too loud and joking too much. Jeez wondered if, for variety, they'd come on their toes to the door of his cell to listen to the chaplain.
'You know, Carew, many of the Blacks that go, they thank me just before. They thank me because they say they have found repentance, they say they are at peace with God.
They say I have guided them to God… '
Jeez said, 'I reckon you enjoy working here.'
'You're a hard man, Carew, without contrition.'
'My life's going to end the hard way, sir.'
The chaplain smiled, avuncular. 'I'll be with you when you go.'
'Wouldn't miss it, would you, sir?'
'To offer you comfort.'
'Do you go and have your breakfast afterwards?'
'I don't get provoked that easily, Carew.'
'We've not much to talk about, sir.'
Jeez thought the chaplain loathed him. In the eyes of the man there was a watery gleam, as though the chaplain thought this man would crack at the last, cry for help. He thought the chaplain wanted nothing more in life than to walk the corridors of Beverly Hills with young Blacks on their way to their Maker with mission hymns in their throats.
'Do you want me to ask the surgeon to give you a sedative?'
'What for?'
'We sometimes give a White a sedative.'
'I want nothing from you, sir.'
'Others, they ask for a drink, a big whisky or a brandy.'
'I want nothing, sir.'
'Carew, the Blacks sing for each other, you know that.
When you go then you will have the men with you, those that were arrested with you, and they will be singing the penny rhymes of the African National Congress. I cannot believe you want that. I could get in a church choir to sing for you. It has been done before.'
'Why should I want that?'
'Damn you, to give you comfort, man.'
Jeez thought the man might have been organising a confirmation service. And did he want some flowers, and did he want his hair cut, and did he want a clean shirt? And if he said that he wanted a choir then they could settle down for a cosy chat to decide what the choir should sing, and then whether the choice would be suitable for bass voices as they might be a bit short on contralto and soprano.
'I'm not dragging anyone else in here. I'm not dirtying anyone else's day.'
The chaplain sighed.
'You can always send for me. I am always available.'
The Chaplain rapped on the closed door of the cell.
'Thank you, sir.'
The door clattered shut on the chaplain's back. Jeez lay on his bed. He was dry eyed. For ten years in Spac he had believed, known, that the team was working for him. And after ten years in Spac there had been the feting and the restaurant meals and the debriefs for the Balkan desk and the weekends down at Colonel Basil's home. He had to believe in the team, or his cheeks would have been wetted.
Facing another shortening day.
•**
Jack talked softly.
Ros drove well. She kept her attention on the road, but she listened.
In the back, curled round the metal tubes, Jan was quiet.
'… Right through the time when I was a kid my father was held up to me as being just about the most rotten man that ever lived. Had to be rotten because he walked out on his wife and son, left them for dead with an impersonal financial arrangement to make sure they didn't starve. But I found out why he'd gone missing, and who was responsible for him, and how he'd been ditched, but that was only confirmation material for me. I'd have come here anyway, whatever he'd done when he left my mother. I have to see him and talk to him and bring him through, nothing else seems important. He's the fall guy, he's the expendable legman… You know what I want to do? More than anything else I just want to walk him through Whitehall, that's where all our government sits on its backsides, and I want to walk him into the fat cats' rooms, and I want to say that I did what none of them had the guts to do. And after that I'm not going to give a shit about their security and their Official Secrets Act. I'm going to blow it all open. I don't care who the bloody casualties are, and I don't care if I'm one of them. There are people in London who are going to pay a bloody great price for what's happened. They'll have to kill me to keep me quiet.
'You know, since I started out on this I've never even thought that it might not work. Right, there are times when I don't know what the next stage is, how we're going to crack the next barricade, but it's going to happen. When I went up to Pretoria, then it looked impossible, like everyone had told me it would be. After I'd seen Local and Defence H.Q. I could have packed it in, gone off for the airport. I sorted myself out. Doesn't matter how difficult it is, it has to be done. I mean, there isn't any way out of it, not for me.
My father's going to hang, that's the beginning and the middle and the end of it, and something has to be done…'
'Even if it is, actually, impossible?' Her gaze was straight ahead.
'Has to be tried, because he's my father.'
Jan shouted. 'Roadblock.'
Jack hadn't seen it, nor Ros.
They were on the N I, a little past the turn off for Rand jies-fontein.
There were two police vans, primrose yellow, drawn across the road. There was a short queue of cars. Ros was going down through her gears. Jack winced. Only he knew of the explosives in his suitcase. Hadn't told Jan, nor his sister, that he had squirrelled away fifteen pounds of explosives. And the prison plans… The pain was immediate, and then gone. None of the cars was being searched. They were the seventh car in the line. A police sergeant came towards them, stopping by each driver. He wondered how Ros would be, couldn't tell. No-one spoke in the car as the sergeant approached. Beyond the vans was parked a high armoured personnel carrier, off the road. Jack saw policemen standing and sitting in the open top, displaying automatic shot guns and F.N. rifles.
'We're running escorted convoys down the next ten kilometres, Miss.'
'What's happened?' Ros asked, small voice.
'A gang of Blacks stoned a car, a kilometre down. White woman, elderly. Car went off the road. The bastards got to her, dragged her out. They had rocks and knives, Miss.
They set light to her, she was an old lady. We've a big search op in there, but it's a wilderness. Supposed to be a helicopter coming. She wouldn't have had a chance.'
Jack saw the pallor on Ros's face.
There was a klaxon blast from the A.P.C. and exhaust fumes fanned from its tail. More cars were behind them, the sergeant had moved on. The A.P.C. set off down the road, they followed in a twenty mile an hour crawl.
Ros didn't speak. Jack didn't have to scratch his mind to remember the crowd coming down the shabby street in Soweto, and the din of the stones on the coachwork and the rocking of the vehicle and the screaming of the woman from Washington state. Not hard to imagine the last moments in an elderly woman's life as the stones started to fly and the windows were caving in, and the mob was materialising out of the long grass that flanked the road. Not hard to see the fingers ripping at the doors of a crashed car, and the fists raised and the clawing nails and the knives and the sharp edged rocks. He shuddered. He prayed that she had been unconscious when they had poured the petrol on her, thrown the match. They passed the burned car. There were skid marks on the tarmac, then the wheel tracks through the grass and then the blackened surround where the earth had been scorched near the car and under the body of the woman.
Ros retched. Jack looked away. Jan was breathing hard.
She snarled, 'Great bloody day for the freedom fighters.'
