WARNING: 

ONE DIRECTION is a very UK popular boy band. 

I had never heard of them until the Olympic Games, but it struck me that amongst less fortunate males, this is the target market at which advertising about careers in the military is aimed. The point is, beware: this short story is probably not quite what your typical One Direction fan would expect to be reading. 

And if you’re offended by bad language and/or explicit descriptions of sexual activity, please don’t read further than the next full stop.

KEEP ON LOVING

‘But I need that one thing.’

(ONE THING)

ONE DIRECTION

‘I think the army’s the answer. That’s the way to go. Security. Money. Action. Fun. Friends.’

They were in the car park behind Safeway. They’d bought some beers. It was late and the last customers were giving them a wide berth as they made their way to their cars.

Lucy stared at Haydn. Young, dark, handsome, wiry. And hers. For the time being, it seemed. Because this was the first she’d heard of his interest in becoming a soldier. Had he considered her when he thought about joining the army?

It was Friday night and school, teachers and the looming exams had drifted into the distance. They were free for the weekend. And Monday was miles away.

Haydn looked at Lucy, a little sheepishly, and went on about this new idea of his. ‘You know, no ordinary career. Fit and mentally tough. A varied and exciting life. Further your education. Travel abroad. Like they say on telly. You get all this in the army. I think it may just suit me. Lucy and me, I mean.’

The boys were playing men. They were sorting out their futures. And the problems of the world. It was sometimes hard to work out which was the most difficult, the international issues they saw on TV, or what they’d do for jobs next year.

Janet said, ‘And a gun. You forgot about the gun. They give everyone a gun. You know, to shoot people. That’s what the army’s for.’ She paused. They were all staring at her. ‘That your testosterone talking again, Haydn? Have you spoken to Lucy about it? An army wife, or even an army girlfriend would not be the kind of life I’d be looking for. Sitting at home, waiting for a telegram. To say the one you love’s been shot. What do you say, Lucy?’

Lucy looked embarrassed. ‘Well, we’ve only discussed it briefly. And no decision has been made. There may be other options.’

She looked at Haydn. He showed her his bright white teeth. ‘That’s it Lucy. Spot on. We’ll decide when the time is right.’

‘Probably won’t be many options next year,’ said Gopal, the geek in the group, and by far the most intelligent. ‘My dad says things will get much, much worse before they get better.’

‘No excuse to go overseas and start killing people,’ Janet was not going to be moved off her pacifist agenda. ‘You boys are all the same. Just so gullible. Joining the army is not like going on holiday with One Direction.’

‘It’s OK for you lot,’ Kevin said, mainly for her benefit Lucy assumed,. ‘All you have to do is find a man to look after you when you’ve finished your studies. Then a bit of housework here and there. Easy. And then, when you’re ready, a couple of kids. Bingo. Out they pop. Easy as that. And everyone’s happy.’

Lucy knew that these were not Kevin’s ideas. Probably his dad’s. And Kevin had just memorized them. To regurgitate at a time like this. Tall, yes. Blonde, yes. Handsome, yes. Intelligent? Well, perhaps not.

Kevin threw a beer bottle towards the skip. It missed and spread bright beads of glass as it burst across the tarmac. Intelligent? Well, perhaps not.

‘Cut it out, mate!’ hissed Haydn as an elderly man stopped on the way to his car and stared at them.

‘Sorry,’ shouted Kevin. ‘Didn’t mean it.’

The man started towards them.

‘Now look here,’ he said as he got nearer, ‘that’s totally uncalled for.’

Gopal decided it was his turn. ‘Why don’t you just fuck off and leave us alone?’ Despite his brains, he sometimes missed the impact this earthy link with older languages has on some people.

‘You filthy mouthed swine. I’ll be calling the police about this as soon as I get home,’ said the old man as he stormed off back to his car.

‘Right. We’ll give them your regards when they get here. Now fuck off! Leave us alone! We’re not doing anything wrong. The bottle just missed the skip. That’s all. Don’t tell me you’ve never broken a bottle in your long life you stupid old codger.’

‘Let it go, Gopal,’ said Lucy. ‘He just over reacted to the broken bottle. He thought Kevin did it on purpose.’

On the way home, Haydn and Lucy stopped off at the park.

‘Gopal shouldn’t have spoken to that old guy like that. He reminded me of my grand dad. And he’s got a right to complain about broken glass.’

‘Yes, well, I suppose you’re right. But he didn’t mean it. Gopal’s not really like that. I don’t think so, anyway. It’s just that his background is not the same as ours. There are cultural differences. And he’s trying to compensate. Trying to be like us.’

Haydn kissed her. They went over to their favourite bench.

‘But I need that one thing. You know, now. That’s what I’d like. Before I take you home.’

He took her hand. She did what he’d taught her to do. Then they just sat on the bench and watched the night descend. Haydn seemed really relaxed and satisfied. He never mentioned the army again.

Lucy felt glad she’d been able to make him feel so good.

***

‘And you pray, pray, pray (oh)

That everything will be okay.’

(SAME MISTAKES)

ONE DIRECTION

Lucy couldn’t get it out of her mind. She phoned Haydn the next morning. ‘What’s this army thing you were on about the last night? What about university? What happened to that idea?’

He was embarrassed. ‘Well, like we said, nothing’s decided. We need to discuss it. That’s all. Don’t worry. Everything will be OK.’

When the met later he didn’t want to talk about it then either.

The fizzy, pink drink helped Lucy to be more understanding when the army thing came up again.

On Friday night. In the car park outside Safeway. It had become a regular thing.

It was Gopal who brought it up. ‘I saw the TV ad again. Get trained and get paid. Sounds good to me. My grandfather was in the army. Because he was a Sikh, I suppose. But he died before we came here.’

Haydn looked at Lucy. ‘Well, I’m not sure about university anymore. And the army’s better than working in a nursery or a warehouse. Getting up at silly hours. Walking to catch the bus. In the rain. Working all day with some wanker telling you what to do. And what not to do. And what you’re doing wrong. Not doing much right. Coming home in the dark. And earning the same as them who’re on the dole. Almost.’

‘Me, I’d prefer the dole.’ Kevin, it seemed, had made up his mind that looking for a job would be pointless. ‘And it’s sent to you. Your cheque arrives in the post. No need to get out of bed, even.’

As their final exams approached, they talked more and more about what would happen afterwards. When they had their results.

‘I still recon it’s the army. What else is there? Sweeping the streets. Serving in a pub? Shitty work and shittier hours. Assuming you get a job. And short of getting onto X-factor, and winning which is even harder, there’s nothing else around.’

***

‘Don’t be scared, I aint going nowhere.

(GOTTA BE YOU)

ONE DIRECTION

Gopal said they could use his room. His parents were away for the weekend.

He let them in. Lucy was astonished at the décor. A low couch of carved wood with gaudy pillows. Strange paintings of elephants. Framed pictures of beautiful, ornate writing in a script that meant nothing to her. Photographs of men in turbans and women in bright, colourful costumes.

Gopal led them to his bedroom. He said he’d be watching telly in the lounge.

Haydn told Lucy it wouldn’t hurt. That she’d enjoy it. It was the right thing to do. If she really loved him. Everyone was doing it, he said. All their friends. Don’t be scared, he said.

Despite the impression he’d cultivated, it was Haydn’s first time too.

He closed the curtains. Lucy was nervous. And a little embarrassed.

Haydn took his clothes off and folded them neatly over a chair.

Lucy stood watching him. It was the first time she’d seen him completely naked. She said she’d never even seen her father without his clothes on. She’d never been into the bathroom when he was using the bath or having a shower. Even when she was little. Even her mother never changed in front of her.

She thought he looked marvelous. She saw that he was excited.

Then he helped her to get undressed. They lay on the bed and kissed and touched each other. He was overwhelmed at the wonderful sensation of pressing his body against hers. The silky smooth feeling of her skin. Kissing her breasts. The soft, furry feel as he brushed his hand across the warm springy hair of her groin.

Lucy was doing what she knew Haydn loved. Only with no clothes to hinder her. He lay on his back pointing at the ceiling. Then he said, ‘No, no, please don’t do that. I’ll get too excited. And I’m not ready. Not just yet.’

They heard the front door open, and then they heard voices. Lucy froze. Haydn watched as the doorknob turned.

A man’s voice just outside the bedroom said, ‘Who’s in your room. Why is the door locked?’

They heard Gopal say ‘It’s Lucy and Haydn.’

***

‘On the other side of the world.’

(EVERYTHING ABOUT YOU)

ONE DIRECTION

The next Friday night in the Safeway car park Haydn made the most of what had happened. He was quite an actor when he wanted to be. He had them in stitches.

‘Lucy was terrified. So was I, I suppose, but nothing like her. Not so Love? So, his dad says we should be ashamed of ourselves. What on earth do we think we were doing? In his house? In his son’s room? What would happen if he told our parents? Can’t understand why he made all the fuss. We were only doing what everyone else is doing. Even Gopal will be at it one day.’ He laughed, looking at Gopal who was enjoying the story he’d been involved in. So Gopal laughed too.

Kevin phoned him later and asked what it was like.

‘Great,’ he said, ‘Like it always is.’

***

A few days later Kevin phoned again.

‘How’d you change Lucy’s mind? About going into the army, I mean? Because you could wind up on the other side of the world. To her, I mean.’

‘Easier than getting her pants of the first time,’ he said, and then regretted it as soon as he’d said the sentence. He felt disloyal. But the boys talk had just slipped out. He tried to cover up. ‘Well, actually we decided it would be good for both of us. We need to be apart for a while, anyway. So we agreed. So it was mutual. And we’ll both be able to save some money. Which will stand us in good stead. So, that’s it. And I’m off to basic tomorrow. And I’ll soon be on the other side of the world.’

***

Something was happening. He knew his excuses were rather lame.

But, although he was not seeing her during the week as often as he had before, he always saw her in the car park with the others at the end of the week. It had become a ritual.

‘Sorry darlin, not sure I can make that, but I’ll see you at Safeway on Friday. That’s for sure.’

‘Please tell me,’ she said on the phone. ‘Are you getting tired of me? We don’t seem to see each other that much any more. Have you found someone else?’

‘Now don’t be silly, Lucy. But we must talk about a few things.’

So they did.

‘Look, let’s try to see a few years ahead. You’re sure to go to university, but I’m not sure that’s the life for me. And, even if it was, it’s not likely that we’d get in at the same place anyway.’

Lucy’s face was white. She didn’t look convinced. He put his arm around her.

‘Don’t worry darlin. I’m not saying it’s over. Not at all. It’s just that… well, perhaps we need a break. A short one, I mean. And if I go into the army, I’ll get some skills that I’ll be able use for life. You know, leadership and all that stuff. And while I’m away I’ll be able to save. Almost everything I get. Bonuses and all. You know, for being overseas. And so will you. Be able to save, I mean. Then I’ll leave as soon as we’ve got enough for a deposit. You know, a small house. Or a flat, perhaps. So I’ll be out at about the same time as you finish at uni.’

Even while he was saying it, he wasn’t sure he meant it. Was he bored? Had they been together too long? Why was he feeling so restless? Was he making this up? Was it true? Or just pack of lies because he was tired of Lucy?

***

‘Stop the tape and rewind.’

(GOTTA BE YOU)

ONE DIRECTION

The next time Lucy saw him was at the base. He was home at last. She got up early in the morning. She concentrated on preparing herself. She wanted her mind to be off other things. The things she’d heard.

She told her mother she’d rather go alone. Her mother seemed relieved. She gave Lucy money for a taxi to the bus station. Then it was a long journey right out into the countryside. But it was spring and everything was looking beautiful. Wildflowers everywhere.

She remembered the last time she’d seen Haydn. The night before he left.

And how she’d felt when the truth had dawned. Because the next day he was gone. Swallowed up by the army.

***

She remembered the small hotel room. He was so good looking, and that’s how she wanted to remember him. Now that she was on her way to see him again. 

‘Just relax,’ she’d said to herself. ‘You’re trying to hard. Everything will be alwright.’

She wanted to stop the tape and rewind. Back to that night just before he went away.

He’d drunk too much beforehand. ‘Just one thing. To remember you by,’ he’d said, but it hadn’t really been a success. They’d both tried to make it work. They didn’t even stay the night.

When they went out past reception, she could see he was upset.

‘I don’t know what went wrong. It’s always been so good. Before tonight I mean.’

‘It’ll be fine next time,’ she told him. ‘You’ll see. When you get back, I mean.’

He kissed her outside her front gate. She felt that he was aroused.

‘Not much good now, is it? An hour too late, it is. What’s the use of that?’

She put her hand inside his trousers. ‘Let’s go to the park,’ she said. ‘That’s our favourite place.’

It was cumbersome and difficult. Sitting on a bench in the early morning light. And he was embarrassed by the amount of love he spilled into her hand. He gave her his handkerchief. She said she’d keep it as a memory of their last moments together. Before went off to war.

***

On the bus, Lucy remembered how startled she’d been the first time he’d shown her what to do. ‘Well, I was quite young, I suppose,’ she thought.

He’d taken her hand and placed it on his groin. Then he’d loosened his belt and pushed it down inside his underpants. She felt a pleasant mixture of soft, warm and firm flesh. After a while he’d moved her hand with his. And that’s how she learnt how much he enjoyed it. And so had she. The anticipation of the short, quick breaths, a tightening of the chest. Excitement. Intense feeling of pleasure. Involuntary spasms. Climax.

While she was doing it, Lucy felt her own rhythmic contractions running in tandem, and she felt a strong affinity with what Haydn was feeling. She knew they were in love.

‘In a strange way he sometimes seemed to prefer that to real lovemaking,’ she remembered thinking. ‘Perhaps because the real thing was just so difficult to organize.’

***

Just outside a small village, the bus driver said, ‘This is it love.’

The base was the usual nondescript affair. Flowerbeds were trying hard to add some luster to the entry point. Two young men in uniform stared at her. They could see she’d been crying. One was quite handsome. He other had a face covered in spots. ‘Just God playing his cynical trick,’ she thought. ‘Making one man’s life a social breeze, and the other’s a social nightmare.’

There was no problem getting in. They pointed out where she had to go. To see Hayden.

***

Lucy went to reception. They told her he was on the first floor.

As she went upstairs, she remembered the freckles across his nose. And the soft hair on his top lip that he shaved so often in the hope that it would get thicker. And the slight imperfection in one iris that made his eyes look slightly different colours. And the long pale hair that was always so unkempt. His perfect skin. The warmth of his pubic area. How it felt in her hand. And how it felt inside her on that one occasion. So long ago.

***

‘Hoping for the best but expecting the worst.’

(FOREVER YOUNG)

ONE DIRECTION

She walked down a long corridour, looking for a number. Hoping for the best.

Eventually she found it. She knocked softly, then a little harder. She went in. He was lying on the bed with the TV on, but there was no sound in the room. He looked fragile and vulnerable.

Same icy blue eyes. One slightly different. Same thick blond hair. But shorter. Much shorter. Cut short by the army. An overall air of being smaller. Much smaller. Same hard, wiry body. But shorter. Definitely. Much shorter. The insurgents had seen to that. With a bomb.

There was, in fact, very much less of Haydn than the last time she’d seen him.

And he just didn’t look quite the same without any legs.

*****

Wikipedia gives the number of civilian deaths as ‘tens of thousands’ and the number of coalition soldiers killed as almost three thousand since the launch of Operation Enduring Freedom in 2001.

It is well nigh impossible to work out the number of wounded, but it must be lots and lots and lots… 

BAD FAITH

WARNING: Some people may be offended by some of the themes in this short story.

In bad faith, it is from myself that I am hiding the truth. 

Jean-Paul Satre (1905-1980).

Paul and the boy both heard the vehicle drive into the courtyard. A car door slammed but the engine was kept running. Paul looked at his face in the mirror and went on shaving. He was expecting a visit, but he showed no sign of fear or the pangs of pain he felt gnawing at his bowels.

The boy put down the old enamel jug of water he was holding and went to the window. He looked out and then quickly stepped away from the opening.

‘Well, who is it?’ asked Paul, trying to sound more casual than he felt.

‘It is a jeep, Father. It’s the army. There are three soldiers. One is at the front door. He is speaking to Father Xavier. We must be careful, Father. They might have been drinking, and they do not drink wine with song, Father.’

‘Don’t worry, my boy. We have nothing to fear. It’s probably a routine visit. Perhaps Father Xavier will give them something and send them on their way. Now, more hot water please. I must finish my face.’

There was a soft knock at the door. And a brief conversation in Kingala. Paul did not understand what was being said. But he understood the wide-eyed look on the boy’s face. He turned to Paul and said, ‘I will pack some things for you. You must go with them.’

In the courtyard, Paul tried to insist on traveling in the seat next to the driver, but a young soldier slapped him across the face with an open hand and pointed to the rear of the jeep. Paul felt the blood in his mouth, but he turned the other cheek and climbed into the back of the vehicle. He sat on the floor. Two soldiers got in with him. One of them drew his finger across his throat and laughed. Paul did not think it was funny.

***

Four years earlier, Paul was told to meet a man in a black suit at the airport. Some request. All but impossible he thought as he went into the congested international terminal. But the man found him easily. No trouble at all, it seemed. Seek and ye shall find, he remembered, was one of his mother’s favourites.

The man immediately asked for Paul’s passport. He put it in his briefcase and handed Paul a new one.

‘It’s completely legal and legitimate. Which means it’ll take a little longer to work out where you’ve been, etcetera. Not a huge advantage, but one never knows. Don’t forget though, if they really want to find out about you, they will. On the other hand, maybe they won’t bother to check.’ The man stopped. He reflected on what he was about to say. ‘But you must be very careful. It’s always best to play it safe. Eternal vigilance and all that. Not everyone is on our side. In fact some people will be vehemently pitched against you. And where you’re going they may even try to kill you.’

Paul looked at the document. Where they got the photo from he had no idea. But it looked fairly recent.

‘Now listen carefully, because this is very important.’ The man handed Paul a brown envelope sealed with tape. ‘Don’t open it now. Only when you get to Bangala immigration. You’ll be in for a long wait. There will be only one official on duty. So, just as you get to the counter, take all the dollars out and put them inside your passport.’

They shook hands.

‘Ite in pace.’ Paul was surprised. He had not been addressed in Latin for a long, long time. ‘And may you have a long life.’

The man in black was soon lost in the crowded concourse, and Paul was on his own.

***

On a hot day in the rainy season, but with no sign of rain, the small aircraft circled Bangala’s airport. On a metal seat next to a window, Paul, his white knuckles clutching the armrests, looked down at the ribbon of runway in the land of his new posting. In the far distance he could just make out a large open pit mining operation. On the horizon, a ring of purple mountains reached out of the jungle marking the frontier. Despite their closeness to the equator, some of the higher peaks were white with snow.

A slight change of course brought the capital’s handful of skyscrapers came into view and Paul caught sight of the notorious haze of smoke that rose from the city whatever the season.

The pilot’s approach was complicated because of the proximity of a series of rocky outcrops. Years ago questions were asked about the airport’s location. Mist and smog were common, it was pointed out, and wasn’t it too close to the mountains? But no answers were forthcoming. Construction inevitably went on to completion but well behind time and millions over budget.

As they descended several military vehicles floated into view. Then the aircraft banked suddenly as it overshot the pockmarked tarmac landing strip. Father Paul instinctively clutched at his favourite silver rosary in his pocket. He looked down again and saw that many bomb craters still lined the edges of the black apron. Ten years after the end of the civil war they had still not been repaired.

The pilot had told Paul his conditions. He wanted full payment in advance. He said Paul must disembark immediately on landing.

When the plane stopped, the pilot left the engine running. He lowered a flimsy ladder onto the runway. As Paul touched the concrete, the metal frame disappeared back into the fuselage. He handed down Paul’s backpack. The door slammed and the aircraft did a U-turn. It stopped for a moment before accelerating down the concrete apron towards take off. It was soon a spec disappearing into the heat haze. Then it was gone, and Paul was alone in his new country.

***

It turned out to be exactly as the man had said. It was a long wait. Crowds of people sweating in the corrugated iron customs and immigration shed built onto one side of a concrete mass that was Bangala International. Piles of baggage. No signs to say what to do or where to go. And soldiers with guns everywhere.

There was only one man at the immigration desk and it took a long time to get to him. He looked bored even when he took the money out of Paul’s passport. ‘OK, pass through.’

‘No stamp?’ asked Paul. ‘No entry visa to say how long I can stay?’

‘Go! Nothing more.’

Paul went through into the filthy main building. He was met by a young man in a white robe with tribal scars on his face and perfect white teeth that positively beamed when he smiled. But he was not smiling now.

‘Father Paul?’ he asked and then introduced himself as Simon. ‘We must hurry. This is a bad place. There are many soldiers. Please come with me, and don’t look at or speak to anyone. Let us be like the prudent man who foresees evil and hides himself when the simple pass on and are punished.’

As they neared a splintered glass door, they passed a group of armed men in uniform several of who were sitting on their haunches smoking and drinking. One of them called out. Simon ignored the shout, and taking Paul by the elbow, led him towards the exit. But the sound of a bolt assembly being pulled back and a round being loaded into the firing chamber made Simon stop and look at the group of ragged men surrounded by empty plastic beer cartons. One of them got up and sauntered towards Simon and Paul. He spoke to Simon who answered in a language Paul didn’t understand. Suddenly the man raised his rifle and hit Simon in the chest with the butt. Simon collapsed and lay on the floor. Paul stepped forward and grabbed at the gun. This infuriated the man who turned on Paul shouting for his comrades to help. The man from immigration appeared suddenly. He was holding a short swagger stick. He hit the soldier across the face. They all obviously knew who he was, because they immediately backed off. The man he’d struck was fingering the bright pink weals on his ebony cheeks.

Paul helped Simon to his feet.

‘Very pleased to see you again,’ he said, attempting to make light of a difficult situation. ‘Thank you very much for interceding.’

The immigration officer stared at them. ‘Why don’t you just get out of here before you both get hurt?’ Then he walked off, glaring at the young soldiers and gesticulating at them with the rattan cane he’d just used with such effect. And with such authority.

***

Beneath the surface the mission station and school had changed little since its founding in the colonial days. Old fashioned or politically incorrect concepts and words like ‘assimilation’ and ‘tribal development’ were no longer used, but that was about it. Very few of the locals had the view that the missionaries had taken their land in exchange for a book - the concept had just not crossed their minds. Perhaps because they were too busy eking a living out of the soil.

This was the milieu Paul fitted into so well from the day he arrived and he took to his new teaching situation like a duck to water. Always willing to help his peers – and of course the pupils.

Paul was a very good teacher. He had a natural rapport with young people, in this case boys, because there were no girls at the school. He knew his subjects well, spoke fluent French and Spanish and had studied European and colonial history. He went to great lengths to ensure that the mission school boys liked his lessons.

One boy, Naftali, the son of a minor tribal elder, caught his eye. He was a bright kid. Very bright. And he spoke good English with hardly a trace of an accent, and he was handsome, self confident and amusing. He could be the class jester whenever he wanted to. He asked probing questions in class and was never slow to spark a debate on testy matters. Paul liked him a lot.

‘How can it be that our Bengala style of animism is not considered in the same league as European religions,’ asked Naftali. ‘Despite the fact that it’s been looked at from all angles and upside down by anthropologists for generations. Experts with their own religious leanings declare it to be pagan, and those who call themselves freethinkers give it disparaging labels like animism or totenism. At best it’s considered a cult – at worst it’s dismissed as primitive native mumbo jumbo.’

Paul realized he was on difficult ground on many occasions. But he tried. And he kept trying. In the end, he found this uphill battle to be gratifying and stimulating despite the deep-seated doubt and anxiety it sometimes provoked. He’d not thought about religion so much since he’d taken orders.

Sometimes the questions were even more difficult. Especially one that one occasion when he brought the house down. Paul was never able to work out if Naftali was being deliberately provocative or simply playing the clown.

‘Forgive me for being intrusive, Father Paul, but how can the church prognosticate on the matters that, in theory anyway, none of it’s adherents should know anything about. For example, Father, why are we taught that something we all do and which is so much fun is considered to be so bad? Why is such a simple pleasure condemned as a mortal sin?’

This question was like a runaway train, and, although Paul saw it coming, there was no way it was going to be stopped. Naftali saw to that.

‘So what we’d all like to know Father Paul, is how often do you yourself masturbate?’

***

It was obvious from the start that Naftali was extremely precocious. He was good at all subjects, and his mind was quick, alert and receptive. He grasped new ideas and he was open to new concepts. So of course the time came when it was obvious that Naftali would benefit from extra instruction.

Paul wrestled with the situation for a long time before making up his mind. But how to couch it? How to make the offer?

Finally Paul decided. It would be encouragement and more face to face contact. ‘Naftali, you’re a very bright boy. Here’s a key to the front door of the building. Feel free to use it any time at all. I am always available if you feel the need to talk. On any subject you might wish to discuss.’ After all Paul told himself, this was solely in the spirit of developing a young mind. So that’s how it started, regular visits from Naftali. Sometimes at night. And sometimes quite late.

***

They came to get him well after dark. A group of men in shabby clothes with sullen faces. He recognized most of them. Two uncles and four cousins. They all carried pangas. Several had been drinking. He recognized the slurred speech and bloodshot eyes. His father’s brothers did not speak to him, and the others refused even to look at him. They would not meet his gaze. His father said he must go with them. His mother was not present. This was mens’ business. He told Naftali it was to prepare for an initiation ceremony. A right of passage that all boys went through. Although he knew it was a lie, he realized that it was important to be seen to obey his father. So he went with them from the dark night into the darker forest. But he knew it was more than circumcision they had in mind.

***

When Paul was pushed into Major Kimani’s office, a saying his mother had used flashed into mind. Black as your hat, is what she would have said in those days when that kind of metaphor was tolerated. And that’s what he was, but with a mind as sharp as a razor. As Paul was about to find out.

‘Stop! Leave him alone,’ he shouted at his men. And, ‘My apologies, Father,’ to Paul. ‘I’m sure you’ve heard that old colonial expression, You can take an African out of the jungle, but you can’t take the jungle out of the African. Well, although it’s a racial slur, I know why the original settlers thought along those lines. But my people continue to exasperate me.

Although his mouth was badly swollen, Paul relaxed somewhat in the Major’s presence. He did not know why he’d been brought in but he knew he’d have to be on his toes when answering any questions. But he felt reasonably confident that he’d be able to work his way out of it. Because he’d been here before. The situation had not been quite the same. But very similar. Not in this country. Not in Africa. But in Ireland, it had been. Picked up and interrogated by Garda Siochana. And then exonerated and apologized to in a sudden change of direction. Or a change of heart.

Kimani spoke to the soldiers for a while in Kingala. He never raised his voice, but it was obvious he was livid with them. Then Paul heard a word that he recognized. An English word. It sent a chill down his spine. They were talking about a laptop. His laptop.

Then, obviously for Paul’s benefit, he switched to English as he bundled the soldiers out of the door. ‘Now get out. Go and do your jobs. Properly. Fetch his computer and bring it back here.’

***

An hour went by. They talked about all kinds of things. The politics of post colonialism. How global warming and overpopulation appeared to be the major burdens Africa would have to come to terms with in the twenty first century. The influence of various United Nations institutions and the role of NGO’s. Kimani pointed out what he saw as similarities between the Bangala tribe’s primitive religion and Paul’s. The influence of the spirit world and an entrenched heirachy of men with influence. The role played by magical or supernatural powers. Paul chose not to refute any of the hypotheses proposed by Kimani.

Eventually, there was a knock at the door, and a soldier came in with Paul’s laptop. Even at that stage, he felt reasonably confident. But not for long.

Major Kimani picked up the phone, and a few minutes later a man who was not in uniform entered the office. He spoke to the Major, but took no notice of Paul.

‘This is Philemon, our very own black faced white hat hacker. He’s rather uncommunicative as you can see, but he’s a whiz with computers. An expert with software. Even protected software. As you will see. And shortly, I hope.’

The major spoke to Philemon in Kebanga, but Paul recognised one word that caused a burning sensation to start churning in his stomach: photos.

Philemon went to work on the laptop. Then he pointed out something to the Major. He wrote a few notes on a piece of paper, and when he’d left the room, the major started scrolling through Paul’s files. Although Paul could not see the screen, he knew what the Major was looking at. Downloaded pictures that he kept in what, until now, he thought was a safe place.

The major switched off the laptop.

He got up and walked over to Paul. He deliberately stood over him. Up close. ‘Well, now that I’ve looked at your photos, I’ll show you a few of mine.’

He handed Paul a folder. Inside were five glossy colour photos. They were all of Naftali. He was naked. And covered in blood. With dozens of gaping panga wounds. And obviously dead.

***

A few days before Paul’s arrest, the old mission panel van stopped outside a large colonial era mansion surrounded by high walls. Some Bugambian soldiers sat outside a metal security door. Paul said good morning to them in Kiswahili which he knew they understood, but they ignored him. He pressed the intercom and the gate was opened by two much paler soldiers in battle dress. They said good morning politely and he stepped over a barrier into the embassy. They saw immediately that he was in a highly distressed state.

One of them escorted Paul to the Ambassador’s office where he was received by Sir Richard Campbell and his assistant.

‘I am sorry to trouble you, but I need to phone those one hundred and ten acres in Rome. And I need a secure line. Well, I know it’s not a line any more, but what I mean is your satellite phone. As per our arrangement.’

‘Certainly Father, it’s your right. We’re at your disposal. And we’re happy to honour our country’s agreement with yours. Well, I know it’s not really your country you’re phoning. I suppose it’s more like a… well, a club, perhaps. But you know what I mean, I’m sure.’

Paul telephoned the unlisted number. He was sweating profusely. The man who answered asked him a question. ‘Quo vadis?’

Paul searched through the dark labrynth of his mind for the code he’d been given so long ago. Eventually he dredged up the answer. A phrase he’d once been given to commit to memory. When he’d first had dealings with these people. Paul remembered. He gave the answer that was required. ‘Ad vitam aeternam.’

He was immediately put through to a man who called himself Gregory. He had an Irish accent. He told Paul to calm down. They’d arrange something. He said not to talk to anyone about anything. Not even at the school.

After Paul had made his call, he felt much better, and he left, thanking the Ambassador profusely. ‘Everything in order?’ Sir Nigel asked. ‘Nothing we can help with? At the school I mean.’

‘Thank you Sir Nigel, that’s very kind of you, but I think I’ve got it sorted now. The person I phoned was very helpful, and he knows what to do.’

During the whole exchange, Lionel had said nothing to the priest.

When Paul was gone, the Amabassador asked,‘Why so glum, Lionel? Something on your mind?’

‘No sir. Well, yes, I suppose so sir.’

‘Well, what is it. Cough up now. We’re both in this together. We have to know what each other thinks.’

‘I’m sorry sir, but it makes me sick. Why do we do it? Because this kind of thing sends the wrong message to everyone. About what we stand for. You know, white hats versus black hats. Just who’s side are we on exactly? After all, we know who he’s phoning and we know why. Two of the most corrupt governments in the world colluding with each other, and we simply stand by. I know the standard rationale is that there is a chance we can influence this one for the better. But the one he phoned… It’s a lost cause isn’t it? With a hold on millions of people around the world. It’s more corrupt than corrupt.’

‘Now, now, Lionel. I can see that you’re passionate about it. And distressed perhaps. But ours not to reason why.’

‘Yes sir, and into the valley of death rode all those who thought that.’

***

The taxi owner-driver couldn’t believe his luck. He’d never had a fare like this before. And, because the distance was so great, there was no problem with the deposit he’d asked his passenger for. Forty miles from the airport through built up areas to the start of the interstate road and two hundred and fifty miles on the Great Western Highway. Then another hundred or so, through several small spread out towns with unpronounceable names. Up into the mountains to the mission and the school. A very remote place indeed.

When the taxi had gone, Father James took him on a quick orientation tour of the institution.

‘Please don't hesitate to ask if you need anything, Father Paul. It's my job to make you welcome, remember. To take care of you. You have nothing to worry about here. We're a very closed community. Close-knit you might say. We have to be, being so far from everywhere. But this isolation brings with it certain benefits. Which I’m sure you’re aware of. Let's just say it's nothing like where you were before. No, not a bit like that at all.

‘You see, we've been here a long time, and we have established very good relationships with the authorities. It's a well developed partnership if you like. Right from the earliest days, we got things off on the right footing. And we’ve been at pains to keep it that way. So, no, there's no problem with the government. None at all. We're all in this together, if you like. A symbotic relationship the scientists would say.’ He smiled at what he saw as an amusing metaphor.

Then he went on. ‘And we do our best here at St Luke's. For the boys I mean. We believe that these boys should be treated with love and care.

‘So I'm sure you'll fit in. To be sure, I know you'll like it. We have a fine bunch of boys to take care of. You’re going to like them Father.’

The priest beckoned to a handsome boy in his late teens.

‘Oh, Martin, come over here for a moment, will you.’ Then he turned to Paul and added, ‘I’d like to introduce you to this young lad. He’s been assigned to help you. To show you around, that sort of thing.’

Paul shook hands with Martin who flashed back a disarming smile. He appeared to take little notice of what Father James was saying about him. Father James put his hand on Martin’s shoulder and shook it slightly.

‘Martin is, how do I put it? Well, he’s only very slightly…er…handicapped, as we used to say. Almost normal, one should say I suppose. But he comes from a desperate family. And he’s much better off here. Where we can look after him and give him all the love and care he needs.’

Paul picked up his rucksack and handed it to the boy. ‘Perhaps you can help me with this to start off with please Martin. Your first chore. It would be really helpful, because I’ve been carrying it around for a long, long time, it seems.’

Martin smiled at Paul. ‘Of course Father, I’m at your disposal.’

Pauls spirits rose. He felt elated. Exhilirated.

And why not? He was about to start a new life in a new world. And from what he’d been told, he had a feeling he’d be very happy in this strange but stimulating environment. Here where the faded sign on the wall proclaimed: St Luke’s School for Boys with Special Needs.

*****

Please let me know what you think - even if you don't like it.