5 The Root Canals of Alfred Archibald Jones and Samad Miah Iqbal -2

Till tell you something for nothing," said Archie, following Samad's eyes and catching the

church dome's reflection in them. "If I'd only had a few hours left, I wouldn't have spent it painting

pictures on the ceiling."

"Tell me," inquired Samad, irritated to have been dragged from his pleasant contemplation,

'what great challenge would you undertake in the hours before your death? Unravel Fermat's

Theorem, perhaps? Master Aristotelian philosophy?"

"What? Who? No ... I'd you know .. . make love to a lady," said Archie, whose inexperience

made him prudish. "You know for the last time."

Samad broke into a laugh. "For the first time, is more likely."

"Oh, go on, I'm serious."

"All right. And if there were no "ladies" in the vicinity?"

"Well, you can always," and here Archie went a pillar-box red, this being his own version of

cementing a friendship, 'slap the salami, as the GIs say!"

"Slap," repeated Samad contemptuously, 'the salami .. . and that is it, is it? The last thing you

would wish to do before you shuffled off this mortal coil is "slap your salami". Achieve orgasm."

Archie, who came from Brighton, where nobody ever, ever said words like orgasm, began to

convulse with hysterical embarrassment.

"Who is funny? Something is funny?" asked Samad, lighting a fag distractedly despite the heat,

his mind carried elsewhere by the morphine.

"Nobody," began Archie haltingly, 'nothing."

"Can't you see it, Jones? Can't you see .. ." Samad lay half in, half out of the doorway, his arms

stretched up to the ceiling, '.. . the intention? They weren't slapping their salamis spreading the

white stuff- they were looking for something a little more permanent."

"I can't see the difference, frankly," said Archie. "When you're dead, you're dead."

"Oh no, Archibald, no," whispered Samad, melancholic. "You don't believe that. You must live

life with the full knowledge that your actions will remain. We are creatures of consequence,

Archibald," he said, gesturing to the church walls. "They knew it. My great-grandfather knew it.

Some day our children will know it."

"Our children!" sniggered Archie, simply amused. The possibility of offspring seemed so distant.

"Our children will be born of our actions. Our accidents will become their destinies. Oh, the

actions will remain. It is a simple matter of what you will do when the chips are down, my friend.

The Root Canals of Alfred Archibald Jones and Samoa1 Miah Iqbal

When the fat lady is singing. When the walls are falling in, and the sky is dark, and the ground

is rumbling. In that moment our actions will define us. And it makes no difference whether you are

being watched by Allah, Jesus, Buddha, or whether you are not. On cold days a man can see his

breath, on a hot day he can't. On both occasions, the man breathes."

"Do you know," said Archie, after a pause, just before I left from Felixstowe I saw this new drill

they have now which breaks in two and you can put different things on the end spanner, hammer,

even a bottle-opener. Very useful in a tight spot, I'd imagine. I tell you, I'd bloody love one of

those."

Samad looked at Archie for a moment and then shook his head. "Come on, let's get inside. This

Bulgarian food. Turns my stomach over. I need a bit of sleep."

"You look pale," said Archie, helping him up.

"It's for my sins, Jones, for my sins and yet I am more sinned against than sinning." Samad

giggled to himself.

"You what?"

Archie bore the weight of Samad on one side as they walked inside.

"I have eaten something," said Samad, putting on a cut-glass English accent, 'that is about to

disagree with me."

Archie knew very well that Samad sneaked morphine from the cabinets, but he could see

Samad wanted him not to know, so "Let's get you into bed," was all he said, bringing Samad over to

a mattress.

"When this is over, we will meet again in England, OK?" said Samad, lunging towards his

mattress.

"Yes," said Archie, trying to imagine walking along Brighton pier with Samad.

"Because you are a rare Englishman, Sapper Jones. I consider you my friend."

Archie was not sure what he considered Samad, but he smiled gentry in recognition of the

sentiment.

"You will have dinner with my wife and I in the year 1975. When we are big-bellied men sitting

on our money-mountains. Somehow we will meet."

Archie, dubious of foreign food, smiled weakly.

"We will know each other throughout our lives!"

Archie laid Samad down, got himself a mattress and manoeuvred himself into a position for

sleep.

"Goodnight, friend," said Samad, pure contentment in his voice.

In the morning, the circus came to town. Woken by shouts and whooping laughter, Samad

struggled into uniform and wrapped one hand around his gun. He stepped into the sun-drenched

courtyard to find Russian soldiers in their dun-coloured uniforms leapfrogging over each other,

shooting tin cans off each other's heads and throwing knives at potatoes stuck on sticks, each potato

sporting a short black twig moustache. With all the exhaustion of revelation, Samad collapsed on to

the front steps, sighed, and sat with his hands on his knees, his face turned up towards the heat. A

moment later Archie tripped out, trousers half-mast, waving his gun, looking for the enemy, and

shot a frightened bullet in the air. The circus continued, without noticing. Samad pulled Archie

wearily by the trouser leg and gestured for him to sit down.

"What's going on?" demanded Archie, watery-eyed.

"Nothing. Nothing absolutely is going on. In fact, it's gone off."

"But these might be the men who '

"Look at the potatoes, Jones."

Archie looked wildly about him. "What have potatoes got to do with it?"

"They're Hitler potatoes, my friend. They are vegetable dictators. Ex-dictators." He pulled one

off its stick. "See the little moustaches? It's over, Jones. Someone has finished it for us."

Archie took the potato in his hand.

The Root Canals of Alfred Archibald Jones and Samad Miaft Iqbal

"Like a bus, Jones. We have missed the bloody war."

Archie shouted over to a lanky Russian in mid-spear of a Hitler potato. "Speak English? How

long has it been over?"

"The fighting?" he laughed incredulously. "Two weeks, comrade! You will have to go to Japan

if you want any more!"

"Like a bus," repeated Samad, shaking his head. A great fury was rising in him, bile blocking

his throat. This war was to have been his opportunity. He was expected to come home covered in

glory, and then to return to Delhi triumphant. When would he ever have another chance? There

were going to be no more wars like this one, everybody knew that. The soldier who had spoken to

Archie wandered over. He was dressed in the summer uniform of the Russians: the thin material,

high-necked collar and oversized, floppy cap; he wore a belt around a substantial waist, the buckle

of which caught the sun and shot a beam into Archie's eye. When the glare passed, Archie focused

on a big, open face, a squint in the left eye, and a head of sandy hair that struck off in several

directions. He was altogether a rather jolly apparition on a bright morning, and when he spoke it

was in a fluent, American-accented English that lapped at your ears like surf.

"The war has been over for two weeks and you were not aware?"

"Our radio ... it wasn't.. ." Archie's sentence gave up on itself.

The soldier grinned widely and shook each man's hand vigorously. "Welcome to peace-time,

gentlemen! And we thought the Russians were an ill-informed nation!" He laughed his big laugh

again. Directing his question to Samad, he asked, "Now, where are the rest of you?"

"There is no rest of us, comrade. The rest of the men in our tank are dead, and there is no sign

of our battalion."

"You're not here for any purpose?"

"Er .. . no," said Archie, suddenly abashed.

"Purpose, comrade," said Samad, feeling quite sick to his

stomach. "The war is over and so we find ourselves here quite without purpose." He smiled

grimly and shook the Russian's hand with his good hand. Tm going in. Sun," he said, squinting.

"Hurts my little peepers. It was nice to have met you."

"Yes, indeed," said the Russian, following Samad with his eyes until he had disappeared into

the recesses of the church. Then he turned his attention to Archie.

"Strange guy."

"Hmm," said Archie. "Why are you here?" he asked, taking a hand-rolled cigarette the Russian

offered him. It turned out the Russian and the seven men with him were on their way to Poland, to

liberate the work-camps one heard about sometimes in hushed tones. They had stopped here, west

of Tokat, to catch themselves a Nazi.

"But there's no one here, mate," said Archie affably. "No one but me and the Indian and some

old folk and children from the village. Everyone else is dead or fled."

"Dead or fled .. . dead or fled," said the Russian, highly amused, turning a matchstick over and

over between his finger and thumb. "Good phrase this .. . funny phrase. No, well, you see, I would

have thought the same, but we have reliable information from your own secret service, in fact that

there is a senior officer, at this very moment, hiding in that house. There." He pointed to the house

on the horizon.

"The Doctor? Some little lads told us about him. I mean, he must be shitting himself with fear if

you lot are after him," said Archie, by way of a compliment, 'but I'm sure they said he's just some

sick bloke; they called him Dr. Sick. Oi: he ain't English, is he? Traitor or something?"

"Hmm? Oh no. No, no, no, no. Dr. Marc-Pierre Perret. A young Frenchman. A prodigy Very

brilliant. He has worked in a scientific capacity for the Nazis since before the war. On the

sterilization programme, and later the euthanasia policy. Internal German matters. He was one of

the very loyal."

"Blimey," said Archie, wishing he knew what it all meant. "Wotchyagunnadoo?"

"Catch him and take him to Poland, where he will be dealt with by the authorities."

"Authorities," said Archie, still impressed but not really paying attention. "Blimey."

Archie's attention span was always short, and he had become distracted by the big, amiable

Russian's strange habit of looking in two directions at once.

"As the information we received was from your secret service and as you are the

highest-ranking officer here Captain .. . Captain .. ."

A glass eye. It was a glass eye with a muscle behind it that would not behave.

"I'm afraid I don't know your name or rank," said the Russian, looking at Archie with one eye

and at some ivy creeping round the church door with the other.

"Who? Me? Jones," said Archie, following the eye's revolving path: tree, potato, Archie, potato.

"Well, Captain Jones, it would be an honour if you would lead the expedition up the hill."

"Captain what? Blimey, no, you've got it arse-ways-up," said Archie, escaping the magnetic

force of the eye, and refocusing on himself, dressed in Dickinson-Smith's shiny buttoned uniform.

"I'm not a bloody '

The Lieutenant and I would be pleased to take charge," broke in a voice behind him. "We've

been out of the action for quite a while. It is about time we got back in the thick of it, as they say."

Samad had stepped out on to the front steps silently as a shadow, in another of

Dickinson-Smith's uniforms and with a cigarette hanging casually off his lower lip like a

sophisticated sentence. He was always a good-looking boy, and dressed in the shiny buttons of

authority this was only accentuated; in the sharp

daylight, framed by the church door, he cut quite an awesome figure.

"What my friend meant," said Samad in his most charming Anglo-Indian lilt, 'is that he is not

the bloody captain. I am the bloody captain. Captain Samad Iqbal."

"Comrade Nikolai Nick Pesotsky."

Samad and the Russian laughed together heartily, shook hands again. Samad lit a cigarette.

"He is my lieutenant. Archibald Jones. I must apologize if I behaved strangely earlier; the food's

been disagreeing with me. Now: we'll set off tonight, after dark shall we? Lieutenant?" said Samad,

looking at Archie with a private encoded intensity.

"Yes," blurted Archie.

"By the way, comrade," said Samad, striking a match off the wall and lighting up, "I hope you

do not mind if I ask is that a glass eye? It is most realistic."

"Yes! I purchased it in St. Petersburg. I was separated from my own in Berlin. It's a quite

incredible likeness, don't you think?"

The friendly Russian popped the eye out of its socket, and laid the slimy pearl in his palm for

Samad and Archie to see. When the war started, thought Archie, all us boys were crowded around a

fag-card of Grable's legs. Now the war's ended we're huddled round some poor bastard's eye.

Blimey.

For a moment the eye slid up and down each side of the Russian's hand, then came to a restful

halt in the centre of his longish, creased life-line. It looked up at Lieutenant Archie and Captain

Samad with an unblinking stare.

That evening Lieutenant Jones got his first taste of real war. In two army jeeps, Archie, the eight

Russians, Gozan the cafe owner and Gozan's nephew were led by Samad on a mission up the hill to

catch a Nazi. While the Russians swigged away at bottles of Sambucca until not a man among them

could remember the first

lines of their own national anthem, while Gozan sold roasted chicken pieces to the highest

bidders, Samad stood atop the first jeep, high as a kite on his white dust, his arms flailing around,

cutting the night into bits and pieces, screaming instructions that his battalion were too drunk to

listen to and he himself was too far gone to understand.

Archie sat at the back of the second jeep, quiet, sober, frightened and in awe of his friend.

Archie had never had a hero: he was five when his father went out for a proverbial pack of fags and

neglected to return, and, never being much of a reader, the many awful books written to provide

young men with famous heroes had never crossed his path no swashbucklers, no one eyed pirates,

no fearless rapscallions for Archie. But Samad, as he stood up there with his shiny officer buttons

glistening in the moonlight like coins in a wishing-well, had struck the seventeen year-old Archie

full square, an uppercut to the jaw that said: here is a man for whom no life-path is too steep. Here

was a raving lunatic standing on a tank, here was a friend, here was a hero, in a form Archie had

never expected. Three quarters of the way up, however, the ad hoc road the tanks had been

following thinned unexpectedly, forcing the tank to brake suddenly and throwing the heroic Captain

in a backward somersault over the tank, arse in the air.

"No one comes here for long, long time," said Gozan's nephew, munching on a chicken bone,

philosophically. "This?" He looked at Samad (who had landed next to him) and pointed to the jeep

they sat in. "No way."

So Samad gathered his now paralytic battalion around him and began the march up the

mountain in search of a war he could one day tell his grandchildren about, as his great-grandfather's

exploits had been told to him. Their progress was hampered by large clods of earth, torn from parts

of the hill by the reverberation of past bombs and left at intervals along the pathway. From many,

the roots of trees shot up impotently and languished in the air; to get by, it was necessary for them

to be hacked away with the bayonets of the Russian guns.

"Look like hell!" snorted Gozan's nephew, drunkenly scrambling through one such set of roots.

"Everything look like hell!"

"Pardon him. He feel strongly because he is young. But it is the truth. It was not how do you

say not argument of ours, Lieutenant Jones," said Gozan, who had been bribed two pairs of boots to

keep quiet about his friends' sudden rise in rank. "What do we have to do with all this?" He wiped a

tear, half inebriated, half overcome with emotion. "What we have to do with? We peaceful people.

We don't want be in war! This hill once beautiful. Flowers, birds, they were singing, you

understand? We are from the East. What have the battles of the West to do with us?"

Instinctively, Archie turned to Samad, expecting one of his speeches; but before Gozan had

even finished, Samad had suddenly picked up his pace, and within a minute was running, pushing

ahead of the intoxicated Russians, who were flailing about with their bayonets. Such was his speed

that he was soon out of sight, turning a blind corner and disappearing into the swallowing night.

Archie dithered for a few minutes, but then loosened himself from Gozan's nephew's merciless grip

(he was just embarking upon the tale of a Cuban prostitute he had met in Amsterdam) and began to

run to where he had last seen the flicker of a silver button, another one of the sharp turnings that the

mountain path took whenever it liked.

"Captain Ick-Ball! Wait, Captain Ick-Ball!"

He ran on, repeating the phrase, waving his torch, which did nothing but light up the

undergrowth in increasingly bizarre anthropomorphisms; here a man, here a woman on her knees,

here three dogs howling at the moon. He spent some time like this, stumbling about in the darkness.

"Put your light on! Captain Ick-Ball! Captain Ick-Ball!"

No answer.

no

"Captain Ick-Ball!"

"Why do you call me that," said a voice, close, on his right, 'when you know I am no such

thing?"

"Ick-Ball?" and as he asked the question, Archie's flash stumbled upon him, sitting on a boulder,

head in hands.

"Why1 mean, you are not really so much of an idiot, are you

you do know, I presume you know that I am in fact a private of His Majesty's Army?"

"Course. We have to keep it up, though, don't we? Our cover, and that."

"Our cover? Boy." Samad chuckled to himself in a way that struck Archie as sinister, and when

he lifted his head his eyes were both bloodshot and on the brink of tears. "What do you think this is?

Are we playing silly-buggers?

"No, I... are you all right, Sam? You look out of sorts."

Samad was dimly aware that he looked out of sorts. Earlier that evening he had put a tiny line

of the white stuff in the cup of each eyelid. The morphine had sharpened his mind to a knife edge

and cut it open. It had been a luscious, eloquent high while it lasted, but then the thoughts thus

released had been left to wallow in a pool of alcohol and had landed Samad in a malevolent trough.

He saw his reflection this evening, and it was ugly. He saw where he was at the farewell party for

the end of Europe

and he longed for the East. He looked down at his useless hand with its five useless appendages;

at his skin, burnt to a chocolate-brown by the sun; he saw into his brain, made stupid by stupid

conversation and the dull stimuli of death, and longed for the man he once was: erudite, handsome,

light-skinned Samad Miah; so precious his mother kept him in from the sun's rays, sent him to the

best tutors and covered him in linseed oil twice a day.

"Sam? Sam? You don't look right, Sam. Please, they'll be here in a minute .. . Sam?"

Self-hatred makes a man turn on the first person he sees. But

in

it was particularly aggravating to Samad that this should be Archie, who looked down at him

with a gentle concern, with a mix of fear and anger all mingled up in that shapeless face so

ill-equipped to express emotion.

"Don't call me Sam," he growled, in a voice Archie did not recognize, Tm not one of your

English matey-boys. My name is Samad Miah Iqbal. Not Sam. Not Sammy. And not God forbid

Samuel. It is Samad."

Archie looked crestfallen.

"Well, anyway," said Samad, suddenly officious and wishing to avoid an emotional scene, "I am

glad you are here because I wanted to tell you that I am the worse for wear, Lieutenant Jones. I am,

as you say, out of sorts. I am very much the worse for wear."

He stood, but then stumbled on to his boulder once more.

"Get up," hissed Archie between his teeth. "Get up. What's the matter with you?"

"It's true, I am very much the worse for the wearing. But I have been thinking," said Samad,

taking his gun in his good hand.

"Put that away."

"I have been thinking that I am buggered, Lieutenant Jones. I see no future. I realize this may

come as a surprise to you my upper lip, I'm afraid is not of the required stiffness but the fact

remains. I see only '

"Put that away."

"Blackness. I'm a cripple, Jones." The gun did a merry dance in his good hand as he swung

himself from side to side. "And my faith is crippled, do you understand? I'm fit for nothing now,

not even Allah, who is all powerful in his mercy. What am I going to do, after this war is over, this

war that is already over what am I going to do? Go back to Bengal? Or to Delhi? Who would have

such an Englishman there? To England? Who would have such an Indian? They promise us

independence in exchange for the men we were. But it is a devilish deal. What should I do?

The Root Canals of Alfred Archibald Jones and Samoa1 Mtak Iqbal

Stay here? Go elsewhere? What laboratory needs one-handed men? What am I suited for?"

"Look, Sam .. . you're making a fool of yourself."

"Really? And is that how it is to be, friend?" asked Samad, standing, tripping over a stone and

colliding back into Archie. "In one afternoon I promote you from Private Shitbag to lieutenant of

the British army and this is my thanks? Where are you in my hour of need? Gozan!" he shouted to

the fat cafe owner, who was struggling round the bend, at the very back, sweating profusely.

"Gozan my fellow Muslim in Allah's name, is this right?"

"Shut up," snapped Archie. "Do you want everyone to hear you? Put it down."

Samad's gun arm shot out of the darkness and wrapped itself around Archie's neck, so the gun

and both their heads were pressed together in an odious group hug.

"What am I good for, Jones? If I were to pull this trigger, what will I leave behind? An Indian, a

turncoat English Indian with a limp wrist like a faggot and no medals that they can ship home with

me." He let go of Archie and grabbed his own collar instead.

"Have some of these, for God's sake," said Archie, taking three from his lapel and throwing

them at him. "I've got loads."

"And what about that little matter? Do you realize we're deserters? Effectively deserters? Step

back a minute, my friend, and look at us. Our captain is dead. We are dressed in his uniforms,

taking control of officers, men of higher rank than ourselves, and how? By deceit. Doesn't that

make us deserters?"

"The war was over! I mean, we made an effort to contact the rest."

"Did we? Archie, my friend, did we? Really? Or did we sit around on our arses like deserters,

hiding in a church while the world was falling apart around our ears, while men were dying in the

fields?"

They tussled a little as Archie tried to get the gun from him, Samad lashing out at him with not

inconsiderable strength. In the distance, Archie could see the rest of their motley crew turning the

corner, a great grey mass in the twilight, pitching from side to side, singing "Lydia the Tattooed

Lady'.

"Look, keep your voice down. And calm down," said Archie, releasing him.

"We're impostors; turncoats in other people's coats. Did we do our duty, Archibald? Did we? In

all honesty? I have dragged you down with me, Archie, and for that I am sorry. The truth is, this

was my fate. This was all written for me long ago."

O Lydia O Lydia O have you met Lydia O Lydia the Taaaatooooed Lady!

Samad put the pistol absent-mindedly in his mouth and cocked the trigger.

"Ick-Ball, listen to me," said Archie. "When we were in that tank with the Captain, with Roy

and the rest."

O Lydia the Queen of tattoos! On her back is the battle of Waterloo.. .

"You were always going on about being a hero and all that like your great-uncle whatsisname."

Beside it the wreck of the Hesperus too ... Samad took the gun out of his mouth.

"Pande," he said. "Great-grandfather," and put the gun back in.

"And here it is a chance it's staring you in the face. You didn't want to miss the bus and we're

not going to, not if we do this properly. So don't be such a silly fucker about it."

And proudly above waves the red, white and bloooo,

You can learn a lot from Lydia!

"Comrade! What in God's name."

Without them noticing, the friendly Russian had ambled up behind them and was looking in

horror at Samad, sucking his gun like a lollipop.

"Cleaning it," stuttered Samad, dearly shaken, removing the gun from his mouth.

That's how they do it," Archie explained, 'in Bengal."

The war that twelve men expected to find in the grand old house on the hill, the war that Samad

wanted pickled in ajar to hand to his grandchildren as a souvenir of his youth, was not there. Dr.

Sick was as good as his name, sitting in an armchair in front of a wood-burning fire. Sick. Huddled

in a rug. Pale. Very thin. In no uniform, just an open-neck white shirt and some dark coloured

trousers. He was a young man too, not over twenty-five, and he did not flinch or make any protest

when they all burst in, guns at the ready. It was as if they had just dropped in on a pleasant French

farmhouse, making the faux pas of coming without invitation and bringing guns to the dinner table.

The room was lit entirely by gas lamps in their tiny lady-shaped casings, and the light danced up

the wall, illuminating a set of eight paintings that showed a continuous scene of Bulgarian

countryside. In the fifth one Samad recognized his church, a blip of sandy paint on the horizon. The

paintings were placed at intervals and wrapped round the room in a panoramic. Untrained and in a

mawkish attempt at the modern style, a ninth sat a little too close to the fireplace on an easel, the

paint still wet. Twelve guns were pointed at the artist. And when the Artist-Doctor turned to face

them, he had what looked like blood-tinged tears rolling down his face.

Samad stepped forward. He had had a gun in his mouth and was emboldened by it. He had

eaten an absurd amount of morphine, fallen through the hole morphine creates, and survived. You

are never stronger, thought Samad as he approached the Doctor, than when you land on the other

side of despair.

"Are you Dr. Ferret?" he demanded, making the Frenchman wince at the anglicized

pronunciation, sending more bloody tears down his cheeks. Samad kept his gun pointed at him.

"Yes, I am he."

"What is that? That in your eyes?" asked Samad.

"I have diabetic retinopathy, monsieur."

"What?" asked Samad, still pointing the gun, determined not to undermine his moment of glory

with an unheroic medical debate.

"It means that when I do not receive insulin, I excrete blood, my friend. Through my eyes. It

makes my hobby," he gestured at the paintings that surrounded him, 'not a little difficult. There

were to be ten. A i8o-degree view. But it seems you have come to disturb me." He sighed and stood

up. "So. Are you going to kill me, my friend?"

"I'm not your friend."

"No, I do not suppose that you are. But is it your intention to kill me? Pardon me if I say you do

not look old enough to squash flies." He looked at Samad's uniform. "Mon Dieu, you are very

young to have got so far in life, Captain." Samad shifted uncomfortably, catching Archie's look of

panic in the corner of his vision. Samad placed his feet a little further apart and stood firm.

"I'm sorry if I seem tiresome on this point but ... is it your intention, then, to kill me?"

Samad's arm stayed perfectly still, the gun unmoving. He could kill him, he could kill him in

cold blood. Samad did not need the cover of darkness or the excuse of war. He could kill him and

they both knew it. The Russian, seeing the look in the Indian's eye, stepped forward. "Pardon me,

Captain."

Samad remained silent, facing the Doctor, so the Russian stepped forward. "We do not have

intentions in this matter," said the Russian, addressing Dr. Sick. "We have orders to bring you to

Poland."

"And there, will I be killed?"

"That will be for the proper authorities to decide

The Doctor cocked his head at an angle and narrowed his

eyes. "It is just ... it is just a thing a man likes to be told. It is curiously significant to a man to

be told. It is only polite, at the very least. To be told whether he shall die or whether he shall be

spared."

"That will be for the proper authorities to decide," repeated the Russian.

Samad walked behind the Doctor and stuck the gun into the back of his head. "Walk," he said.

"For the proper authorities to decide .. . Isn't peacetime civilized?" remarked Dr. Sick, as a

group of twelve men, all pointing guns at his head, led him out of the house.

Later that night, at the bottom of the hill, the battalion left Dr. Sick handcuffed to the jeep and

adjourned to the cafe.

"You play poker?" asked a very merry Nikolai, addressing Samad and Archie as they entered the room.

"I play anything, me," said Archie.

The more pertinent question," said Samad, taking his seat with a wry smile, 'is: do I play it well?"

"And do you, Captain Iqbal?"

"Like a master," said Samad, picking up the cards dealt to him and fanning them out in his one hand.

"Well," said Nikolai, pouring more Sambucca for everyone, 'since our friend Iqbal is so

confident, it may be best to start relatively small. We'll start with cigarettes and let's see where that

takes us."

Cigarettes took them to medals, which took them to guns, which took them to radios, which

took them to jeeps. By midnight, Samad had won three jeeps, seven guns, fourteen medals, the land

attached to Gozan's sister's house, and an IOU for four horses, three chickens and a duck.

"My friend," said Nikolai Pesotsky, his warm, open manner replaced by an anxious gravity.

"You must give us a chance to

win back our possessions. We cannot possibly leave things as they are."

"I want the Doctor," said Samad, refusing to catch the eye of Archibald Jones, who sat

open-mouthed and drunk in his chair. "In exchange for the things I have won."

"What on earth for?" said Nikolai, astonished, leaning back in his chair. "What possible use '

"My own reasons. I wish to take him tonight and not to be followed, and for the incident to go unreported."

Nikolai Pesotsky looked at his hands, looked round the table, and then at his hands once more.

Then he reached into his pocket and threw Samad the keys.

Once outside, Samad and Archie got into the jeep containing Dr. Sick, who was asleep on the

dashboard, started the engine and drove into the blackness.

Thirty miles from the village, Dr. Sick woke up to a hushed argument concerning his imminent future.

"But why? hissed Archie.

"Because, from my point of view, the very problem is that we need blood on our hands, you see?

As an atonement. Do you not see, Jones? We have been playing silly buggers in this war, you and I.

There is a great evil that we have failed to fight and now it is too late. Except we have him, this

opportunity. Let me ask you: why was this war fought?"

"Don't talk nonsense," blustered Archie, in lieu of an answer.

"So that in the future we may be free. The question was always: What kind of a world do you

want your children to grow up in? And we have done nothing. We are at a moral crossroads."

"Look, I don't know what you're on about and I don't want to know," snapped Archie. "We're

going to dump this one' he motioned to the semi-conscious Sick 'at the first barracks we come

across, then you and me are going our separate ways and that's the only crossroads I care about."

"What I have realized, is that the generations," Samad continued as they sped through miles and

miles of unchanging flatlands, 'they speak to each other, Jones. It's not a line, life is not a line this is

not palm-reading it's a circle, and they speak to us. That is why you cannot read fate; you must

experience it." Samad could feel the morphine bringing the information to him again all the

information in the universe and all the information on walls in one fantastic revelation.

"Do you know who this man is, Jones?" Samad grabbed the Doctor by the back of his hair and

bent his neck over the back seat. "The Russians told me. He's a scientist, like me but what is his

science? Choosing who shall be born and who shall not breeding people as if they were so many

chickens, destroying them if the specifications are not correct. He wants to control, to dictate the

future. He wants a race of men, a race of indestructible men, that will survive the last days of this

earth. But it cannot be done in a laboratory. It must be done, it can only be done, with faith! Only

Allah saves! I am no religious man1 have never possessed the strength but I am not fool enough to

deny the truth!"

"Ah, now, but you said, didn't you, you said it wasn't your argument. On the hill that's what you

said," gabbled Archie, excited to have caught Samad out on something. "So, so, so so what if this

bloke does .. . whatever he does you said that was our problem, us in the West, that's what you

said."

Dr. Sick, watery eye-blood now streaming like rivers, was still being held by the hair by Samad

and was gagging, now, on his own tongue.

"Watch out, you're choking him," said Archie.

"What of it!" yelled Samad into the echoless landscape. Then like him believe that living organs

should answer to design. They worship the science of the body, but not who has given it to us! He's

a Nazi. The worst kind."

"But you said' Archie pressed on, determined to make his

point. "You said that was nothing to do with you. Not your argument. If anyone in this jeep

should have a score to settle with mad Jerry here'

"French. He's French."

"All right, French well if anyone's got a score to settle it'd probably have to be me. It's

England's future we've been fighting for. For England. You know," said Archie, searching his brain,

'democracy and Sunday dinners, and .. . and .. . promenades and piers, and bangers and mash and

the things that are ours. Not yours."

"Precisely," said Samad.

"You what?"

tom must do it, Archie."

"I should cocoa!"

"Jones, your destiny is staring you in the face and here you are slapping the salami," said

Samad with a nasty laugh in his voice, and still holding the Doctor by the hair across the front seat.

"Steady on," said Archie, trying to keep an eye on the road, as Samad bent the Doctor's neck

almost to breaking point. "Look, I'm not saying that he doesn't deserve to die."

"Then do it. Do it."

"But why's it so bloody important to you that I do it? You know, I've never killed a man not like

that, not face to face. A man shouldn't die in a car ... I can't do that."

Jones, it is simply a question of what you will do when the chips are down. This is a question

that interests me a great deal. Call tonight the practical application of a long-held belief. An

experiment, if you like."

"I don't know what you're talking about."

"I want to know what kind of a man you are, Jones. I want to know what you are capable of.

Are you a coward, Jones?"

Archie brought the jeep to a shattering halt.

"You're bloody asking for it, you are."

"You don't stand for anything, Jones," continued Samad. "Not

for a faith, not for a politics. Not even for your country. How your lot ever conquered my lot is

a bloody mystery. You're a cipher, no?"

"A what?"

"And an idiot. What are you going to tell your children when they ask who you are, what you

are? Will you know? Will you ever know?"

"What are you that's so bloody fantastic?"

"I'm a Muslim and a Man and a Son and a Believer. I will survive the last days."

"You're a bloody drunkard, and you're you're drugged, you're drugged tonight, aren't you?"

"I am a Muslim and a Man and a Son and a Believer. I will survive the last days," Samad

repeated, as if it were a chant.

"And what the bloody hell does that mean?" As he shouted, Archie made a grab for Dr. Sick.

Pulled his now blood-covered face near his own until their noses touched.

"You," Archie barked. "You're coming with me."

"I would but, monsieur .. ." The Doctor held up his handcuffed wrists.

Archie wrestled them open with the rusty key, pulled the Doctor out of the jeep and started

walking away from the road into the darkness, a gun pointed at the base point of Dr. Marc-Pierre

Perret's cranium.

"Are you going to kill me, boy?" asked Dr. Sick as they walked.. "Looks like it, dun nit said

Archie. "May I plead for my life?" "If you like," said Archie, pushing him on.

Sitting in the jeep, some five minutes later, Samad heard a shot ring out. It made him jump. He

slapped dead an insect that had been winding its way round his wrist, looking for enough flesh to

bite. Lifting his head, he saw in front of him that Archie

was returning: bleeding and limping badly, made visible, then invisible, illuminated, obscured,

as he wound in and out of the headlights. He looked his tender age, the lamps making his blond hair

translucent, his moon-shaped face lit up like a big baby, head first, entering life.

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