Cade walked slowly to the writing desk. He put down his camera and then poured whisky into the glass.
“You picked the wrong hero,” he said, his back to Small. “Now get out, and stay out.”
There was a long, pregnant silence, then Small said, “I am sorry, Mr. Cade... not for myself, but for you.”
After the door had closed gently and the lock had turned, Cade stared for some moments at the glass he was holding, then with a shudder of revulsion, he flung the glass at the opposite wall. The whisky spraying off the wall splashed his shirt. He walked stiffly to the bed and sat on it his hands in fists rested on his knees. He remained there for some time, staring down at the carpet refusing to think, forcing his mind to remain blank.
A woman’s scream, shrill and nerve-jangling came faintly through the closed window, bringing him to his feet. He listened, his heart racing. The scream came again.
Shaking, he jerked open the french windows and stepped out onto the balcony.
After the air-conditioned coolness of the room, the heat from the street rose up around him in a smothering, humid blanket. Gripping the balcony rail, he leaned forward and looked down into the street.
Sonny Small was standing in the middle of the street his body tense, his hands clenched in ebony fists. In the glare of the afternoon sun, his shirt looked very white and his skin very black. He looked first to his right, then to his left. Then he waved to someone that Cade couldn’t see and he shouted in a thin, tight voice that floated up to Cade, “Keep away, Tessa! Keep away from me!”
Cade looked down the street to his right. Three white men were running down the street towards Smalclass="underline" big, powerful men with clubs in their hands. He looked to his left. Two other men, also with clubs, were converging on Small, but moving more slowly. It was a classic design of fugitive and hunters and there was no way of escape for Small.
Turning quickly, Cade blundered back into the room. He snatched up his camera. With a quick movement, he detached the 5.8 cm lens, snatching up his overnight bag, he spilt its contents out onto the bed. Then grabbing his 20 cm telephoto lens, he regained the balcony. Years of camera handling experience made his movements sure, fast and automatic. The lens mount snapped into the body of the camera. He set the shutter at 1/125 and the aperture at f16. The converging men and the lone white-shirted negro made a pattern of sinister violence in the view finder.
Cade’s hands became miraculously steady. The focal plane shutter snapped across.
Down below, one of the running men shouted in a voice turned hoarse and vicious with triumph, “It’s that Nigger sonofabitch Small! Get him, boys!”
Small, crouching, crossed his arms and covered his head as the men reached him. A club smashed down on his crossed forearms, driving him to his knees. Another club flashed in the sunlight. The sharp crack of wood against bone came clearly to Cade as he pushed forward the film winder and released the shutter.
The five men crowded around the fallen Negro. A bright ribbon of blood made a diagonal pattern with ten dusty, heavy boots.
Small made a convulsive movement as a club thudded down on his ribs. One of the men shoved another out of his way so he could get at the fallen Negro. His boot crashed against Small’s cheekbone. Blood sprayed up, staining the man’s boot and trousers leg.
The shutter of the camera four storeys above snapped again and again.
Then a slim Negro girl came running from the hotel. She was tall and her frizzy hair was disarranged. She had on a white cover-all, no stockings nor shoes and she ran swiftly and silently.
Cade’s 20 cm lens picked her up. He could see through the view finder her stark look of terror, the determined set of her mouth and the glitter of sweat that framed her horror-wide eyes.
One of the men was getting set to kick Small in the face again as she arrived. Her finger nails like claws ripped at his face, sending him staggering back. Then she was standing over Small, facing the men.
The men drew back. There was a moment of tense silence. Then the man with the gashed face gave a yell and swung his club. The club smashed down on the girl’s forearm as she jerked up her arm to protect her head. Her arm dropped limply to her side, the white teeth of the splintered bone breaking through the dark flesh.
“Kill the Nigger bitch!” the man bawled and the club swung again, hitting the girl on the top of her frizzy head. She went down on top of Small, her cover-all riding up to her waist, her long, thin legs spread wide.
At the end of the street came the shrill blast of a police whistle. The five men jerked around. Two deputies, their stars glittering in the sun, were watching them, wide grins on their faces. Then they began a slow march down the street towards the men.
The man with the gashed face bent over the unconscious girl and drove the end of his club between her legs with brutal violence. One of his companions caught hold of him and dragged him away.
Then the five of them, their backs to the slowly approaching deputies, began to walk briskly away. By the time the deputies had reached the unconscious negroes, the five men had disappeared.
Cade stepped away from the balcony and lowered his camera. He was trembling, but he knew he had a set of pictures that would speak far louder than any pictures he might have taken of the freedom march.
Now he wanted a drink.
He moved unsteadily back into the room, then he stopped short, a cold surge of shock flowing up his spine.
His eyes like wet stones, Mitchell stood in the open doorway. The two men stared at each other, then Mitchell moved into the room, shut and locked the door.
“Give me that camera, you sonofabitch,” he said.
Cade thought: Can it be possible that in twelve months, I could have so quickly and easily ruined my body and anaesthetised my mind so that now when I need my strength, it is certain to fail me? A year ago, this cheap thug would have been less than a joke to me. Now, he terrifies me. He’s going to be too strong and fast for me to handle. He’s going to beat me into a bloody, sodden rag, and he is going to get my pictures.
“Did you hear what I said?” Mitchell snapped. “Give me that camera!”
Cade backed still further away. With shaking fingers, he removed the long 20 cm lens from the camera and dropped the lens onto the bed while he continued to back away until he reached the wall.
Mitchell advanced slowly towards him.
“I saw you taking pictures,” he said. “Okay: now you’re in trouble. I warned you, didn’t I? Give me that camera!”
“You can have it,” Cade said breathlessly. “Just don’t touch me.” He lifted the camera strap from his neck.
Mitchell paused, watching him, a sneering grin on his face.
The camera hung at the end of the strap which Cade held in his right hand. Cade’s face was bloodless. His breath came through his half-open mouth in uneven gasps. His expression was of abject terror. He looked such a creature for contempt that Mitchell made a fatal mistake. He relaxed, sadistically anticipating the moment when his sharp knuckles would cut into the face of this man, trembling before him.
He snapped his fingers.
“Give,” he said.
Then something happened to Cade. He had always had this extraordinary protective feeling towards his camera. During the years as a photographer he had never had a camera smashed, although many had attempted it. Now, as he was about to hand the camera to Mitchell, this instinct asserted itself. Before he knew what he was doing, his right arm stiffened and swung in a lightning arc. The camera, hanging at the end of the strap flew like a sling-shot towards Mitchell’s grinning face.