With his fist still up Mike Haig hesitated, and there was no movement in the room. Above them the corrugated iron roof popped loudly as it
expanded in the heat of the Congo midday, and the only other sound was
Haig’s breathing. He was panting and his face was congested with blood.
“Please, Mike,” whispered Andre. “He didn’t mean it.” Slowly
Haig’s anger changed to disgust and he dropped his hand, turned away and picked up his rifle from the other bed.
“I can’t stand the smell in this room another minute. I’ll wait for you in the truck downstairs, Bruce.”
“I won’t be long,” agreed Bruce as Mike went to the door.
“Don’t push your luck, Haig,” Wally called after him.
“Next time you won’t get off so easily.” In the doorway Mike Haig swung quickly, but, with a hand on his shoulder, Bruce turned him
again.
“Forget it, Mike,” he said, and closed the door after him.
“He’s just bloody lucky that he’s an old man,” growled Wally.
“Otherwise I’d have fixed him good.” “Sure,” said Bruce. “It was decent of you to let him go.” The soap had dried on his face and he wet his brush to lather again.
“Yeah, I couldn’t hit an old bloke like that, could I?” “No.” Bruce smiled a little. “But don’t worry, you frightened the hell out of him.
He won’t try it again.”
“He’d better notv warned Hendry. “Next time
I’ll kill the old bugger.” No, you wont, thought Bruce, you’ll back down again as you have just done, as you’ve done a dozen times before.
Mike and I are the only ones who can make you do it; in the same way as an animal will growl at its trainer but cringe away when he cracks the whip. He began shaving again.
The heat in the room was unpleasant to breathe; it drew the perspiration out of them and the smell of their bodies blended sourly with stale cigarette smoke and liquor fumes.
“Where are you and Mike going?” Andre ended the long silence.
“We’re going to see if we can draw the supplies for this trip. If we have any luck we’ll take them down to the goods yard and have Ruffy put an armed guard on them overnight,” Bruce answered him, leaning over the basin and splashing water up into his face.
“How long will we be away?” Bruce shrugged. “A week - ten days’.
He sat on his bed and pulled on one of his jungle boots. “That is, if we don’t have any trouble.” “Trouble, Bruce?” asked Andre.
“From Msapa Junction we’ll have to go two hundred miles through country crawling with Baluba.”
“But we’ll be in a train,” protested
Andre. “They’ve only got bows and arrows, they can’t touch us.”
“Andre, there are seven rivers to cross - one big one and bridges are easily destroyed. Rails can be torn up.” Bruce began to lace the boot.
“I don’t think it’s going to be a Sunday school picnic.”
“Christ. I
think the whole thing stinks,” repeated Wally moodily.” Why are we going anyway?”
“Because, Bruce began patiently, “for the last three months the entire population of Port Reprieve has been cut off from the rest of the world. There are women and children with them. They are fast running out of food and the other necessities of life.” Bruce paused to light a cigarette, and then went on talking as he exhaled.
“All around them the Baluba tribe is in open revolt, burning, raping and killing indiscriminately. As yet they haven’t attacked the town but it won’t be very long until they do.
Added to which there are rumours that rebel groups of Central
Congolese troops and of our own forces have formed themselves into bands of heavily-armed shufta. They also are running amok through the northern part of the territory.
Nobody knows for certain what is happening out there, but whatever it is you can be sure it’s not very pretty. We are going to fetch those people in to safety.”
“Why don’t the U.N. people send out a plane?” asked Andre.
“No landing field.”
“Helicopters?”
“Out of range.”
“For my money the bastards can stay there,” grunted Wally. “If the Balubas fancy a
little man steak, who are we to do them out of a meal? Every man’s entitled to eat and as long as it’s not me they’re eating, more power to their teeth, say?” He placed his foot against Andre’s back and straightened his leg suddenly, throwing the Belgian off the bed on to his knees.
“Go and get me a pretty.”
“There aren’t any, Wally. I’ll get you another drink.” Andre scrambled to his feet and reached for Wally’s empty glass, but Wally’s hand dropped on to his wrist.
“I said pretty, Andre, not drink.”
“I don’t know where to find them, Wally.” Andre’s voice was desperate. “I don’t know what to say
to them even.”
“You’re being stupid, Bucko. I might have to break your arm.” Wally twisted the wrist slowly. “You know as well as I that the bar downstairs is full of them. You know that, don’t you?”
“But what do I say to them?” Andre’s face was contorted with the pain of his twisted wrist.
“Oh, for Christ’s sake, you stupid bloody frog-eater - just go down and flash a banknote. You don’t have to say a dicky bird.”
“You’re hurting me, Wally.”
“No? You’re kidding!” Wally smiled at him, twisting harder, his slitty eyes smoky from the liquor, and Bruce could see he was enjoying it. “Are you going, BUcko? Make up your mind -
get me a pretty or get yourself a broken arm
“All right, if that’s what you want. I’ll go. Please leave me, I’ll go,” mumbled Andre.
“That’s what I want.” Wally released him, and he straightened up massaging his wrist.
“See that she’s clean and not too old. You hear me?”
“Yes, Wally.
I’ll get one.” Andre went to the door and Bruce noticed his expression. It was stricken beyond the pain of a bruised wrist. What lovely creatures they are, thought Bruce, and I am one of them and yet apart from them. I am the watcher, stiffed by them as much as I would be by a bad play. Andre went out.
“Another drink, Bucko?” said Wally expansively. “I’ll even pour you one.” “Thanks,” said Bruce, and started on the other boot.
Wally brought the glass to him and he tasted it. It was strong, and the mustiness of the whisky was ill-matched with the sweetness of the beer, but he drank it.
“You and I, said Wally, “we’re the shrewd ones. We drink ,cause we want to, not “cause we have to. We live like we want to live, not
like other people think we should. You and I got a lot in common, Bruce. We should be friends, you and I. I mean us being so much alike.” The drink was working in him now, bluffing his speech a little.
“Of course we are friends - I count you as one of my very dearest, Wally.” Bruce spoke solemnly, no trace of sarcasm showing.
“No kidding?” Wally asked earnestly. “How’s that, hey?
Christ, I always thought you didn’t like me. Christ, you never can tell, isn’t that right? You just never can tell,” shaking his head in wonder, suddenly sentimental with the whisky. “That’s really true?
You like me. Yeah, we could be buddies. How’s that, Bruce? Every guy needs a buddy. Every guy needs a back stop.” “Sure,” said Bruce.
“We’re buddies. How’s that, hey?”
“That’s on, Bucko!” agreed Wally with deep feeling, and I feel nothing, thought Bruce, no disgust, no
pity - nothing. That way you are secure; they cannot disappoint you, they cannot disgust you, they cannot sicken you, they cannot smash you up again.
They both looked up as Andre ushered the girl into the room. She had a sexy little pug face, painted lips - ruby on amber.