Andre tried to stand up, but Wally's right arm shot out

and his hand fastened on Andre's neck, forcing him down on to the bunk.

"Answer me, damn you, do you like it?"

"You're hurting me, Wally," whispered Andre.

"Shame, now ain't that a shame!" Wally was grinning. He shifted his grip

to the ridge of muscle above Andre's collar bone and dug his fingers in

until they almost met through the flesh.

"Please, Wally, please," whimpered Andre, 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 Andre's back,

bearing down with all his weight.

"No!" shrieked Andre. "I haven't. Please, Wally, don't hurt me."

"You're lying to me, Andre. Don't do it."

"All right. I was lying."

Andre 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!"

Andre 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, rnarnselle!"

"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 Andre 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!" Andre was sobbing now, his

whole body shaking.

"Don'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, Andre?"

"No," shrieked Andre. 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, older and tired-looking. Mike Haig stared at the glass. He

moistened his lips again, 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." ruce went in through 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."

"Goddarn 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.

"Give the gentleman a coconut!" crowed Mike.

Bruce crossed the room with three quick strides and pulled the rifle out

of Hendry's hand.

"All right, you drunken ape. That's enough."

"Go and muck yourself," growled Hendry. He was massaging his wrist; the

rifle had twisted it.

"Captain Curry," said Haig from behind the bar, "you heard what my

friend said. You go and muck yourself sideways to sleep."

"Shut up, Haig."

"This time I'll fix you, Curry," Hendry growled. "You've been on my back

too long – now I'm going to shake you off!"

"Kindly descend from my friend's back, Captain Curry," chimed in Mike

Haig. "He's not a howdah elephant, he's my blood brother. I will not

allow you to persecute him."

"Come on, Curry. Come on there!" said Wally.

"That's it, Wally. muck him up." Haig filled his glass again as he

spoke. "Don't let him ride you."

"Come on then, Curry." "You're drunk," said Bruce.

"Come on then; don't talk, man. Or do I have to start it?"

"No, you don't have to start it," Bruce assured him, and lifted the

rifle butt-first under his chin, swinging it up hard.

Hendry's head jerked and he staggered back against the wall.

Bruce looked at his eyes; they were glazed over. That will hold him, he

decided; that's taken the fight out of him.

He caught Hendry by the shoulder and threw him into one of the chairs. I

must get to Haig before he absorbs any more of that liquor, he thought,

I can't waste time sending for Ruffy and I can't leave this thing behind

me while I work on Haig.

"Shermaine," he called. She was standing in the doorway and she came to

his side. "Can you use a pistol?" She nodded. Bruce unclipped his Smith

& Wesson from its lanyard and handed it to her.

"Shoot this man if he tries to leave that chair. Stand here where he

cannot reach you."

"Bruce-" she started.

"He is a dangerous animal. Yesterday he murdered two small

children and, if you let him, he'll do the same to you.

You must keep him here while I get the other one." She lifted the

pistol, holding it with both hands and her face was even paler than was

usual.

"Can you do it?" Bruce asked.

"Now I can, she said and cocked the action.

"Hear me, Hendry." Bruce took a handful of his hair and twisted his face

up. "She'll kill you if you leave this chair.

Do you understand? She'll shoot you."

"Muck you and your little

French whore, Fuck you both.

I bet that's what you two have been doing all evening in that car -

playing "hide the sausage" down by the riverside." Anger flashed through

Bruce so violently that it startled him. He twisted Hendry's hair until

he could feel it coming away in his hand. Hendry squirmed with pain.

"Shut that foul mouth – or I'll kill you."

He meant it, and suddenly Hendry knew he meant it.

"Okay, for Chrissake, okay. just leave me." Bruce loosened his grip and

straightened up.

"I'm sorry, Charmaine," he said.

"That's all right – go to the other one." Bruce went to the bar counter,

and Haig watched him come.

"What do you want, Bruce? Have a drink." He was nervous. "Have a

drink, we are all having a little drink. All good clean fun, Bruce.

Don't get excited."

"You're not having any more; in fact, just the opposite," Bruce told him

as he came round the counter. Haig backed away in front of him.

"What are you going to do?" I'll show you, said Bruce and caught him by

the wrist, turning him quickly and lifting his arm up between

his shoulder-blades.

"Hey, Bruce. Cut it out, you've made me spill my drink." "Good," said

Bruce and slapped the empty glass out of his hand. Haig started to

struggle. He was still a powerful man but the liquor had weakened him

and Bruce lifted his wrist higher, forcing him on to his toes.

"Come along, buddy boy," instructed Bruce and marched him towards the

back door of the bar-room. He reached round Haig with his free hand,

turned the key in the lock and opened the door.

"Through here, he said and pushed Mike into the kitchens. He kicked the

door shut behind him and went to the sink, dragging Haig with him.

"All right, Haig, let's have it up," he said and changed his grip

quickly, thrusting Haig's head down over the sink.

There was a dishtowel hanging beside it which Bruce screwed into a ball;

then he used his thumbs to open Haig's jaws and wedged the towel between

his back teeth.

"Let's have all of it." He probed his finger down into Haig's throat, it

came up hot and gushing over his hand, and he fought down his own nausea

as he worked. When he had finished he turned on the

cold tap and held Haig's head under it, washing his face and his own

hand.

"Now, I've got a little job for you, Haig."

"Leave me alone, damn you," groaned Haig, his voice indistinct beneath

the rushing tap.

Bruce pulled him up and held him against the wall.

"There's a woman in childbirth at the mission. She's going to die, Haig.

She's going to die if you don't do something about it."

"No," whispered Haig. "No, not that. Not that again."

"I'm taking you there."

"No, please not that. I can't – don't you see that I can't."

The little red and purple veins in his nose and cheeks stood out in

vivid contrast to his pallor. Bruce hit him openhanded across the face

and the water flew in drops from his hair at the shock.

"No," he mumbled, "please Bruce, please." Bruce hit him twice more,

hard. Watching him carefully, and at last he saw the first

flickering of anger.

Damn you, Bruce Curry, damn you to hell."

"You'll do," rejoiced

Bruce. "Thank God for that." He hustled Haig back through the bar-room.

Shermaine still stood over Hendry, holding the pistol.

"Come on, Shermaine. You can leave that thing now. I'll attend to him

when we get back." As they crossed the lobby Bruce asked

Shermaine. "Can you drive the Ford?"

"Yes."

"Good," said Bruce. "Here are the keys. I'll sit with Haig in the back.

Take us out to the mission." Haig lost his balance on the front steps of

the hotel and

nearly fell, but Bruce caught him and half carried him to the car. He

pushed him into the back seat and climbed in beside him. Shermaine slid

in behind the wheel, started the engine and U-turned neatly across the

street.

"You can't force me to do this, Bruce. I can't, I just can't," Haig

pleaded.

"We'll see," said Bruce.

"You don't know what it's like. You can't know. She'll die on the

table." He held out his hands palms down. "Look at that, look at them.

How can I do it with these?" His hands were trembling violently.

"She's going to die anyway," said Bruce, his voice hard.

"So you might as well do it for her quickly and get it over with.

Haig brought his hands up to his mouth and wiped his lips.

"Can I have a drink, Bruce? That'll help. I'll try then, if you give me

a drink." "No," said Bruce, and Haig began to swear. The filth poured

from his lips and his face twisted with the effort. He cursed

Bruce, he cursed himself, and God in a torrent of the most obscene

language that Bruce had ever heard. Then suddenly he snatched at the

door handle and tried to twist it open. Bruce had been waiting for this

and he caught the back of Haig's collar, pulled him backwards across the

seat and held him there. Haig's struggles ceased abruptly and he began

to sob softly.

Sharmaine drove fast; across the causeway, up the slope and into the

side road. The headlights cut into the darkness and the wind drummed

softly round the car. Haig was still sobbing on the back seat.

Then the lights of the mission were ahead of them through the trees and

Shermaine slowed the car, turned in past the church and pulled up next

to the hospital block.

Bruce helped Haig out of the car, and while he was doing so the side

door of the building opened and Father Ignatius came out with a petromax

lantern in his hand. The harsh white glare of the lantern lit them all

and threw grotesque shadows behind them. It fell with special cruelty on

Haig's face.

"Here's your doctor, Father," Bruce announced.

Ignatius lifted the lantern and peered through his spectacles at

Haig.

Is he sick?" No, Father," said Bruce. "He's drunk."

"Drunk? Then he can't operate?"

"Yes, he damn well can!" Bruce took Haig through the door and along the

passage to the little theatre. Ignatius and

Sharmaine followed them.

"Sharmaine, go with luther and help him bring the woman," Bruce ordered,

and they went; then he turned his attention back to Haig.

"Are you so far down there in the slime that you can't understand me!"

"I can't do it, Bruce. It's no good."

"Then she'll die. But this much is certain: you are going to make the

attempt."

"I've got to have a drink, Bruce." Haig licked his lips. "It's burning

me up inside, you've got to give me one."

"Finish the job and I'll give you a whole case."

"I've got to have one now."

"No." Bruce spoke with finality.

"Have a look at what they've got here in the way of instruments. Can

you do it with these?" Bruce crossed to the sterilizer and lifted the

lid, the steam came up out of it in a cloud. Haig looked in also.

"That's all I need, but there's not enough light in here, and I

need a drink."

"I'll get you more light. Start cleaning up."

"Bruce, please let me-"

"Shut up," snarled Bruce. "There's the basin. Start getting ready." Haig

crossed to the handbasin; he was more steady on his feet and his

features had firmed a little. You poor old bastard, thought Bruce, I

hope you can do it. My God, how much I hope you can.

"Get a move on, Haig, we haven't got all night."

Bruce left the room and went quickly down the passage to the ward.

The windows of the theatre were fixed and Haig could escape only into

the passage. Bruce knew that he could catch him if he tried to run for

it.

He looked into the ward. Shermaine and Ignatius, with the help of an

African orderly, had lifted the woman on to the theatre trolley.

"Father, we need more light."

"I can get you another lantern, that's all."

"Good, do that then. I'll take the woman through." Father

Ignatius disappeared with the orderly and Bruce helped Shermaine

manoeuvre the trolley down the length of the ward and into the passage.

The woman was whimpering with pain, and her face was grey, waxy grey.

They only go like that when they are very frightened, or when they are

dying.

"She hasn't much longer," he said.

"know," agreed Shermaine. "We must hurry." The woman moved restlessly on

the trolley and gabbled a few words; then she sighed so that the great

blanketcove red mound of her belly rose and fell, and she started to

whimper again.

Haig was still in the theatre. He had stripped off his battle-jacket

and, in his vest, he stooped over the basin washing. He did not look

round as they wheeled the woman in.

"Get her on the table, he said, working the soap into suds up to his

elbows.

The trolley was of a height with the table and, using the blanket to

lift her, it was easy to slide the woman across.

"She's ready, Haig," said Bruce. Haig dried his arms on a clean towel