“None of my business, you say?” Mike turned quickly to face Bruce. “My God, what kind of man are you? I hope for your sake you don’t mean that.”
“I’ll tell you in words of one syllable what kind of man I am, Haig,” Bruce answered flatly. “I’m the kind that minds my own bloody business, that lets other people lead their own lives. I am ready to take reasonable measures to prevent others flouting the code which society has drawn up
for us, but that’s all. Hendry has committed murder; this I agree is a bad thing, and when we get back to Elisabethville I will bring it to the attention of the people whose business it is.
But I am not going to wave banners and quote from the Bible and froth at the mouth.”
“That’s all?”
“That’s all.”
“You don’t feel sorry for those two kids?”
“Yes I do. But pity doesn’t heal bullet wounds; all “it does is distress me. So I switch off the pity - they can’t use it.”
“You don’t feel anger or disgust or horror at Hendry?”
“The same thing applies,” explained Bruce, starting to lose patience again. “I could work up a sweat about it if I let myself loose on an
emotional orgy, as you are doing.”
“So instead you treat something as evil as Hendry with an indifferent tolerance?” asked Mike.
“Jesus Christ!” grated Bruce. “What the hell do you want me to do?”
“I want you to stop playing dead. I want you to be able to recognize evil and to destroy it.” Mike was starting to lose his temper also; his nerves were taut.
“That’s great! Do you know where I can buy a secondhand crusader
outfit and a white horse, then singlehanded I will ride out to wage war on cruelty and ignorance, lust and greed and hatred and poverty-“
“That’s not what I-” Mike tried to interrupt, but Bruce overrode him, his handsome face flushed darkly with anger and the sun. “You want me to destroy evil wherever I find it. You old fool, don’t you know that it has a hundred heads and that for each one you cut off another hundred grow in its place?”
“Don’t you know that it’s in you also, so to destroy it you have to destroy yourself?”
“You’re a coward, Curry!
The first time you burn a finger you run away and build yourself an asbestos shelter,-“
“I don’t like being called names, Haig. Put a leash on your tongue.” Mike paused and his expression changed, softening into a grin.
“I’m sorry, Bruce. I was just trying to teach you-“
“Thank you,” scoffed Bruce, his voice still harsh; he had not been placated by the
apology. “You are going to teach me, thanks very much! But what are you going to teach me, Haig? What are you qualified to teach? “How to find success and happiness” by Laughing. “Haig who worked his way down to a lieutenancy in the black army of Katanga - how’s that as a title for your lecture, or do you prefer something more technical like: “The applications of alcohol to spiritual research-””
“All right, Bruce. Drop it, I’ll shut up,” and Bruce saw how deeply he had wounded
Mike. He regretted it then, he would have liked to unsay it. But that’s one thing you can never do.
Beside him Mike Haig was suddenly much older and more tired looking, the pouched wrinkles below his eyes seemed to have deepened in the last few seconds, and a little more of the twinkle had gone from his eyes. His short laughter had a bitter humourless ring to it.
“When you put it that way it’s really quite funny.”
“I punched a little low,” admitted Bruce, and then, perhaps I should let you shoot
Hendry. A waste of ammunition really, but seeing that you want to so badly,” Bruce drew his pistol and offered it to Mike butt first, “use mine.” He grinned disarmingly at Mike and his grin was almost impossible to resist; Mike started to laugh. It wasn’t a very good joke, but somehow it caught fire between them and suddenly they were laughing together.
Mike Haig’s battered features spread like warm butter and twenty
years dropped from his face. Bruce leaned back against the sandbags with his mouth wide open, the pistol still in his hand and his long lean body throbbing uncontrollably with laughter.
There was something feverish in it, as though they were trying with laughter to gargle away the taste of blood and hatred. It was the laughter of despair.
Below them the men in the trucks turned to watch them, puzzled at first, and then beginning to chuckle in sympathy, not recognizing the sickness of that sound.
Hey, boss,” called Ruffy. “First time I ever seen you laugh like you meant it.” And the epidemic spread, everyone was laughing, even
Andre de Surrier was smiling.
Only Wally Hendry was untouched by it, silent and sullen, watching
them with small expressionless eyes.
They came to the bridge over the Cheke in the middle of the afternoon. Both the road and the railway crossed it side by side, but after this brief meeting they diverged and the road twisted away to the left. The river was padded on each bank by dense dark green bush; three hundred yards thick, a matted tangle of Thorn and tree fern with the big trees growing up through” it and bursting into flower as they reached the sunlight.
“Good place for an ambush,” muttered Mike Haig, eyeing the solid green walls of vegetation on each side of the lines.
“Charming, isn’t it,” agreed Bruce, and by the uneasy air of alertness that had settled on his gendarmes it was clear that they agreed with him.
The train nosed its way carefully into the river bush like a steel snake along a rabbit run, and they came to the river.
Bruce switched on the set.
“Driver, stop this side of the bridge. I wish to inspect it before entrusting our precious cargo to it.”
“Oui, monsieur.” The Cheke river at this point was fifty yards wide, deep, quick-flowing and angry with flood water which had almost covered the white sand beaches along
each bank. Its bottle-green colour was smoked with mud and there were whirlpools round the stone columns of the bridge.
“Looks all right,” Haig gave his opinion. “How far are we from
Port Reprieve now?” Bruce spread his field map on the roof of the coach between his legs and found the brackets that straddled the convoluted ribbon of the river.
“Here we are.” He touched it and then ran his finger along the stitched line of the railway until it reached the red circle that marked Port Reprieve. “About thirty miles to 90, another hour’s run.
We’ll be there before dark.”
“Those are the Lufira hills.” Mike Haig pointed to the blue smudge that only just showed above the forest ahead of them.
“We’ll be able to see the town from the top,” agreed Bruce. “The river runs parallel to them on the other side, and the swamp is off to the right, the swamp is the source of the river.” He rolled the map and passed it back to Ruffy who slid it into the plastic map case.
“Ruffy, Lieutenant Haig and I are going ahead to have a look at the bridge. Keep an eye on the bush.”
“Okay, boss. You want a beer to take with you?”
“Thanks.” Bruce was thirsty and he emptied half the bottle before climbing down to join Mike on the gravel embankment.
Rifles unslung, watching the bush on each side uneasily, they hurried forward and with relief reached the bridge and went out into the centre of it.
“Seems solid enough commented Mike. “No one has tampered with it.”
“It’s wood.” Bruce stamped on the heavy wild mahogany timbers.
They were three feet thick and stained with a dark t chemical to inhibit rotting.
“So, it’s wood?” enquired Mike.
“Wood burns,” explained Bruce. “It would be easy to burn it down.” He leaned his elbows on the guard rail, drained the beer bottle and dropped it to the surface of the river twenty feet below. There was a thoughtful expression on his face.