Tefuga by Peter Dickinson Page A

with Miss Tressider, slightly inquisitive too because of the disparity in ages, while those in the men’s quarters welcomed the extra sleeping space. The sheet enhanced, if anything, the Baudelarian lassitude of Miss Tressider’s pose.
    The visitor was Trevor Fish. Though the door, in its brief opening and closing, had revealed a dawn well short of the full mid-morning swelter, he leaned his back against it and gasped exaggeratedly. Part of his stock-in-trade was such pantomime gestures.
    â€œSorry to intrude,” he said. “Malc says could you come and reason with your military pal, Nigel.”
    â€œWhat’s up?”
    â€œIt’s Fred’s fault. He slipped the guards on the launch a bottle of vodka. He thought if he got them insensible he and the boys could shift the launch in the small hours and we could shoot the departure as planned. Nice try, except that they found they couldn’t shift the launch. Now Major Kadu’s rolled up and found his men tiddly. He’s a follower of the dear old Koran, himself, of course, so his reaction is not one of pleasure. He’s refusing to let anyone near the landing-stage and he wants to commandeer a truck to take him in to Kiti. Malc thought he could smooth it all over with the naira treatment.”
    â€œDear God in heaven!” said Jackland.
    â€œBribed him?” said Miss Tressider.
    â€œThe one obvious sea-green incorruptible in the landscape,” said Jackland. “Typical Malcolm. What happened?”
    Fish put a hand to his forehead, closed his eyes and shuddered. The shudder prolonged itself beyond the needs of drama.
    â€œAre you all right, Trevor?” said Miss Tressider.
    â€œDeath scene just coming up. May I die in your arms, Mary? I’ve got a lovely aria ready.”
    Jackland, who had been moving towards the chair on which his clothes lay, turned and came back. He laid a hand on Fish’s forehead.
    â€œCome and sit down,” he said.
    â€œIt’s just something I’ve eaten.”
    â€œLet’s hope not. That could be a sight worse. Come and sit down.”
    Fish was obviously about to refuse when his body decided otherwise. Jackland helped him to the chair, took a clinical thermometer from a shelf, dipped it into a bottle and slid it into Fish’s mouth. Fish grimaced at the taste of disinfectant. Jackland started to dress, talking as he did so.
    â€œThere’s always at least one who thinks he can skip the chloroquin,” he said. “It seems to be a law of nature. It’s in all their contracts.”
    Fish mumbled round the thermometer. Jackland ignored him.
    â€œThere’s some point if you’re a cameraman and the pills give you teleopsia, I suppose, but then you shouldn’t take on jobs like this. Feeling sick isn’t enough. Let’s have a look … A hundred and two. Straight malaria, I should think.”
    He fetched a glass of water and counted pills into his palm.
    â€œKnock them back,” he said. “Lie on my roll while I go and talk to the Major. Do you mind, Mary? Then, far as you can when we’re shooting, try and stay in the shade.”
    â€œHe can’t possibly work today,” said Miss Tressider.
    â€œYes he can. In my father’s time at any given moment one fifth of the political officers had malaria, a tenth had something else and another tenth were drunk or going insane. Forty per cent at a rough estimate. You just stuffed yourself with quinine and carried on. If Trevor doesn’t show up and Malcolm learns why he’ll insist on fining him. That’ll mean a fight with the unions. I’ve got a whole eight-part series to put together when this lot’s over, remember.”
    â€œI don’t think I feel like doing the departure today,” said Miss Tressider.
    â€œWhat on earth do you mean?”
    â€œI want to do it last of all. I’ve just realized. Don’t let’s have a row, Nigel. I