Authors: Alan Judd
Arthur flushed the stub of his cigar down one of the toilets. There was a tense pause.
‘It’s not that I’m trying to be unhelpful,’ continued Arthur. ‘I want everyone to be happy. After all, we’re in the same tribe, more or less.’
Chatsworth readjusted his tie. ‘If you could make us happy maybe we could make you happy when we get back. You mentioned pension rights and whatever.’
Arthur’s quick eyes were still whilst he lit another cigar. ‘The way to an ageing civil servant’s heart.’ He relaxed enough to smile very slightly.
‘Patrick?’
Patrick dabbed at his lips with his handkerchief. He was not up to long sentences. ‘I don’t know.’
‘What we need is a deal. The group like trade-offs. More sensible than conflict. Also, the Lion is here tonight. Could be very bad for you unless we make it good.’
‘How much?’ asked Chatsworth.
‘Not money. If it were it would be a lot more than you could lay your hands on. But there’s something else that might interest them.’ He watched the smoke of his cigar.
‘Hang on here and don’t show your faces outside the door.’
It was an unnecessary warning. When Arthur returned he was obviously more relaxed. He smoothed his moustache with his thumb and forefinger. ‘It’s fixed, conditional upon a personal
appearance by both of you. Before the Lion, you know.’
‘Like the Christians?’ asked Chatsworth.
Arthur laughed. Patrick soaked his handkerchief in cold water and held it against his lips. ‘Will we have to speak?’
‘Just apologise. You any good at apologising?’
‘I am,’ said Chatsworth. ‘Lot of experience. Plenty of grovel.’
‘Grovelling’s what’s needed. I’ll brief you in a moment but first we’ve got to get you looking respectable. Can’t appear before the Lion with blood on your
clothes. I’ll fix you some others. Also plaster for you, Patrick. Don’t want blood on the carpet.’
‘Wouldn’t the grovel look better if we were bloody and bleeding?’ asked Chatsworth.
‘The Lion wouldn’t like it in his suite. Just stick to what I say.’ Whelk paused, his eyes flickering from one to the other. ‘Let’s make sure we understand each
other. I get you off, you discuss my pension with the ambassador and he fixes it with the Lower Africans so that it’s okay for me to travel to and fro.’
They agreed.
Arthur took their clothes and reappeared a while later with dress-shirts, trousers, bow-ties and dinner-jackets. ‘Bow-ties are clip-on, I’m afraid. Here’s some plaster,
Patrick. Can’t do much about the swellings, I s’pose? Pretty ugly. I should stand back a bit, keep in the shadows.’
Patrick straightened himself with difficulty and looked at his battered face in the mirror. His swollen left eye was blue verging on black and his lips were split and bulging. He looked like an
actor whose make-up was so grotesquely and clownishly overdone that he had wept about it ever since. Standing straight and looking in the brightly-lit mirror made him feel dizzy and slightly
sick.
‘Your face looks lived-in now, more than before,’ said Chatsworth. He put an unnecessary bandage around his fist. ‘Wounded in action. Always impresses.’
In the corridor they squeezed silently past Jim, Piet, the fat man and the thin man. The four prisoners were propped against the wall on their outstretched arms. They stood on their toes and
their heads hung down. Four guards with batons stood behind them. No one moved and no one spoke. Jim was at the end of the line, supporting himself on one hand only. The other he held close to him.
His shirt-collar was torn and bloodstained and he breathed noisily. Patrick wanted to speak but there was no time.
They were led along corridors to a private part of the main hotel, plushly carpeted and quiet. They stopped at a white door. Patrick felt weak and sick. ‘What do we do?’
‘What I tell you,’ said Arthur. He pulled nervously at his cuffs and knocked.
A suite of rooms led to a double bedroom from which sliding windows led on to a balcony which formed part of the hanging gardens. The Lion of Bapuwana was the kind of leader beloved in a
continent where starvation was common and age respected. His girth suggested prosperity and years of good living; his face was wrinkled, weathered and dignified. He wore a flowing white robe and
had large red, green and gold rings on his fingers. Around his head was a band of red cloth.
The regal effect was vitiated by the fact that the Lion sat propped up with pillows in the middle of the double bed, his legs splayed. He looked like a giant brown baby. He had a glass of whisky
in his plump hand and laughed at something said to him by a big black lady sitting on the far side of the bed. She was swathed in bright green and she rocked backwards and forwards, rippling all
over as she talked and laughed. The bed sagged. A slimmer and younger black woman sat upright on a stool, smiling and saying nothing. She had high cheek bones and a calm expression. She shook her
head slowly when she smiled, showing perfect teeth. Her large gold earrings swayed a little. She was elegant and beautiful. Patrick’s good eye dwelt on her until he had to move his head.
Outside on the balcony some men were talking and drinking. Three were white and middle-aged, one a plump and prosperous-looking Indian and the other a handsome young black in a white robe.
Arthur inclined his head. ‘Your Majesty, these are the two British officials who were set upon by the mob.’ He spoke slowly and carefully and still seemed nervous.
The Lion nodded and smiled. The group on the veranda got up with a scraping of chairs and came in, glasses in hand. One of the whites whispered something to the Lion who stopped smiling and
addressed Patrick in a deep voice, ‘You bring fighting to my country.’
Arthur half turned towards Patrick. ‘Say you’re sorry,’ he whispered.
Patrick was still uncertain about sentences. He tried to focus on the Lion but the young black in the white robe was easier to see. He could feel Arthur beside him, tense and impatient.
‘Say you’re sorry,’ hissed Arthur.
Patrick turned his swollen eye away from the Lion. He afterwards suspected that this must have made him look ineptly sly and devious. ‘I am sorry,’ he said, through swollen lips.
Chatsworth stepped forward. He gazed with passionate devotion upon the Lion. ‘We have great respect for Your Majesty’s beautiful country. We apologise. We did not come to
fight.’
The Lion nodded slowly. He addressed the woman next to him in his own language. The white man tapped him on the shoulder and whispered again. The Lion looked puzzled. One of the other whites
spoke in an undertone to the young black, who then sat on the bed next to the Lion. He moved one long hand in elegant circles to the even music of his words.
The Lion asked a question, nodded and turned to Patrick and Chatsworth. ‘You like my country?’
‘It is a wonderful country, Your Majesty. We have always liked it,’ said Chatsworth eagerly.
Patrick thought he would feel better in a cooler room. Arthur nudged him. Patrick knew what was expected but couldn’t for a moment speak. He nodded.
‘Say it!’ hissed Arthur.
Patrick nodded ponderously, almost bowing.
The Lion grinned and held out his hand. ‘That is good. I am pleased. Welcome to my country.’
Arthur led Patrick by the arm so that he shook hands with the Lion. The two women stared at his swollen face and the Indian photographed him with a flash from one side. Chatsworth came forward,
his eyes brimming and his head inclined as if exposing his bare neck for the Lion to bite. He kissed the Lion’s hand. The Indian took another photograph. One of the whites muttered something
and the others laughed. ‘Your Majesty is most kind, noble, beautiful and good,’ said Chatsworth. The Lion nodded and smiled.
‘He liked that last bit,’ Arthur whispered as they stepped back. He was less uneasy.
‘What about letting us go?’ whispered Chatsworth.
‘Wait.’
The Lion talked to the young man in white again, then raised his hand. ‘Go now. Please come to my country again.’
‘Say thank you,’ whispered Arthur.
Chatsworth said thank you. The other two turned to go but Patrick did not move. There was something wrong but he was incapable of seeing what. There was also something else, something he had to
say. Arthur pulled his arm but he remained facing the Lion. Everyone looked at him. He remembered it was Jim. Yes, it was not Jim’s fault. Jim was all right. Joanna would not like Jim to be
hurt. He formed his words very carefully. ‘Your Majesty, please, what will happen to the other people?’
He could feel Arthur’s hand tighten on his arm. There was a pause until the Lion laughed deeply and generously. ‘Do not worry, there is much justice in my country. They spend long
time in prison. They will remember well.’
‘Come on,’ said Arthur. ‘Shut up and come on.’
Patrick stood his ground. It was getting easier now that he knew what to think about. ‘Two of them are policemen. They were trying to stop the fighting. They will leave
immediately.’
The Lion frowned. ‘But that is less justice.’
Arthur muttered something urgent and inaudible. The other men stared coolly at Patrick. He focused on them rather than the Lion. ‘They are Lower African policemen.’
The men exchanged a few words. One of them again whispered to the Lion. The Lion looked puzzled and fretful but then nodded. He turned to Patrick. ‘They go in the morning.’
Patrick bowed as far as his pains permitted. ‘I thank Your Majesty.’
Arthur turned to him when they got out into the corridor. ‘You cut that fine, Stubbs. Nearly sank the whole damn issue. What’s so special about Rissik and his friend?’
Patrick limped along behind the others. He felt stronger now. ‘It wasn’t their fault.’
Arthur was anxious and hurried. ‘I’ll get your clothes and you can hop it fast before the group change their minds. They’re quite capable of it and then you’ll be here
for the duration.’
Patrick’s head was clearing. ‘Why did you describe us both as officials?’
‘Well, you are. You’re on official business, aren’t you? Sort of. Chatsworth as well. Sounds better too. Come on, quick.’
They changed in one of the hotel bedrooms. ‘We’re damn lucky, no thanks to you,’ said Chatsworth. ‘You should’ve kept your mouth shut.’
‘Like you?’
‘Yes, like me. I’ve had enough of prisons.’
‘But Jim and Piet are as innocent as us.’
‘That’s their lookout.’
Patrick sat on the bed trying to put on his shoes without bending.
‘New role for you, isn’t it – moralist?’ continued Chatsworth, hurriedly doing up his tie.
Patrick looked at him but said nothing.
Arthur saw them to the bakkie. He had once more recovered his humour. ‘Come again, gentlemen both,’ he said cheerfully. ‘Give me notice next time and I’ll see you meet
the right sort of company.’
‘I will,’ said Chatsworth.
Patrick did not feel up to driving. Chatsworth readily agreed. They asked about petrol.
‘Round the corner here,’ said Arthur. ‘I’ll come with you so you can get it on the house. Trust you’ll both get credit for finding me. Let me know if you need a
letter to back it up.’ He laughed. ‘Remember me to Sarah and Deuteronomy – and Sir Wilfrid. He’s a sweet old thing, really. Means well. Forget the rest of them. But
don’t forget pension and passport.’ He waved goodbye.
T
he holiday, a Jewish festival, was not yet ended when they returned. Battenburg was for once quiet. Patrick drove himself to the residence. He
preferred to talk to Sir Wilfrid alone, anticipating difficulty.
There was none. Sir Wilfrid was delighted that Whelk had been found, saddened but unsurprised by the poor fellow’s involvement in gambling and pleased that LASS had confirmed his
suspicions – albeit not in the way he had expected. He looked forward to writing to London about the whole business.
As for Arthur, there should be no problem about his pension. He had only to submit his resignation in the normal way and it would be accepted. The rather unusual manner in which he had left the
Service would be overlooked in the interests of not rocking the boat. His passport and freedom of travel through Battenburg were not really matters for the British authorities; after all, he had
his passport, it was his. Whether or not the Lower Africans permitted him to use it for travelling to and fro was up to them. It was unlikely that they would interfere; Arthur had not after all
done them any harm and he was clearly not exactly unsympathetic to their own attitudes. This both saddened and surprised Sir Wilfrid. He had liked Arthur. He was jolly glad he had not after all
come to a sticky end.
‘Been in the wars?’ he asked. ‘Or is it too many late nights?’
Patrick had forgotten about his face. His explained briefly.
‘Just as well you had Chatsworth with you. You seem rather prone to fall into these scrapes, left to yourself. He’s earned his keep, that man. I shall write to his firm and tell them
what a good job he’s done. We could do with one or two like him in the Service.’
Patrick went straight from the residence to Joanna’s. She should have got back that day. He still did not know what he would say to her. He did know he wanted no awkward telephone calls.
Perhaps the simplest would be best; there was no longer any need for secrecy and so he could explain why he had had to go to Sin City and hope she believed him. If necessary Chatsworth could be
produced as a witness. Or Jim, if he were free.
He scoured Battenburg for flowers but nearly every shop was closed and he ended up with a box of chocolates, dusty and probably stale. He drove confidently to her bungalow but her car was not
there. It had not occurred to him that she might stay on at the coast. Beauty would know but he did not want to ask. He drove slowly away.
It was as he turned on to the main road home that he saw her car turning off it. She saw him and stopped. After turning the bakkie clumsily, because it hurt to twist in his seat, he pulled up
behind her. She waited in her car. ‘Patrick, your face,’ she said, as he approached. ‘And your clothes.’
The concern in her voice made him feel confident again. ‘I had a fight. Shall we go back to your place? I’ll tell you about it there. I’m all right.’