Текст книги "The Dark of the Sun"

Автор книги: Wilbur Smith

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and turned. He came to the woman and stood over her. She did not know he

was there; her eyes were open but unseeing. Haig drew a

breath; he was sweating a little across his forehead and the stubble of

beard on the lower part of his face was stippled with grey.

He pulled back the blanket. The woman wore a short white jacket,

open-fronted, that did not cover her stomach.

Her stomach was swollen out, hard-looking, with the navel inverted.

Knees raised slightly and the thick peasant's thighs spread wide in the

act of labour. As Bruce watched, her whole body arched in another

contraction. He saw the stress of the muscles beneath the dark greyish

skin as they struggled to expel the trapped foetus.

"Hurry, Mike!" Bruce was appalled by the anguish of birth. I

didn't know it was like this; in sorrow thou shalt bring forth children

– but this! Through the woman's dry grey swollen lips burst another of

those moaning little cries, and Bruce swung towards Mike Haig.

"Hurry, goddam you?" And Mike Haig began his examination, his hands very

pale as they groped over the dark skin. At last he was satisfied and he

stood back from the table.

Ignatius and the orderly came in with two more lanterns.

Ignatius started to say something, but instantly he sensed the tension

in the room and he fell silent. They all watched Mike Haig's face.

His eyes were tight closed, and his face was hard angles and harsh

planes in the lantern light. His breathing was shallow and laboured.

I must not push him now, Bruce knew instinctively, I have dragged him to

the lip of the precipice and now I must let him go over the edge on his

own.

Mike opened his eyes again, and he spoke.

"Caesarian section," he said, as though he had pronounced his own death

sentence. Then his breathing stopped. They waited, and at last the

breath came out of him in a sigh.

"I'll do it," he said.

"Gowns and gloves?" Bruce fired the question at Ignatius.

"In the cupboard."

"Get them!

"You'll have to help me, Bruce. And you also Shermaine."

"Yes, show me." Quickly they scrubbed and dressed. Ignatius held the

pale green theatre gowns while they dived into them and flapped and

struggled through.

"That tray, bring it here," Mike ordered as he opened the sterilizer.

With a pair of long-nosed forceps he lifted the instruments out of the

steaming box and laid them on the tray naming each one as he did so.

"Scalpel, refractors, clamps." In the meantime the orderly was swabbing

the woman's belly with alcohol and arranging the sheets.

Mike filled the syringe with pentothal and held it up to the

light. He was an unfamiliar figure now; his face masked, the green skull

cap covering his hair, and the flowing gown falling to his ankles. He

pressed the plunger and a few drops of the pale fluid dribbled down the

needle.

He looked at Bruce, only his haunted eyes showing above the mask.

"Ready?"

"Yes," Bruce nodded. Mike stooped over the woman, took her arm and sent

the needle searching under the soft black skin on the

inside of her elbow. The fluid in the syringe was suddenly discoloured

with drawn blood as Mike tested for the vein, and then the plunger slid

slowly down the glass barrel.

The woman stopped whimpering, the tension went out of her body and

her breathing slowed and became deep and unhurried.

"Come here." Mike ordered Shermaine to the head of the table, and she

took up the chloroform mask and soaked the gauze that filled the

cone.

"Wait until I tell you." She nodded. Christ, what lovely eyes she has,

thought Bruce, before he turned back to the job in hand.

"Scalpel," said Mike from across the table, pointing to it on the tray,

and Bruce handed it to him.

Afterwards the details were confused and lacking reality in

Bruce's mind.

The wound opening behind the knife, the tight stretched skin parting and

the tiny blood vessels starting to squirt.

Pink muscle laced with white; butter-yellow layers of subcutaneous fat,

and then through to the massed bluish coils of the gut. Human tissue,

soft and pulsing, glistening in the flat glare of the petromax.

Clamps and refractors, like silver insects crowding into the wound as

though it were a flower.

Mike's hands, inhuman in yellow rubber, moving in the open pit of the

belly. Swabbing, cutting, clamping, tying off.

Then the swollen purple bag of the womb, suddenly unzipped by the

knife.

And at last, unbelievably, the child curled in a dark grey ball of legs

and tiny arms, head too big for its size, and the far pink snake of the

placenta enfolding it.

Lifted out, the infant hung by its heels from Mike's hand like a

small grey bat, still joined to its mother.

Scissors snipped and it was free. Mike worked it little longer, and the

infant cried.

It cried with minute fury, indignant and alive. From the head of the

table Shermaine laughed with spontaneous delight, and clapped her hands

like a child at a Punch and Judy show. Suddenly Bruce was laughing also,

It was a laugh from long -ago, coming out from deep inside him take it,"

said Haig and Shermaine cradled it. wet and feebl wriggling in her arms.

She stood with it while Haig sewed up.

Watching her face and the way she stood, Bruce suddenly and

unaccountably felt the laughter snag his throat, and he wanted to cry.

Haig closed the womb, stitching the complicated pattern of knots like a

skilled seamstress, then the external sutures laid neatly across

the fat lips of the wound, and at last the immunity white tape hiding it

all. He covered the woman, jerked the mask from his face and looked up

at Shermaine.

"you can help me clean it up," he said, and his voice was strong again

and proud. The two of them crossed to the basin.

Bruce threw off his gown and left the room, went down the passage and

out into the night. He leaned against the bonnet of the Ford and

[lit a cigarette.

Tonight I laughed again, he told himself with wonder, and then I

nearly cried. And all because of a woman and a child. It is finished

now, the pretence. The withdrawal. The big act. There was more than one

birth in there tonight. I laughed again, I had the need to laugh again,

and the desire to cry. A woman and a child, the whole meaning of life.

The abscess had burst, the poison drained, and he was ready to heal.

"Bruce, Bruce, where are you?" She came out through the door; he did not

answer her for she had seen the glow of his cigarette and she came to

him. Standing close in the darkness.

"Shermaine-" Bruce said, then he stopped himself. He wanted to

hold her, just hold her tightly.

"Yes, Bruce." Her face was a pale round in the darkness, very close to

him.

"Shermaine, I want-" said Bruce and stopped again.

"Yes, me too," she whispered and then, drawing away, "come, let's go and

see what your doctor is doing now." She took his hand and lea him back

into the building. Her hand was cool and dry with long tapered fingers

in his.

Mike Haig and Father Ignatius were leaning over the cradle that now

stood next to the table on which lay the blanket-covered body of the

Baluba woman. The woman was breathing softly, and the expression on her

face was of deep peace.

"Bruce, come and have a look. It's a beauty," called Haig.

Still holding hands Bruce and Shermaine crossed to the cradle.

"He'll go all of eight pounds," announced Haig proudly.

Bruce looked at the infant; newborn black babies are more handsome than

ours – they have not got that half-boiled look.

"Pity he's not a trout," murmured Bruce. "That would be a

national record." Haig stared blankly at him for a second, then he threw

back his head and laughed; it was a good sound. There was a different

quality in Haig now, a new confidence in the way he held his head, a

feeling of completeness about him.

"How about that drink I promised you, Mike?" Bruce tested him.

"You have it for me, Bruce, I'll duck this one." He isn't just saying it

either, thought Bruce, as he looked at his face; he really doesn't need

it now.

"I'll make it a double as soon as we get back to town." Bruce glanced at

his watch. "It's past ten, we'd better get going."

"I'll have to stay until she comes out from the anaesthetic," demurred

Haig.

"You can come back for me in the morning." Bruce hesitated. "All right

then. Come on, Shermaine." They drove back to Port Reprieve, sitting

close together in the intimate darkness of the car. They did not speak

until after they had reached the causeway, then Shermaine said:

"He is a good man, your doctor. He is like Paul."

"Who is Paul?"

"Paul was my husband."

"Oh." Bruce was embarrassed. The mention of that name snapped the silken

thread of his mood. Shermaine went on, speaking softly and staring down

the path of the headlights.

"Paul was of the same age. Old enough to have learned understanding -

young men are so cruel."

"You loved him." Bruce spoke flatly, trying to keep any trace of

jealousy from his voice.

"Love has many shapes," she answered. Then, "Yes, I had begun to love

him. Very soon I would have loved him enough to-" She stopped.

"To what?" Bruce's voice had gone rough as a wood rasp.

Now it starts, he thought, once again I am vulnerable.

"We were only married four months before he – before the fever."

"So?" Still harsh, his eyes on the road ahead.

want you to know something. I must explain it all to you. It is very

important. Will you be patient with me while I tell you?" There was a

pleading in her voice that he could not resist and his expression

softened.

"Shermaine, you don't have to tell me."

"I must. I want you to know." She hesitated a moment, and when she spoke

again her voice had steadied. "I am an orphan, Bruce. Both my Mama and

Papa were killed by the Germans, in the boi-nbing. I was only a few

months old when it happened, and I do not remember them. I do not

remember anything, not one little thing about them; there is not even a

photograph." For a

second her voice had gone shaky but again it firmed. "The nuns took me,

and they were my family. But somehow that is different, not really your

own. I have never had anything that has truly belonged to me, something

of my very own." Bruce reached out and took her hand; it lay very still

in his grasp. You have now, he thought, you have me for your very own.

"Then when the time came the nuns made the arrangements with Paul

Cartier. He was an engineer with Union Mime du Haut here in the

Congo, a man of position, a suitable man for one of their girls.

"He flew to Brussels and we were married. I was not unhappy, for

although he was old – as old as Doctor Mike yet he was very gentle and

kind, of great understanding. He did not-" She stopped and turned

suddenly to Bruce, gripping his hand with both of hers, leaning towards

him with her face serious and pale in the halfdarkness, the plume of

dark hair falling forward over her shoulder and her voice full of

appeal. "Bruce, do you understand what I am trying to tell you?" Bruce

stopped the car in front of the hotel, deliberately he switched off the

ignition and deliberately he spoke.

"Yes, I think so."

"Thank you," and she flung the door open and went out of it and up the

steps of the hotel with her long jeaned legs flying and her hair

bouncing on her back.

Bruce watched her go through the double doors. Then he pressed the

lighter on the dashboard and fished a cigarette from his pack. He lit

it, exhaled a jet of smoke against the windscreen, and suddenly he was

happy. He wanted to laugh again.

He threw the cigarette away only a quarter finished and climbed out of

the Ford. He looked at his wristwatch; it was after midnight.

My God, I'm tired. Too much has happened today; rebirth is a severe

emotional strain. And he laughed out loud, savouring the sensation,

letting it come slowly shaking up his throat from his chest.

Boussier was waiting for him in the lounge. He wore a towelling

dressing-gown, and the creases of sleep were on his face.

"Are all your preparations complete, monsieur?"

"Yes," the old man answered. "The women and the two children are asleep

upstairs. Madame

Cartier has just gone up.

"I know," said Bruce, and Boussier went on, "As you see, I have all the

men here." He gestured at the sleeping bodies that covered the floor of

the lounge and bar-room.

"Good," said Bruce. "We'll leave as soon as it's light tomorrow."

He yawned, then rubbed his eyes, massaging them with his finger tips.

"Where is my officer, the one with the red hair?"

"He has gone back to the train, very drunk. We had more trouble with him

after you had left." Boussier hesitated delicately. "He wanted to go

upstairs, to the women."

"Damn him." Bruce felt his anger coming again. "What happened?"

"Your sergeant major, the big one, dissuaded him and took him away."

"Thank God for Ruffy."

"I leave reserved a place for you to sleep." Boussier pointed to a

comfortable leather armchair. "You must be exhausted."

"That is kind of you," Bruce thanked him. "But first I

must inspect our defences."

Bruce woke with Shermaine leaning "over the chair and tickling his nose.

He was fully dressed with his helmet and rifle on the floor beside him

and only his boots unlaced.

"You do not snore, Bruce," she congratulated him, laughing her small

husky laugh. "That is a good thing." He struggled up, dopey with sleep.

"What time is it?"

"Nearly five o'clock. I have breakfast for you in the kitchen."

"Where is Boussier?"

"He is dressing; then he will start moving them down to the train."

"my mouth tastes as though a goat slept in it." Bruce moved his tongue

across his teeth, feeling the fur on them.

"Then I shall not kiss you good morning, mon capitaine." She

straightened up with the laughter still in her eyes. "But your toilet

requisites are in the kitchen. I sent one of your gendarmes to fetch

them from the train. You can wash in the sink." Bruce laced up his boots

and followed her through into the kitchen, stepping over sleeping bodies

on the way.

"There is no hot water," Shermaine apologized.

"That is the least of my worries." Bruce crossed to the table and opened

his small personal pack, taking out his razor and soap and comb.

"I raided the chicken coop for you," Shermaine confessed.

"There were only two eggs. How shall I cook them?" soft boiled, one

minute." Bruce stripped off his jacket and shirt, went to the sink and

filled it. He sluiced his face and lifted handfuls of water over his

head, snorting with pleasure.

Then he propped his shaving mirror above the taps and spread soap on his

face. Shermaine came to sit on the draining board beside him and watched

with frank interest.

"I will be sorry to see the beard go," she said. "It looked like

the pelt of an otter, I liked it."

"Perhaps I will grow it for you one day." Bruce smiled at her. "Your

eyes are blue, Shermaine."

"It has taken you a long time to find that out," she said and pouted

dramatically. Her skin was silky and coollooking, lips pale pink without

make-up. Her dark hair, drawn back, emphasized the high cheek bones and

the size of her eyes.

"In India "slier" means "tiger"," Bruce told her, watching her from the

corner of his eye. Immediately she abandoned the pout and drew her lips

up into a snarl. Her teeth were small and very white and only slightly

uneven. Her eyes rolled wide and then crossed at an alarming angle. She

growled. Taken by surprise, Bruce laughed and nearly cut himself.

"I cannot abide a woman who clowns before breakfast. It ruins my

digestion," he laughed at her.

"Breakfast!" said Shermaine and uncrossed her eyes, jumped off the

draining board and ran to the stove.

"Only just in time." She checked her watch. "One minute and twenty

seconds, will you forgive me?"

"This once only, never again."

Bruce washed the soap off his face, dried and combed his hair and came

to the table.

She had a chair ready for him.

"How much sugar in your coffee?"

"Three, please." Bruce chopped the top off his egg, and she brought the

mug and placed it in front of him.

"I like making breakfast for you." Bruce didn't answer her.

This was dangerous talk. She sat down opposite him, leaned forward on

her elbows with her chin in her hands.

"You eat too fast," she announced and Bruce raised an eyebrow.

"But at least you keep your mouth closed." Bruce started on his second

egg.

"How old are you?" "Thirty, said Bruce.

"I'm twenty – nearly twenty-one."

"A ripe old age."

"What do you do?"

"I'm a soldier," he answered.

"No, you're not."

"All right, I'm a lawyer."

"You must be clever," she said solemnly.

"A genius, that's why I'm here."

"Are you married?"

"No – I was.

What is this, a formal interrogation?"

"Is she dead?"

"No." He prevented the hurt from showing in his face, it was easier to

do now.

"Oh!" said Shermaine. She picked up the teaspoon and concentrated on

stir ing his coffee.

ease

"is she pretty?"

"No – yes, I suppose so."

"Where is she?" Then

quickly, "I'm sorry it's none of my business." Bruce took the coffee

from her and drank it. Then he looked at his watch.

"It's nearly five fifteen. I must go out and get Mike Haig."

Shermaine stood up quickly.

"I'm ready."

"I know the way – you had better get down to the station."

"I want to come with you."

"Why?"

"Just because, that's why."

Searching for a reason. "I want to see the baby again."

"You win."

Bruce picked up his pack and they went through into the lounge.

Boussier was there, dressed and efficient. His men were nearly ready to

move.

"Madame Cartier and I are going out to the mission to fetch the doctor.

We will be back in half an hour or so. I want all your people aboard by

then."

"Very well, Captain." Bruce called to Ruffy who was standing on the

verandah.

"Did you load those supplies for the mission?"

"They're in the back of the Ford, boss."

"Good. Bring all your sentries in and take them down to the station.

Tell the engine driver to get steam up and keep his hand on the

throttle. We'll shove off as soon as I get back with Lieutenant Haig."

"Okay, boss." Bruce handed him his pack. "Take this down for me, Ruffy."

Then his eyes fell on the large heap of cardboard cartons at Ruffy's

feet. "What's that?" Ruffy looked a little embarrassed. "Coupla bottles

of beer, boss. Thought we might get thirsty going home."

"Good for you!" grinned Bruce. "Put them in a safe place and don't drink

them all before I get back."

"I'll save you one or two," promised Ruffy.

"Come along, tiger girl," and Bruce led Shermaine out to the Ford.

She sat closer to him than the previous day, but with her legs curled up

under her, as before. As they crossed the causeway she lit two

cigarettes and passed one to him.

"I'll be glad to leave this place," she said, looking out across the

swamp with the mist lifting sluggishly off it in the dawn, hanging in

grey shreds from the fluffy tops of the papyrus grass.

"I've hated it here since Paul died. I hate the swamp the

mosquitoes and the jungle all around. I'm glad we're going." "Where will

you go?" Bruce asked.

"I haven't thought about it. Back to Belgium, I suppose.

Anywhere away from the Congo. Away from this heat to a country where you

can breathe. Away from the disease and the fear. Somewhere so that I

know tomorrow I will not have to run. Where human life has meaning, away

from the killing and the burning and the rape." She drew

on her cigarette almost fiercely. staring ahead at the green wall of the

forest.

"I was born in Africa," said Bruce. "In the time when the judge's gavel

was not the butt of an FN rifle, before you registered your vote with :,

burst of gunfire." He spoke softhe with regret. "In the time before the

hatred. But now I don't know. I haven't thought much about the future

either." He was silent for a while. They reached the turn-off to the

mission and he swung the Ford into it "it has all changed so quickly; I

hadn't realized how quickly until :I came here to the Congo."

"Are you going to stay here, Bruce? I mean, stay here in the Congo?"

"No," he said, "I've had enough. I don't even know what

I'm fighting for."

He threw the butt of his cigarette out of the window.

Ahead of them were the mission buildings.

Bruce parked the car outside the hospital buildings and they sat

together quietly.

"There must be some other land," he whispered, "and if there is

I'll find it." He opened the door and stepped out. Shermaine slid across

the seat under the wheel and joined him. They walked side by

side to the hospital; her hand brushed his and he caught it, held it and

felt the pressure of his fingers returned by hers. She was taller than

his shoulder, but not much.

Mike Haig and Father Ignatius were together in the women's ward, too

engrossed to hear the Ford arrive.

"Good morning, Michael," called Bruce. "What's the fancy dress for?"

Mike Haig looked up and grinned. "Morning, Bruce.

Hello, Shermaine." Then he looked down at the faded brown cassock he

wore.

"Borrowed it from Ignatius. A bit long in the leg and tight round the

waist, but less out of place in a sick ward than the accoutrements

of war."

"It suits you, Doctor Mike," said Shermaine.

"Nice to hear someone call me that again." The smile spread all over

Haig's face. "I suppose you want to see your baby, Shermaine?"

"Is he well?"

"Mother and child both doing fine," he assured her and led Shermaine

down between the row of beds, each with a black woolly head on the

pillow and big curious eyes following their progress.

"May I pick him up?"

"He's asleep, Shermaine."

"Oh, please!"

"I doubt it will kill him. Very well, then."

"Bruce, come and look.

Isn't he a darling?" She held the tiny black body to her chest and the

child snuffled, its mouth automatically starting to search. Bruce leaned

forward to peer at it.

"Very nice," he said and turned to Ignatius. "I have those supplies I

promised you. Will you send an orderly to get them out of the car?" Then

to Mike Haig, "You'd better get changed, Mike. We're all ready to

leave." Not looking at Bruce, fiddling with the stethoscope round his

neck, Mike shook his head. "I don't think I'll be going with you,

Bruce." Surprised, Bruce faced him.

"What?"

"I think I'll stay on here with Ignatius. He has offered me a job."

"You must be mad, Mike."

"Perhaps," agreed Haig and took the infant from Shermaine, placed it

back in the cradle beside its mother and tucked the sheet in round its

tiny body, "and then again, perhaps not." He straightened up and waved a

hand down the rows of occupied beds. "There's plenty to do here, that

you must admit." Bruce stared helplessly at him and then appealed to

Shermaine.

"Talk him out of it. Perhaps you can make him see the futility of it."

Shermaine shook her head. "No, Bruce, I will not."

"Mike, listen to reason, for God's sake. You can't stay here in this

disease-ridden backwater. I'll walk out to the car with you, Bruce. I

know you're in a hurry. He led them out through the side door and stood

by the

driver's window of the Ford while they climbed in. Bruce extended his

hand and Mike took it, gripping hard.

"Cheerio, Bruce. Thanks for everything."

"Cheerio, Mike. I suppose you'll be taking orders and having yourself

made into a fully licensed dispenser of salvation?"

"I don't know about that, Bruce. I doubt it. I just want another chance

to do the only work I know. I just want a last-minute tally to reduce

the formidable score that's been chalked up against me so far." report

you

"missing, believed killed" – throw your uniform in the river," said

Bruce.

"I'll do that." Mike stepped back. "Look after each other, you two."

"I don't know what you mean," Shermaine informed him primly, trying not

to smile.

"I'm an old dog, not easy to fool," said Mike. "Go to it with a will."

Bruce let out the clutch and the Ford slid forward.

"God speed, my children." That smile spread all over Mike's face as he

waved.

"Au revoir, Doctor Michael."

"So long, Mike." Bruce watched him in the rear-view mirror, tall in his

ill-fitting cassock, something proud and worthwhile in his stance. He

waved once more and then turned and hurried back into the hospital.

Neither of them spoke until they had almost reached the main road.

Shermaine nestled softly against Bruce, smiling to herself, looking

ahead down the tree-lined passage of the road.

"He's a good man, Bruce."

"Light me a cigarette, please, Shermaine." He didn't want to talk about

it. It was one of those things that can only be made grubby by words.

Slowing for the intersection, Bruce dropped her into second gear,

automatically glancing to his left to make sure the main road was clear

before turning into it.

"Oh my God!" he gasped.

"What is it, Bruce?" Shermaine looked up with alarm from the cigarette

she was lighting.

"Look! " A hundred yards up the road, parked close to the edge of the

forest, was a convoy of six large vehicles. The first five were heavy

canvas-canopied lorries painted dull military olive, the sixth was a

gasoline tanker in bright yellow and red with the Shell Company insignia

on the barrel-shaped body. Hitched behind the leading lorry

was a squat, rubbertyred 25-pounder anti-tank gun with its long barrel

pointed jauntily skywards. Round the vehicles, dressed in an assortment

of uniforms and different styled helmets, were at least sixty men. They

were all armed, some with automatic weapons and others with obsolete

bolt-action rifles. Most of them were urinating carelessly into the

grass that lined the road, while the others were standing in small

groups smoking and talking.

"General Moses!" said Shermaine, her voice small with the shock.

"Get down," ordered Bruce and with his free hand thrust her on to the

floor. He rammed the accelerator flat and the Ford roared out into the

main road, swerving violently, the back end floating free in the loose

dust as he held the wheel over. Correcting the skid, meeting it and

straightening out, Bruce glanced at the rear-view mirror. Behind

them the men had dissolved into a confused pattern of movement; he heard

their shouts high and thin above the racing engine of the Ford.

Bruce looked ahead; it was another hundred yards to the bend in the road

that would hide them and take them down to the causeway across the

swamp.

Shermaine was on her knees pulling herself up to look over the back of

the seat.

"Keep on the floor, damn you!" shouted Bruce and pushed her head down

roughly.

As he spoke the roadside next to them erupted in a rapid series of

leaping dust fountains and he heard the high hysterical beat of

machine-gun fire.

The bend in the road rushed towards them, just a few more seconds.

Then with a succession of jarring crashes that shook the whole body of

the car a burst of fire hit them from behind. The windscreen starred

into a sheet of opaque diamond lacework, the dashboard clock exploded

powdering Shermaine's hair with particles of glass, two bullets tore

"through the seat ripping out the stuffing like the entrails of a

wounded animal.

"Close your eyes," shouted Bruce and punched his fist through the

windscreen. Slitting his own eyes against the chips of flying glass, he

could just see through the hole his fist had made. The corner was right

on top of them and he dragged the steering-wheel over, skidding into it,

his offside wheels bumping into the verge, grass and leaves brushing the

side of the car.

Then they were through the corner and racing down towards the causeway.

"Are you all right, Shermaine?"

"Yes, are you?" She emerged from under the dashboard, a smear of blood

across one cheek where the glass had scratched her, and her eyes bigger

than ever with fright.

"I only pray that Boussier and Hendry are ready to pull out.

Those bastards won't be five minutes behind us." They went across the

causeway with the needle of the speedometer touching eighty, up the far

side and into the main street of Port Reprieve. Bruce thrust his hand

down on the hooter ring, blowing urgent warning blasts.

"Please God, let them be ready," he muttered. With relief he saw that

the street was empty and the hotel seemed deserted. He kept blowing the

horn as they roared down towards the station, a great

billowing cloud of dust rising behind them. Braking the Ford hard, he

turned it in past the station buildings and on to the platform.

Most of Boussier's people were standing next to the train.

Boussier himself was beside the last truck with his wife and the small

group of women around him. Bruce shouted at them through the open

window.

"Get those women into the train, the shufta are right behind us, we're

leaving immediately." Without question or argument old Boussier gathered

them together and hurried them up the steel ladder into the truck. Bruce

drove down the station platform shouting as he went.

"Get in! For Chrissake, hurry up! They're coming!" He braked to

a standstill next to the cab of the locomotive and shouted up at the

bald head of the driver.

"Get going. Don't waste a second. Give her everything she's got.

There's a bunch of shufta not five minutes behind US." The driver's head

disappeared into the cab without even the usual polite," Oui monsieur."

"Come on, Shermaine." Bruce grabbed her hand and dragged her

from the car. Together they ran to one of the covered coaches and

Bruce pushed her half way up the steel steps.

At that moment the train erked forward so violently that she lost her

grip on the handrails and tumbled backwards on top of Bruce. He

was caught off balance and they fell together in a heap on the dusty

platform. Above them the train gathered speed, pulling away. He

remembered this nightmare from his childhood, running after a train and

never catching it. He had to fight down his panic as he and Shermaine

scrambled up, both of them panting, clinging to each other, the coaches

clackety-clacking past them, the rhythm of their wheels mounting.

"Run!" he gasped, "Run!" and with the panic weakening their legs he just

managed to catch the handrail of the second coach. He clung to

it, stumbling along beside the train, one arm round Shermaine's waist.

Sergeant Major Ruffararo leaned out, took Shermaine by the scruff of her

neck and lifted her in like a lost kitten. Then he reached down for

Bruce.

"Boss, some day we going to lose you if you go on playing around like

that."

"I'm sorry, Bruce," she panted, leaning against him.