“And has his women taken from him,” I said.
“If that’s the way it has to be, yes. It’s not an attractive state, but there’s no ready alternative.”
I said nothing to him, aware that he was probably right. I had long felt that had there been an alternative to the wretched vagrant life we had been leading we would have discovered it. But what we saw of the various organized bodies during the brief periods of interrogation to which we had been subjected, made clear to us that there was no place for the displaced civilian. The major towns and cities were under martial law, smaller towns and villages were either under military control or had defended themselves with civilian militia. The countryside was ours.
After a minute or two I said: “But it can’t stay this way for ever. It’s not a stable situation.”
Lateef grinned. “Not now it isn’t.”
“Now?”
“We’re armed. That’s what the difference is. The refugees can unite, defend themselves. With rifles we can take back what is ours … freedom!”
I said: “That’s insane. You’ve only got to leave this wood and the first detachment of regular troops will slay you.”
“A guerrilla army. Thousands of us, all over the country. We can occupy villages, ambush supplies-convoys. But we’ll have to be careful, have to stay hidden.”
“Then what would be the difference?”
“We’ll be organized, armed, participating.”
“No,” I said. “We mustn’t become involved in the war. There’s too much already.”
“Come on,” he said. “We’ll put it to the others. It’ll be democratic, it can only work if we’re all in favour.”
We walked back through the trees to where the others were waiting for us. I sat on the ground a little distance from Lateef, and looked at the handcarts laden with crates. I was only half listening to Lateef; my mind was preoccupied with the image of a disorganized band of men, thousands of them in every rural area of the country, hungering for revenge against the impersonal military forces and civilian organizations on every side.
I saw that where once the refugees had represented a desperate but ineffectual neutral presence in the fighting, their organization into a fighting guerrilla force — if such a task could be accomplished — would only add to the chaos which tore at the country.
I stood up and backed away from the others. As I stumbled through the trees, with an ever-growing desperation to be away from them, I heard the men shout their approval in unison. I headed south.
I noticed the girl on a table a few feet away from mine. As soon as I recognized her I stood up and walked over to her.
“Laura!” I said.
The girl stared at me in surprise. Then she recognized me, too.
“Alan!”
I am not generally motivated by nostalgia, but for some reason I had come back to the restaurant in the park, automatically associating it with the times I had spent with Laura Mackin. Even though I was dwelling on the memory of her, it took me by surprise to see her; I had not known she still came here.
She moved to my table.
“Why are you here?”
“Isn’t that obvious?”
We stared at each other across the table. “Yes.”
We ordered some wine to celebrate with, but it was oversweet. Neither of us wanted to drink it, but we could not be bothered to complain to the waiter. We toasted each other, and the rest didn’t matter. While we ate I was trying to work out why I had come here. It could not have been only a seeking for the past. What had I been thinking during the morning? I tried to remember, but memory was inconveniently blank.
“How is your wife?”
The question that had been so far unspoken. I had not expected her to ask it.
“Isobel? The same.”
“And you are still the same.”
“No one changes much in two years.”
“I don’t know.”
“What about you? Are you still sharing a flat?”
“No. I’ve moved.”
We finished our meal, drank coffee. The silences between our conversations were an embarrassment. I began to regret meeting her.
“Why don’t you leave her?”
“You know why not. Because of Sally.”
“That’s what you said before.”
“It’s true.”
Another silence.
“You haven’t changed, have you? I know damn well that Sally’s just an excuse. This is what went wrong before. You’re too weak to disentangle yourself from her.”
“You don’t understand.”
We ordered more coffee. I wanted to end the conversation, leave her here. Instead, it was easier to carry on. I had to acknowledge that what she said about me was true.
“Anyway, I can’t say anything that will change you.”
“No.”
“I’ve tried too often in the past. You realize that this is why I wouldn’t see you any more?”
“Yes.”
“And nothing’s changed.”
I said, as plainly as I could: “I am in love with you still, Laura.”
“I know. That is what is so difficult. And I love you for your weakness.”
“I don’t like you saying that.”
“It doesn’t matter. I only mean it.”
She was hurting me in the way she had done before. I had forgotten this about Laura: her capacity to give pain. Yet what I said to her was true, in spite of everything I continued to love her even though I had not been able to admit this to myself until I met her here. Of the women I had known outside my marriage, Laura was the only one for whom I had deeper feelings than those of physical desire. And the reason for this was because she saw me and understood me for what I was. Though it pained me, Laura’s appraisal of my inability to confront my relationship with Isobel was for me an attractive quality. I don’t know why she was in love with me, though she said she was. I had never been able to come to understand her fully. She existed in a kind of personal vacuum … living in but not belonging to our society. Her mother had been an Irish immigrant, had died giving birth. Her father had been a coloured seaman, and she had never met him. Her skin was pale, but her features were negroid. She was one of the first victims of the Afrim situation, killed in the second London riot. That day in the park restaurant was the last time I saw her.
I recognized the leader of the group as the man I had met in the ruined village when we were plundering the remains of the helicopter. At that time he had told me his name was Lateef, but it had given me no clue as to his origin. Because of the events of the time, I had grown to distrust anyone with coloured skin, however faint it may be.
The group he was leading consisted of about forty individuals, including several children. They were not well organized.
I watched them from the upper floor of the old house, hoping they would not make enough noise to awaken Sally. We had had a long and distressing day and were both hungry. The house was a temporary refuge only; as the winter approached we knew we ought to find more permanent quarters.
The problem I faced was whether or not we should make our presence known.
I considered that Sally and I had not been wholly unsuccessful on our own. We had only moved from the couple’s house when we heard that unregistered civilians, and those sheltering them, would be sent to internment camps if captured. Though this ruling was withdrawn soon after, we judged it best that we should move on. That is how we came to this house.
I watched the group indecisively.
If we continued to operate on our own there would be less danger of being captured, but to join an established group would mean that food supplies would be more regular. Neither prospect appealed, but in the time we had been with the young couple we had listened to the bulletins from continental radio-stations, and learned of the true nature and extent of the civil war. Sally and I were among the main casualties so far: the two million displaced civilians who were forced to live as vagrants.