along the side of the concrete bridge, keeping in its shadow, moving
doubled up until he came to dry land on the edge of the village. There
were no sentries posted and except for the crackle of
the flames the town was quiet, sunk into a drunken stupor, satiated.
Bruce went back to call his men up.
He spread them in pairs along the outskirts of the village.
He had learned very early in this campaign not to let his men act
singly; nothing drains an African of courage more than to be on his own,
especially in the night when the ghosts are on the walk-about.
To each couple he gave minute instructions.
"When you hear the grenades you shoot at anybody in the streets or at
the windows. When the street is empty move in close beside that building
there. Use your own grenades on every house and watch out for Lieutenant
Hendry's men coming through from the other side. Do you understand?"
"It is understood."
"Shoot carefully. Aim each shot - not like you did at the road bridge,
and in the name of God do not hit the gasoline tanker. We need that to
get us home." Now it was three o'clock, Bruce saw by the luminous
figures on his wristwatch.
Eight hours since they had left the train, and twenty-two hours since
Bruce had last slept.
But he was not tired, although his body ached and there was that gritty
feeling under his eyelids, yet his mind was clear and bright as a flame.
He lay beside Ruffy under a low bush on the outskirts of Port
Reprieve and the night wind drifted the smoke from the burning town down
upon them, and Bruce was not tired. For I am going to another rendezvous
with fear.
Fear is a woman, he thought, with all the myriad faces and voices of a
woman. Because she is a woman and because I am a man I must keep going
back to her. Only this time the appointment is one that I cannot avoid,
this time I am not deliberately seeking her out.
I know she is evil, I know that after I have possessed her I will feel
sick and shaken. I will say, "That was the last time, never again." But
just as certainly I know I will go back to her again, hating her,
dreading her, but also needing her.
I have gone to find her on a mountain - on Dutoits Kloof Frontal, on
Turret Towers, on the Wailing Wall, and the Devil's Tooth.
And she was there, dressed in a flowing robe of rock, a robe that fell
sheer two thousand feet to the scree slope below. And she shrieked with
the voice of the wind along the exposed face. Then her voice was soft,
tinkling like Aft
*ad cooling glass in the Berg ice underfoot, whispering like nylon rope
running free, grating as the rotten rock moved in my hand.
I have followed her into the Jessie bush on the banks of the Sabi and
the Luangwa, and she was there, waiting, wounded, in a robe of buffalo
hide with the blood dripping from her mouth. And her smell was the
sour-acid smell of my own sweat, and her taste was like rotten tomatoes
in the back of my throat.
I have looked for her beyond the reef in the deep water with the demand
valve of a scuba repeating my breathing with metallic hoarseness. And
she was there with rows of white teeth in the semicircle of her mouth, a
tall fin on her back, dressed this time in shagreen, and her touch was
cold as the ocean, and her taste was salt and the taint of dying things.
I have looked for her on the highway with my foot pressed to the
floorboards and she was there with her cold arm draped round my
shoulders, her voice the whine of rubber on tarmac and the throaty hum
of the motor.
With Colin Butler at the helm (a man who treated fear not as a lover,
but with tolerant contempt as though she were his little sister)
I went to find her in a small boat. She was dressed in green with plumes
of spray and she wore a necklace of sharp black rock. And her voice was
the roar of water breaking on water.
We met in darkness at the road bridge and her eyes glinted like
bayonets. But that was an enforced meeting not of my choosing, as
tonight will be.
I hate her, he thought, but she is a woman and I am a man.
Bruce lifted his arm and turned his wrist to catch the light of the
fires.
"Fifteen minutes to four, Ruffy. Let's go and take a look."
"That's a good idea, boss." Ruffy grinned with a show of white teeth in
the darkness.
Are you afraid, Ruffy?" he asked suddenly, wanting to know, for his own
heart beat like a war drum and there was no saliva in his mouth.
"Boss, some questions you don't ask a man." Ruffy rose slowly into a
crouch. "Let's go take a look around." So they moved quickly together
into the town, along the street, hugging the hedges and the buildings,
trying to keep in shadow, their eyes moving everywhere, breathing quick
and shallow, nerves screwed up tight until they reached the hotel.
There were no lights in the windows and it seemed deserted until
Bruce made out the untidy mass of humanity strewn in sleep upon the
front verandah.
"How many there, Ruffy?"
"Dunno - perhaps ten, fifteen." Ruffy breathed an answer.
"Rest of them will be inside."
"Where are the women - be careful of them."
"They're dead long ago, you can believe me."
"All right then, let's get round the back." Bruce took a deep breath and
then moved quickly across the twenty yards of open firelit street to the
corner of the hotel. He stopped in the shadow and felt Ruffy close
beside him.
"I want to take a look into the main lounge, my guess is that most of
them will be in there," he whispered.
"There's only four bedrooms," agreed Ruffy. "Say the officers upstairs
and the rest in the lounge." Now Bruce moved quickly round the corner
and stumbled over something soft. He felt it move against his foot.
"Ruffy!" he whispered urgently as he teetered off balance.
He had trodden on a man, a man sleeping in the dust beside the wall. He
could see the firelight on his bare torso and the glint of the bottle
clutched in one outflung hand. The man sat up, muttering, and then began
to cough, hacking painfully, swearing as he wiped his mouth with his
free hand. Bruce regained his balance and swung his rifle up to use the
bayonet, but Ruffy was quicker. He put one foot on the man's chest and
trod him flat on to his back once more, then standing over him he used
his bayoneted rifle the way a gardener uses a spade to lift potatoes,
leaning his weight on it suddenly and the blade
vanished into the man's throat.
The body stiffened convulsively, legs thrust out straight and arms
rigid, there was a puffing of breath from the severed windpipe and then
the slow melting relaxation of death. Still with his foot on the chest,
Ruffy withdrew the" bayonet and stepped over the corpse.
That was very close, thought Bruce, stifling the qualm of horror
he felt at the execution. The man's eyes were fixed open in almost comic
surprise, the bottle still in his hand, his chest bare, the front of his
trousers unbuttoned and stiff with dried blood - not his blood, guessed
Bruce angrily.
They moved on past the kitchens. Bruce looked in and saw that they were