Bluebolt One (18 page)

At the airline office Shaw asked for a seat on the next flight up to Manalati.

The African clerk shook his head. “There will be no flights to Manalati for maybe two days, maybe longer. The rains have broken with unusual violence, and the runway is unserviceable for passenger aircraft.” The man’s singsong tone seemed positively cheerful about it. “Meanwhile, we are taking provisional bookings only.”

Shaw said, “I can’t wait two days. What’s the alternative?” The clerk shrugged, delving at his nails with a fils. Shaw fumed. He guessed that if only he could pull some strings he’d get some sort of plane to Manalati. But, as usual in his job, it would be wiser if his visit was not unduly advertised by his travelling so openly as any kind of V.I.P. when so near the actual job. He repeated his question.

“There is a train from Jinda,” the clerk told him. “It will be nearly empty. Few people go to Manalati in the rains. Or you may go by road, but I do not advise this.”

“I see. How do I get to the station—and what time does the train go?”

“We are an airline agency, not a railway booking-office.”

“But—”

The African slammed down his window and disappeared. Shaw seethed, then swung sharply away. Outside the airport he saw a line of American-style taxis, and he went out and got one to take him into Jinda. He was driven along red-muddy roads through crummy, clapboard suburbs where men lolled in the doorways of dirty bars and cafes, and occasionally, despite the rain, stood in groups at street corners, sometimes jeering and waving clenched fists when they saw the white man in the taxi. Some of them started a low moaning noise, a deep growling mutter which spread along the way to be taken up by gangs of youths farther along. It was the unstemmable voice of Africa, the voice that was saying to the white man:
Go—and if you can go in time, go in peace also, for if you overstay your welcome by one hour, you will go in riot and rape and blood. . . .

Shaw was glad when they came into the modern, Western-built sector of the city, past tall white buildings, offices and shops and hotels, and then arrived at the railway station.

Going to the booking-office he bought his ticket for Manalati, and he was told that the train would leave that evening at 6.30, so he had much of the day in which to kick his heels.

However, it would be a good thing to have a look around Jinda and begin to get the feel of Nogolia.

It was an impressive city, a monument in its way to the white man who had planned it and put those great modem structures where the ramshackle dwellings of a backward, primitive township once had stood. Shaw walked down broad streets lined with palm-trees, streets with big wide built-in concrete canopies stretching across the sidewalks outside the shops to keep away the sun or the rain in their respective seasons. Down the centre of the streets were gardens filled with tropical plants, bright with gay colours, reds and yellows and blues, whites and purples. But over all there was an alien feeling, a kind of heavy brooding, a waiting for something to happen. Shaw had also noticed this at the airport. There were few white people about in that smart, super-modern shopping centre; this may have been due to the rains, but Shaw didn’t think so. Cars could pull right in and discharge their passengers under the canopies. The shops were large, and some of them bore English names, well-known names, many of them, and they were crammed with goods; but they were almost deserted, sad-looking, forlorn and unwanted despite their brave appearance of prosperity. Such white women as Shaw noticed were all escorted, and their menfolk were watchful, alert, and nervy.

There were crowds of Africans in the streets, Africans of all classes—professional men, white-collar men, working men. Some of these regarded Shaw with open hostility, some with indifference, some with a supercilious air of gloating triumph. All swaggered along with exaggerated cocksureness, even insolent rudeness, with apparently no thought of work in their heads. Here and there a shop window had been smashed in and patched with planking, sign of earlier riots. Even the African constables on traffic and patrol duty seemed vaguely hostile to the whites, were curt with them, inclined to shoulder them aside.

Shaw came to a huge, glittering hotel, the Independence Hotel, it was called, the big neon sign stretching across its frontage. Looking at his watch, he decided he may as well have lunch here, and he went slowly up the steps, through wide swing doors. He stepped into fashionable elegance, a cool Western elegance. There were thick, soft green carpets, comfortable chairs, air-conditioning. The guests seemed to be predominantly coloured, but there was a fair sprinkling of white men and women, chatting over drinks in over-loud voices which betrayed the strain and the tension that was in them. They would be wondering, Shaw guessed, whether they would recognize the moment when they would have to get out and leave their possessions and their lives’ work behind them; wondering if they should have gone already before the storm broke over their heads and took even their lives away from them.

Shaw went across the foyer and the lounge into a long, chrome-and-green-leather bar.

The shelves behind the bar were stacked, crammed with bottles. You could get any drink you cared to name in this place, Shaw thought—London, Paris, New York had nothing on this. There were three African ‘boys’ in starched white jackets behind the bar; small groups of men, white and coloured, but segregated apparently by mutual desire, sat in chairs at individual tables. One or two were perched on high stools at the bar itself. Taking a stool, Shaw asked for an iced gin-and-bitters.

The African barman looked at him, gave a slight inclination of his head, but said nothing. He walked away, took his time over bringing the drink. Shaw took a cigarette from his case and flicked his lighter; it didn’t work. A man in a creased white suit who was sitting at a stool close by, took a box of matches from his pocket He called, “Catch.”

Shaw caught and said, “Thanks.” He lit his cigarette, took a deep lungful of smoke. He passed the matches back, and the man asked, “You just out from home?”

“Yes, I am.” Shaw raised an eyebrow and grinned. “Do I look that new?”

“No, not really.” The man gave a short grunting laugh. “I haven’t seen you before, that’s all. There’s not all that many whites left in the goddam country, and a new face stands out a bit.”

Shaw nodded. “Getting out fast, are they?”

“Well. . .” The man pursed his lips, pulling at a small dark moustache. “Dare say I did exaggerate a bit. A lot have gone, and the rest—well, they don’t come out much these days. You’ll find out!”

Shaw sipped at his drink, chinking the ice round the glass. “Just what is the situation like?”

The man said quietly, “Bloody murder, chum, that’s what it is. It’s quiet now, but it’s only a lull, and when it starts again it’ll be ten times worse. Better go back home again pretty damn quick if you ask me.” He took a long pull at a John Collins and then dabbed at his mouth with a handkerchief. He picked up a cork drip-mat from the bar counter and passed it to Shaw. “See that?”

Shaw took it. The mat was marked ROYAL COLONY HOTEL. He asked, “Well?”

The man laughed contemptuously. “Typical of the African mind. Unthorough in detail—they forgot these mats. What I mean is, the joint was the Royal Colony Hotel till—what— just a week ago. Had been all its life, and they never bothered with the name even after Nogolia became independent. Not till the recent troubles started. Then one day we woke up and found those bloody great neons. Independence Hotel my foot! Names count with the blacks at times like this—you’d be surprised! It’s only a small point, but it all shows the way the wind’s blowing, doesn’t it? Little things, all mounting up to put old Tshemambi into a diehard minority position.” Again he laughed, bitterly. “Remember years ago some one spoke of ‘the wind of change’ sweeping Africa—Macmillan, wasn’t it? He was a better prophet than even he thought.”

“Yes—” Shaw frowned, rubbed at his chin. “What about the real trouble—rioting and that?”

“There’s been plenty, but of course it’s only what you expect out here these days. It’s what’s going to happen that’s got everybody on edge. I don’t know. . . the blacks seem to be kind of
waiting
for something.”

Reflectively Shaw said, “Yes, that’s the feeling I get.”

Course, it’s all to do with this bloke Edo. I dare say you’ve heard about him.”

“Vaguely,” Shaw murmured. “D’you think he’s as powerful as they say he is?”

The man nodded emphatically, “No doubt of it, chum. He’s the worst bastard that’s ever been visited on this whole bloody continent. Got a real stranglehold. Break it, and you’ve got the answer. But the question of
how
to break it— that’s different! And it won’t be my worry for much longer.” He finished his drink at a gulp. “I’m leaving to-night. Most of my friends are packed and ready to go as soon as anything blows up . . . just a few are determined to stay at all costs.” He gave a sardonic grin. “They’re the elderly birds you always find in the old Colonial Empire—you know ’em, I expect—the ones who’ve been out here all their lives with their heads rammed in the sand and who feel sure the blacks won’t attack
them
whoever else they attack.” He slid off the stool, suddenly seemed to have difficulty in keeping upright. He said, “Tell you what, though: Their throats’ll slit as easy as any other bastard’s when the time comes.” He came across and slapped Shaw on the shoulder. “Don’t say I didn’t warn you!”

He made a somewhat unsteady progress out of the bar. Shaw watched him crashing through the swing doors into the street. If that man was typical of the whites out here, then things were going down the slippery slope right enough, and fast. And what would happen to Gillian Ross if she was left for long in the hands of a victorious Cult just didn’t bear thinking about.

After one more drink Shaw had an excellent lunch, but he was in no mood to enjoy it.

He picked up one of the American-style taxis, a really flash job with plenty of gleaming chromium all over it, to take him to the railway station that evening. There was quite a number of taxis and private cars at the station, most of them waiting for the express due in from up-country, and others bringing passengers for the train leaving for the naval port in the north; and Shaw didn’t particularly notice the Cadillac which also stopped, nor did he see the large, greyhaired African who sat back on the cushions smoking a cigar; he didn’t notice either when the man gave an order to his chauffeur, who got out and tagged on behind the passengers entering the station. The chauffeur followed Shaw on to the platform for the Manalati express, hung about casually puffing a cigarette, and watched while Shaw settled himself in a carriage which remained otherwise empty. When the express pulled out the chauffeur, who had noted the exact position of Shaw’s carriage, went back to the car and made his report. Then the Cadillac drove away fast, and within minutes a message was on its way up-country to Manalati and thence to a village not far from the track which the express would take.

The train, which was drawing three truck-loads of military stores and equipment under escort of a small detachment of the Nogolia Rifle Regiment, was hot and stuffy and reeked of damp and mildew.

Shaw sat and sweltered alone in his compartment, the upholstery adding to his discomfort. The train’s only stop was at midnight, when they were about half-way to Manalati, and a handful of soaked, bedraggled whites got on— probably, Shaw thought, employees of the copper-mining company which worked the Manalati mine. There were some women with them—wives, they would be. Shaw was left alone in his carriage. The station platform was open, wet, and dreary. A bunch of Africans, sullen and watchful, stared into the windows of the train as they mooched past to get in. One of them looked back for a moment at Shaw. There was none of that noisy chatter, the light-hearted chatter which Shaw remembered as being characteristic of Africans. It was as though a thick blanket of suspicion had descended over that old, carefree, childlike spirit, and he didn’t like it any more than he’d liked anything about this country so far; the Africans seemed to be holding themselves in check with difficulty, as though a dam would burst when the day of action came, the day of action that would come with Edo. . . .

The train started on the second and last lap for Manalati, and after a while Shaw dozed off, sunk in his corner seat as the train rattled and swayed under the slashing rainstorm across country, through miles and miles of thick green jungle, across rickety bridges over great deep river-beds now flooding deep and fast, over rocky gorges swelling with water, puffed and panted and strained up steep gradients which carried the track over the mountain-ranges into the interior.

He had been asleep for some hours when there was a sudden scream of the whistle which tore back through the rain, and then a jangling jolt of the coaches as the brakes were slammed on in the cab. Shaw came wide awake as the train stopped with a roar of escaping steam. There were flickers of light outside near the track, and he heard shouts and commotion. He jumped to his feet and went to the window. A few moments later all the lights went out. There was a faint sound behind him and as he turned he sensed rather than saw the vague ''shape, the shadow in the corridor moving for his compartment.

As he reached for the Webley .38 the shadow moved fast, hurled itself through the connecting door on top of him, and he went rolling, winded by a hard head in the guts. He felt something black and stuffy being drawn down over his face, suffocatingly, and then he was fighting for his life.

As the black bag came down over his nose and mouth Shaw got his hands around the unseen man’s throat and squeezed hard, his thumbs digging into the windpipe and forcing the Adam’s apple down and back. There was a harsh gurgling noise, and he felt breath rattle under his fingers and then the man was tearing at his hands, but unavailingly; Shaw was holding on as if his hands were steel grabs. The man stopped tearing and Shaw felt the fingers moving across the material of the bag until they found his eyeballs. There was a sudden cruel pressure and lights danced in his brain; the agony was intense, boring right into his head, but he hung on, sweating blood and panting hard.