Blood Rules by John Trenhaile Page A

show him the door where rudeness is concerned.”
    “Oh, p—ish. Pish off.”
    They laughed. “Look out,” Colin said, “he’s coming back.”
    Van Tonder strode up to take possession of his seat, carrying a copy of the Herald Tribune. He sat down without a word of thanks to Colin for minding his case and opened the paper. After a few seconds he began to snuffle and snort. He hurled the paper onto his lap and reached into his jacket pocket for an inhaler, which he proceeded to ram up each nostril in turn. The Raleighs watched in guilty fascination. Suddenly the man’s beady eyes swung around to glare at them.
    “Yes? Can I help you?”
    “Sorry,” Colin muttered.
    “Perhaps you are one of those people who find illness in others amusing. If so, I am sorry for you. After spending ten days here I have to tell you that I am sorry for your pathetic little country, and I am sorry for you also.”
    He replaced the inhaler in his pocket, picked up the paper, and was soon lost in its foreign pages, with only an occasional catarrhal grunt to punctuate the silence.
    Colin shrugged. He took a coin from his pocket. “Which of us is going business class to Bahrain? Toss you for it.”
    “Okay.”
    “You call.”
    “Heads.”
    Colin spun. “Tails.” “Shit.”
    “It’s not so bad, actually. Between Bahrain and Kuala Lumpur it’ll mostly be night; you’ll sleep much better up front.”
    “Suppose so.”
    Passengers had started to board the aircraft. There was the usual holdup on the jetway; then the two of them were turning right at the door, heading through the galley and the small first class cabin into club, where they parted company for the time being.
    Colin had been allocated a window seat on the star-board side of the plane. The mere act of settling into it filled him with childlike excitement. There was plenty of leg room and he only had one other person next to him, not two, as in the rear cabin. Somebody was offering him a hot towel. Somebody else was carrying a tray on which stood tall glasses of orange juice, beer, and something straw-colored that fizzed; surely not…
    “Champagne, sir? Or would you rather have—”
    “Champagne will be quite simply wonderful.”
    Everything, in fact, was wonderful—the stereo headphones, the leg rest, the bag filled with Crabtree & Evelyn cosmetics for men—right up to the moment when the altercation began.
    “I have to get past. Excuse
me.!”
    Impossible to mistake Van Tonder’s obstreperous tones. Colin’s lips twitched, but he did not allow the South African to distract him from his magazine. Only when he heard the response did his head jolt up and
Time
fall from his hands.
    “Look,” another voice was saying. “My friend. We all have to get past. Now would you mind—”
    The second speaker seemed to become conscious of Colin’s eyes upon him, for he suddenly broke off and looked along the aisle. The South African seized the moment, pushing past his opponent with an angry flurry of his squared shoulders, until he could drop into the seat next to Colin’s.
    “What are you doing here?” Colin’s voice came out in a light, hollow monotone. His throat hurt. Tension, fueled by champagne, had wrapped a multilayered bandage around his forehead and was busy twisting the tourniquet.
    “This is my seat,” Van Tonder replied huffily.
    “No, my friend, it is not.” The other man, the one who’d quarreled with Van Tonder, was standing over him. “It is mine. First you shove me aside; then you steal my seat. Move, please.”
    Colin spoke again. “What are you doing here?” he asked Van Tonder, in the same vacant monotone.
    “I’m flying to Malaysia,” Van Tonder replied with vigor. “So is that suddenly a crime?”
    “This seat,” said the man in the aisle, “has been assigned to me. Here is my boarding pass. Look.”
    There was a long silence while Van Tonder looked between his own pass and the one that had been thrust under his nose. At last he gave