by John Gardner
“Mummy and Daddy home?”
“Still abroad.”
“What about Toby?”
“Still in Scotland. There’s only cook, the daily woman and Fisher our aged retainer. Oh and me of course: there’s always me.”
“I’ve got to see you.”
“How super. Alone at last?”
“Can I come over?”
“I’d rather you … Sorry, I was going to make an awfully vulgar joke. Come as you please, darling boy. I shall be waiting for you.”
It was no time for austerity. Boysie took a cab to Richmond. Ada opened the door wearing nothing but a smile and a towelling robe.
“Awfully good of you to make it so quickly, darling, come on up.”
“I’ve got to talk to you. This is …”
“Up.” Firmly she propelled him towards the stockbroker Tudor staircase.
“Look, Ada. We’re all likely to be in …”
“Here, darling.” Opening the door; dragging him into her bedroom all white and chintzy.
“Ada. I’ve got to …” Boysie protested.
“Pay your dues. Yes, Oaksie, sweetie. Sense my vibrations; they’re good, clean and longing for you to pay up.”
“Listen to me.”
“After.”
“I must …”
“Get undressed.”
“Ada.”
Her fingers clutched at his jacket. “Now listen, Ada. You remember when you joined the firm they said …” His jacket lay on the floor as she gently pushed Boysie into a sitting position on the end of the bed. “… They said there were prospects of travelling?”
She had his shoes and socks off and began to work on his shirt buttons; kissing his ear and the back of his neck.
“Well, the moment has come. You’re being asked to travel, but I want you all to follow my lead …” Her mouth fastened on to his ear: tongue searching deep. “Ada, you’re not listening.”
“Come on, darling. The trousers.”
Zip. Unbutton. Unbutton. Yank.
“Please, Ada. This is terribly …”
“Lift your bottom.”
Jerk.
“I say, Oaksie. Continental for men, in super colours. Get your knickers off.”
“Will you wait a minute. I have …”
“Always wanted to do this. Must be the Les in me.”
Boysie felt his briefs give at the waist as she wrenched. “Hey. You’re …”
“Rippin’ your drawers.” Ada stood back to admire her handiwork. “Come on, then.”
“Ada, for the last time.”
“I’ve seen stronger looking things hanging in butchers’ windows, darling. Let’s see what I can do about it.”
Ada tugged at the belt of her robe and let it fall to the floor. She was naked, young, tender, blossoming, etcetera.
“Rise, Sir Knight,” said Ada. She smiled with pleasure. “That’s more like it.”
“Ada. I can’t tell you howmmmmm.”
She stopped Boysie’s mouth with her lips leaping towards him, on him, in him, or he in her, or … working. Tongues. Thighs. Sweat. Heavy. Breathing. Harder. Working harder. Together. Faster. Faster.
*
“Now what was it you wanted to tell me, love?” Ada came out of the shower still sprinkled with water. Little droplets dewing the smooth skin.
Boysie was lying where she had left him, taking gulps of air, on the bed, an ugly bite showing livid on his shoulder.
He recovered himself in a matter of minutes and carefully recounted the facts of Mostyn’s peremptory orders.
“Actually that’s awfully super.” Ada, tall and almost skinny from some angles, stepped into her panties and pulled them tight, restraining her buttocks in a way which made Boysie wince. “I’ve always wanted to visit Africa.”
“Hear me out.”
“Sorry.”
“I’ve been ordered to organise you all. But I rather hoped we could get a situation going whereby the three of you refused to act as hostesses.”
“Not a chance. Why?”
“Ada, I can’t go into details, but the whole thing’s dangerous.”
“Why didn’t you tell Mostyn?”
“I think he knows. But Mostyn’s … Well he’s Mostyn.” She had her bra on by this time. “You don’t like Mostyn do you, Oaksie?”
“No.” He was trying to cover what was left of his manhood with the rumpled bed linen.
Ada sat on the bed, too close for any comfort. “You’re frightened of him. Why? Come on. You can tell me.”
Boysie felt a great retch of desire building. Desire to explain. To try and explain. “Some people have the power to intimidate,” he said lamely. “They can somehow get under another person’s skin. They seek out the weak areas and they have the necessary confidence. Mostyn knows he can intimidate me. Known it for years. Grief, there are plenty of people who have the trick. Husbands do it to wives; wives to husbands; nothing new about it.” He paused. a ten-second break for thought. “Do you dislike him?”
“He’s a foxy gentleman. Full of guile. But please, Oaksie, don’t spoil our fun just to get your own back on Mostyn.”
Boysie raised his eyes in supplication. “It’s not a question of getting my own back. This is a serious business. It’s liable to be very dangerous. Bloody dangerous.”
“How dangerous?”
“I can’t go into details but we’re being used. Bloody dangerous, with real blood.”
“I think we should take a vote. I shall ring round the others and ask them to lunch so that you can explain yourself fully. Then we’ll take a vote. Democratic.”
Boysie showered and dressed while Ada telephoned the other two girls.
“They’re on their way,” she announced. “So before they arrive we have a tiny job to do.”
“Job?”
“Terribly simple actually.” There was a pen in her hand, and a card. The card was exactly the same as the one Aida had made him sign.
“Look, what’s going on?”
“Nothing’s going on. It’s just a memento sexualis. If you would sign the card, add the date and keep it safe.”
“Yes. Well.” Boysie took the card and looked at it. A plain card with Ada’s name typed in the corner. Identical to Aida’s card. “I think I should know more. You’re having me on, aren’t you?”
Ada smiled sweetly. “We’re having you, darling. Just a simple bet. You keep the card.” She bent to kiss him. Being a gentleman at heart, Boysie did not pull away. The kiss developed, enlarged into mutual fumblings and gropings, expanded and involved the removal of certain garments, took the form of actions which spoke with a higher volume than whispers.
“For your age you’re quite a virile beast,” muttered Ada at the end.
“I just don’t like being taken for granted.”
Ada rearranged her clothing. “If you’ll sign the card and date it then add the word ‘twice’.” She preened herself in the mirror.
Boysie did her bidding and tucked the card away in his wallet.
For lunch, served by the faithful Fisher, they had some kind of dark soup and a stew of what Boysie took to be veal, carrots and onions. The girls paid him much attention and appeared most excited about the possibility of the coming adventure. Boysie told them all that he dared: that the whole business was fraught with danger and that they would be much safer staying in London.
But they were young, throbbing women. The sniff of possible action passed, up their nostrils and opened imaginations. In the end they flatly refused to strike.
“It’s all very well,” Boysie was like a mother hen. “But I’ll be responsible for you. If we do go I want your solemn promises that you will do exactly what I tell you …”
“Any time,” they chorused.
“You’re shameless.”
“Anything you tell us?” Aida looked up from under the big eyelashes.
“What happens if we disobey?” Alma’s voice full of hope.
“We get bare bottom spankings, darl
ings.” Ada squirming with pleasure at the thought.
“I do wish you would take this seriously,” Boysie sighed.
“Oh, we do.” They plumped their arms on the table and hunched forward in concentration.
They did, in fact, treat the matter more gravely when Boysie suggested that they should take the precaution of being armed.
“Those weapons Ada’s folks have down in the cellar. One each. They’ll fit in your shoulder bags.”
“I’d be terrified carrying a gun around.” Aida sounded as if she meant it, and it took Boysie the best part of ten minutes to convince them that it would be a wise move. In the end they agreed to carry the pistols, unloaded but with a full magazine separately in their shoulder bags.
They spent the rest of the afternoon in the cellar, Boysie attempting to instil the art of weapon handling.
They departed early in the evening and Boysie arrived at the Eaton Place flat a little after eight.
Snowflake Brightwater tapped her foot with the firmness of Buddy Rich, but the beat was augmented with irritation.
“And where have you been all day, Brian Oakes, child of my every waking thought and most of my dreams?”
“Business,” Boysie muttered, surly, sexually spent from the morning’s exertions with Ada, and suffering from a lean, mean streak of guilt. Why? Guilt on behalf of S. Brightwater, the oddball, screwball, elegant knickers-dropping, private and confidential quaint lady? Guilt because he had let the aristocratic, phoney-familied Ada screw him on her bed and had reciprocated and now could not raise the fare for Snowflake? Or guilt because the fear was starting to pressure, beginning to rise to danger point with the needles tripping over into that area marked in red where the black thoughts spun and ripped into one’s gut and consciousness? Boysie realised that he had spent almost an entire day playing around with a trio of woolly-headed little birds who did not know about things like somebody having their head shot off while you just stood there, or people chasing you, and the sheer flimsy nightmare terror of real violence: the true stuff which included a great amount of pain and sweat. It was no time for guilt.
“I’ve been working and I’m bloody tired.” He spat.
She closed the door. He got the impression of her nostrils flared and the arch of her beautiful eyebrows. Che and John Lennon leered from their posters. “Screw you too,” Boysie murmured.
“I tried your flat and the office. Every half-hour on the hour and the half-hour I’ve been calling you.”
“I’ve been practising with my pistol.”
“You gleam, dear heart; you gleam and glint in the eye. Pistol practice?”
“Yes. Bang-bang.”
“I know how it goes.” She poured two glasses of brandy. She poured them quickly, like someone intent on getting the stuff into their stomach fast and going on to something else. There was a sureness about all her actions.
Wasting time, Boysie thought. All day wasting time. If he had to be closely involved in the mechanics of this business then he should not have spent the day with the birds, especially arming them.
“I’ve got a report.” He said it like a boxer squaring up. “Bang-bang.”
“You want to hear it and take it to the Marx Brothers?”
“Sweetest,” Snowflake Brightwater raised her glass and tweaked her skirt so he did not know where to look. He was conscious of randiness sweeping him again like an alcohol rub. Christ, at my age, he thought. Three in a day is not bad. “Shoot.” Snowflake’s finger pointed like a gun. A pistol. The phallic symbol of virility and power. Balls.
“The flight Air Apparent has going with Excelsior on the tenth. On Wednesday.”
“What of it?”
“I have to be on it. We are providing the cabin crew. The three girls and myself.”
She began to laugh. He saw the pink interior of her mouth. The arched eyebrows. He ached for Miss Snowflake Brightwater. Yet in the middle of the ache there was something else. The laugh. His father’s laugh on a good day when they talked of ships and the sea; of the places he had visited, now unrecognisable from the erosion of progress.
“Darling, it’s so funny. You’ll be serving me. Mr Frobisher called. He wants me on that flight. That’s why I’ve been trying to get you all day.”
“That the only reason?”
“Of course not. I wanted …”
“Okay.”
The brandy ignited his larynx and burned a smooth passage downwards. Boysie stood up and walked to her. Her face with the questioning look. Palms moist as he took hold of her, lifting her from the chair and leading towards the bedroom: their progress like a square dance. Honour your partners, he thought. Okay, I’ll honour my partner.
He kicked the bedroom door shut with his heel and began to unbutton her shirt. Took her mouth on his. Slipped the shirt from her shoulders. She wore no bra and Boysie dropped his lips to her right nipple: Now the left. Erect and solid.
Button and zip of her skirt. Kicking his own shoes off and unzipping. Unbuttoning. Dropping. In one movement he peeled her pants off. Then her tights. Back onto the bed. Bare knees between hers forcing her legs open. Mouth to mouth. Going down. Penetrating.
“Boysie, I love rape. Let me know what it’s …”
Three times in a day at his age was not bad until he remembered what someone had once told him about his anxiety spasms. At the edge of danger, in anxiety, he tended towards sensuality. At times like these he was not taking pleasure, giving pleasure, showing affection or love. He was attempting to return to the womb. He was escaping.
Later, much later, back in the Earl’s Court Road flat, Boysie again felt the onset of the doubts, fears, nerves and desire to dig back into the past.
He went to the cupboard and took out the big mahogany box, spread out the second chart and, far into the night, re-enacted the Battle of the Nile.
11
Once you reached the main Otuka road, from the track which led through the forest, it was a straight drive into the capital. On the outskirts was Alaki Barracks: the old colonial barracks. Victorian and solid.
Suffix went through it all again in his mind, the plan on the table. His mercenaries, together with the men they had trained at the camp, would go straight to the barracks. General Bushway would be there with the troops loyal to him. They would drive in on the straight road which passed through Independence and Assembly Squares.
One detachment would move up Queen Elizabeth Street to take the radio and television station. A larger force had to carry on and occupy the House of Assembly and the Government Administration Building. If there was going to be trouble it would happen there. There was plenty of space in the Square of the Assembly and in the walled garden behind the House of Assembly. Detachment to the post office and a handful of men to the Hotel Europa, the city’s largest hotel, which had a vantage overlook from its roof.
Suffix would peel off with Bushway and the best hundred men at the Square of Independence. A cordon round the president’s house. Up the steps and in. That was the second tricky point. If one of the Government Security Corps men got happy with a trigger it might be unpleasant. The thought stimulated Suffix.
When that was completed he would personally lead the force out to the airport and secure things there. The Excelsior flight was due to make its unscheduled stop around ten in the morning. That was one thing he wanted tied up. There should be no problem. Unloading and refuelling, they knew from the previous experience, only took around one and a half hours. The weapons could go straight to the barracks. The aircraft could be airborne by noon. There were two flights in during the afternoon. None after six. Six in the evening was H-Hour for the coup.
He would make the airfield secure and do a tour of all sections and all roadblocks. The whole business should be over by nine. The only thing then would be the reaction of the remaining troops. If they threw in their hand with General Bushway there was no problem. If not? Suffix smiled. By dawn on the twelfth they would all know.
He leaned back, car
elessly drumming his fingers. He thought of Bushway. The big black man. Government on behalf of the people, that was how the General had put it. Military control with labour enforcement leading to a strong economic development, instead of the soft, wheeling dealing diplomacy of President Anthony’s regime.
To Suffix it made sense, even though he knew some would call it fascism.
*
On Monday morning Boysie called at the bank before going into the office. Once at the office he bought one of the flight tickets, paying for it with cash and inserting the name Charles Griffin on the booking list.
He went into his own office, addressed an envelope to Charles Griffin, marked it first class mail, sealed the ticket inside, then again left the building to post the letter.
It was not until that was completed did he do anything about buying Snowflake Brightwater’s ticket with the cheque she had given him on the previous evening. He spent a long time trying to reason things out. If Frobisher, Pesterlicker and Colefax were going to stop the flight they seemed to be going about it in an odd way: getting their prize lady to buy a ticket.
Now, time did not allow him to figure it. Excelsior came through at noon to say they had arranged a one-day course, for Tuesday: so that the girls could become conversant with the aircraft, galley and foods.
At lunchtime Boysie gathered them together and said he was closing the office that evening. They only had three tickets left for the trip. Tomorrow the girls would be on the course. On Wednesday, he told them, they must sleep. The following twenty-four hours were going to be rough. They would meet again at eight o’clock on Wednesday night prior to doing the Victoria Coach Station circus. The flight was scheduled to leave Gatwick at eleven thirty.
*
President Anthony was almost seventy years old. He had seen many changes in Africa. He had also faced death before. He remained placid and unmoved by what the man told him.
The man who spoke was a white man. He was known to President Anthony and trusted by him. The president listened until he had finished.
“This does not surprise me.” President Anthony’s hands were on his lap, resting one across the other. “My own people have had suspicions. Even concrete facts. Are you sure of the timing?”
