Short of Glory (45 page)

The large central area was on at least three levels connected by lifts of darkened glass, the corners edged by beads of light. In the centre was a mass of gambling machines, illegal in Lower
Africa. They stood in rows being played by scores of people. In a glittering ring around the central area were casinos, bars, restaurants, cinemas and strip clubs.

They made their way to two armchairs not far from the reception desk, intending to sit until their eyes were fully acclimatised. Patrick felt for the arm of the chair and lowered himself into
it. There was a powerful squirming convulsion beneath him. He leapt from the chair as a small black boy clambered over the arm and scampered off into the gloom.

Chatsworth slapped his thighs repeatedly as he laughed. ‘All I could see was the whites of his eyes, then he was off like a rabbit. You shot up as if you’d got a snake up your
arse.’

‘I thought I had.’

‘I like this place already. We’re going to have fun here.’

They took a lift to a veranda bar where the daylight was dazzling. After a beer each they descended a flight of stairs to a restaurant overlooking the valley. It was too late for lunch and too
early for dinner, but they were hungry. They were served by a pretty black waitress whose name-tag announced her as Gift.

Patrick looked for anyone resembling a British diplomat in disguise.

‘He’s short, isn’t he?’ asked Chatsworth.

‘And dark.’

‘Had a moustache.’

‘Yes, but he might have shaved it off before he went missing. No one can remember. You know how unobservant people – we – are.’

‘What d’you think he’s doing here – running a brothel?’

‘Or playing golf.’

‘Could do both. Lot of people do. Does he play golf?’

‘No idea. There weren’t any clubs amongst his things.’

A couple of tables away were three whites. One was a fat, dirty-looking girl with blotched skin and lank brown hair. The two others were men, one obese. His belly bulged over his belt. He had
dark curly hair and bloated, brutal features. Twice he sent back his steak, bullying the frightened and silent Gift. The other man was thin and pock-marked and had a crushed bitter expression that
became cruel when he smiled. He offered a flick-knife when the fat man was having trouble with his steak.

‘D’you think they’re British?’ asked Patrick.

‘Yes.’

‘Why?’

‘Because the British are ugly.’

‘But
are
they British? They look more than ugly.’

Chatsworth walked over to the balcony and stood near their table looking out. ‘Lower African working class,’ he reported when he came back. ‘Poor whites. Backbone of the
system. I suppose I ought to approve but it’s hard to love faces like that. The blacks are more pleasing to the eye.’

Gift took their orders with her thighs pressed against their table. Patrick asked her what the three had said to her. She smiled and looked embarrassed. ‘They don’t like the meat.
They want it blue but there is no blue meat. I don’t know why they must eat blue meat.’

‘I want to eat black meat,’ said Chatsworth. ‘You.’

She giggled and put one hand to her face. ‘Then you would be sick.’

‘Why?’

‘I am not cooked.’

Chatsworth put his arm round her waist. The group at the next table stared. ‘I will make you very warm.’

She laughed again but did not move away. ‘Please, I must be working now. Will you have a bottle of whisky?’

Chatsworth smiled. ‘We haven’t eaten yet. We’ll have wine with our meal.’

‘But if you have a bottle of whisky it is more money for me.’

‘If I buy a bottle of whisky may I eat you?’

‘Maybe, if you like.’

The three whites still stared. ‘Don’t let me cramp your style,’ said Patrick when Gift had gone.

Chatsworth looked wistfully after her. ‘Would be nice, wouldn’t it? It’s certainly there. I’d have to borrow the money from you, though.’

After their meal they walked outside, past the pool and on to the golf-course. There was no proper twilight in Lower Africa and the dark was closing in fast. ‘Might as well walk round with
illuminated placards saying, “British diplomats report here”,’ Chatsworth gloomily observed. Patrick asked if a Mr Whelk were booked in at the hotel but was told there was no one
of that name staying. They considered putting a call over the public address system but decided to leave it as a last resort in case it frightened him off.

Chatsworth made enquiries in the restaurant for Gift but she too was not to be found. ‘Someone’s got her already, I bet.’

‘She might be off-duty.’

‘That’s probably what they call it here.’

They took a lift to what was called a floating bar. It was firmly fixed, windowless and charged for entrance. A white pianist sat at a white piano and sang badly. The barman did not know how to
make Chatsworth a Pimms. Chatsworth then ordered Irish coffee but after a long search the barman announced there was no cream.

Chatsworth turned to Patrick. ‘Are you on expenses?’

Patrick had not thought about that. ‘I could be. I suppose I’m on duty, though no one’s supposed to know that. Perhaps I can claim it from my entertainment
allowance.’

Chatsworth ordered a large whisky.

They went next to an indoor balcony which looked down on the people swarming round the gambling machines. One of the many security guards, a young and diffident black, tried to move them on:
non-residents were not allowed on the balcony.

‘What makes you think we’re not residents?’ asked Chatsworth.

The guard smiled in embarrassment. ‘If you are not you must go, please.’

‘We’ll come to that in a minute. Why d’you think we’re not?’

Patrick was embarrassed for the guard. ‘Come on, let’s go.’

‘Not until I know why he assumes we’re not guests.’

The guard repeated that non-residents must go, Chatsworth repeated his argument and asked why he was thought to be one. Both men smiled whilst they spoke. The guard looked nervously over his
shoulder. Chatsworth several times assured him, with a smile, that he really did not want to make trouble and the guard, also with a smile, several times nodded his agreement and said, ‘I
know, I know, sir.’

Patrick recalled his own brushes with authority when with Sarah. It was different with Chatsworth; nothing ever seemed entirely serious. Nevertheless, he did not want the guard to be
embarrassed. ‘Let’s go,’ he said.

Chatsworth held out his hand to the guard. ‘We are friends.’

The guard shook it. ‘I am pleased. My name is Gladstone.’

Chatsworth introduced Patrick, who also shook his hand. ‘We are not awkward,’ continued Chatsworth. ‘Just interested.’

Gladstone apologised again, and so did Chatsworth. Gladstone said his white boss had told him to keep nonresidents away from the balcony. It was a rule. He did not know why. Chatsworth said he
understood. Throughout his life he had been troubled by rules and bosses. It was the same for Gladstone. Chatsworth said that he and Patrick were from the British embassy in Battenburg. Gladstone
shook hands with both again. Chatsworth asked how Lower Africans treated black people in Sin City, there being no race laws.

‘It depends,’ said Gladstone cheerfully. ‘English white people have more patience with black people because they live with them in other parts of Africa. Lower African people
are not patient; they do not like black people.’

He lived with his sister in a nearby village. Nearly everyone in the villages now worked in Sin City. He wanted to save money to go to boarding school so that he could become a scientist. He was
sixteen. Many people from Bapuwana made much money from Sin City but only the bosses and relatives of the Lion were paid well. If he did not become a scientist he would become a lawyer.

Chatsworth asked which was the best casino to visit.

‘Raffles,’ said Gladstone, promptly.

‘Which has the most gamblers?’ asked Patrick, remembering what Jim had said of Arthur’s tastes.

‘Raffles. It is very expensive but I have some tickets for you which are very cheap.’ He produced a fistful of tickets from his pocket. They could have them at half price. He was
always pleased to meet Englishmen. When more people came up the stairs towards the balcony he glanced uneasily over his shoulder. ‘I must go. People are coming. I am pleased to meet
you.’

They bought two tickets. Gladstone and Chatsworth shook hands but after the first grip they angled their hands upwards and gripped each other round the base of the thumb. Patrick did the same,
thinking it must be a convention on parting, and Gladstone left them with a broad grin.

‘What did that mean?’ asked Patrick.

‘Freedom handshake. It’s the one the terrorists use.’

‘Where did you learn it?’

‘In prison.’

‘Surprising thing for you to do, wasn’t it?’

Chatsworth shrugged. ‘He was a nice bloke.’

The man on the door did not want to see their tickets. There was no entrance fee to the casino. ‘Not just a nice bloke,’ said Patrick.

He had never seen a casino before. The murmur of voices and the click of roulette balls contributed to an undercurrent of tension which made the place seem exciting. ‘D’you
gamble?’ he asked.

‘Used to but I got bored. It’s like sex: initially interesting but after a while you need something else, you need conflict. I ceased to care whether I won or lost.’

‘That doesn’t sound like you.’

‘It wasn’t my money.’

It was mostly roulette and blackjack. Patrick knew no more how to play than to knit but Chatsworth spoke with authority. Patrick listened but was more impressed by the atmosphere, the ritual
murmur of the croupiers and the beguilingly unfamiliar jargon. Most of the croupiers were women whom Chatsworth said were recruited or trained in London. An unwise management made them wear black
one-piece swim-suits to which bits of white fluff were stuck like rabbits’ tails. They were supervised by slick and bored-looking men who walked from table to table with their hands behind
their backs, intervening whenever misunderstanding threatened.

The liveliest table featured a big noisy woman in her forties, who was gambling heavily. She had dyed red hair and her neck and wrists were festooned with gold. Her ample body was squeezed into
a white shoulderless dress and the freckled skin of her arms and shoulders was burnt a dirty brown. She kept up a constant backchat with the male croupier who flattered her and took her money.
Behind her stood her escort, a dull-eyed, stupid-looking man. His shiny black shirt was undone almost to his waist, revealing a heavy gold pendant that reached below his chest to his belly.

‘White trash,’ said Chatsworth. ‘Let’s have a drink.’

They were served by a blowzy big-breasted blonde. The natural bad temper of her features was emphasised by heavy make-up. ‘Slack Alice’, Patrick christened her. They drank and stood
looking at the other customers. None were black although there were one or two wealthy-looking Indians.

‘I think we should go,’ said Patrick. ‘It’s a waste of time. We wouldn’t recognise him anyway.’

‘It’s not wasting time if you’re enjoying it.’

‘I’m not. It’s boring.’

‘That’s your fault.’ Chatsworth smiled at Slack Alice, who ignored him.

A short man in a white dinner-jacket approached them. One of the croupiers stopped him and asked something. He nodded authoritatively. Slack Alice made herself less slack. The man walked slowly
but his eyes moved quickly, never resting anywhere. ‘Are you two from the embassy?’

They introduced themselves. He held out his hand with a quick grin. ‘Whelk, Arthur.’

‘Told you,’ said Chatsworth.

A
rthur Whelk had crinkly black hair and a tanned, lined face. He still had his neat moustache. His manner was crisp. ‘Sent you to find me,
have they? Thought they’d hear where I was some time. Doesn’t matter. I’m safe enough as long as I keep in with the people who run the place.’ He turned to Patrick.
‘You’re the one living in my house? Sorry about the sudden removals. Had to be done like that. Trust they took nothing of yours?’

‘D’you work here?’ Chatsworth interrupted.

Arthur Whelk smiled. ‘I run ’em. The casinos, that is.’ His eyes quickly surveyed the bar and two or three gaming tables. ‘I think we all need more drink, don’t
you?’ A table was found and a bottle of champagne produced. Arthur lit a cigar with a gold lighter. ‘Daphne coping with the visas in my absence? I was sure she would. She’d cope
with the whole bloody embassy if they let her. Clifford still faffing around?’ Patrick told him about McGrain. Arthur laughed briefly. ‘Poor old sod. I’ll tell you where he fits
in. Tell me first about Sarah, Deuteronomy and Snap.’

Finding Arthur was neither surprising nor momentous. Once it had happened it seemed normal. Patrick tried hard to see something remarkable or different in him but he was merely plausible, like a
competent salesman, easy on the ear and eye. He was entertaining too, even jovial in a foxy sort of way. He sat back and crossed his legs and waved his cigar as he spoke. The champagne bottle was
emptied rather quickly and another produced. Chatsworth was enjoying himself, as would Patrick had he been better able to concentrate. Champagne made him heady. He didn’t particularly like it
but it slipped down easily.

‘I’ll keep it simple,’ Arthur said after various preliminaries. ‘No harm in people knowing now. In fact, it may help. I was involved in a bit of playing – gambling
– myself when I was in Battenburg. You may know that. Strictly illegal, of course, but lots of people do it and it supplemented the allowances, paid for the booze and so on. The main thing
was, it added a bit of spark to life. Living death in the embassy, don’t you think? Old women of both sexes fussing around, worrying about what the whole world thinks when in fact no one
gives a damn. Frankly, I decided some time ago I was through with the Service. It gets harder to take seriously as you get older. I admit it’s been good to me one way or another but
I’ve done it a few favours too – not always appreciated, mark you. Also, all that’s left for me is another London posting or maybe a European one. Don’t want either.
Africa’s the place for me. A man can still breathe here.’