Short of Glory

by Alan Judd

  ‘They did, you were telling us about it before,’ said Piet. ‘You were talking about it. You said so.’

  ‘That’s a mean thing,’ said Jim quietly.

  Patrick turned to him. He was serious and angry now. ‘It’s not true. I wouldn’t do that to Joanna.’

  The fat man stretched out and grabbed his collar. Piet said something but the fat man ignored him. His face seemed larger than before and twisted with disproportionate passion. ‘Are you calling me a liar?’

  Patrick stepped back but the man still had hold of him. He looked at the bloated white features. He felt an unassailable disdain. ‘Yes.’

  He did not see the blow, nor feel it precisely. He knew it as a stunning shock inside his head, a flash and a kind of soundless bang. There was a great pain in his nose and he couldn’t see. He bent nearly double and someone hit him on the side of the head. Next he was on the floor with his head in his arms. A kick in the kidneys made him gasp. He lashed out with his legs and was kicked again. He remembered that the thin man had a flick knife. He tried to roll but someone was on top of him. Very soon he was too comprehensively battered to distinguish individual blows.

  He was helped to his feet. His mouth was full and he was coughing. The pain in his nose had expanded to the whole of the middle of his face. His eyes streamed and he couldn’t keep them open. There was talking and shouting. He was led through a press of people and then there was somewhere white, empty and echoing. There were only one or two voices, unnaturally loud. Someone held him by the hair and bent him over. Someone else pulled his hands from his face. There was a gleaming white wash-basin before him, spotted suddenly with blood.

  ‘You bled like a pig,’ said Chatsworth afterwards. It was a gratuitous observation as the blood was all over Patrick’s clothes.

  Chatsworth said it was the fat man who had hit him. Patrick had gone down with Jim though whether Jim was fighting him or trying to protect him was hard to say. Everyone fought everyone else. The thin man hit the girl. Chatsworth was punched on the ear by someone, then he punched the fat man on the side of the head. He noticed no effect beyond hurting his own fist but was not displeased by that. The affray lasted only some twenty or thirty seconds before bouncers and security guards materialised as though from the walls. Piet and the fat man unwisely tried to fight them and were beaten with truncheons. Jim was last seen nursing an injured hand that someone had trodden or stamped on. Everyone had been arrested. Chatsworth had agreed to come quietly, under the circumstances.

  ‘If you’d told me you were going to start a fight I might’ve been able to help you,’ he said.

  They were in a gents’ lavatory watched over by two black guards, both with truncheons. Conversation was permitted. It was evident that they were pacific and that Patrick in particular was incapable of posing any threat to anyone. They were accorded none of the rough treatment they could hear being meted out to others in the corridor.

  ‘Like being on exercise waiting for interrogation,’ continued Chatsworth. ‘Except that we’re not sitting in the snow with our hands tied behind our backs.’

  It was hard to be grateful for this small mercy. The pain in Patrick’s kidneys worsened whenever he breathed deeply or moved. His lips were swollen and still seeped blood. One eye was closed and throbbing and his nose felt as if it might gush again at any moment. He touched it gingerly, trying to determine whether it was broken. He sat against the wall, shifting carefully in vain attempts to avoid pressure on his tender coccyx.

  ‘What gets me is that they were drinking our champagne when it happened,’ said Chatsworth.

  Arthur Whelk came in, one hand in the pocket of his white dinner-jacket and a cigar in the other. He nodded at the guards, who left. He looked angry. ‘Gets the place a bad name, this sort of thing. That’s why we jump on it straight away. Very rarely happens, fortunately. You’re a mess, Patrick. Why d’you pick on that crowd?’

  They explained as best they could. Patrick did not mention his and Jim’s link through Joanna and hoped that Chatsworth would not. Arthur puffed at his cigar, exhaled forcefully and cut them short. ‘Doesn’t really matter who started it or who was drunk and who was sober. What does matter is that the group here has an arrangement with the Lion and his police force. We deal with trouble makers in the first instance, then hand over to them. They lock ’em up and give ’em a hard time to make sure they don’t come back in a hurry. No messing about with trials and courts as there would be in Lower Africa. African justice. Works well.’

  ‘I don’t fancy African justice,’ said Chatsworth.

  ‘Don’t blame you, old boy. Neither would I in your position.’

  ‘What’s going to happen?’ asked Patrick.

  ‘I don’t know. You’re in a spot. Plenty of embarrassment potential, as the Service would have it. Could even be a minor international incident – diplomat imprisoned and all that. Doesn’t matter about Chatsworth because he’s only a British subject; Britain doesn’t recognise Bapuwana and so there’s sod-all anyone’s going to do about it. Bad for business all the same.’

  ‘Thanks a bunch,’ said Chatsworth.

  ‘Don’t thank me. You got yourself into it, you’ll have to get yourself out. Like the rest of us.’

  ‘Except that you’re not in trouble. You’re all right.’

  ‘I’m not all right. Look, either it’s official and there’s a big fuss or they think you’ve been kidnapped and there’s an even bigger fuss. The Lower Africans will get the whole story and they’ll use it in some way to suit themselves. The group don’t like that kind of publicity, which is bad news for me and could cost me my job. Meanwhile, you two will be languishing in African justice.’

  Arthur flushed the stub of his cigar down one of the toilets. There was a tense pause.

  ‘It’s not that I’m trying to be unhelpful,’ continued Arthur. ‘I want everyone to be happy. After all, we’re in the same tribe, more or less.’

  Chatsworth readjusted his tie. ‘If you could make us happy maybe we could make you happy when we get back. You mentioned pension rights and whatever.’

  Arthur’s quick eyes were still whilst he lit another cigar. ‘The way to an ageing civil servant’s heart.’ He relaxed enough to smile very slightly. ‘Patrick?’

  Patrick dabbed at his lips with his handkerchief. He was not up to long sentences. ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘What we need is a deal. The group like trade-offs. More sensible than conflict. Also, the Lion is here tonight. Could be very bad for you unless we make it good.’

  ‘How much?’ asked Chatsworth.

  ‘Not money. If it were it would be a lot more than you could lay your hands on. But there’s something else that might interest them.’ He watched the smoke of his cigar. ‘Hang on here and don’t show your faces outside the door.’

  It was an unnecessary warning. When Arthur returned he was obviously more relaxed. He smoothed his moustache with his thumb and forefinger. ‘It’s fixed, conditional upon a personal appearance by both of you. Before the Lion, you know.’

  ‘Like the Christians?’ asked Chatsworth.

  Arthur laughed. Patrick soaked his handkerchief in cold water and held it against his lips. ‘Will we have to speak?’

  ‘Just apologise. You any good at apologising?’

  ‘I am,’ said Chatsworth. ‘Lot of experience. Plenty of grovel.’

  ‘Grovelling’s what’s needed. I’ll brief you in a moment but first we’ve got to get you looking respectable. Can’t appear before the Lion with blood on your clothes. I’ll fix you some others. Also plaster for you, Patrick. Don’t want blood on the carpet.’

  ‘Wouldn’t the grovel look better if we were bloody and bleeding?’ asked Chatsworth.

  ‘The Lion wouldn’t like it in his suite. Just stick to what I say.’ Whelk paused, his eyes flickering from one to the other. ‘Let’s make sure we understand each other. I get you off, you discuss my pension with the ambassador and he fixes it with the Lower Africans so t
hat it’s okay for me to travel to and fro.’

  They agreed.

  Arthur took their clothes and reappeared a while later with dress-shirts, trousers, bow-ties and dinner-jackets. ‘Bow-ties are clip-on, I’m afraid. Here’s some plaster, Patrick. Can’t do much about the swellings, I s’pose? Pretty ugly. I should stand back a bit, keep in the shadows.’

  Patrick straightened himself with difficulty and looked at his battered face in the mirror. His swollen left eye was blue verging on black and his lips were split and bulging. He looked like an actor whose make-up was so grotesquely and clownishly overdone that he had wept about it ever since. Standing straight and looking in the brightly-lit mirror made him feel dizzy and slightly sick.

  ‘Your face looks lived-in now, more than before,’ said Chatsworth. He put an unnecessary bandage around his fist. ‘Wounded in action. Always impresses.’

  In the corridor they squeezed silently past Jim, Piet, the fat man and the thin man. The four prisoners were propped against the wall on their outstretched arms. They stood on their toes and their heads hung down. Four guards with batons stood behind them. No one moved and no one spoke. Jim was at the end of the line, supporting himself on one hand only. The other he held close to him. His shirt-collar was torn and bloodstained and he breathed noisily. Patrick wanted to speak but there was no time.

  They were led along corridors to a private part of the main hotel, plushly carpeted and quiet. They stopped at a white door. Patrick felt weak and sick. ‘What do we do?’

  ‘What I tell you,’ said Arthur. He pulled nervously at his cuffs and knocked.

  A suite of rooms led to a double bedroom from which sliding windows led on to a balcony which formed part of the hanging gardens. The Lion of Bapuwana was the kind of leader beloved in a continent where starvation was common and age respected. His girth suggested prosperity and years of good living; his face was wrinkled, weathered and dignified. He wore a flowing white robe and had large red, green and gold rings on his fingers. Around his head was a band of red cloth.

  The regal effect was vitiated by the fact that the Lion sat propped up with pillows in the middle of the double bed, his legs splayed. He looked like a giant brown baby. He had a glass of whisky in his plump hand and laughed at something said to him by a big black lady sitting on the far side of the bed. She was swathed in bright green and she rocked backwards and forwards, rippling all over as she talked and laughed. The bed sagged. A slimmer and younger black woman sat upright on a stool, smiling and saying nothing. She had high cheek bones and a calm expression. She shook her head slowly when she smiled, showing perfect teeth. Her large gold earrings swayed a little. She was elegant and beautiful. Patrick’s good eye dwelt on her until he had to move his head.

  Outside on the balcony some men were talking and drinking. Three were white and middle-aged, one a plump and prosperous-looking Indian and the other a handsome young black in a white robe.

  Arthur inclined his head. ‘Your Majesty, these are the two British officials who were set upon by the mob.’ He spoke slowly and carefully and still seemed nervous.

  The Lion nodded and smiled. The group on the veranda got up with a scraping of chairs and came in, glasses in hand. One of the whites whispered something to the Lion who stopped smiling and addressed Patrick in a deep voice, ‘You bring fighting to my country.’

  Arthur half turned towards Patrick. ‘Say you’re sorry,’ he whispered.

  Patrick was still uncertain about sentences. He tried to focus on the Lion but the young black in the white robe was easier to see. He could feel Arthur beside him, tense and impatient.

  ‘Say you’re sorry,’ hissed Arthur.

  Patrick turned his swollen eye away from the Lion. He afterwards suspected that this must have made him look ineptly sly and devious. ‘I am sorry,’ he said, through swollen lips.

  Chatsworth stepped forward. He gazed with passionate devotion upon the Lion. ‘We have great respect for Your Majesty’s beautiful country. We apologise. We did not come to fight.’

  The Lion nodded slowly. He addressed the woman next to him in his own language. The white man tapped him on the shoulder and whispered again. The Lion looked puzzled. One of the other whites spoke in an undertone to the young black, who then sat on the bed next to the Lion. He moved one long hand in elegant circles to the even music of his words.

  The Lion asked a question, nodded and turned to Patrick and Chatsworth. ‘You like my country?’

  ‘It is a wonderful country, Your Majesty. We have always liked it,’ said Chatsworth eagerly.

  Patrick thought he would feel better in a cooler room. Arthur nudged him. Patrick knew what was expected but couldn’t for a moment speak. He nodded.

  ‘Say it!’ hissed Arthur.

  Patrick nodded ponderously, almost bowing.

  The Lion grinned and held out his hand. ‘That is good. I am pleased. Welcome to my country.’

  Arthur led Patrick by the arm so that he shook hands with the Lion. The two women stared at his swollen face and the Indian photographed him with a flash from one side. Chatsworth came forward, his eyes brimming and his head inclined as if exposing his bare neck for the Lion to bite. He kissed the Lion’s hand. The Indian took another photograph. One of the whites muttered something and the others laughed. ‘Your Majesty is most kind, noble, beautiful and good,’ said Chatsworth. The Lion nodded and smiled.

  ‘He liked that last bit,’ Arthur whispered as they stepped back. He was less uneasy.

  ‘What about letting us go?’ whispered Chatsworth.

  ‘Wait.’

  The Lion talked to the young man in white again, then raised his hand. ‘Go now. Please come to my country again.’

  ‘Say thank you,’ whispered Arthur.

  Chatsworth said thank you. The other two turned to go but Patrick did not move. There was something wrong but he was incapable of seeing what. There was also something else, something he had to say. Arthur pulled his arm but he remained facing the Lion. Everyone looked at him. He remembered it was Jim. Yes, it was not Jim’s fault. Jim was all right. Joanna would not like Jim to be hurt. He formed his words very carefully. ‘Your Majesty, please, what will happen to the other people?’

  He could feel Arthur’s hand tighten on his arm. There was a pause until the Lion laughed deeply and generously. ‘Do not worry, there is much justice in my country. They spend long time in prison. They will remember well.’

  ‘Come on,’ said Arthur. ‘Shut up and come on.’

  Patrick stood his ground. It was getting easier now that he knew what to think about. ‘Two of them are policemen. They were trying to stop the fighting. They will leave immediately.’

  The Lion frowned. ‘But that is less justice.’

  Arthur muttered something urgent and inaudible. The other men stared coolly at Patrick. He focused on them rather than the Lion. ‘They are Lower African policemen.’

  The men exchanged a few words. One of them again whispered to the Lion. The Lion looked puzzled and fretful but then nodded. He turned to Patrick. ‘They go in the morning.’

  Patrick bowed as far as his pains permitted. ‘I thank Your Majesty.’

  Arthur turned to him when they got out into the corridor. ‘You cut that fine, Stubbs. Nearly sank the whole damn issue. What’s so special about Rissik and his friend?’

  Patrick limped along behind the others. He felt stronger now. ‘It wasn’t their fault.’

  Arthur was anxious and hurried. ‘I’ll get your clothes and you can hop it fast before the group change their minds. They’re quite capable of it and then you’ll be here for the duration.’

  Patrick’s head was clearing. ‘Why did you describe us both as officials?’

  ‘Well, you are. You’re on official business, aren’t you? Sort of. Chatsworth as well. Sounds better too. Come on, quick.’

  They changed in one of the hotel bedrooms. ‘We’re damn lucky, no thanks to you,’ said Chatsworth. ‘You should’ve kept your mouth shut.’
/>
  ‘Like you?’

  ‘Yes, like me. I’ve had enough of prisons.’

  ‘But Jim and Piet are as innocent as us.’

  ‘That’s their lookout.’

  Patrick sat on the bed trying to put on his shoes without bending.

  ‘New role for you, isn’t it – moralist?’ continued Chatsworth, hurriedly doing up his tie.

  Patrick looked at him but said nothing.

  Arthur saw them to the bakkie. He had once more recovered his humour. ‘Come again, gentlemen both,’ he said cheerfully. ‘Give me notice next time and I’ll see you meet the right sort of company.’

  ‘I will,’ said Chatsworth.

  Patrick did not feel up to driving. Chatsworth readily agreed. They asked about petrol.

  ‘Round the corner here,’ said Arthur. ‘I’ll come with you so you can get it on the house. Trust you’ll both get credit for finding me. Let me know if you need a letter to back it up.’ He laughed. ‘Remember me to Sarah and Deuteronomy – and Sir Wilfrid. He’s a sweet old thing, really. Means well. Forget the rest of them. But don’t forget pension and passport.’ He waved goodbye.

  22

  The holiday, a Jewish festival, was not yet ended when they returned. Battenburg was for once quiet. Patrick drove himself to the residence. He preferred to talk to Sir Wilfrid alone, anticipating difficulty.

  There was none. Sir Wilfrid was delighted that Whelk had been found, saddened but unsurprised by the poor fellow’s involvement in gambling and pleased that LASS had confirmed his suspicions – albeit not in the way he had expected. He looked forward to writing to London about the whole business.

  As for Arthur, there should be no problem about his pension. He had only to submit his resignation in the normal way and it would be accepted. The rather unusual manner in which he had left the Service would be overlooked in the interests of not rocking the boat. His passport and freedom of travel through Battenburg were not really matters for the British authorities; after all, he had his passport, it was his. Whether or not the Lower Africans permitted him to use it for travelling to and fro was up to them. It was unlikely that they would interfere; Arthur had not after all done them any harm and he was clearly not exactly unsympathetic to their own attitudes. This both saddened and surprised Sir Wilfrid. He had liked Arthur. He was jolly glad he had not after all come to a sticky end.