Darkening Island

For a moment I thought my shot had had no effect. Then the engine of the machine accelerated abruptly and it lifted away. Its tail spun round, stopped, then spun again. The helicopter continued to climb, but it was moving to one side, away from us. The engine was screaming. I saw the helicopter check its sideways motion, but then it flipped again. It skidded down over the burnt-out house, disappeared from sight. Two seconds later there was a loud crash.

“You cunt, you stupid bastard,” Olderton said again. “The others will be back to find out what happened.”

I said nothing. We waited.

During the period in which Isobel left us, Sally and I were in a state of continual fear and disorientation. I think it was because this was the first manifestation in personal terms of the real crisis: the breakdown of all aspects of life we had known before the start of the fighting. I knew Sally would not see it in this way; like all children her grief stemmed mainly from personal considerations.

Isobel’s absence induced in me some unexpected reactions. In the first place, I experienced quite distinct pangs of sexual jealousy. In the time we had been married, I knew that Isobel had had both the opportunity and the motivation to take a lover. Yet at no time had I suspected her of doing so. With the present uncertainty, however, I found my thoughts turning to her often.

Secondly, for all the conflict we had endured, I found I missed her company, negative though I had often felt it to be.

Both Isobel and I had been aware of the future, of what would have happened to us when Sally grew up and left us. In practice, our marriage would have ended at that time, though in fact it had never started.

Alone with Sally in the countryside it felt as if the predictable course of our life had ended abruptly, that from this point nothing more could be planned, that life had ended, that the future was the past.

An hour passed, during which Lateef and the others joined us. The night was quiet, with only the faint flicker of light from the wood to show that for a few minutes the war had been conducted around us.

I found myself in an ambivalent position. Though I detected an aura of grudging respect over the shooting down of the helicopter, Lateef and one or two others stated unequivocally that it had been an unintelligent action. Fear of reprisals was always great, and had the other gunships learned of my action at the time, it was likely that they would have attacked the village.

Now that the moment of action, and the subsequent period of greatest danger, had passed, I was able to think objectively about what I had done.

In the first place, I was convinced that the pilots of the gunships had been either Afrims or their sympathizers. And while it was generally conceded that, regardless of racial or nationalistic prejudices, participating Afrims were the one common enemy, in my particular case the firing of the rifle had represented to me a gesture of my individual reaction to the abduction of the women. In this I still felt I differed from the other men, though it was arguable that as I possessed the only rifle I was the only one placed to make such a gesture. In any event, I had derived a curious pleasure from the incident, as it had signalled my first positive participation in the war. From here I had committed myself.

There was some discussion over our next move. I was tired and would have been pleased to get some sleep. But the others were debating whether to visit the wrecked helicopter or to trek across to the wood and examine whatever it was that had been attacked by the Afrims.

I said: “I’m against either. Let’s get some sleep, then move before dawn.”

“No, we can’t risk sleeping here,” said Lateef. “It’s too dangerous. We’ve got to move, but we need barter for food. We’ll have to take what we can from the helicopter, then get as far away as possible.”

It was suggested by a man called Collins that there might be more of value in the wood, and several of the men agreed with him. Anything that was considered a worthy target by the military forces represented to us a potential source of exchangeable commodities. In the end it was agreed that we would break with our normal policy, and separate. Lateef, myself and two others would approach the wrecked helicopter; Collins and Olderton would take the rest of the men over to the wood. Whichever group finished first was to join the other.

We returned to the camp at the other end of the village, repacked our gear, and separated as planned.

The helicopter had crashed in a field behind the burnt-out house. There had been no explosion when it hit the ground, nor had it caught fire. In that respect at least it would be safe to approach it. The condition of whatever crew there had been aboard was the main hazard. If they had been killed in the crash, from our point of view all would be well. On the other hand, if any of them were still alive we could be in an extremely precarious position.

We said nothing as we moved towards it. When we reached the edge of the field we could see the shape of the wreck, like a huge smashed insect. There appeared to be no movement, but we watched for several minutes in case.

Then Lateef muttered: “Come on,” and we crept forward. I had my rifle ready, but still doubted privately whether I would have the guts to fire it again. Lateef’s use of me as an armed assistant reminded me uncomfortably of the incident at the barricade.

The last thirty or forty yards we moved on our stomachs, crawling forward slowly, prepared for anything. As we neared the wreck we realized that if anybody were still inside he would not be in a condition-to present a threat to us. The main structure had collapsed and one of the vanes had bitten into the cockpit.

We reached the wreck unchallenged, and stood up.

We walked round it cautiously, trying to see if there were anything that we could liberate from the wreckage. It was difficult to tell in the dark.

I said to Lateef: “There’s nothing here for us. If it were daylight —”

As soon as I spoke we heard a movement inside and we backed away at once, crouching warily in the grass. A man’s voice came from inside, speaking breathlessly and haltingly.

“What’s he saying?” one of the other men said.

We listened again, but could not understand. Then I recognized the language as Swahili — though I had no knowledge of the language, the sound of it was familiar to me as most radio broadcasts that I had heard in the last few months had been duplicated in Swahili. It is an indistinct language, not easy on European ears.

None of us needed to speak the language to know instinctively what the man was saying. He was trapped and in pain.

Lateef took out his torch and shone it on the wreckage, keeping the beam low in an attempt to prevent from seeing it anyone else who may be in the vicinity.

For a moment we were unable to make out coherent shapes, though on one patch of relatively undamaged metal we made out an instruction printed in the Cyrillic alphabet. We moved in closer and Lateef shone the torch inside. After a moment we saw a Negro lying in the broken metal. His face, which was towards us, was wet with blood. He said something again and Lateef shut off the beam.

“We’ll have to leave it,” he said. “We can’t get inside.”

“But what about the man?” I said.

“I don’t know. There’s not much we can do.”

“Can’t we try to get him out?”

Lateef switched on his torch again and flashed it over the wreck. Where the man was lying was almost totally surrounded by large pieces of broken cockpit and fuselage. It would take heavy lifting-gear to move.

“Not a hope,” said Lateef.

“We can’t just leave him.”

“I’m afraid we’ll have to.” Lateef returned the torch to his pocket. “Come on, we can’t stay here. We’re too exposed.”

I said: “Lateef, we’ve got to do something for that man!”

He turned to me and came and stood very close.

“Listen, Whitman,” he said. “You can see there’s nothing we can do. If you don’t like blood, you shouldn’t have shot the fucking thing down. O.K.?”

To foreshorten the exchange, as I did not like the new tone in his voice, I said: “O.K.”

“You’ve got the rifle,” he went on. “Use it, if that’s what you want.”

He and the other two men started back across the field in the direction of the houses.

“I’ll catch you up,” I said. “I’m going to see what I can do.”

No one replied.

It took only a matter of seconds to establish that what Lateef had said was substantially true. There was no way of freeing the Afrim. Inside, his voice kept lifting and dropping, interrupted by sudden intakes of breath. If I’d had a torch I would have been tempted to shine it inside and look again at him. As it was, I was relieved not to be in the position to do so. Instead, I ran the barrel of the rifle into the space, and aimed it in the approximate direction the man’s face had been.

And paused.

I had no wish to shoot him, any emotion in me having been expended by the act of shooting at the helicopter in the first place. The fact that I was confronted with an Afrim — and that it was barely conceivable that this man may be connected indirectly with those men who had abducted Sally and Isobel — was irrelevant. Practical considerations, such as that I might attract the attention of other troops in the area with the sound of the shot, were similarly unconsidered. The fact was that the physical act of pulling the trigger and killing the man was too positive an act … one in which my commitment would be affirmed.

And yet the humane instinct in me, which had kept me here originally, argued that to kill the man quickly would be marginally better than to leave him here to die.

A final thought was that I had no way of knowing how badly he may be injured. He would be discovered in the morning, and if still alive then would perhaps have his life saved. If this were a possibility, any arbitrary act I made here would be inappropriate.

I pulled the rifle out, stood up, and stepped back two paces. Then I lifted the barrel and fired two shots into the air.

The voice inside the wreckage stopped.

Within two years of Sally’s birth my relationship with Isobel had virtually disintegrated. We learned to suffer one another; growing to dislike the sound of each other’s voice, the sight of each other’s face, the touch of our backs against each other as we lay in bed. My friend explained that the purpose of the new laws was not to persecute the African immigrants but to protect them. He said that the government took the view that they were essentially at our mercy, and that we should treat them as temporary dependants rather than as unwelcome intruders. The population of the country should not be panicked into unconsidered actions by the sight of one or two aliens who may be armed. As illegal immigrants they could only act outside the law for as long as it took the law to apprehend them. This was the whole purpose of the new Order Act.

I argued that I had heard many stories of persecution, of rape, murder and abduction. There was the well-publicized Gorton torture case, in which ten African women had been systematically degraded, raped, mutilated and finally murdered.

My friend agreed with me and said that this was precisely the kind of atrocity which the new Act was intended to prevent. By restricting the rights and movements of the aliens, they would be afforded a greater degree of official protection provided they themselves submitted to the various regulations. The fact that so far the majority of the Afrims had rejected this protection was only a further indication of their essential alienness.

My friend went on to remind me of John Tregarth’s early political career, when, even as an Independent back-bencher, he had made a name for himself by his commendable policies of patriotism, nationalism and racial purity. It was a measure of his sincerity that he had held to his views even during the temporary phase of neo-liberal xenophilia before the beginning of the emergency. Now he had risen to high office, the nation would see that its far-sightedness in electing his party into government would be rewarded.

I said that I was under the impression that Tregarth had come to power through the sponsorship of various business interests which had undertaken the expense of the campaign.

Again my friend agreed with me, pointing out that it is an expensive business to create an entirely new political party. The fact that they had been defeated at only one general election before taking office was further evidence of their immense popularity.

I argued that it was only through creating a rift in the existing Opposition that Tregarth had acquired any following at all.

We lapsed into silence for a while, knowing that political differences can damage friendship if not discussed amicably. I did not care for the way in which the present situation was affecting my own life. I had thought my days of political participation ended when I finished my studies, but now I was able to see with my own eyes the human effects of political extremism.

My friend reminded me that Tregarth had come to power several months before the Afrim situation began, and that there was no question of racial discrimination in the way the emergency was now being handled. A difficult set of circumstances must be dealt with firmly, and for all the declared humanitarian motives expressed from some quarters, the fact remained that the Afrims were hostile and dangerous aliens and must be treated as such.

I caught up with Lateef and the other two in the village, and we moved on in the direction of the wood. Lateef said nothing about the man inside the helicopter. I had evidently overrated the importance of the incident.

As we came out of the village and joined the main road that ran through the wood, one of the older men who had gone with Collins came up to us excitedly.

“In the wood! Collins says it’s there!”

“What is?” said Lateef.

“He sent me to get you. We’ve found them.”

Lateef pushed past him and walked quickly in the direction of the flames. As I followed, I glanced at my wristwatch, holding up the face to catch what little light I could from the moon. It was barely possible to make out the time: it was half past three. I was getting more tired with every minute and could not see us setting up another camp within the next hour. We had found that it was hazardous to try to sleep during the day, unless we were able to find somewhere well concealed.

As we came to the edge of the wood I found my lungs filling with smoke. The flavour of it was not one I was familiar with and appeared to be a composite of many fires. Overriding it all, though, was the stench of cordite; the flavour of war, the stink of a spent cartridge.

We approached the scene of the ambush. A heavy agricultural lorry had been parked broadside across the road. Twenty yards from it was the wreck of the leading truck of the convoy. It had received at least one direct hit from the rockets of the gunships, and it was scarcely recognizable as having once been a vehicle. Behind it were the wrecks of several more: I counted only seven, though afterwards I heard Lateef say that there had been twelve. How he had access to this information, I do not know. At any rate, there were four trucks still burning. To each side of the road, shrubbery had been ignited by the explosions and the smoke from this joined with that of the vehicles. There was not much wind, and in the region of the trucks the air was virtually unbreathable.

I stood with Lateef. We were trying to discern on which side the trucks had been; in this undeclared civil war, the opposing forces rarely displayed colours and it was unusual to see any kind of vehicle bearing identification-marks. Logically, the trucks had been driven by Nationalist or Loyalist troops, as the helicopters had been shown to be piloted by the Afrims, but there was no way of telling for certain. I thought the trucks looked as if they had been American, but neither of us was sure.

A man came out of the smoke and stood before us. In the orange light from the blaze we could see that it was Collins. He had tied a piece of cloth over his nose and mouth, and was breathing heavily.

“I think it was a Nationalist supplies-convoy, Lat,” he shouted to us.

“Is there anything for us?” Lateef said.

“No food. Not much else. But come and see what we’ve found.”

Lateef took a rag from his pocket and tied it around his face. I followed suit. When we were ready, Collins led us past the remains of the first two trucks and up to the third. This one was not alight.

A rocket had evidently landed directly in front of it, wrecking the driver’s cab, but not setting fire to the main part of it. The truck had then collided with the one in front of it, which had burned earlier but without affecting the other. The truck immediately behind it had been victim of a direct hit and its remains were smouldering. Eight or nine of our men stood around, looking expectantly at Lateef.

Collins gestured towards a crate lying on the ground. “We found that on the truck.”

Lateef knelt before it, reached inside, and pulled out a rifle. He laid it on the ground.

“Are there any more of these?”

“It’s full of them.”

Just then, a truck about fifty yards away from us exploded, and we all crouched defensively. I was holding my own rifle and instinctively I backed away towards the nearest trees. I watched Lateef.

He looked round. I heard him say: “Is there any ammunition?”

“Yes.”

“Get it off quickly. As much as we can carry. Kelk!” One of the men ran forward. “Get a handcart. Empty everything off it. We’ll carry the rifles on that.”

I stepped back into the trees, suddenly an observer.

It occurred to me that if the ammunition truck were to explode, then all of the men around it would probably be killed. I noticed how much of the grass and shrubbery around the truck was blackened with heat, and how sparks from other trucks drifted near by. I wondered if there was much diesel-oil on the truck, or if there were any unexploded rocket-shells in the vicinity. It was possible that rifles and the ammunition for them were not the only explosives on the truck, and that some of it might explode simply by being manhandled. Though my fears were based on logical grounds, there was an element of irrationality too … a feeling, superstitious perhaps, that if I moved to assist the others I would somehow provoke disaster.

I stood amongst the trees, the rifle redundant in my hand.

Once, Lateef left the others and stood with his back to the truck, staring towards me in the trees. He called my name.

I waited until the loading was finished to Lateef’s satisfaction. Then as they pushed the handcart away, I followed at a discreet distance until a camp-site was selected at a distance of about half a mile from the ambushed convoy. I made an excuse to Lateef that I had thought I saw a figure lurking in the woods, and had investigated. Lateef was displeased, and to appease him I offered to stand first guard on the liberated weapons. Another man, Pardoe, was told to share the watch with me, which lasted for two hours.

In the morning each man was issued with a rifle and ammunition. The remainder was stowed on the handcart.

In the weeks following, Sally and I were on our own. For some time we continued to live in our tent, but were fortunate finally in finding a farm where we were allowed to live in one of the labourers’ cottages. The couple who lived in the farm itself were elderly and took little interest in us. We paid no rent, and in return for assisting with work around the property we were given food.

In this period we had a semblance of security, though we were never allowed to forget the growing military activity in the countryside.

The area was under the control of the Nationalist forces and the farm itself was considered to be strategic. Men from the army came in occasionally to help with the work, and an antiaircraft battery was built in one of the outer fields, though it was never, to my knowledge, used.

At first, I had an overwhelming interest in the progress of the civil war but soon learned to curb this. I spoke only once with the farmer about the politicial situation and learned that he was either unwilling or unable to discuss it. He told me that he had once had a television and radio, but that they had been removed by the army. His telephone did not work. His only access to information about the outside world was through the army tabloid that was distributed free to all civilians. His occasional meetings with other farmers were uninformative, since they were all in a similar position.

I spoke several times with the men from the army who worked on the farm. Here, too, I was not able to learn much. They had evidently been ordered not to speak with civilians about the progress of the war, and though this was not strictly adhered to it was plain that the major part of their knowledge consisted of the propaganda put out by their superiors.

One night, in early October, the farm was the target of a raid by enemy forces. At the first pass of the reconnaissance plane, I took Sally to the best available cover — a disused pigsty, which had the advantage of being constructed with stout brick walls — and we laid there until the attack was over.

Our cottage was not damaged, but the farmer’s house had been destroyed. The couple were missing.

In the morning the commander of the Nationalist troops visited the farm and took away what remained of the equipment that had been dumped there. The antiaircraft battery was abandoned.

For no better reason than an unwillingness to uproot ourselves, Sally and I remained in the cottage. Though we felt we were in a precarious situation, the prospect of living once more under canvas was not attractive. Later in the day, the farm was occupied by a detachment of integrated Afrim and Secessionist soldiers, and we were questioned closely by the African lieutenant in charge.

We observed the soldiers with great interest, as the sight of white men actually fighting alongside the Africans was new to us.

There were forty men in all. Of these, about fifteen were white. Both officers were Africans, but one of the N.C.O.s was white. The discipline appeared to be good, and we were treated well. We were allowed to stay temporarily in the cottage.

During the next day the farm was visited by a high-ranking Secessionist officer. As soon as I saw him I recognized him from the photographs which had been published regularly in the Nationalist tabloid. His name was Lionel Coulsden, and before the war he had been a prominent campaigner for civil rights. During the period of Afrim infiltration of private property in the towns, he had renewed the commission he held earlier in the army and at the outbreak of overt military hostilities had been one of the leaders of the secession to the African cause. He was now a colonel in the rebel army, and was currently under sentence of death.

He spoke personally to Sally and me, and explained that we would have to leave. A Nationalist counter-attack was anticipated shortly and our lives would be in danger. He offered me an immediate commission into the Secessionist forces, but I turned it down, explaining that I had to consider Sally.

Before we left, he handed me a sheet of paper which explained in simple language the long-term aims of the Secessionist cause.

These were a restoration of law and order; an immediate amnesty for all Nationalist participants; a return to the parliamentary monarchy that had existed before the civil war; the restitution of the judiciary; an emergency housing-programme for displaced civilians; and full British citizenship for all contemporary African immigrants.

We were transported by lorry to a village eight miles from the farm. This, we were told, was in liberated territory. We noticed that there was a small Afrim army-camp situated near by, and we approached them for assistance in finding somewhere to stay temporarily. We were not greeted with the affability displayed by the Secessionist colonel, and were threatened with imprisonment. We left at once.

The village was a singularly unfriendly place and we experienced distrust and hostility from the few people we encountered. That night we slept under canvas in a field on the side of a hill three miles to the west of the village. I heard Sally crying.

A week later we found a house standing in small grounds of its own. It was near a main road, but screened from it by a wood. We approached it warily, but though we were met with some initial caution we were not turned away. The house was occupied by a young married couple, who offered to allow us to shelter with them until we could find alternative accommodation. We stayed for three weeks.

It was the first time I had seen Lateef frightened.

We were all tired after the events of the night and our nerves were stretched accordingly. Lateef, in particular, betrayed the stress he was feeling; unable to decide whether or not we should move on, he prowled to and fro clutching his new rifle, as if by releasing it he would have his authority undermined. The rest of us watched him uneasily, not liking the personality that had been revealed by this latest development.

I was occupied with my own doubts, for I found growing in me a feeling of alarm generated by our acquisition of the weapons. Already I had overheard one remark about forming an effective guerrilla organization against the Afrims. I had heard the phrase “black bastards” used on more occasions recently than at any other time, including the vengeful hours after the women had been abducted.

Lateef was at the focus of my fears, as well as the mood of the rest of the men. Now, as never before, there was a sense that our actions would be determined solely by him.

What it was in Lateef that occasioned my apprehension was the man’s apparent indecision. He was frightened himself: frightened to stay here in the camp we had made less than half a mile from the ambushed convoy, and yet not able to summon the courage to move on.

Both fears were understandable. To stay so close to the scene of the attack was to court discovery by any party sent out to investigate. But to move, laden down as we were with so many rifles, would be disastrous if we were seen by any of the participating military forces. It was the nature of Lateef’s position to direct us, and though we were at this moment looking to him for instructions, it was tacit that if he failed in his leadership we would replace him.

For the moment we stayed where we were, as by non-action we did at least have the semblance of decision.

With three of the other men I made an inventory of the rifles we now possessed. In addition to the ones carried by each of us, we had twelve crates. In each crate there were six rifles. There were also several boxes of ammunition. In all, the pile of weaponry was almost more than we could handle. We had loaded most of it on to our handcarts, but it was apparent that this could not be a permanent arrangement.

I glanced at the other men sitting in a ragged group among the trees, their new-found rifles close at their sides. I looked beyond them to where Lateef stood, lost in his own thoughts.

I felt that of all the men, I had come nearest to Lateef in recent weeks. In a while, I went over to him. He was not pleased to be interrupted, especially by me. I saw at once I had made a basic error of judgement, and realized I should have stayed with the other men.

He said: “Where the hell were you last night?”

“I told you what happened. I thought I saw someone.”

“You should have told me. If it had been the Afrims they’d have shot you.”

I said: “I thought we were in danger. I had my rifle and I was the only one able to defend us.” I did not wish to tell him the truth.

“We’ve all got rifles now. You don’t have to undertake hazardous missions for our benefit. We can look after ourselves, thanks very much, Whitman.”

The tone of his voice was not only bitter. It was impatient, irritated, distracted. His mind was on something else; my crossing to speak to him had only reminded him of the night before, it was not uppermost in his mind.

“You’ve got all the rifles you need,” I said. “What are you going to do with them?”

“What would you like to do with them?”

“I think we should throw them away. They’ll bring us more problems than they’ll solve.”

“No … I’m not throwing them away. I have other ideas.”

I said: “What are they?”

He shook his head slowly, grinning at me. “You tell me something. What would you use them for, assuming you could get away with it?”

“I’ve already told you.”

“Wouldn’t you barter them to other refugees? Or try to shoot down more helicopters?”

I saw what he was getting at. I said: “It’s not just the fact of having weapons. It’s that if everyone has them, instead of one or two people, the effectiveness is lost.”

“So while you were number one with the rifle, it was all right. Now that distinction no longer exists, it isn’t.”

I said: “I gave you my arguments for having a rifle when I first discovered it. One rifle represents a form of defence; complete arming constitutes aggression.”

Lateef looked at me thoughtfully. “Perhaps we agree more than I had thought. But you still haven’t told me what practical use you would put them to.”

I considered for a moment. I still had only one real motivation, however impracticable it might appear to be.

“I would try to do something about finding my daughter,” I said.

“I thought that’s what you’d say. It wouldn’t do any good, you know.”

“As far as I’m concerned, anything would be better than what we’ve done so far.”

“Don’t you understand?” Lateef said. “There’s nothing we can do about that. The best you can hope for is that they’re in an internment camp. More likely they’ve been raped or murdered, probably both. You saw yesterday what they do to white women.”

“And you can just accept that?” I said. “It isn’t the same for you, Lateef. That was my wife and my daughter that they took. My daughter!”

“It didn’t only happen to you. There were seventeen women taken.”

“But none of them were yours.”

Lateef said: “Why can’t you accept it like the other men have, Alan? There is nothing we can do to find them. We’re outside the law. Approach any of the authorities and we’ll be imprisoned immediately. We can’t go to the Afrims because first of all we don’t know where they are, and anyway we couldn’t expect them to admit that they’ve abducted our women. We’ll get no sympathy from the U.N. people. All we can do is continue to survive.”

I looked round angrily. “You call this survival? We’re living like animals.”

“You want to give yourself up?” Lateef’s tone had changed; he was trying to be persuasive now. “Listen, do you know how many refugees there are like us?”

“No one knows.”

“That’s because there are so many. Thousands of them … perhaps millions. We’re just operating in a small stretch of the country. All over England there are homeless people like ourselves. You said we shouldn’t be aggressive. But why not? Every single one of those refugees has an excellent reason for wanting to participate. But circumstances are against him. He’s weak. He has little food, no resources. He has no legal position. Err to one side and he is a potential danger to the military forces because he is mobile, because he sees the war being conducted; too far the other way and he becomes politically involved. You know how the government treats refugees? As secessionist fraternizers. Do you want to see the inside of a concentration camp? So the refugee does just what we’ve been doing: he lives and sleeps rough, he congregates in small groups, he barters, steals and keeps out of the way of everyone else.”

“And has his women taken from him,” I said.

“If that’s the way it has to be, yes. It’s not an attractive state, but there’s no ready alternative.”

I said nothing to him, aware that he was probably right. I had long felt that had there been an alternative to the wretched vagrant life we had been leading we would have discovered it. But what we saw of the various organized bodies during the brief periods of interrogation to which we had been subjected, made clear to us that there was no place for the displaced civilian. The major towns and cities were under martial law, smaller towns and villages were either under military control or had defended themselves with civilian militia. The countryside was ours.

After a minute or two I said: “But it can’t stay this way for ever. It’s not a stable situation.”

Lateef grinned. “Not now it isn’t.”

“Now?”

“We’re armed. That’s what the difference is. The refugees can unite, defend themselves. With rifles we can take back what is ours … freedom!”

I said: “That’s insane. You’ve only got to leave this wood and the first detachment of regular troops will slay you.”

“A guerrilla army. Thousands of us, all over the country. We can occupy villages, ambush supplies-convoys. But we’ll have to be careful, have to stay hidden.”

“Then what would be the difference?”

“We’ll be organized, armed, participating.”

“No,” I said. “We mustn’t become involved in the war. There’s too much already.”

“Come on,” he said. “We’ll put it to the others. It’ll be democratic, it can only work if we’re all in favour.”

We walked back through the trees to where the others were waiting for us. I sat on the ground a little distance from Lateef, and looked at the handcarts laden with crates. I was only half listening to Lateef; my mind was preoccupied with the image of a disorganized band of men, thousands of them in every rural area of the country, hungering for revenge against the impersonal military forces and civilian organizations on every side.

I saw that where once the refugees had represented a desperate but ineffectual neutral presence in the fighting, their organization into a fighting guerrilla force — if such a task could be accomplished — would only add to the chaos which tore at the country.

I stood up and backed away from the others. As I stumbled through the trees, with an ever-growing desperation to be away from them, I heard the men shout their approval in unison. I headed south.

I noticed the girl on a table a few feet away from mine. As soon as I recognized her I stood up and walked over to her.

“Laura!” I said.

The girl stared at me in surprise. Then she recognized me, too.

“Alan!”

I am not generally motivated by nostalgia, but for some reason I had come back to the restaurant in the park, automatically associating it with the times I had spent with Laura Mackin. Even though I was dwelling on the memory of her, it took me by surprise to see her; I had not known she still came here.

She moved to my table.

“Why are you here?”

“Isn’t that obvious?”

We stared at each other across the table. “Yes.”

We ordered some wine to celebrate with, but it was oversweet. Neither of us wanted to drink it, but we could not be bothered to complain to the waiter. We toasted each other, and the rest didn’t matter. While we ate I was trying to work out why I had come here. It could not have been only a seeking for the past. What had I been thinking during the morning? I tried to remember, but memory was inconveniently blank.

“How is your wife?”

The question that had been so far unspoken. I had not expected her to ask it.

“Isobel? The same.”

“And you are still the same.”

“No one changes much in two years.”

“I don’t know.”

“What about you? Are you still sharing a flat?”

“No. I’ve moved.”

We finished our meal, drank coffee. The silences between our conversations were an embarrassment. I began to regret meeting her.

“Why don’t you leave her?”

“You know why not. Because of Sally.”

“That’s what you said before.”

“It’s true.”

Another silence.

“You haven’t changed, have you? I know damn well that Sally’s just an excuse. This is what went wrong before. You’re too weak to disentangle yourself from her.”

“You don’t understand.”

We ordered more coffee. I wanted to end the conversation, leave her here. Instead, it was easier to carry on. I had to acknowledge that what she said about me was true.

“Anyway, I can’t say anything that will change you.”

“No.”

“I’ve tried too often in the past. You realize that this is why I wouldn’t see you any more?”

“Yes.”

“And nothing’s changed.”

I said, as plainly as I could: “I am in love with you still, Laura.”

“I know. That is what is so difficult. And I love you for your weakness.”

“I don’t like you saying that.”

“It doesn’t matter. I only mean it.”

She was hurting me in the way she had done before. I had forgotten this about Laura: her capacity to give pain. Yet what I said to her was true, in spite of everything I continued to love her even though I had not been able to admit this to myself until I met her here. Of the women I had known outside my marriage, Laura was the only one for whom I had deeper feelings than those of physical desire. And the reason for this was because she saw me and understood me for what I was. Though it pained me, Laura’s appraisal of my inability to confront my relationship with Isobel was for me an attractive quality. I don’t know why she was in love with me, though she said she was. I had never been able to come to understand her fully. She existed in a kind of personal vacuum … living in but not belonging to our society. Her mother had been an Irish immigrant, had died giving birth. Her father had been a coloured seaman, and she had never met him. Her skin was pale, but her features were negroid. She was one of the first victims of the Afrim situation, killed in the second London riot. That day in the park restaurant was the last time I saw her.

I recognized the leader of the group as the man I had met in the ruined village when we were plundering the remains of the helicopter. At that time he had told me his name was Lateef, but it had given me no clue as to his origin. Because of the events of the time, I had grown to distrust anyone with coloured skin, however faint it may be.

The group he was leading consisted of about forty individuals, including several children. They were not well organized.

I watched them from the upper floor of the old house, hoping they would not make enough noise to awaken Sally. We had had a long and distressing day and were both hungry. The house was a temporary refuge only; as the winter approached we knew we ought to find more permanent quarters.

The problem I faced was whether or not we should make our presence known.

I considered that Sally and I had not been wholly unsuccessful on our own. We had only moved from the couple’s house when we heard that unregistered civilians, and those sheltering them, would be sent to internment camps if captured. Though this ruling was withdrawn soon after, we judged it best that we should move on. That is how we came to this house.

I watched the group indecisively.

If we continued to operate on our own there would be less danger of being captured, but to join an established group would mean that food supplies would be more regular. Neither prospect appealed, but in the time we had been with the young couple we had listened to the bulletins from continental radio-stations, and learned of the true nature and extent of the civil war. Sally and I were among the main casualties so far: the two million displaced civilians who were forced to live as vagrants.

Most of the refugees were in the Midlands and the North, and up there conditions were supposed to be worse. There were fewer in the south, and it was supposed to be easier, but nevertheless there were estimated to be around one hundred and fifty thousand civilians living off the countryside.

In a while the group of refugees below me started to organize themselves better, and I saw two or three tents being pitched. A man came into the ground floor of the house and filled two buckets with water. A fire was lit in the garden and food was laid out.

Then I noticed one of the women who was looking after two young boys. She was trying to get them to wash themselves, though without much success. She looked dirty and tired, her hair tied untidily into a rough bun behind her head. It was Isobel.

If anything this should have made my indecisiveness greater, but instead I went downstairs and asked Lateef if Sally and I could join his group.

I was heading south. Alone, I felt more secure than I had done with Lateef and the others. I had no rifle, nor any other form of weapon. I carried only my bag containing a few personal possessions, a sleeping-bag and a little food. I was able to avoid unwanted encounters with military forces, and found that my treatment at barricaded villages or defended houses was easier than if I had been with a group. The first night I slept under a hedge, the second in a barn, the third I was given a room in a house.

On the fourth day I came into contact with another group of refugees. Once initial reservations about each other had been overcome, I spoke for some time with their leader.

He asked me why I had left Lateef and the others. I told him about the rifles and what Lateef intended to do with them. I gave him my reasons for fearing the outcome of participation by refugees. I also told him about my search for my wife and daughter.

We were speaking to each other in what had once been a car-park for a pub. The rest of his group were preparing a meal and taking it in turns to wash in the kitchen of the abandoned building.

“Was your group as large as ours?”

“It was larger originally,” I said. “Before the raid there were twenty-nine men and seventeen women.”

“Who were the women? Were they your wives?”

“Mostly. I had my daughter with me, and there were three single girls.”

“There are thirty-five of us. And we’ve got more women than men.”

He told me about an incident when they had been rounded up by some Nationalist forces. Those men of suitable age had been given two alternatives: internment in concentration-camps, or mobilization into the army. Though the remainder of the group had been freed when a United Nations inspection team had arrived at the camp, many of the men had stayed behind to fight with the Nationalists.

I made a wry remark to the effect that one side wanted the men, and the other wanted the women.

The man said: “Are you sure it was the Afrims who took your women?”

“Yes.”

“Then I think I know where they might be.” He glanced at me, as if to judge what my reaction might be. “I’ve heard — though it is only a rumour — that the Afrim command has authorized several brothels of white women for its troops.”

I said: “Rumours are reliable.”

He nodded.

I stared at him, shocked and silenced. After a moment I said: “She’s only a child.”

“My wife is here,” he said. “It’s something we all have to be guarded against. All we can do is hide until the war is finished.”

I was given some food and we exchanged as much information about troop movements as we knew. They wanted to know details about Lateef’s group, and I gave them directions to where I had last seen them. I was told that the reason for this interest was that a consolidation of the two groups would strengthen their defence of the women, but in my own mind I felt that it was because I had told the leader about the rifles.

I regretted this, and saw that perhaps I had inadvertently helped sponsor a move to which I did not subscribe.

I found out as much as I could about the rumoured brothels. I knew instinctively that this was the fate that had befallen Sally and Isobel. It disgusted and frightened me, but in one sense it was reassuring since there was a chance that if the brothels were at the direction of the command there would be at least a chance of appeal, either to the command itself or to one of the welfare organizations.

I said: “Where are these brothels?”

“The nearest, I’ve heard, is to the east of Bognor.” He named a seaside town, the one in which I had discovered the bungalow with the petrol-bombs.

We consulted our maps. The town was ten miles to the southwest of us, and Lateef’s last position was a similar distance to the north. I thanked the group for their food and information, and left them. They were breaking camp and preparing to move.

The part of the coast to which I was going was not one I knew well. The towns run into one another and sprawl back into the countryside. In my childhood I had spent a holiday in the neighbourhood, but I could recall little about it.

In a few miles I encountered the edges of urban development. I crossed several major roads and saw more and more houses. Most of them appeared to be deserted, but I did not investigate further.

When I estimated I was about five miles from the coast I came across a well-made barricade built in the road. There appeared to be no defenders, and I walked up to it as openly as possible, prepared always to take evasive action should there be any trouble.

The shot, when it came, caught me by surprise. Either the cartridge was blank, or the shot was intended to miss, but the bullet came nowhere near me.

I crouched and moved quickly to the side. A second shot came, this time missing me narrowly. I dived gracelessly to the ground, falling awkwardly on to my ankle. I felt it twist under me and an agonizing pain ran through my leg. I lay still.

Later, my friend told me some amusing stories. He is a large man, and although he is only in his early thirties he looks a lot older. When he tells jokes, he laughs at them himself with his eyes closed and his mouth wide open. I had known him only a few months, since falling into the habit of drinking in the evenings. He was a regular at the pub I went to, and although I did not particularly like him, he had often sought me out for company.

He told me about a white man who was walking along a road one day when he encounters this big buck nigger carrying a duck. The man goes up to the nigger and says: “That’s an ugly-looking monkey you’ve got there.” Whereupon the nigger says: “That’s not a monkey, man, that’s a duck.” The white man stares up at the nigger and says: “Who the hell’s talking to you?”

My friend started laughing and I joined in, amused in spite of myself at the absurdity of it. Before I had finished he began to tell me another one. This was about a white man who wanted to shoot gorillas in Africa. As gorillas were very rare in that part of the jungle, everyone considered it very doubtful that he would find any. After only ten minutes he comes back saying he’s already shot thirty, and can he have some more ammunition? Of course, no one believes him, so to prove it he shows them the bicycles the gorillas had been riding.

I had seen the end of that one coming, and anyway did not consider it to be very funny, so I didn’t join with my friend in his laughter. Instead, I smiled politely and bought some more drinks.

On my way home that evening, I saw with the clarity that alcohol can sometimes bring how our modes of behaviour had already adapted subtly to allow for the presence of the Afrims and their sympathizers. To tell me the stories, my friend had taken me to a quiet corner of the bar, as if about to divulge something of the order of a state secret.

Had he told the stories in the main part of the bar it was probable that trouble would have been started. There was an Afrim settlement less than a mile from the pub, and its presence had already caused apprehension amongst local residents.

My walk home took me within a few hundred yards of the settlement and I disliked what I was forced to see. Groups of men and youths stood about on street corners, waiting for an excuse to provoke an incident. In the last few weeks there had been several cases of attacks on Afrim sympathizers.

A police-car was parked just inside the entrance to one of the houses in my road. Its lights were off. There were six men inside.

I felt distinctly that events were picking up a self-destructive momentum, and that no longer was a humane resolution possible.

Sally was happy to be reunited with her mother, though Isobel and I greeted each other coolly. For a moment I was reminded of a period in the early years of our marriage, when it had seemed that the presence of the child would adequately compensate for the disquieting lack of rapport between us. I talked now with Isobel about practical things, telling her of our attempt to return to London, and the events subsequently. She told me how she had joined Lateef and his group, and we remarked again and again on the good fortune that had brought us together again.

We slept together that night, the three of us, and though I felt we should make some effort to re-establish a sexual relationship, I was incapable of making the first move. I do not know whether it was Sally’s presence that caused this.

Fortunately for us, and for all the refugees like us, the winter of that year was a mild one. There was a lot of rain and wind, but only a short period of severe frosting. We had established a semi-permanent camp in an old church. We were visited several times by Red Cross workers, and both military sides knew of our presence. The winter passed uneventfully, the only severe handicap being the continuing absence of news of the progress of the civil disorder.

This period, too, was the one in which I first saw Lateef as some kind of social visionary. He would talk of enlarging our group, and establishing a recognizable unit which would be self-sufficient until the resolution of the troubles. By this time, all of us had abandoned any hope of ever returning to our homes, and we realized that we would be ultimately in the hands of whichever side succeeded in creating a working government. Until that time, Lateef convinced us we should sit tight and await developments.

I think I grew complacent in this period. I was directly under Lateef’s influence and spent many hours in conversation with him. Though I grew to respect him, I think he despised me, perhaps because I was so evidently incapable of committing myself to a firm political viewpoint.

Several other groups of refugees came to the church during the winter, staying for varying periods of time before moving on. We came to see our establishment there as being a kind of nucleus of the situation. In our own way we were prospering. We were rarely short of food, and our semi-permanent status enabled us to take time to organize proper foraging parties. We had a good supply of spare clothing, and many items which would be useful as barter.

With the coming of the spring, we soon saw that we were not the only faction which had used the lull in the hostilities to consolidate a position. In the late March and April we saw many aircraft in the sky which, by their unfamiliar appearance, were presumably of foreign origin. Troop-activity renewed, and during the nights long columns of lorries would pass. We heard heavy artillery in the distance.

We had acquired a radio and it had been made to work. To our frustration, however, we were unable to learn much of use from it.

The operations of the BBC had been suspended, and replaced with a one-channel station called “National Voice”. The content of this was similar to the tabloids I had seen: political rhetoric and social propaganda, interspersed with hours of continuous music. All continental and foreign stations were jammed.

We learned at the end of April that a major attack had been launched against rebel and alien groups in the south, and that a major offensive was under way. The forces loyal to the crown were reported to be sweeping through the very area in which we were established. Though our own observations of military movements lent disbelief to this, we were concerned to a large degree as if there were any truth in the reports there could well be a further increase in activity in the near future.

One day we were visited by a large delegation of United Nations welfare organizers. They showed us several government directives which listed the groups of participants in the hostilities which were to be treated as dissident factions. White civilian refugees were included.

The organizers explained that these directives had been issued some weeks before and, as had happened on several occasions previously, been withdrawn soon after. This lent a great uncertainty to our status, and we were advised either to surrender ourselves to U.N. rehabilitation centres or to move on. The advice came at this time, they said, because large numbers of Nationalists troops were in the area.

The question was debated at some length. In the end, Lateef’s wish that we should continue to live outside the law was carried. We felt that while large numbers of refugees remained in this state we retained a large but passive pressure on the government to resolve the conflict and rehouse us. To surrender to U.N. rehabilitation would be to deprive ourselves of this small level of participation. In any event, the conditions in overcrowded and understaffed camps were by all accounts worse than we were presently experiencing.

Several of us, though, did go to the camps… mostly those people with children. But the majority stayed with Lateef, and in due course we moved on.

Before doing so, we had agreed on our daily tactics. We would move in a broad circle, returning to the vicinity of the church every six weeks. We would go only to those places which, either from our own experience or from what we had heard from other refugees, we knew were relatively safe for the overnight encampment. We were equipped with as much camping-equipment as we would need, and had several handcarts.

For four and a half weeks, we travelled as planned. Then we came to an area of flat farmland which was reported to be under Afrim control. This had no effect on our policy, as we had often passed through Afrim territory before.

The first night we were not molested in any way.

I spent the afternoon at the college in a mood of withdrawn depression. I conducted three tutorials, but found myself unable to concentrate fully. Isobel was uppermost in my mind, and it was not pleasant to associate what I felt with a sense of guilt.

I had finished an affair two weeks before. It had not been complicated by emotional overtones, but had been a negative expression of the sexual frustration induced in me by Isobel’s attitude. I had spent several evenings at the woman’s flat and one whole night. I had not particularly liked the woman, but she was proficient in bed.

At this period I was still lying to Isobel about my activities and was not certain whether she knew the truth.

By four in the afternoon I had reached a decision, and telephoned a friend named Helen who had sat for Sally on the various occasions when Isobel and I wanted to spend an evening out together. I asked her if she would be free that evening and arranged for her to call at seven.

I left the college at five and went straight home. Isobel was ironing some clothes, and Sally — who at this time was four years old — was having her tea.

“Get rid of that as quickly as you can,” I said to Isobel. “We’re going out.”

She was wearing a shapeless blouse and a worn skirt. She had no stockings on, and was wearing her slippers. Her hair was tied back with an elastic band, though stray wisps fell about her face.

“Going out?” she said. “But I can’t. I’ve all the ironing to do, and we can’t leave Sally.”

“Helen’s coming round. And you can do the rest of that tomorrow.”

“Why are we going out? What’s to celebrate?”

“No reason. I just feel like it.”

She gave me an ambiguous look, and turned back to her ironing. “Very amusing.”

“No, I mean it.” I bent down, and pulled the socket of the electric iron from the wall. “Finish that off, and get ready. I’ll put Sally to bed.”

“Are we having a meal? I’ve got all the food in.”

“We can have it tomorrow.”

“But it’s already half-cooked.”

“Put it in the fridge. It’ll keep.”

She said quietly: “Like your mood?”

“What?”

“Nothing.” She bent over her ironing again.

I said: “Look, Isobel, don’t be awkward. I’d like to spend the evening out. If you don’t want to go, just say so. I thought you’d appreciate the idea.”

She looked up. “I … do. I’m sorry, Alan. It’s just that I wasn’t expecting it.”

“You’d like to go then?”

“Of course.”

“How long will it take you to get ready?”

“Not long. I’ll have to have a bath and I want to wash my hair.”

”0.K.”

She finished what she was doing, then put away the iron and the ironing-board. For a few minutes she moved about the kitchen, dealing with the food she had been cooking.

I switched on the television and watched the news. At this time there was speculation about the date of the coming General Election, and a right-wing Independent M.P. named John Tregarth had caused a controversy by claiming that the Treasury accounts were being falsified.

I saw to Sally and washed up the dirty dishes in the sink. I told Sally that Helen was coming over to look after her and that she was to behave. The child promised solemnly that she would, and then became very placid and happy. She liked Helen. I went into the bathroom to get my electric razor and Isobel was already in the water. I leaned over and kissed her as she sat in the bath. She responded for a second or two, then pulled away and smiled up at me. It was a curious smile; one whose meaning I could not easily identify. I helped Sally undress, then sat with her downstairs reading to her until Isobel had finished in the bathroom.

I telephoned a restaurant in the West End and asked them to reserve a table for us at eight o’clock. Isobel came down in her dressing-gown while I was speaking to them, looking for her hair-dryer. Helen arrived on time at seven, and a few minutes later we took Sally up to her room.

Isobel had brushed her hair down straight and was wearing a pale-coloured dress that fitted and emphasized her figure. She had put on eye make-up and was wearing the necklace I had given her on our first anniversary. She looked beautiful in a way I had not seen for years. As we drove off I told her this.

She said: “Why are we going out, Alan?”

“I told you. I just felt like it.”

“And suppose I hadn’t?”

“You obviously do.”

I detected that she was not at ease, and I realized that to this point I had judged her mood by her behaviour. The cool, beautiful appearance betrayed an inner tautness. As we stopped at a set of traffic-lights I looked at her. The drab, almost sexless woman I saw every day was not here … instead I saw the Isobel I thought I had married. She took a cigarette from her handbag and lit it.

“You like me dressed up like this, don’t you?”

“Yes, of course,” I said.

“And at other times?”

I shrugged. “You don’t always have the opportunity.”

“No. Nor do you often give it to me.”

I noticed that the fingers of the hand that was not holding her cigarette were picking at each other’s nails. She inhaled smoke.

“I wash my hair and put on a clean dress. You wear a different tie. We go to an expensive restaurant.”

“We’ve done it before. Several times.”

“And how long have we been married? Suddenly it’s an event. How long to the next time?”

I said: “We can do this more often if you like.”

“All right. Let’s make it every week. Build it into our routine.”

“You know that’s not practical. What would we do about Sally?”

She put her hands to her neck, scooped up her long hair, and held it tightly behind her head. I glanced from the traffic to her. She held the cigarette between her lips, her mouth turned down. “You could employ another drudge.”

For a while we drove on in silence. Isobel finished her cigarette and threw it out of the window.

I said: “You don’t have to wait for me to take you out before you can make yourself look attractive.”

“You’ve never noticed it at any other times.”

“I have.”

It was true. For a long period after we were first married she had made a conscious effort to retain her attractiveness, even during the pregnancy. I had admired her for that, even as the barriers were forming between us.

“I despair of ever pleasing you.”

“You’re pleasing me now,” I said. “You’ve a child to look after. I don’t expect you to dress like this all the time.”

“But you do, Alan. You do. That’s the whole trouble.”

I acknowledged that we were talking in superficialities. Both of us knew that the subject of Isobel’s manner of dressing was only peripheral to the real problem. I fostered an image of Isobel as I had first seen her and I was reluctant to let it go. That much I accepted, and felt that within certain limits it was common to many married men. The real reason for my disinterest in Isobel was something we had never been able to discuss.

We arrived at the restaurant and ate our meal. Neither of us enjoyed it, and our conversation was inhibited. On the way home afterwards, Isobel sat in silence until I stopped the car outside the house.

Then she turned and looked at me, wearing the expression she had had before, but had then concealed with a smile.

She said: “I was just another of your women tonight.”

I was carried to the barricade by two men. I had one arm around each of their shoulders, and though I tried to put weight on my sprained ankle I found the pain was too great.

A movable section of the barricade had been opened and I was carried through.

I was confronted by several men. Each carried a rifle. I explained who I was and why I wanted to enter the town. I did not mention the Afrims, nor that I feared Sally and Isobel were in their hands. I said that I had been separated from my wife and daughter, that I had reason to believe they were here and wished to be reunited with them.

My possessions were searched.

“You’re a scruffy sod, aren’t you?” one of the younger men said. The other men glanced at him quickly and I thought I detected disapproval in the way they did this.

I said, as calmly as I could: “I’ve lost my home and all my property. I’ve been forced to live off the land for several months. If I could find a bath and clean clothes I’d gladly use them.”

“That’s all right,” one of the others said. He jerked his head to the side and the younger man moved away, glaring at me. “What did you do before you were displaced?”

“My profession? I was a lecturer at a college, but I was obliged to do other work for a time.”

“You lived in London?”

“Yes.”

“It could have been worse. You heard what happened up north?”

“I heard. Look, are you going to let me in?”

“We might. But we want to know more about you first.” I was asked several questions. I did not answer them entirely honestly, but more in a way that I felt would provoke a favourable response. The questions concerned my involvement with the war, whether I had been attacked by any troops, whether I had initiated sabotage, where my loyalties lay.

I said: “This is Nationalist territory, isn’t it?”

“We’re loyal to the crown, if that’s what you mean.”

“Isn’t it the same thing?”

“Not entirely. There are no troops here. We’ve been able to handle our own affairs.”

“What about the Afrims?”

“There aren’t any.” The direct flatness of his tone startled me. “There were, but they left. It was only carelessness that allowed the situation to get out of control elsewhere.”

Another man came forward. “You haven’t said what your stand is.”

“Can’t you imagine?” I said. “The Africans occupied my home and I’ve lived like an animal for nearly a year. The bastards have taken my child and my wife. I’m with you. All right?”

“O.K. But you said you’ve come here looking for them. There aren’t any Africans here.”

“Which town is this?”

He named it. It was not the same one as the other refugee leader had mentioned. I told him where I had thought I was going.

“That’s not here. There aren’t any blacks here.”

“I know. You told me.”

“This is a decent town. I don’t know about the Africans. There’s been none since we kicked the last lot out. If you’re looking for them, you won’t find them here. Understood?”

“You’ve told me. I’ve made a mistake. I’m sorry.”

They moved away from me and conferred in private for a minute or two. I took the opportunity to examine a large-scale map which was attached to the side of one of the concrete slabs forming the barricade. This region of the coast was heavily populated, and though each of the towns had a separate name and identity, in fact their suburbs ran into one another. The town I had been heading for was three miles to the east of here.

I noticed that the map was marked with a zone outlined in bright green ink. Its northernmost point was about four miles from the sea, and it ran down to the east and west until it reached the coast. My objective, I observed, was outside the green perimeter.

I tested my ankle and found that it was almost impossible to stand on it. It had swollen, and I knew that if I removed my shoe I would be unable to get it on again. I suspected I had not broken any bones, but felt that if possible I should see a doctor.

The men returned to me. “Can you walk?” one of them said.

“I don’t think so. Is there a doctor here?”

“Yes. You’ll find one in the town.”

“Then you’re letting me in?”

“We are. But a few words of warning. Get some clean clothes and tidy yourself up. This is a respectable town. Don’t stay on the streets after dark … find somewhere to live. If you don’t, you’ll be out. And don’t go around talking about the blacks. All right?”

I nodded. “Will I be able to leave if I want?”

“Where would you want to go?”

I reminded him that I wanted to find Sally and Isobel. This would necessitate passing through the eastern border into the next town. He told me that I would be able to leave along the coast road.

He indicated that I was to move on. I got to my feet with some difficulty. One of the men went into a near-by house and returned with a walking-stick. I was told that I must return it when my ankle had healed. I promised I would.

Slowly, and in great pain, I limped down the road in the direction of the centre of the town.

At the first sound I was awake and moved across the tent to where Sally was lying asleep. Behind me, Isobel stirred.

A few moments later there was a noise outside our tent and the flap was thrust aside. Two men stood there. One held a flashlight whose beam was directed into my eyes, and the other held a heavy rifle. The man with the flashlight came into the tent, seized Isobel by her arm and dragged her out of the tent. She was wearing only her bra and pants. She shouted to me for assistance, but the rifle was between me and her. The man with the flashlight moved away, and around the other tents I could hear shouting voices and screams. I lay still, my arm around the now-awakened Sally, trying to soothe her. The man with the rifle was still there, pointing the weapon at me without any movement. Outside, I heard three shots, and I became truly frightened. There was a short silence, then came more screams and more shouted orders in Swahili. Sally was trembling. The barrel of the rifle was less than six inches from my head. Though we were in almost complete darkness, I could make out the shape of the man silhouetted against the faint glow of the sky. Seconds later, another man came into the tent. He was carrying a flashlight. He pushed past the man with the rifle, and outside, only a few feet from me, another rifle fired. My muscles stiffened. The man with the flashlight kicked me twice, trying to push me away from Sally. I clung to her tightly. She screamed. I was struck across the head by a hand, then again. The other man had hold of Sally and tugged her violently. We clung to each other desperately. She was shouting at me to help her. I was incapable of doing more. The man kicked me again, this time in the face. My right arm came free and Sally was pulled from me. I shouted to the man to leave. I said again and again that she was only a child. She screamed. The men stayed silent. I tried to grab the end of the rifle, but it was thrust violently into my neck. I backed away and Sally was dragged struggling through the flap. The man with the rifle came into the tent and squatted over me, the barrel pressing against my skin. I heard its mechanism click, and I braced myself. Nothing happened.

The man with the rifle stayed with me for ten minutes and I lay listening to the movements outside. There was still a lot of shouting, but no more shots. I heard women screaming and the sound of a lorry engine starting up and driving away. The man with the rifle didn’t move. An uneasy silence fell around our encampment.

There was more movement outside and a voice made an order. The man with the rifle withdrew from the tent. I heard the soldiers drive away.

I cried.

In addition to the pain from my ankle, I was experiencing a growing feeling of nausea. My head ached. I was able to take only one step at a time, pausing to recover my strength. In spite of my discomfort I was able to observe my environment, and registered surprise at what I saw.

Within a few hundred yards of the barricade I found myself in suburban streets which, because of their façade of normality, appeared strange to me. Several cars drove along the streets, and the houses were occupied and in good repair. I saw a couple sitting in easy-chairs in a garden, and they looked at me curiously. The man was reading a newspaper which I recognized as being the Daily Mail. It was as if I had been transported somehow to a period two years before.

At an intersection with a larger road I saw more traffic, and a corporation bus. I waited for a lull in the traffic before attempting to cross the road. I managed it with great difficulty, having to pause half-way across to rest. When I reached the far side the nausea grew to a point where I was forced to vomit. A small group of children regarded me from a near-by garden, and one of them ran into a house.

As soon as I was able I limped on.

I had no idea where I was heading. Perspiration was running down my body, and soon I retched again. I came across a wooden seat on the side of the road and rested there for a few minutes. I felt utterly weakened.

I passed through a shopping precinct where there were many people drifting from one store to another. I was disoriented again by the outward normality of the streets. For many months I had not known any place where there were shops, where it was possible to find goods available for purchase. Most shopping areas I had seen had been looted or under strict military control.

At the end of the row of shops I halted once again, suddenly aware how unusual I must look to these people. Already I had earned several curious stares. I estimated that I had left the barricade an hour and a half before, and that the time now would be around five or six in the evening. I realized how tired I was, in addition to the other symptoms I was experiencing.

Because of my dirty clothes, my unkempt hair, my unshaven face, my two months’ odour of dried perspiration and urine, my limp and the flecks of vomit on my shirt, I felt unable to approach any of these people.

The pain from my leg was now almost beyond bearing. I became obsessed with the thought that I was an offensive spectacle to the people, and turned off into a side-road at the first opportunity. I carried on as long as I could, but my weakness was overwhelming. A hundred yards from the turning I fell to the ground for the second time that day, and lay helplessly. I closed my eyes.

In a while, I became aware of voices around me and I was lifted gently to my feet.

A soft bed. Cool sheets. A body cleaned with a bathful of hot water. A painful leg and foot. A picture on a wall; photographs of smiling people on a dresser. Discomfort in my stomach. Someone else’s pyjamas. A doctor winding a bandage around my ankle. A glass of water at my side. Comforting words. Sleep. I learned that their names were Mr. and Mrs. Jeffery. His first name was Charles; hers was Enid. He had been a bank manager, but was now retired. I estimated their ages as being in the middle or late sixties. They were remarkably incurious about me, though I told them I had come from outside the town. I said nothing of Sally or Isobel.

They told me I could stay as long as I wished, but at least until my leg had healed.

Mrs. Jeffery brought me all the food I could eat. Fresh meat, eggs, vegetables, bread, fruit. At first I registered surprise, saying that I thought they were impossible to obtain. She told me that the local shops had regular supplies of groceries, and could not understand why I had thought this.

“Food is so expensive though, dear,” she said to me. “I can hardly keep up with the price-rises.”

I asked her why she thought prices had increased.

“It’s the times changing. Not like they were when I was younger. My mother used to be able to get bread at a penny a loaf. But there’s nothing I can do about it, so I just pay up and try not to think about it.”

She was marvellous to me. There was nothing that was too much to ask of her. She brought me newspapers and magazines, and Mr. Jeffery gave me cigarettes and some Scotch whisky. I read the journals eagerly, hoping they would be able to give me some information on the present social and political scene. The newspaper was the Daily Mail and was, as Mrs. Jeffery told me without any apparent surprise, the only one available at the moment. Its editorial content was mainly foreign news and photographs. There was no mention anywhere of the civil war. There were very few advertisements, and those were in the main for consumer-goods. I noticed that the price was thirty pence, that there were only four pages, that it was printed twice a week and that it was published from an address in Northern France. I passed on none of these observations to the Jefferys.

The rest and comfort allowed me time to think more objectively of the situation. I realized that I had been concerned mainly with my personal life, and had given no thought to what our long-term prospects would be. Though I fretted mentally at my inactivity, I recognized that it would serve no useful purpose to move until my ankle had healed.

The questions were the same whether or not I was able to find Isobel and Sally. In my unwitting role as refugee I had of necessity played a neutral role. But it seemed to me that it would be impossible for this to continue in the future. I could not stay uncommitted for ever.

In what I had seen of the activities and outlook of the Secessionist forces, it had always appeared to me that they adopted a more humanitarian attitude to the situation. It was not morally right to deny the African immigrants an identity or a voice. The war must be resolved one way or another in time, and it was now inevitable that the Africans would stay in Britain permanently.

On the other hand, the extreme actions of the Nationalist side, which stemmed initially from the conservative and repressive policies of Tregarth’s government (an administration I had distrusted and disliked) appealed to me on an instinctive level. It had been the Afrims who had directly deprived me of everything I had once owned.

Ultimately, I knew the question depended on my finding Isobel. If she and Sally had not been harmed my instincts would be quieted.

I could not directly contemplate the consequences of the alternative.

I felt the dilemma was largely of my own sponsorship … had I been able to come to grips with it earlier, I would not now be in this position. On a personal, practical level I could see that whatever future there was for us, it would not be one in which we could settle until the larger issues around us were resolved.

On the third day at the Jefferys’ I was able to get up and move around the house. I had trimmed my beard, and Enid had washed and repaired my clothes. As soon as I was mobile I wanted to pursue my search for Isobel and Sally, but my ankle still pained me when I walked.

I helped Charles with light tasks in the garden and spent several hours in conversation with him.

I was continually surprised by the lack of awareness displayed by both him and his wife. When I spoke of the civil war, he referred to it as if it were a thousand miles away. Remembering the injunction given to me by the man at the barricade not to speak of the Afrims, I was cautious about discussing the politics involved. But Charles Jeffery was not interested in them. As far as he was aware, the government was dealing with a difficult social problem but that the solution would be found in the end.

Several jet aircraft flew over the house during the day, and in the evenings we would hear distant explosions. None of us mentioned them.

The Jefferys had a television set which I watched with them on the evening of the third day, fascinated to learn that the service had been restored.

The style of presentation was similar to that which had once been adopted by the BBC, and in fact the station identification was given as that. The content of the programmes was largely American. There was one short news-bulletin in the middle of the evening, which touched on issues local to the south-coast towns, making no mention of the civil war. All the programmes were pre-recorded, and consisted in the main of light entertainment.

I asked the Jefferys from where the programmes were transmitted, and they told me that they were part of a closed-circuit wire system, broadcast from Worthing.

On the fourth day I felt that my ankle had healed sufficiently to allow me to move on. I had a growing restlessness in me, emphasized by a feeling that I was being seduced by the friendly comfort of the Jefferys’ house. I could not believe it to be real, but thought of it as an artificial restoration of normal life in an abnormal state. The Jefferys would be incapable of appreciating this, and I said nothing of it to them. I was genuinely grateful for what they had done for me, and while they were able to maintain their illusion of normality I wanted to have no part in breaking it.

I left them in the late morning, knowing that I could never fully express either to myself or to them what the short stay had done for me. I headed for the coast road.

I encountered no difficulty at the barricade. The men who guarded it were unable to understand why I wished to leave the town, but once I had made it clear to them that I genuinely wished to leave, they allowed me through. I told them that I may be returning later in the day, but they warned me it would not be as easy to re-enter as it had been to leave.

I walked for two miles through what had been suburban streets. All the houses were empty and several had been damaged or destroyed. I saw no civilians.

On several occasions I met small groups of Afrim soldiers, but I was not accosted.

At midday I entered an empty house to eat the beef sandwiches and salad which Mrs. Jeffery had given me. I drank the flask of tea, and washed it out afterwards, realizing that it might be useful in the future.

I went down to the beach and walked along it until I came to the place where I had found the bungalow with the makings for petrol-bombs. Out of curiosity I entered the bungalow and looked for the bombs, but they had been taken.

I moved on down to the beach. I sat on the pebbles.

Half an hour later, a youth walked along the shore and approached me. We engaged in conversation. He told me of a large group of refugees about eight miles to the east who had commandeered a ship and who were planning to sail to France. He invited me to join him. I asked him if the group were armed, and he told me they were.

We spoke for a while of the Afrims, and the youth told me that this had once been a garrison town but that their organization was not good. Though there were still many hundreds of black troops here, they were ill-controlled and undisciplined. I asked him if he knew anything of the reputed Afrim brothel, and he confirmed its existence. He said there was a large turnover of women, and that the Afrims had no compunction about murdering those who would not co-operate.

He told me that the brothel was less than half a mile from where we were, and that he would take me to it if I wished.

I thanked him, but turned down his offer. In a while he left me, giving me detailed instructions on how to find the group who had the vessel. I told him that if I was going to join them I would be there by the next evening.

I waited until he had disappeared from my sight before I moved off in the same direction.

I walked slowly towards where the youth had said the brothel was situated. This necessitated leaving the shore and walking up into the streets of the town. There were many more Africans in this neighbourhood and I discovered that I was not going to be able to get near the building. I tried approaching it from several directions, but each time I was stopped and told to move away.

Tiredness was growing in me, and I returned to the shore. I sat down on the pebbles and looked at the sea.

There was much crude oil on the water, and in many places the beach was covered in thick black sludge.

The silence appalled me. There were no sea-birds, and the oily waves that broke on the shore were sluggish and without foam. The tide was receding. Far out to sea there was a large warship, but I was unable to determine what type or nationality it was.

My attention was first drawn to the bodies by the presence of a squad of Afrim soldiers, who moved down to the beach about a quarter of a mile from me, then returned to the town. I stood up.

As I walked, my feet were continually sucked by the thick layer of oil on the pebbles. The bodies were not easy to see, and had I not known they were there, from a distance I would have mistaken them for large pieces of congealed oil. They were all black and there were seventeen of them. They were naked, and all but one of them were female. The blackness of the skin was not that of natural pigmentation or of oil, but of paint or pitch. I moved amongst them, soon finding Isobel and Sally.

I noticed no reaction in me. Later, I felt a sadness, and later than that a disturbing combination of terror and hatred.

I slept that night on the beach. In the morning I murdered a young African and stole his rifle, and by the afternoon I was again in the countryside.