of beer, boss. Thought we might get thirsty going home."

"Good for you!" grinned Bruce. "Put them in a safe place and don't drink

them all before I get back."

"I'll save you one or two," promised Ruffy.

"Come along, tiger girl," and Bruce led Shermaine out to the Ford.

She sat closer to him than the previous day, but with her legs curled up

under her, as before. As they crossed the causeway she lit two

cigarettes and passed one to him.

"I'll be glad to leave this place," she said, looking out across the

swamp with the mist lifting sluggishly off it in the dawn, hanging in

grey shreds from the fluffy tops of the papyrus grass.

"I've hated it here since Paul died. I hate the swamp the

mosquitoes and the jungle all around. I'm glad we're going." "Where will

you go?" Bruce asked.

"I haven't thought about it. Back to Belgium, I suppose.

Anywhere away from the Congo. Away from this heat to a country where you

can breathe. Away from the disease and the fear. Somewhere so that I

know tomorrow I will not have to run. Where human life has meaning, away

from the killing and the burning and the rape." She drew

on her cigarette almost fiercely. staring ahead at the green wall of the

forest.

"I was born in Africa," said Bruce. "In the time when the judge's gavel

was not the butt of an FN rifle, before you registered your vote with :,

burst of gunfire." He spoke softhe with regret. "In the time before the

hatred. But now I don't know. I haven't thought much about the future

either." He was silent for a while. They reached the turn-off to the

mission and he swung the Ford into it "it has all changed so quickly; I

hadn't realized how quickly until :I came here to the Congo."

"Are you going to stay here, Bruce? I mean, stay here in the Congo?"

"No," he said, "I've had enough. I don't even know what

I'm fighting for."

He threw the butt of his cigarette out of the window.

Ahead of them were the mission buildings.

Bruce parked the car outside the hospital buildings and they sat

together quietly.

"There must be some other land," he whispered, "and if there is

I'll find it." He opened the door and stepped out. Shermaine slid across

the seat under the wheel and joined him. They walked side by

side to the hospital; her hand brushed his and he caught it, held it and

felt the pressure of his fingers returned by hers. She was taller than

his shoulder, but not much.

Mike Haig and Father Ignatius were together in the women's ward, too

engrossed to hear the Ford arrive.

"Good morning, Michael," called Bruce. "What's the fancy dress for?"

Mike Haig looked up and grinned. "Morning, Bruce.

Hello, Shermaine." Then he looked down at the faded brown cassock he

wore.

"Borrowed it from Ignatius. A bit long in the leg and tight round the

waist, but less out of place in a sick ward than the accoutrements

of war."

"It suits you, Doctor Mike," said Shermaine.

"Nice to hear someone call me that again." The smile spread all over

Haig's face. "I suppose you want to see your baby, Shermaine?"

"Is he well?"

"Mother and child both doing fine," he assured her and led Shermaine

down between the row of beds, each with a black woolly head on the

pillow and big curious eyes following their progress.

"May I pick him up?"

"He's asleep, Shermaine."

"Oh, please!"

"I doubt it will kill him. Very well, then."

"Bruce, come and look.

Isn't he a darling?" She held the tiny black body to her chest and the

child snuffled, its mouth automatically starting to search. Bruce leaned

forward to peer at it.

"Very nice," he said and turned to Ignatius. "I have those supplies I

promised you. Will you send an orderly to get them out of the car?" Then

to Mike Haig, "You'd better get changed, Mike. We're all ready to

leave." Not looking at Bruce, fiddling with the stethoscope round his

neck, Mike shook his head. "I don't think I'll be going with you,

Bruce." Surprised, Bruce faced him.

"What?"

"I think I'll stay on here with Ignatius. He has offered me a job."

"You must be mad, Mike."

"Perhaps," agreed Haig and took the infant from Shermaine, placed it

back in the cradle beside its mother and tucked the sheet in round its

tiny body, "and then again, perhaps not." He straightened up and waved a

hand down the rows of occupied beds. "There's plenty to do here, that

you must admit." Bruce stared helplessly at him and then appealed to

Shermaine.

"Talk him out of it. Perhaps you can make him see the futility of it."

Shermaine shook her head. "No, Bruce, I will not."

"Mike, listen to reason, for God's sake. You can't stay here in this

disease-ridden backwater. I'll walk out to the car with you, Bruce. I

know you're in a hurry. He led them out through the side door and stood

by the

driver's window of the Ford while they climbed in. Bruce extended his

hand and Mike took it, gripping hard.

"Cheerio, Bruce. Thanks for everything."

"Cheerio, Mike. I suppose you'll be taking orders and having yourself

made into a fully licensed dispenser of salvation?"

"I don't know about that, Bruce. I doubt it. I just want another chance

to do the only work I know. I just want a last-minute tally to reduce

the formidable score that's been chalked up against me so far." report

you

"missing, believed killed" - throw your uniform in the river," said

Bruce.

"I'll do that." Mike stepped back. "Look after each other, you two."

"I don't know what you mean," Shermaine informed him primly, trying not

to smile.

"I'm an old dog, not easy to fool," said Mike. "Go to it with a will."

Bruce let out the clutch and the Ford slid forward.

"God speed, my children." That smile spread all over Mike's face as he

waved.

"Au revoir, Doctor Michael."

"So long, Mike." Bruce watched him in the rear-view mirror, tall in his

ill-fitting cassock, something proud and worthwhile in his stance. He

waved once more and then turned and hurried back into the hospital.

Neither of them spoke until they had almost reached the main road.

Shermaine nestled softly against Bruce, smiling to herself, looking

ahead down the tree-lined passage of the road.

"He's a good man, Bruce."

"Light me a cigarette, please, Shermaine." He didn't want to talk about

it. It was one of those things that can only be made grubby by words.

Slowing for the intersection, Bruce dropped her into second gear,

automatically glancing to his left to make sure the main road was clear

before turning into it.

"Oh my God!" he gasped.

"What is it, Bruce?" Shermaine looked up with alarm from the cigarette

she was lighting.

"Look! " A hundred yards up the road, parked close to the edge of the

forest, was a convoy of six large vehicles. The first five were heavy

canvas-canopied lorries painted dull military olive, the sixth was a