Cleopatra's Sister Read online

  He took her hands again. ‘No, you’re not.’

  In the late morning a small child stricken with a bronchial infection took a turn for the worse. Molly Wright argued with the duty officer for the provision of a doctor. The initial scowling intransigence gave way, rather unexpectedly, to grudging agreement and some hours later a taciturn but apparently efficient man arrived, equipped with antibiotics and a further range of medication. He attended to the child and took a look at other ailing members of the group. His demeanour was of brisk professional competence tinged with unease; conversational overtures of any kind were rejected. It was clear that he would have preferred not to be saddled with this duty, and wished to be done with it as quickly as possible.

  ‘Anyway,’ said Molly. ‘That child should recover now. Them allowing the man to come has to be a good sign, doesn’t it?’

  ‘All it means is that they don’t want us to expire of our own accord,’ said James Barrow. ‘They have something else in mind for us, maybe.’

  Molly exploded, uncharacteristically. ‘Don’t bloody well talk like that! It’s irresponsible and defeatist!’

  Such flare-ups were quite common now. The indifference or superficial politeness due to transient strangers had given way to the charged attention bestowed upon associates. There were sudden rows, and equally sudden reconciliations. Everyone seemed to regress in their behaviour: the convent was like some grotesque allegory of the workplace, the school playground. Even those who had barely spoken to one another knew each other intimately, it seemed. There were undefined alliances, irrational hostilities. Lucy knew that, come what may, she would remember each of these people, always: this woman’s speech pattern, that man’s gesture, a child’s expression.

  In the afternoon one of the flight crew devised a game for the children involving a predatory hunter and hectic flights to safe bases in the four corners of the courtyard. A number of the adults were drawn in, and there was a brief period of febrile gaiety. The guards observed, impassive. And then the thing had run its course and a kind of reactionary gloom descended. The evening meal was delivered. Darkness fell. There would be another night, with all its implications by way of insomnia and solitary contemplation. For most people this was the grimmest period of the day, and they would fight it by postponing for as long as possible the moment of going up to the dormitories. The courtyard would fill up with drifting figures and groups making desultory conversation. Sometimes the guards would become impatient and take a hand, driving people within and up the stairs.

  And thus it was that when the soldiers first erupted among them, shouting incomprehensible orders, no one at first sensed anything out of the ordinary. Hugh Calloway said, ‘They’re imposing the curfew. All right, you bastards, all right …’ Lucy steeled herself to go up to that bed, that room, those interminable hours. And then she saw suddenly that this was not normal, not routine.

  She said to Howard, ‘These aren’t the usual guys. They’re a different lot.’

  ‘So they are. A new shift, I suppose.’

  ‘I don’t think so. Look, they’re making everybody come outside, not go in.’

  For this, they now saw, was the purpose of the shouted orders. Those still in the refectory were being hustled out into the courtyard. There was further shouting from within. People who had already gone upstairs reappeared, half-dressed and anxious, carrying bleary-eyed children.

  ‘Oh, God …’ said Molly. ‘Now what? At this hour …’

  Others were speculating excitedly that this was it, this was the end, they’re sending us home. One of the soldiers had spoken of buses waiting. But this optimism was soon quenched as a further intention became apparent. People were being directed to go into the refectory or remain outside in the courtyard. There was a system.

  ‘They’re separating men and women,’ said Lucy. ‘I don’t like this.’

  There was a soldier heading for them as she spoke.

  ‘Go, go … Women go that way.’

  ‘No,’ she said. ‘Why? Where are we going?’

  Howard had taken her arm. He addressed the soldier. ‘Look,’ he began, propitiating, reasonable. ‘Look, please tell us why it’s necessary to …’

  ‘Go, go …’ The man shoved him back, herding Lucy away. Elsewhere there was a thwack, a thump, a sharp cry, shouts. A child screaming. Lucy heard Howard say, ‘Don’t worry … I’ll see you soon.’ She looked back and saw him being pushed towards the wall by another soldier. She saw his face, over the man’s shoulder, looking after her, his features caught in a shaft of light from the windows of the convent. The moment seemed to hang there – Howard gazing across at her, everyone milling about, a confusion on the edges of her vision where a person was on the ground, someone was crying out hysterically … And then she was at the doors of the refectory, with Denise, with the airline girls, they were being swept within, and she couldn’t see Howard any more. Just dark figures moving about out there.

  Paula was saying, ‘They knocked that fellow down, did you see? He was trying to go with his wife and they just knocked him down.’ There was an officer standing at the door, guards and soldiers everywhere. Molly Wright was talking to the officer, then she was coming round telling everyone that they were to get their belongings, evidently they were being taken somewhere else. The girl whose husband had been hit was in tears. Molly was trying to calm people down: ‘The assumption is that they’re bringing the men along separately. Heaven knows why. The best thing to do is to go along with it, rather than anyone else get hurt.’

  She went up to the dormitory and pushed her things into her flight bag. Everyone else was doing the same. There was little talk. Someone said, ‘At least we’re seeing the back of this place …’ One of the nuns muttered continuously: ‘Dear Lord … ’ Lucy heard, ‘Blessed Father …’ She pulled back the shutter and looked into the courtyard. She could see nothing except for a dark mass of figures at one end, and soldiers moving about. No faces. No Howard. She turned away and went downstairs with the others.

  There were two minibuses. They got into them. Then the officer came round with a list, checking names.

  Lucy said, ‘Where are we going?’

  ‘Soon will be information.’

  ‘When are the men coming?’

  ‘Soon.’

  His face was unfamiliar – this was not one of the regular guards. He looked blankly at her as he ticked her name on the list.

  ‘That won’t do,’ she said. Loudly, violently. Along the coach, heads swung round. The man ignored her, turning to Molly, in the seat behind. ‘Name?’

  Lucy stood up. She blocked his way. ‘You know where we’re going. You must do. You know where they’ve taken the others. Tell us.’

  ‘Information later.’

  ‘Information now!’

  He pushed past her, treading on her foot as he did so. She sat down. When he came back along the aisle, his register completed, she shouted at him. ‘Why are we being split up like this? Why?’ He took no notice, hurrying for the exit.

  The buses plunged off into the night. The windows were uncovered. Lucy thought, this time they don’t care if we are seen, or what we see. What does that imply, if anything?

  ‘It’s bloody unnerving,’ said Molly. ‘Losing half the party like this.’ She glanced at Lucy. ‘Wretched for you, my dear. I realize you two … Sorry – enough said.’

  ‘It’s all right.’ Lucy rubbed the window, watched darkness and street lights rushing past. Which way were they going? Back into Marsopolis, it seemed: the buildings closed in, the streets grew brighter. There were a few people about. A café was still open.

  ‘It could be straightforward,’ said Molly. ‘It could be that we’re on our way home. Just some sort of administrative sort-out – nothing sinister.’

  They came round a corner. Space. Greenery. Lights. Now I know where we are, thought Lucy. There she is again – Cleopatra’s sister.

  White marble breast in profile against a midnight-blue sky. A marble pal
m in her marble hand. Please look – it is the work of a very famous French sculptor. Greek lady. French sculptor. Italian marble, no doubt. Interesting. Keep thinking along these lines, she told herself, it concentrates the mind. What was her name? Queen Berenice – that’s it.

  I feel sick.

  Berenice. Until a few days ago I’d never heard of her. I didn’t know Cleopatra had a sister. Maybe that was a problem at the time. She was overshadowed. Sibling rivalry.

  Howard.

  Now we shall see her from the other side, as the bus turns. We are being given a tour of Cleopatra’s sister. Her marble cloak is fastened with a vast marble brooch. She has marble flowers in her marble hair. If she ever existed – if – she had feelings and thoughts like anyone else. Like all of us in this bus, like that man walking there, like everyone who has been here, back and back in time.

  Like the people in that place they showed Howard.

  Molly said, ‘Well, it’s not the airport we’re heading for, I fear.’

  Howard, Lucy thought. Howard.

  The buses sped away from the square, down a wide street, on to the corniche road.

  ‘We’ve been along here before, haven’t we?’ said Molly. ‘Right back at the beginning.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Oh, God … I wonder if …’

  ‘Yes,’ said Lucy. ‘I’m wondering that too.’

  Within five minutes they knew, as the buses swung sharply off the road. That barrack-like building. The compound empty but for heaps of oil drums. Someone exclaimed, ‘Oh, no … It’s the place we were in at the start.’

  They were shepherded out of the buses and into the building, glum, despairing and in some cases mutinous. Lucy accosted the officer again: ‘How long are we going to be here? When are the men coming?’ She heard her own voice – pitched high with anger and anxiety.

  ‘No information now. Tomorrow.’

  ‘You’re a swine,’ she said coldly.

  There was the room. The same room. The same mattresses heaped in a pile in one corner.

  It was now past midnight. Wearily, they established themselves. The mattresses were laid out. Lucy took her turn visiting the dirty toilet at the end of the corridor. She looked out of the window and saw just darkness punctured by a sodium light on the perimeter fence. There had been a donkey trotting along the path in a field, she remembered; she had watched it, six days ago.

  They settled, at last, after a fashion. The light was turned out. Children cried, ceased, began again. Lucy took out her notebook and forced herself to write. Then she lay on her side, her jacket folded under her head as a pillow. She was cold. He had put his anorak over her, then. She had woken in this same place, that other day, to find him looking at her. In between there lay some vast tract of time, it seemed. A tract of time and of experience. I am someone else now, she thought. I am different. I can never go back to being who I was then. It is always like that, of course, but more now. More than I would have thought possible.

  She lay alone in that crowded room. Occasionally she dipped into a hectic form of sleep. Then she would surge up again on to a switchback of faith, foreboding, hope, despair.

  They were made to stand in a group at one end of the courtyard. The soldiers prowled, threatening anyone who made a move. The man who had been knocked down had injured a knee. He tried to sit on the bench and was ordered to his feet. He leaned against the wall, wincing and cursing.

  Howard watched the windows of the building. The lights were on and figures moved about within. And then a shutter was opened and he saw Lucy’s face, looking out. He saw her turn her head from side to side, searching the darkness. He raised his arm, waved. And then she was gone. He went on watching the building, and presently it seemed to go still. There was no more movement. Hugh Calloway, standing beside him, said, ‘I think they’ve taken them away, you know. The women. I don’t think there’s anyone inside any more.’

  They stood there for a long time. When Howard looked at his watch it was past midnight, but he did not know when it had all begun. The officer came out of the convent with a list in his hand. They were required to identify themselves. The barrage of questions and objections was ignored: ‘Information later.’ Anyone too persistent or vociferous was threatened with a rifle butt. The officer vanished again and they continued to stand there. Several times the telephone rang within the convent.

  ‘Fuck this,’ said James Barrow. ‘This is the worst yet. They’re up to something.’

  And then the interpreter arrived. He was suddenly there, stepping quickly across the courtyard towards them with an entourage of military, fussing over a sheaf of papers in his hand. He halted. He exchanged sharp words with the officer. He sent a soldier scurrying for a further piece of paper. He emanated importance and irascible purpose. At last he turned his attention to the group of standing men.

  ‘I will check all names now. Anderson?’

  ‘This has already been done,’ said Hugh Calloway. ‘We are all present and correct. Would you please tell us why we are being treated like this and what is happening to the rest of our group.’

  ‘You must not interrupt. Barrow?’

  ‘I’m here. There’s not a hell of a lot of alternative, is there?’

  ‘Beamish?’

  ‘Where have they taken the rest of our group?’ demanded Howard.

  ‘I cannot give this information at the moment. You must answer to your name, please.’

  ‘Oh, sod off …’

  ‘Calloway? Davies?…’ Laboriously, the interpreter completed his register. He conferred with the officer. The officer turned away and hurried into the convent.

  The interpreter now confronted the group. He raised his voice. ‘You will give me your attention now. I have very important instructions.’

  ‘Get on with it …’

  ‘Who is speaking there? Anyone speaking will be severely punished. I have very important instructions on the part of the government of this country. I am instructed to inform you that your government continues to be most arrogant and uncooperative. This is very unfortunate for you. In order that your government understands that the Callimbian government will not tolerate this behaviour it is necessary to take certain steps.’

  The group went still. ‘Oh, Christ …’ muttered James Barrow.

  ‘The women group is removed to other accommodation. Men group will remain here but there will be exception.’ He paused. They watched him.

  ‘There will be exception of one person. In order that your government understands that it must be more co-operative it is necessary to make example of one person. One person must receive punishment.’ He paused again. He eyed them. No one spoke.

  ‘One person will be selected for punishment. Selection will be by fair process.’

  ‘This is barbaric,’ said Hugh Calloway. ‘What punishment?’

  ‘Severe punishment. This is the fault of your government. The Callimbian government regrets. Unfortunately there is no alternative. Now I will explain method of selection.’

  Barrow said, ‘I knew there would be something like this, sooner or later. The bastards.’

  The officer now came hurrying from the convent. The interpreter turned aside. The two men bent over an object supplied by the officer. They became absorbed in some process requiring meticulous attention. There were terse exchanges. The interpreter became tetchy. Then he was satisfied. He turned back to the group. ‘For making of selection you will each pick from straws that I will hold out. All straws are long straws except one. The man picking short straw is man selected for punishment.’

  ‘For God’s sake,’ said Captain Soames. ‘You just can’t do this.’

  Calloway said, ‘This is appalling. I can’t believe you’re serious.’

  I can, thought Howard. Unfortunately I can. He saw now what the officer was holding. A bible. The large black bible from the lectern in the refectory.

  ‘This is very fair system of selection. Very traditional. Each man has equal chance and sele
ction is question of fate. That is most fair and there is no injustice. We will now make selection. There are five straws placed in this book. I will hold out the book and the first five men will each take straw. Then if no man has taken the short straw the next five men will choose straw.’ He snapped an order. Soldiers leaped forward. Five men at the front of the group were cordoned off and pushed forward. Soames. James Barrow. Three others.

  ‘I refuse to take part in this,’ said Soames.

  ‘This is very stupid,’ said the interpreter. ‘Take straw, please.’

  ‘No.’

  The interpreter spoke to one of the soldiers. The soldier took a pistol from his belt and slammed the barrel against Soames’s jaw. Soames staggered backwards. The interpreter said, ‘That man will take straw later. Now you …’ He nodded to James Barrow.

  Barrow hesitated. The interpreter held out the bible. The bible had a battered black cloth binding. From the gilt-edged pages there protruded the ends of five plastic drinking straws, spirally striped in candy pink.

  Barrow reached forward and took a straw. Howard heard his exhalation of breath. He fell back.

  ‘Next person, please.’

  The group was now absolutely silent.

  The interpreter said, ‘None of these people have taken short straw, so we continue.’ He turned aside. The officer leaped forward to assist. Captain Soames was sitting down on the tarmac, holding his face in his hands.

  The interpreter was now ready again. ‘Next five men will now choose straw.’

  The soldiers closed in once more. The one who pushed Howard forward did so with such violence that he nearly fell. The proffered bible was almost in his face.

  ‘Take straw, please.’

  He knew it was the one as soon as he had hold of it, began to pull. It came too easily.

  Of course, he thought. Of course. It was always going to be me. He looked down at the straw. A spiral stripe in candy pink. Short. Very short.

  The interpreter said, ‘There is no need to continue further. Unfortunately Mr Beamish has taken the short straw, so the selection is now finished.’