‘Don’t go out without one of these again, sir. If you gets into trouble, some poor bugger like me has to risk his life getting you out again.’
I hadn’t looked at the problem that way. ‘I won’t, Sergeant. I don’t know why I overlooked it this time.’
‘You’re not the first, sir. Hand it back in at your gate; then someone else gets the use of it.’ It was a battered old thing with a sweat-marked grip. I didn’t like the look of the stains around its head, and felt awkward carrying it into the back of the Kettle.
Yassine grimaced when he saw it. ‘You must have joined the British Army, Charlie.’
‘Take the fucking thing away, David, and burn it. I can’t stand the sight of it.’
‘Good, we are still agreeing on some things.’
‘We have business interests in common, and agree on most things. Have you fixed up your business ties to Bozey yet?’
‘Your Mr Borland? Yes. He drives a good bargain.’
‘You mean a hard bargain.’
‘No, I mean a good bargain. The sort that leaves both sides feeling satisfied.’
‘I trust him.’
‘So do I; and we trust each other, despite the politics all around us.’
‘If your boy could oblige with a couple of beers, I shall drink to that, David.’
He did, and we did. Yassine asked me, ‘Are you going out again?’
‘Not tonight. I thought I’d stop in, and watch the floor show . . . I presume that the back door will stay open, and the show will go on?’
‘In the best Hollywood tradition? Of course.’
‘So I shall eat and drink here tonight if that’s OK? And also pay my whack. That would make me feel good – a part of the place.’
‘As you wish, Charlie. Tonight will be a good night to stay in.’ I thought he was talking about the floor show.
He bloody wasn’t.
The riot started at about nine in the evening, and rocked its way around Ismailia for the next few hours. They stayed clear of the main administration areas of the town, and the wealthier suburbs. That was interesting. Yassine and I stood at one of the Kettle’s third-floor windows and watched the houses in the poor Arab quarter burning.
‘I don’t understand,’ I told him. ‘They’re burning the wrong houses.’
‘The poor always do. They riot in their own streets because they feel safer there, and when they lose control they end up burning their own houses. With their enemies – the rich and the foreigners – living all around them, they destroy, instead, what little they have themselves. It happens in poor communities all over the world. It must be a form of madness.’
‘Like a scorpion stinging itself to death if you put it in a ring of fire?’
‘Have you seen that?’
‘Some of the airmen at the base do it when they are bored. It’s cruel and stupid.’
‘The poor are cruel and stupid. It’s all we allow them to be.’
‘There’s a new government since you tossed King Farouk out. Won’t things be any different for them now?’
‘Marginally. But the wealthy will restrict what the government can do of course. The differential must be maintained. When the poor become less poor, the rich will want to become even richer. Within a year the newspapers will be calling for Farouk’s return.’
‘What was he like, this King Farouk?’
‘Fat and greedy, like me.’
‘You’re depressing me, David. Let’s go and have another drink.’
When I went to bed at one I found Mariam there, and because I am weak-willed, I let her stay. But after Jill, her body seemed so spare, so juvenile, that all we did was sleep. Until two hours later when Yassine rushed into my room with two other women, and some Arab clothes over his arm.
‘Get up, Charlie, get up; the English are here. They are searching us . . .’
‘Uh . . . I’ll use the back door.’
‘Too late: they have it covered. Here, put these on.’ He threw me the clothes. ‘Quick, quick.’
The main garment was like a djellaba, but more voluminous, and there was a headdress that went over my head like a sack, leaving only a slit for my eyes. Then he ushered me into a corner, pushed me down, and pushed the three women around me. That included Mariam, who was still naked.
‘You are terrified of the soldiers, understand? All of you . . . terrified,’ he hissed, and made himself scarce. The women murmured. The noise of the search – doors banging, voices raised – drew closer. Then there was the voice of a squaddie loud inside the room.
‘Jackpot, boys – I’ve found the bints!’
I risked a glance. He was a redcap and a private: a big florid fellow. In some places he would have been called a constable. I saw the way he was eyeing Mariam, and found that I was gripping my small pistol under the rags I wore. How had that got there? The women made a great show of whimpering and wailing, and one of them drew her clothes around Mariam’s nakedness. Then there was another voice in the room, and I risked another look. A young corporal.
He looked harassed, and snarled, ‘Trust you, Nesbit. I told you to stay away from the women. Bugger off and search the next room.’
‘Search the women first, sir?’
‘Of course not. You heard me; bugger off.’ Nesbit, bless him, left at the second telling. The corporal had to raise his voice to make himself heard to the women.
‘Don’t be scared; you won’t be harmed. We are looking for terrorists and Europeans. Have you seen any tonight?’ I felt, rather than saw, Mariam vigorously shaking her head. He glanced around; there was nowhere obvious for anyone to hide . . . so he tried a reassuring smile, which came out as
