‘So, of course, it’s natural for you to give me the address of the pub where Evans White’s gang happen to be regulars, so that under pressure they can confirm the story everyone wants me to believe: that White is not involved.’
Two nurses had come in and one of them grabbed hold of the bed end. The other said in a friendly but firm tone: ‘I regret to say visiting time is over now. Mr Kensington has to have an EEG test and the doctors are waiting.’
Harry leaned over to Andrew’s ear. ‘I’m at best a man of middling intelligence, Andrew. But I know there’s something you’re trying to tell me. I just don’t know why you can’t say it straight out. Or why you need me. Has someone got a hold on you, Andrew?’
He ran alongside the bed as the nurses swung it through the door and continued down the corridor. Andrew had slumped back onto his pillow and closed his eyes.
‘Harry, you said that Whitefellas and Aboriginals had more or less the same story about the first people to live on this earth because we’d drawn the same conclusions about things of which we know nothing, that we had some innate thought processes. On the one hand, that’s probably the most stupid thing I’ve ever heard, but on the other I hope you’re right. In which case it’s just a question of closing our eyes and see—’
‘Andrew!’ Harry hissed into his ear. They had stopped by a lift and one of the nurses held the door.
‘Don’t play bloody games with me, Andrew, do you hear?! Is it Otto? Is Otto Bubbur?’
Andrew opened his eyes. ‘How—?’
‘We’re going to arrest him this evening. After the show.’
‘No!’ Andrew half sat up in bed, but a nurse pressed him carefully but firmly back down.
‘The doctor has told you to lie still, Mr Kensington. Remember, you have serious concussion.’ She turned to Harry. ‘This is as far as you go.’
Andrew struggled to get up again. ‘Not yet, Harry! Give me two days. Not yet. Promise me you’ll wait two days! Sister, go to hell!’ He smacked away the hand trying to push him down.
Harry stood by the headboard holding the bed. He stooped and whispered with a fiery intensity, almost spitting out the words, ‘For the time being, none of the others is aware that Otto knows you, but of course it’s just a question of time before they find out. They’ll start wondering about your role in all of this, Andrew. I can’t delay this arrest without a bloody good reason.’
Andrew grabbed Harry’s shirt collar. ‘Look closer, Harry. Use your eyes! See . . .’ he started, then gave up and sank back on the pillow.
‘See what?’ Harry persisted, but Andrew had closed his eyes and was waving him to stop. He suddenly looks so old and small, Harry thought. Old, small and black in a big, white bed.
A nurse brusquely pushed Harry away, and the last he saw before the lift doors shut was Andrew’s large, black hand, still waving.
27
An Execution
A THIN VEIL of cloud had drifted in front of the afternoon sun over the ridge behind Bondi Beach. The sands and sea were beginning to empty, and coming towards them was a steady stream of the types that populate Australia’s famous, glamorous beach: surfers with sun-creamed lips and noses, waddling bodybuilders, girls in cut-off jeans on Rollerblades, sunburned B-list celebrities and silicone-enhanced bathing nymphs; in short, the beautiful people, the young and – at least on the surface – the successful. Campbell Parade, the boulevard where the ‘in’ fashion boutiques and small, plain but expensive restaurants stand shoulder to shoulder, was at this time of day a seething mass of people. Open sports cars moved slowly in the traffic, revving their engines with impatient rutting cries while the drivers observed the activity on the pavements through mirror sunglasses.
Harry thought about Kristin.
He was thinking about the time he and Kristin had gone Interrailing and got off the train in Cannes. It had been peak tourist season and there hadn’t been a single reasonably priced room in the whole town. They had been away from home so long that they were scraping the bottom of their piggy bank, and their travel budget certainly couldn’t stretch to an overnight stay at any of the numerous luxury hotels. So they enquired when the next train left for Paris, stowed their rucksacks in a left-luggage locker at the station and went down to La Croisette. They promenaded to and fro looking at the people and animals, all equally beautiful and rich, and the crazy yachts, each with their own crew, cabin cruiser moored to the stern as a commuter vehicle and helicopter pad on the roof, which made them swear then and there to vote Socialist for the rest of their lives.