Vultures in the Wind

by Peter Rimmer

  The fund-raising success had been staggering, and in the audience Hector Fortescue-Smythe banged his claw on the chair in front of him while the noise and acclaim fed his overwhelming desire for revenge. If he could raise a similar amount of money every week, he would kill every Afrikaner from the Limpopo to the Cape and from the Cunene to the shores of the Indian Ocean. With so much money pouring into the war chest of the ANC, the liberation movements of Southern Africa, co-ordinated by the KGB, would sweep the colonial, racist, capitalist pigs into their graves or into the sea, and the Soviet Union would raise the red flag over the whole of Africa.

  His unsmiling face bore no testimony to the feeling of savage joy that coursed through his body as the brilliance of communist propaganda made the capitalists of London contribute so willingly, proudly, with such beneficence, to the detriment of their own pampered existence. What was ten pounds if it atoned for the guilt of the past, the horrors of colonialism?

  Some of them stood on their chairs to shout to the roof-top, the Victorian dome built at the zenith of the Empire, a testament to the colonial past. It felt so good to shout at the past, to vilify their race and cry foul at the memory of their ancestors. Television cameras took the riot of acclaim around the world, making millions feel benevolent in the chairs round the hearths, fired with the self-righteous feeling of doing something to eliminate the horror of apartheid, the sin against humanity, the reincarnation of Nazi Germany, man at his worst. Here was a way the man in his chair could contribute tangibly, to participate in the tearing down of apartheid structures which made a man a slave in his own country. And it was all so comfortable, so right and the problem so far away from hearth and home.

  A hundred years previously, their great-grandfathers had poured money into the coffers of the missionary societies to send Livingstone and Moffat to bring God to the savages. Now that God had found the savages, they cried freedom, freedom for Africa, tore down the colonial pillars and threw Africa and its godless millions back into their past, into the glories of anarchy and savagery in the name of human rights. And they all felt pious as they clapped and stood on their chairs, and the message of so much hope flew round the world and burst out of the screens to mesmerise the civilised world.

  Gilly Bowles was thirteen years old when she realised that what men wanted was between her legs, not between her ears. It was during the same year that she decided to be a journalist. She wanted to be able to get her own back for being sent to boarding school, and she wanted her family to stop telling her to pipe down. She wanted to pipe up and be noticed. The sexual awakening was a revelation, but there had to be more to her life than a rich husband and babies and limiting her power to telling them to pipe down. By the time she met Ben Munroe, she was a second-class reporter but a first-class whore, in the sense that she used her body as leverage. Journalism wasn’t writing good or even brilliant English; it was being at the centre of things, the confidant, the owners of other people’s secrets, ones they did not wish other people to know. The secrets of ordinary people were of little consequence, so she slept with the rich and famous, mostly older men in business or politics. Three of them were trade union leaders, and she knew it gave them a delicious sense of inverted snobbery to sleep with a girl who had spent four years at an exclusive girls’ boarding school before being shipped off to Switzerland for the finishing touches. She was not a particularly pretty girl, but her eyes worked up a story for every man she looked into, and the pert, high breasts, the small tight buttocks and the long legs did the rest. She was the most successful flirt of her class and she had honed her skill to perfection.

  By the time she attended Bishop Porterstone’s celebratory cocktail party, she was twenty-three, and had made sure she had never been in love, an impediment that she was sure would be boring, counter-productive and prone to give the man in question power over her. She was the one person in the room, the one outsider in England, who was certain that the bishop was a veritable fraud, and the idea of defrocking the minister was delicious.

  She had slept with Ben twice before going cold on the man in a technique she found charmingly simple. Men always wanted to consume their women and to be the one to do the throwing away. Once they had sex with her, they thought of her as their personal property. There was nothing like a good flash, a good bedding and a well-locked chastity belt to have the most rampant male chauvinist, and he was manifesting all the tendencies of a love-sick puppy. Gilly thought a lot in clichés and spent much of her time trying to keep them out of her writing.

  The party for Des Donelly and his band of international artists was full of the type of men with whom she liked to associate, men with power and influence and, with Ben as her mentor, the man who had drummed up so many of the black American artists of fame, she was indulged by any man she chose in the room. She chose to find out why a man with a claw hand, a man she had never heard of, was being treated as an equal by so many men who were usually either condescending or fawning. She sensed in the man with the claw a power that turned her on. She had learned the reason, though she had not yet pinpointed the cause why powerful men responded so readily to her sexual power, power that neither, usually, found able to bring to a lasting, all-consuming climax. She was the receptacle for their phallic urge, the place to plant their lasting seed, this power coming second only to immortality.

  Gilly was dark, with a short, elfin haircut, the colour and sheen of a raven. Her eyes were wide apart and her mouth was large and always slightly open when she was talking to men. Her irises were a dark brown in a sea of pure white, and her perfect white teeth matched the pureness of the whites of her eyes. She wore clothes that spoke firmly of her breasts and buttocks, and her often dark stockings had a pattern of big holes accentuating the texture of her smooth legs. At special functions like the party of the anti-apartheid movement, she wore black lace mittens that made her fingers, red-nailed and long, an invitation to the central parts of a man’s body. When she took an olive out of a dry martini, smoothly polished and dripping in gin on the end of a thin stick held between long, slim fingers, it was a sensual masterpiece as the olive was sucked between her lips, the red of the lips matching the flawless red of her nails.

  Gilly worked her way round the room, and had no difficulty in catching the eye of her ex-lover.

  “Who’s the man with no smile and one hand?”

  “Why?’

  “I find him very sexy.” She smiled knowingly at Ben.

  “Hector Fortescue-Smythe. Could be a dollar billionaire by inheritance, but went off to Africa and now he’s here at a political party. Take your pick… You want a Manhattan?”

  “Dry martini, darling. And please tell the man one part Vermouth to five parts gin. Noilly Pratt. French, not Italian. Gin and French, darling, with a large, juicy olive… You look very pleased with yourself.”

  “I made a lot of friends helping the bishop.”

  “Is he married?” asked Gilly.

  “Who’d marry the bishop? He’s so fat…”

  “Fortescue-Smythe, darling.”

  “No. Divorced. They don’t talk about him.”

  “Introduce… Please.” She was standing very close to him in the crush and rubbed her thigh over his crotch. “Then you can go over and ask that nice Italian barman – the one that looks like a real wop. How on earth did they ever create an empire?”

  They eased their way through the crowded, exuberant room chock-full of familiar faces.

  “Hector, meet my girl. Gilly Bowles.” Gilly winced at the patronage and pulled a small face for Hector’s benefit, leaving no doubt in his mind that she was no man’s girl.

  “They make a proper dry Martini, if that’s any consolation.” She knew she had Hector’s full attention, having caught his eye twice during the evening. “Are you an altruist, a communist or a man who genuinely believes in the dignity of the human race? And, yes, I’m a journalist. Daily Telegraph. Nice and conservative.”

  “And Ben?”

  “Ben in
vited me here. We’re just good friends. Who invited you?”

  “The bishop. We met in South Africa,” Hector informed her.

  “What were you doing in South Africa?”

  “Working for the apartheid government. I think it’s terrible.”

  “This party or the South African government?”

  “Both.”

  “So you joined the AAM. Very noble. And what happened?” She waved at his arm.

  “There are risks in opposing oppression. They sent me a letter bomb.”

  “Nasty… They really are pigs.”

  “Yes, they are.” A picture of Helena flashed into Hector’s mind.

  “Are you alone?”

  “Yes.”

  “Why don’t you join us for supper?” suggested Gilly. “Ben knows all the good restaurants in London. Do you think they’ll give him an OBE?”

  “Probably.” They were both watching Des Donelly holding court. “Even a knighthood.”

  “The Beatles gave back their MBEs.”

  “Probably because they were only MBEs. They don’t return knighthoods and baronies quite so quickly.”

  “I want to write a big article about the AAM. From the intellectual point of view. Try to turn our conservative readers. Will you help?” asked Gilly.

  “Of course. It’s a just cause. You can’t have governments going around separating people on account of their race.”

  “Maybe we can get Ben to go home early.”

  “That would be nice.”

  Outside, while Hector was waving his rolled umbrella for a taxi, Gilly held back under Ben’s umbrella. It was just beginning to rain.

  “Soon as you’ve eaten, darling, make an excuse about filing your story. Go on home and I’ll join you as soon as I’ve found out what I want to know. And don’t ring up another girl while you’re waiting. I’ll see you in bed.” She smiled deeply into his eyes, her mouth just parted, her lips moist and rich red, and Ben felt a need so powerful his wits were dulled. It took Gilly just an hour to dump Ben and have Hector all to herself.

  “You never answered my question. Are you a communist?”

  Hector gave her a warm, gentle smile. “I don’t think there are any communists in the Cavalry Club.”

  “You a member?”

  “Tanks, national service. Quite a hoot, actually.”

  “Why the AAM?” Gilly wanted to know.

  “I told you. Just cause. I’m a pure socialist. Cambridge did that. Father never understood. The old firm’s run by mater, really. Didn’t want to spoil my principles by joining the ranks of the capitalists. Professional managers do so much better. I went to South Africa to find out what on earth they were up to… If they don’t like a man’s politics, they put him in jail for up to ninety days without trial, and give him a tie to hang himself with in his cell. If that doesn’t work, they methodically beat him to death. Bunch of bloody sadists?’

  “Are you ANC?”

  “Anyone in the AAM is pro-ANC,” stated Hector. “Anyone who opposes apartheid supports the ANC. One day we’ll get Mandela out of jail and march on Pretoria.”

  “A lot of people will get killed.”

  “A lot of people are being killed, Miss Bowles.”

  “Call me Gilly.”

  “Are you going to see Ben later?”

  “No… I’m yours for as long as you like.”

  “You have me confused,” Hector confessed, “I thought you were after a story.”

  “Maybe I was .. I love iced Polish vodka.” The slim glass in front of her was heavily frosted. “French brandy in a large glass is old-fashioned. Does it hurt?”

  “Yes, as a matter of fact,” admitted Hector. “There’s a raw nerve in my face that hurts like hell. It reminds me… Sanctions will get to the Boer eventually. My ex-father-in-law is the minister in charge of their bureau of state security. ‘BOSS’ is such an evocative acronym.”

  “Did he send you the letter?”

  “No. His daughter. I thought she was after my family money. We were getting a divorce. I was a fool.”

  “Sounds more like a capitalist protecting his wealth… I’m sorry,” Gilly apologised. “In any normal society they would hang her for attempted murder… Why did you want a divorce? Did you throw her out? A woman scorned can be very dangerous.”

  He lifted the claw to acknowledge the truth. “They found out I was working for the opposition.”

  “Wow! That put the shit on the fan” Gilly began to laugh, a low, husky laugh both musical and genuine. “I would have given anything to see the face of the boss when he found out his son-in-law was an admirer of the ANC.”

  “Not an admirer. Fully-fledged member.” He was also laughing, which made the blank expression of his face a menacing contradiction. “I got out of the country a few hours ahead of the police. Drove out through Botswana. She was screwing around.”

  “The minister’s daughter? Did you love her?”

  “Probably not. There isn’t much of a story for you in me.”

  “Depends which way you look at it… What do you do in London?”

  “Some family business. Mother makes me do that. And the AAM. I’m trying to get on to the committee.”

  “Ask the bishop,” suggested Gilly.

  “He’s chairman. That’s the one that puzzles me. What’s a clergyman doing in a liberation movement? You don’t fool me. The AAM is the British front for the ANC.”

  “Liberation theology. There are some good Catholics in South America. Jesus believed in mercy. In peace to all men.”

  “You sound a very sincere man. I’d like to help. I want to bring the readers of the Daily Telegraph behind the AAM.”

  “We need all the help we can get, Gilly.”

  The meeting of the South African communist party took place in London on Christmas Eve, 1977. The only person of consequence missing was Bishop Porterstone who had to attend to other duties. Hector Fortescue-Smythe chaired the meeting.

  “I have some very good news to report. The Smith regime wants to talk. They’ve approached the British government to set up a meeting between Nkomo, Mugabe and Smith. The puppet Muzorewa will do the handing over of power. Hitting them all over the country spread their security forces too thinly and sanctions are biting hard. We must concentrate on South West Africa. Swapo need all your help and, when we have forced South Africa to give independence to the new Namibia, we will have all our resources available to concentrate on South Africa itself.

  “We must instruct our friends in the ANC to start a low-intensity guerrilla war. Limpet mines in shopping centres, at railway stations. Easy to place and difficult to detect until they go off. I have some expertise in this matter. We have total control of the new trade union movement that Botha was stupid enough to sanction. Our friends in the TUC here in London did a great job pressuring the British government to pressurise Botha. It may take us years, but in the end we will paralyse their mines, and that’s the way to collapse the Boers. Low-scale warfare in South Africa and total onslaught in southern Angola against the puppet Savimbi and his South African supporters. Draw the South African army away from their air bases and hit them with the Cuban air force.

  “Today, we have the privilege of listening to Colonel Antonio van Perreira dos Santos Cassero of the Cuban air force. He will brief you about the new MIG aircraft being sent to Angola from the Soviet Union. The communist revolution is entering its final phase. The next decade will give us total victory. Africa, to all intents and purposes, is now ours.”

  Sunny Tupper knew better than anyone else that Archie was her last chance. In another three months, she would be forty years old. Living with a man was as temporary as the next day, and gone as quickly. Sunny was desperate. Her figure had been forced back with rigorous exercise and willpower over her love of food, but it was not enough. Archie was past fifty and, after the first flurry of excitement, sex was not the dominating factor. If there was going to be a marriage she had to make him so damn comfortable that the i
nconvenience of losing her was greater than the implications of taking a wife.

  From the moment he woke in the morning with Sunny bringing his first cup of tea, to the time she turned out the light for him over their queen-sized bed, she concentrated on smoothing the path for her lover. Whatever he had to say, she heeded attentively. She joined in the conversation intelligently and, though she suggested and gave him ideas, she never contradicted. She was the balm for his business worries and his honour of growing old.

  For Archie at fifty-two, it was as well that he was wealthy, as most of his hair had fallen out and his paunch was testimony to too many rich business luncheons. The muscles of his youth had gone to fat, and even his voice had slowed down to a more sonorous, slightly boring monotone. His personal wealth exceeded the one hundred million mark and everyone paid him the attention his wealth deserved.

  Archie was a successful businessman in the old tradition, and he never mentioned his earlier days in Mongu or the old Belgian Congo, though his leg twinged regularly to remind him in the privacy of his mind. With Teddie Botha playing an ever-increasing role in decision-making, Archie was happy to fill the role of company representative. It was Archie’s job to entertain, and he entertained while Teddie got along with the business. It was a little like the British monarchy and it worked very well.

  During the day, Sunny took herself off to catering courses and classes that taught her how to arrange bowls of flowers. She dressed expensively and well, and read the newspaper thoroughly so as to be able to join in any general conversation. Realising the inadequacy of her education, she began to read avidly, from classical fiction to Plato and Aristotle, and she made herself understand what the philosophers were saying. She was going to make herself indispensable to Archie Fletcher-Wood who was going to marry her and she was going to live in the luxury she craved for the rest of her life.