Like A Hole In The Head

want it.'

     'That's right, Mr. Benson. I have it . . . orders.'

     'I want it,' I repeated.

     'Yeah.' His grin widened. 'Mr. Savanto gives orders too : he said no one comes in; no one goes out. That's his idea of security. You call Mr. Savanto if you don't believe me.' He cocked his head on one side. 'You're doing your job. I'm doing mine. The truck doesn't work either.'

     I thought fast. Savanto could have given this order. We had no reason to leave the range now except to put the bond in the bank. If Savanto considered security so important, he wouldn't want either Lucy or myself to leave the place, and yet this could be Raimundo's way of getting even with me for the way I had bawled him out.

     'I'll talk to your boss,' I said. 'If you're being smart, I'll be back and you'll be sorry.'

     'You do that.' He was very sure of himself. 'You talk to your boss. He'll tell you.'

     He threw a lot of weight on the word your. It wasn't lost on me.

     I walked back to the bungalow. It was a long walk. I didn't hurry. It was now getting too hot to hurry and I had some thinking to do. If what Raimundo had said was true, then I had a problem on my hands. I had in my hair twenty-five thousand dollars that didn't belong to me.

     I reached the bungalow and walked into the sitting-room. I went over to the telephone and lifted the receiver. There was no dialling tone. The telephone was as dead as an amputated leg.

     I sat down in my favourite armchair and lit a cigarette. I sat there for some minutes thinking. No car . . . no telephone . . . fifteen miles from the highway. To say we were cut off was an understatement.

     I wasn't fazed. This kind of situation was something I thrive on. I got to my feet, went into the kitchen and inspected the food that had been delivered. It was quite a selection : at least we wouldn't starve. I went over the dozens of cans of food: all of the best and enough to keep three adults eating well for a couple of months. There was an impressive selection of drink including six bottles of champagne, lots of canned beer, whisky, gin and tomato juice.

     So being cut off from Paradise City wasn't a problem. But what was I going to do with this bond which didn't belong to me?

     I thought about the problem, knowing I was wasting time, but this was important; more than important.

     Finally, I went to our store cupboard and found a small empty biscuit box. I put the envelope containing the bond into the box. Then I found a roll of adhesive tape and taped the lid to the box.

     I left the bungalow by the rear door and crossed over to a row of palm trees that gave the bungalow its only shade. I paused to look around the way I had so often looked around before setting up an ambush in Vietnam. When I was satisfied I was on my own and no one was watching me, I scooped a deep hole in the soft sand under the third palm tree in a row of five and buried the biscuit box against the tree root. I smoothed down the sand. It took me some minutes to get rid of my footprints around the tree. I was finally satisfied.

     I dusted the sand off my hands and looked at my watch. The time was 09.26. Timoteo had been on the range for close on three and a half hours and he hadn't fired a shot.

     I hurried across the sand towards the shooting gallery. I felt under sudden pressure. If I was going to teach this beanpole, I just could not have any further trouble. And even before I made a start to teach him, I had to get him relaxed !

     I reached the gallery. The sand deadened my footfalls. I heard Lucy's voice. She sounded animated. I slowed, then stopped in the shadow of the lean-to and I listened.

     'I was like you before I met Jay,' she was saying. 'You may not believe it but I was. I'm pretty bad now, but I am better. Before I met Jay I was so mixed up, just looking in a mirror made me jump. I guess it was my father . . .' A long pause, then she went on, 'They say most kids when they are in a mess blame their parents. What do you think?'

     I rubbed the sweat off my face and edged closer. This was something I wanted to hear.

     'It's as good an excuse as any.' I scarcely recognised Timoteo's voice. He too sounded animated. 'We are all looking for excuses. Maybe our parents are to blame, but we're to blame too. It is a comfort to us to say if our parents had only been different. There are special cases of course, but I think we just have to help ourselves.'

     'You're lucky to be able to think like that,' Lucy said. 'I know my father was a lot to blame.'

     'For what?'

     'For why I am a mess. You see, he wanted a boy. He was set on it. When he got me, he just refused to accept me as a girl and I couldn't have been more girl. He always made me wear trousers. He always expected me to do the things boys do. Finally, he realised it was hopeless, then he dropped me . . . ignored me. All the time I was struggling to get some love from him. To me love is important.' A long pause, then she asked, 'Don't you think so?'

     'I wouldn't know.' Timoteo's voice was suddenly flat. 'I've been brought up in a different way. Didn't your mother give you love?'

     'She died when I was born. How about your mother?'

     'Women don't count in the Brotherhood. I scarcely ever saw her.'

     'Brotherhood? What's that?'

     'A way of life . . . something we don't talk about.' Again there was a long pause, then he said, 'You said you're in a mess. Why do you say that? I don't think so.'

     'I'm in less of a mess than I was, but I'm still messy. I have no confidence in myself. I feel inadequate. I scare easily. I almost die if there's a thunderstorm. I was much worse before I met Jay. You mustn't think because he shouts and scowls he isn't kind and understanding. He is . . . anyway, you'll find out. I don't know why I'm talking