Authors: Alan Judd
Clifford sighed. ‘HE told me what you were doing up there. Bound to go wrong. Alway does, this off-the-cuff stuff. Said so all along. Didn’t you realise what was
happening?’
‘I’m afraid not.’
‘You must’ve been half asleep.’
‘I was.’
‘Who hit you?’
‘A fat man.’
‘Just goes to show.’ Clifford walked contentedly from their room, the papers under his arm. ‘HE wants to see you now.’
Patrick noticed Jean glance at his face as he entered the ambassador’s office. Sir Wilfrid was calm. ‘Of course, you’ll have to go. London will be outraged, HMG will have to
apologise at the UN and there’ll be problems with the Third World for years to come. Because, of course, no one will believe us.’ He searched in the clock for a pipe-stem to replace the
one he said he had bitten through whilst reading the papers that morning.
Patrick once again recalled Whelk’s evasiveness during and after the audience with the Lion. No doubt everyone else was delighted; it was free publicity for the backers of Sin City, the
Lion would enjoy having his photograph in the world’s press, British denials would give the Lower African government the pleasure of righteous indignation at Britain’s inability to
control her own diplomats, and Arthur had no doubt secured his permanent position. In short, HMG would be embarrassed, the rest of the world amused and no one any the worse. Except himself.
Sir Wilfrid fitted another stem. ‘They won’t sack you, there’s no question of that. You’re a civil servant. But your career is another matter. My own is over anyway after
this posting but yours’ – he paid particular attention to filling the pipe – ‘might have been all right. They’ll probably keep you in London for a few years, then send
you somewhere harmless like Moscow. The Russians will look after you. They follow you around all the time so that you can’t go anywhere, do anything or talk to anyone without supervision. I
know it’s not entirely your fault but London will need a scapegoat. They always do.’ He lit his pipe. ‘One thing I must say, though, is that young Chatsworth comes out of this
rather well. He’s not even mentioned. I had hoped he’d be a restraining influence but I suppose he wasn’t to know you’d get into a fight.’
Patrick was remote from London’s displeasure. He was more concerned with what Joanna would say to the fulfilling of her prophecy that he would leave soon. Perhaps she wouldn’t mind
so much now. ‘Should I go and pack, sir?’
‘No, no, don’t be precipitous. Looks bad. Wait till I’ve explained to London. Clifford will get something off this morning.’ He stared out of the window, one arm folded
across his stomach and the other holding his pipe. ‘Bit of a mess, isn’t it? Like everything else in this country. Not that we can talk.’
Sir Wilfrid gazed down into the shopping area where a young black woman sat alone on a bench. She was elegant and slight. She wore a red and black robe beneath which her red sandals just showed,
and there was a large bundle on the ground beside her. She sat poised, still and upright. Her brown neck was slim and straight, her features in repose, expressionless and beautiful. It seemed that
no amount of looking was sufficient to absorb her grace and stillness.
‘What was Sin City like?’ asked Sir Wilfrid.
Patrick stared at the young woman, thinking of Slack Alice behind the bar and of the red-haired lady punter. ‘Pretty ugly. A lot of people enjoy it, though.’
‘That’s the point, I imagine.’ Sir Wilfrid turned away from the window and put his hands in his pockets. ‘The trouble is, you see, many countries are going to think we
really did establish links with that tinpot regime in Bapuwana and then backed down because of all the fuss. The only respectable way out would be for us to claim that the whole thing was a put-up
job by the Lower Africans. That would carry conviction because people would want to believe it but it would do irreparable damage to bilateral relations.’ He looked seriously at Patrick, then
added quietly, ‘You must accept, Patrick, that because of this you may never get a Third World posting. You may not be welcome in black Africa.’
‘I hadn’t thought of that, sir.’
On his way out Jean said that Clifford wanted him. She was almost friendly, as if he were ill.
Clifford was back in his office, no longer benign and beginning to revel in the businesslike bustle of someone else’s misfortune. ‘It was clear to me from the start that this chasing
after Whelk would lead to no good. All that secrecy and getting into bed with the Lower Africans and having that mad convict staying in your house at the same time as living in sin with your
airport girlfriend. It all adds up, you know. It’ll be very hard to say anything in your favour to London. Of course, Whelk’s part in the whole affair is thoroughly reprehensible too.
Never did like the man. I’m told he retains full pension rights and his desertion is going to be treated as resignation. Scandalous, considering he’s almost as involved as
you.’
‘Rather more, surely. He was the cause of it.’
‘Unwitting.’
‘So was I.’
‘You should’ve known better. Besides, if you hadn’t picked on Jim Rissik’s girlfriend as well as your own you wouldn’t get involved in brawls. You seem to spend a
lot of time with the ladies.’ The telephone rang. Clifford answered brusquely and his tone changed to puzzled irritation. ‘He’s here now.’ He held out the telephone.
‘My wife. She wants to speak to you.’
Sandy sounded brittle and nervous. ‘Hallo, Mr Celebrity. Just thought I’d ring and say well done while you’re still around to be spoken to.’
‘Thanks. I’m not sure I deserve all the credit.’ Clifford pretended to busy himself with the telegram he was writing. Patrick felt he must sound as brittle as Sandy.
‘You mean to say it wasn’t deliberate?’ she asked.
‘Not on my part.’
‘You disappoint me.’
Having established that he didn’t know when he was going back she rang off. He put down the telephone feeling he had something to hide.
‘You’d better discuss the organisation of your work with Philip,’ said Clifford. ‘Let me have something on paper later.’
There was nothing to hand over. Philip was sympathetic and helpful. ‘Of course you’ll suffer damage but it needn’t be lasting. The ambassador likes you. He’ll give you a
good report.’
‘I’m sure we’ll meet again,’ said Patrick when later they shook hands.
‘I hope it works out for you,’ said Philip, with greater honesty.
Patrick decided not to tell the ambassador of Stanley’s arrest, preferring to dispose of the boxes first so that he could then honestly say that there was no scope for further
embarrassment. He rang Chatsworth to warn him about what was happening but got the number-unobtainable sound. The switchboard told him that the line was out of order. He rang Joanna to see if she
would have lunch but she was out. He decided to go home anyway.
On the way out he met Miss Teale. She smiled. ‘You’ve done very well for yourself, I must say. Not a very flattering photo, but still. I didn’t know we were going to establish
links with them. Very important task for a third secretary. Well done.’
She had been friendly since the minister’s visit, seeing in Patrick an ally against Clifford. ‘There’s a bit more to it than that,’ he said. ‘I’ll explain
later.’
She closed her eyes. ‘No need, no need. I know how confidential you people in chancery have to be sometimes. It’s a jolly good thing your car’s here. The paperwork came through
this morning. You can pick it up whenever you like.’
The first sign was the paper that littered the avenue adjoining his own. A dozen or so pieces fluttered along the normally tidy road, whirled into the air by each passing car.
One stuck in the branches of a jacaranda, another against the trunk. He pulled up and by leaning across saw from the bakkie that it was one of Rachel’s propaganda leaflets. In his own avenue
the trees were festooned. Leaflets lay as thick as leaves on the verges. Two policemen were slowly collecting them. Outside his house were police cars, a fire engine and an ambulance.
He approached with a growing blankness, a turning down of feeling. The drive was crowded with people and littered with glass and debris. Windows were blown out of the house and tiles were
missing. The garage and most of Sarah’s quarters were wrecked. Charred timbers and unidentifiable bits lay strewn about. He passed unnoticed among the police and firemen. The space where the
garage had been was cordoned off with white tape and some men were crawling over it on their hands and knees.
He saw Jim, uniformed now, talking to other policemen. Near the garden gate Chatsworth was with some reporters. He was paler than usual and talked quickly. When he saw Patrick he broke off and
came over.
‘Bloody nearly got me. I was in the upstairs loo and it went off right when I flushed. Thought I’d done it at first. They reckon it was that other box of Stanley’s, the one I
was going to shift, but they don’t know what it was. Must’ve been incendiary. Nearly burnt the place down.’ He paused and looked at Patrick. ‘Didn’t you know about it
– doesn’t the embassy know?’
‘No.’
‘I thought that’s why you were here.’ Chatsworth rubbed his hands. He was awkward and nervous. He looked round. ‘Snap’s okay. I’ve tied him to the tree by the
rubbish heap. Most of the house is all right. No structural damage.’
There was a stretcher on the forecourt. A grey blanket covered something, but one brown leg, wearing a blue slipper, protruded.
‘She must’ve been trying to move it,’ Chatsworth continued. ‘She was right over it. Wouldn’t have known anything.’
Jim came over. ‘It was old stuff. Unstable and already primed. It exploded when shifted. The lab boys will tell us exactly what it was.’ He looked down, then at Patrick again.
‘If we’d known about these boxes we could’ve done something.’
Patrick did not want to speak. The grey blanket, much larger than the small heap it had to cover, was still in his range of vision. It was an effort not to stare. ‘I thought you were
warning me to move them.’
‘If you’d said there were boxes like that I’d have told you not to touch them.’
‘Stanley didn’t tell you then?’ His voice sounded harsh.
‘They hadn’t started on him. They will now. If they had he’d still have a mother.’ The gap in his teeth showed when he spoke. His voice was quiet but there was an edge to
it. ‘Your friend Rachel didn’t help. She told Stanley he could hide the boxes here and pretend they went with hers. One of his friends confessed this morning, a little reluctantly. They
told her they were leaflets. She arranged for them to be picked up by her friends who were coming for her propaganda stuff. Pity they weren’t.’
He walked back towards the stretcher. Patrick turned away.
Deuteronomy was laconically picking up debris in the garden. ‘You can go home,’ Patrick told him. ‘Come again tomorrow when there are fewer people and help clear up
then.’
‘Ma-ass-a.’ Deuteronomy smiled his usual smile and nodded slowly. Ten minutes later he was still there, working nearer the house. Patrick remembered then that it was his pay-day. He
paid him.
‘Ma-ass-a,’ said Deuteronomy, smiling and nodding. He pocketed the money and went.
There was dust on the surface of the pool and one or two bits of debris floating in it. ‘We’ll hook those out and filter it,’ said Chatsworth. He still sounded nervous and
anxious. ‘The police have looked all over the house. There’s nothing else. They reckon it’s habitable.’
Patrick nodded. Chatsworth continued to look awkward and unhappy. ‘Good,’ Patrick added. ‘I’m glad it’s habitable.’
Sir Wilfrid was brisk. ‘You must leave immediately. With leaflets and bombs on top of this other business the Lower Africans would be forced to make an issue of it. Then
they’d
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you. You must leave before anything is announced. First flight in the morning. Before anything else happens.’ He ran his hand through his hair. He looked suddenly
tired. ‘I never met Sarah but I imagine you must be very upset. And to be killed like that by her own son. Poor lad, how he must feel. He’ll spend the rest of his life in prison. What a
dreadful comment on this country it all is.’ They shook hands. ‘I hope we meet in London. I’m sure we shall. I don’t have much longer to serve and it would be nice to talk
things over in more relaxed circumstances. Chatsworth is still in the house, is he?’
‘Yes.’
‘Good. He can look after it for a day or two until we sort something out. Goodbye, Patrick, and God bless.’ He held Patrick’s hand for a moment longer.
Clifford was in an ecstasy of administration. He appropriated the commercial officer’s secretary to supplement his own, shouted at Miss Teale and ordered Philip to prepare a paper on the
possible threat to diplomats arising from the subversion of domestics, including the families and friends of domestics.
‘Sarah was killed outright, wasn’t she?’ he asked.
‘Yes.’
Clifford wrote something in his notebook. ‘Much damage to the house?’
‘Nothing structural.’
‘I’ll get on to the PSA about repairs. Probably take years. Miss Teale was in here just now talking nonsense about it not being insured unless the front door was locked at the time
the explosive was put there. You can’t answer that, I s’pose?’
‘No.’
‘Never mind. The important thing is to get the bureaucracy working. Just as well I’ve kept the wheels oiled. Internationally, the repercussions are only just beginning. Italy, France
and the Americans have already made enquiries about establishing links with Bapuwana. Their ambassadors have been on to HE this morning. They think we’ve done it in exchange for mineral
rights and they won’t take no for an answer. As if we’d be so smart. London have put out a statement saying that your action was a purely personal initiative, taken without authority,
and that you were being recalled. There’s already talk of a censure motion at the UN. What about the inventory of what’s in the house? You can’t leave without signing
that.’
‘Chatsworth will sign.’
He reached Joanna’s house as she was leaving to collect Belinda from play-school. She listened in silence. ‘So you are going back?’