Man on Fire by A. J. Quinnell Page A

a war. He never wrote or phoned, just arrived. He always brought a present for Julia. Something distinctive. Once it had been a batik painting from Indonesia, rich and detailed, another time a string of natural aquamarine pearls from Japan. They were presents not bought on the spur of the moment, but thought about and distinct. She knew this and it gave her more pleasure than their beauty or obvious value.
    He usually stayed only a few days, relaxed and comfortable, and then one evening would announce he was leaving and in the morning would be gone. But on the last occasion he had stayed more than a month. He was never idle, busying himself with small repairs around the building. He liked working with his hands.
    When the last customers had left after dinner, the three of them would sit around the big kitchen table, watch television or read or just talk. Julia used to smile at the conversation of the two men, their mental rapport so acute that whole sentences would be reduced to one or two words. Guido might start it off with a question about a past acquaintance.
    "Miller?"
    "Angola."
    "Still bitching?"
    "As ever."
    "But sharp?"
    "A needle."
    "The Uzi?'"
    "Wedded to it."
    Much of the conversation would be incomprehensible to her, especially when they talked of weapons. After the first couple of visits, Guido would be restless for a few days following Creasy's departure, but she said nothing. And by the last visit he was settled and adjusted and happy. On that last visit when Creasy announced he was leaving in the morning she had told him flatly that he was welcome to stay with them and make his home. Guido had said nothing; he didn't need to. Creasy had smiled at her, one of his rare smiles, and said, "One day I might do that and fix all your wiring and paint the place once a month." They knew he meant it. He would come and just never announce that he was leaving, and it would be good and right.
    But Julia had gone shopping one day and the local football team had won and the supporters were driving in convoy through the city, horns blowing and flags flying, and one of the cars with eight drunks aboard had lost control and smeared her against a wall.
    Creasy had arrived a week later, tired from a long journey. Guido had forgotten to ask how he knew. He stayed a couple of weeks and his presence brought Guido through.
    Now Guido sat in his car and watched the twilight over the bay. The sun had gone, leaving only refracted light. He tried to imagine his life if he had never known Julia and he could picture it and so could understand Creasy now.
    He needed to do something different, if only for a while. Something to occupy his time and his mind. Something to halt the slide.
    Creasy had gone to Rhodesia and tried to fit in. He had trained young white recruits and led them in the bush. But it was a different world, and he couldn't identify. He didn't try to differentiate between right and wrong on the war. He sympathized with the whites. They were not bad people. Time had just caught up.
    They lived in the wrong century. They had come as pioneers, opening up a new country, and they looked on themselves as akin to the early American settlers. But times had changed. They couldn't wipe out the blacks as the American Indians had been wiped out, or the Australian aboriginals. Most of the whites wouldn't have wanted to and the few that did found that some of the blacks had land mines, grenades, rocket launchers, and Kalashnikovs. It was a different world. The terrible thing was the futility. It stared Creasy in the face. The others couldn't see it, but he had a lifetime to recognize it. Dien Bien Phu to Algeria to Katanga, back to Vietnam and into endless circles of futility. The war in Rhodesia brought his whole past into focus. Futile battles fighting for people who talked of patriotism, final stands, and never say die but death to the last man. He looked into his future and saw the exact same sequence. If not in Rhodesia, then somewhere