Flyaway

'Jesus!' I said. 'Paul, you killed a man! Shot the top of his head right off. You don't want to open that can of worms. Look, you can tell the newspapers about finding Flyaway and your father's body, but just give me time to find out something will you? I want to discover what the hell it was all about.'

'All right,' he said. 'I won't say anything until you say I can.'

'And you won't do anything, either. Promise?'

'I promise.' He was silent for a while, then he said, 'I don't remember much about my father. I was only two when he died, you know.'

'I know.'

'About the only thing I can remember was him bouncing me on his knee and singing that nursery rhyme; you know, the one that goes, "Fly away, Peter! Fly away, Paul!" I thought that was a great joke.' So would Billson. Paul rubbed his chin. 'But I didn't like my stepfather much.'

I cocked my eye at him. 'Aarvik? What was wrong with him?'

'Oh, not Aarvik; he came later. I mean the other one.'

I said, 'Are you telling me your mother married three times?'

That's right. Didn't you know?'

'No, I didn't,' I said thoughtfully. 'What was his name?'

'Can't remember. He wasn't around much, and I was only a kid. After I was about four years old he wasn't around at all. It's all a long time ago.'

Indeed it is, Paul; indeed it is!

He didn't say much after that revelation and neither did I. We lapsed into silence and I was still mulling it over when we landed at Algiers.

The big Mercedes with the Arab chauffeur was waiting by the hangar as the Comanche taxied up and we were soon wafted luxuriously to the heights of Bouzarea overlooking Algiers. If the chauffeur was surprised at carrying a Targui he didn't show it.

We stopped at the small door in the wall which opened as silently and mysteriously as before, and Paul and I walked towards the house. Hesther Raulier was still lying on the chaise-longue and might never have moved but that she was wearing a different dress. As we approached she put down her cigar and stood up.

Suddenly her monkey face cracked into a big grin and she laughed raucously. 'Jesus, Stafford! What in hell do you think you're doing? Auditioning for The Desert Song?'

She put me to bed fast and summoned the doctor who, apparently, was on tap immediately. She said, 'Luke put a couple of words into his cable that meant something bad -stuff I hadn't heard since the Revolution – so I got in Fahkri. He's used to gunshot wounds and knows how to keep his mouth shut.'

Dr Fahkri examined my arm, asked how long ago it had happened, and then told me the bullet was still in there. He deadened the arm, sliced it open and took out the bullet, stitched it up again and put on a proper splint. I said to Hesther, 'Better have him look at Paul. He took a bullet in the shoulder about a month ago.'

She spoke to Fahkri in Arabic and he nodded and went away, then she turned to me. 'What happened out there?'

'Kissack happened,' I said. 'He and a man called Lash -and four others.' I gave her an edited version of what had happened, and ended up by saying, 'I don't know what we'd have done without Luke Byrne.'

'Luke's a good man,' she said simply. 'But what was it all about?'

'Whatever set it off was in England. I suppose Paul really started the ball rolling but he triggered something, a sort of time bomb that was lying around for forty-two years. I've got a few questions to ask. If I find any answers I'll let you know.'

'You do that.' She stood up. 'You can't go back to England dressed as a Targui.'

I shrugged. 'Why not? London is full of Arabs these days, and nobody there could tell the difference.'

'Nonsense. I'll get a tailor in tomorrow and you'll have a suit the day after. You and Paul both.'

We stayed in Algiers for four days, more so I could recuperate from Fahkri's surgery than anything else. I lazed about and read the English newspapers that Hesther bought me so that I could catch up on the news. Everything was going to hell in a handcart, as usual.

Once, referring to Paul, she said, 'That guy's changed -changed a lot. He's quieter and not as nervy.'

I grinned. 'God knows why. What happened to him is enough to make anyone go screaming up the wall.'

On the fourth day we left on an Air Algerie flight to Orly. The interior of the plane was decorated in a tasteful shade of emerald green. Green may be the Arab colour but this plane had pictures of jaunting cars and scenes from Killarney because it had been bought second-hand from Aer Lingus. However, it got us to Orly all right and we transferred to the London flight.

An hour later we were at Heathrow. It was raining and it looked as though it had never stopped since I had left.

CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

I had telephoned Heathrow from Orly and so there was a car waiting with a driver, since I could not drive a car with a broken arm. He drove us the short distance to the Post House Hotel and I told him to stick around while I booked in. There were reservations for Paul and me in adjoining rooms, so we went up and I got him settled.