It starts in the loins and it is very deceptive because you think it is only the old thing, the tightness and tension that any well-rounded stern or cheeky pair of breasts will give you. Scratch it, you think, it’s just a small itch. Spread a little of the warm salve on it and it will be gone in no time.
But suddenly it spreads, upwards and downwards, all through you.
The pit of your stomach feels hot, then the flutters round the heart.
It’s dangerous now; once it gets this far it’s incurable and you can scratch and scratch but all you do is inflame it.
Then the last stages, when it attacks the brain. No pain there, that’s the worst sign. A heightening of the senses; your eyes are
sharper, your blood runs too fast, food tastes good, your mouth wants to shout and legs want to run.
Then the delusions of grandeur: you are the cleverest, strongest, most masculine male in the universe, and you stand ten feet tall in your socks.
How tall are you now, Curry, he asked himself. About nine feet six and I weigh twenty stone, he answered, and almost laughed aloud.
And how does it end? It ends with words. Words can kill anything. It ends with cold words; words like fire that stick in the structure and take hold and lick it up, blackening and charring it, bringing it down in smoking ruins.
It ends in suspicion of things not done, and in the certainty of
things done and remembered. It ends with selfishness and carelessness, and words, always words.
It ends with pain and gteyness, and it leaves scar tissue and damage that will never heal.
Or it ends without fuss and fury. It just crumbles and blows away like dust on the wind. But there is still the agony of loss.
Both these endings I know well, for I have loved twice, and now I
love again.
Perhaps this time it does not have to be that way.
Perhaps this time it will last. Nothing is for ever, he thought.
Nothing is for ever, not even life, and perhaps this time if I cherish it and tend it carefully it will last that long, as long as life.
“We are nearly at the bridge,” said Shermaine beside him, and
Bruce started. The miles had dropped unseen behind them and now the forest was thickening. It crouched closer to the earth, greener and darker along the river.
Bruce slowed the Ford and the forest became dense bush around them, the road tunnel through it. They came round one last bend in the track and out of the tunnel of green vegetation into the clearing where the road met the railway line and ran beside it on to the heavy timber platform of the bridge.
Bruce stopped the Ranchero, switched off the engine and they all sat silently, staring out at the solid jungle on the far bank with its screen of creepers and monkey-ropes hanging down, trailing the surface of the deep green swiftflowing river. They stared at the stumps of the bridge thrusting out from each bank towards each other like the arms of parted lovers; at the wide gap between with the timbers still smouldering and the smoke drifting away downstream over the green water.
“It’s gone,” said Shermaine. “It’s been burnt.”
“Oh, no,” groaned
Bruce.” Oh, God, no!” With an effort he pulled his eyes from the charred remains of the bridge and turned them on to the jungle about them, a hundred feet away, ringing them in. Hostile, silent. “Don’t get out of the car,” he snapped as Shermaine reached for the door handle.
“Roll your window up, quickly.” She obeyed.
“They’re waiting in there.” He pointed at the edge of the jungle.
Behind them the first of the convoy came round the bend into the clearing. Bruce jumped from the Ford and ran back towards the leading truck.
“Don’t get out, stay inside,” he shouted and ran on down the line, repeating the instruction to each of them as he passed.
When he reached Ruffy’s cab he jumped on to the running board, jerked the door open, slipped in on to the seat and slammed the door.
“They’ve burnt the bridge.”
“What’s happened to the boys we left to guard it?”
“I don’t know but we’ll find out. Pull up alongside the others so that I can talk to them.” Through the half-open window he issued his orders to each of the drivers and within ten minutes all the vehicles had been manoeuvred into the tight defensive circle of the laager, a formation Bruce’s ancestors had used a hundred years before.
“Ruffy, get out those tarpaulins and spread them over the top to form a roof We don’t want them dropping arrows in amongst us.” Ruffy
selected half a dozen gendarmes and they went to work, dragging out the heavy folded canvas.
“Hendry, put a couple of men under each truck. Set up the Brens in case they try to rush us.” In the infectious urgency of defence, Wally did not make his usual retort, but gathered his men. They wriggled on their stomachs under the vehicles, rifles pointed out towards the silent jungle.
“I want the extinguishers here in the middle so we can get them in a hurry. They might use fire again.” Two gendarmes ran to each of the cabs and unclipped the fire-extinguishers from the dashboards.
“What can I do?” Shermaine was standing beside Bruce.
“Keep quiet and stay out of the way,” said Bruce as he turned and hurried across to help Ruffy’s gang with the tarpaulins.
It took them half an hour of desperate endeavour before they completed the fortifications to Bruce’s satisfaction.
“That should hold them.” Bruce stood with Ruffy and Hendry in the centre of the laager and surveyed the green canvas roof above them and the closely packed vehicles around them. The Ford was parked beside the tanker, not included in the outer ring for its comparative size would have made it a weak point in the defence.
“It’s going to be bloody hot and crowded in here,” grumbled
Hendry.
“Yes, I know.” Bruce looked at him. “Would you like to relieve the congestion by waiting outside?”
“Funny boy, big laugh,” answered
Wally.
“What now, boss?” Ruffy put into words the question Bruce had been asking himself.
“You and I will go and take a look at the bridge,” he said.
“You’ll look a rare old sight with an arrow sticking out of your back,” grinned Wally. “Boy, that’s going to kill me!”
“Ruffy, get us half a dozen gas capes each. I doubt their arrows will go through them at a range of a hundred feet, and of course we’ll wear helmets.”
“Okay, boss.” It was like being in a sauna bath beneath the six layers of rubberized canvas. Bruce could feel the sweat squirting from his pores with each pace, and rivulets of it coursing down his back and flanks as he and Ruffy left the laager and walked up the road to the bridge.
Beside him Ruffy’s bulk was so enhanced by the gas capes that he reminded Bruce of a prehistoric monster reaching the end of its gestation period.
“Warm enough, Ruffy?” he asked, feeling the need for humour. The ring of jungle made him nervous. Perhaps he had underestimated the carry of a Baluba arrow - despite the light reed shaft, they used iron heads, barbed viciously and ground to a needle point, and poison smeared thickly between the barbs.
man, look at me shiver,” grunted Ruffy and the sweat greased down his jowls and dripped from his chin.
Long before they reached the access to the bridge the stench of putrefaction crept out to meet them. In Bruce’s mind every smell had its own colour, and this one was green, the same green as the sheen of
putrefaction on rotting meat. The stench was so heavy he could almost feel it bearing down on them, choking in his throat and coating his tongue and the roof of his mouth with the oily oversweetness.
“No doubt what that is!” Ruffy spat, trying to get the taste out of his mouth.
“Where are they?” gagged Bruce, starting to pant from the heat and the effort of breathing the fouled air.