That Devil's Madness (27 page)

‘But I reckon after a while, they realise what they thought would happen isn't working out the way they'd hope. By then, of course, they've learnt a lot already, so they start use that against the oppressors to get what they want. And the oppressors realise they're no longer quite so powerful. So that's when trouble really starts. When the oppressed
do
get their freedom – their independence – by then it's too late, because they've already changed too much themselves. Become too much like those that were oppressing them in the first place.'

Steven put his glass back on the table and stood up. ‘Back in a minute.'

She heard him walk down the corridor, heard a door shut. She snuggled down further under the quilt. Closed her eyes and tried to think about all Steven had told her, but it was too much for her to think about just yet. She heard a toilet flush and Steven hurried back into the room and under the quilt.

‘Freezing out there! But to get back to what we were talking about – you see, there's a problem with colonialism that most people don't think about much – and that's memory. Because memory's a strong, powerful thing, and even though logic tells you it can't happen, I reckon memory's passed on from generation to generation. So by the time independence is won, there are only two types of people – those that are dead, and those that are left with a memory of an independence brought about by violence. That's what I hate about it – that when all the cease-fires have been put into effect, when the peace treaties have been signed and the silence they call peace has blanketed the country, what you're left with isn't independence. What you're left with is a memory of violence. Killings and rapes and torture. Shattered dreams and loss of innocence. And that can only lead to just more violence. Does that make sense?'

But Nicolette didn't say whether it made sense or not – she'd already fallen asleep.

#

She half-woke from a dream in which she'd been making love to a dark stranger, to feel Steven's hand caressing her breast. It felt like a continuation of her dream. It was still dark, the bedside light was off, and she realised she was now between the sheets, wearing her jumper and underpants, but not her jeans – when had she taken them off? They lay cupped spoon-fashion, one of Steven's naked legs thrown over hers, his erect penis against her buttocks. Something – an old sensation, a new hunger – awakened within her. God, how long had it been since she'd had sex? She pretended to still be asleep. He rolled her nipple between a finger and thumb and a shiver passed from her breast through her belly to her sex. Every nerve was aroused but still she lay as if asleep. Her whole body cried out for him to enter her, but still she hesitated.

Since Michael's death she'd lived like a nun, denying herself any sexual thought, crushing the slightest arousal. But right now, tonight, she felt both restless and sensual. Aroused. And she wanted Steven. She wanted to feel like a woman again, a woman that men wanted, a woman who could abandon herself to passion. But did she really want to start a relationship with Steven? She felt a confusion of emotions – fear, arousal, doubt and desire. His hand caressed her leg, her hip, heightened every sense and she felt an intense yearning just to be filled. She moved slightly – ever so slightly – and Steven's hand moved to her belly, then slid under the elastic of her underpants. She raised her hips to help him remove them. Then, with a groan of frustration, she reached behind herself and guided his penis inside her.

#

From the gap between the curtains of her room Nicolette could see the sky start to lighten. Earlier, she'd waited until she'd heard Steven's soft snores, then sneaked back into her room – she didn't want Madame Lesage to know she'd been in his bed. But she couldn't go back to sleep, couldn't stop thinking. Part of her couldn't wait to see Steven again. She wondered how he'd act towards her, especially in front of the other journalists. Would he make it obvious their relationship had changed? Or would it be better not to? But then, knowing Steven, he'd probably make a whole lot of jokes about last night – innuendoes and wisecracks. No, he wasn't a kid; he'd know to keep things quiet. She wondered for a moment how they'd work their relationship – would they team up on other jobs? Each go their separate way then meet up again when they could? She'd never had a long distance relationship before…

But what if Steven didn't want a relationship? What if he saw this as just a one-night stand, a quick screw? No. He was older, more mature. That was young men's behaviour – those that had just discovered sex and wanted to taste all the flavours, as it were. Men of Steven's age were better than that. But what if he already had a wife? A mistress? A girlfriend? She knew nothing of his personal life. He wasn't wearing a ring, but lots of married men wore no ring.

She felt like such an idiot. She didn't want to face him today; she just wasn't up to it. No, definitely not. He'd probably made plans to meet up with DJ anyway. She'd stay in bed until she was sure he was gone, then try to ring her mother again. Some of her friends as well. It would be the middle of the night back home, but it was Christmas Day, after all. Surely even the press had Christmas Day off. Then, after her phone calls, she might go out to see what was open – probably everything, seeing this was now a Muslim country. She'd buy herself some magazines and a few treats, and spend a quiet day spoiling herself in her room. Forget last night ever happened. Just as long as nothing happened with Boumedienne – it would be just her luck to have him die on Christmas Day. But then, it would also mean she could take her photos and go home, and never have to see Steven again…

#

Ding dong merrily on high, In heav'n the bells are ringing! Ding Dong verily the sky—

She could hear him coming down the corridor, singing at the top of his voice. She'd dozed off and from the light behind her curtains, it was now broad daylight.
Go away, Steven.

Ding dong verily the sky—
He rapped on her door and walked in, not waiting for her response. ‘Merry Christmas kiddo. What are you doing still in bed? Come on, get dressed. We're going to the
Genève
– DJ's room. Christmas lunch.'

‘I'm not going anywhere.'

‘Yes you are; everyone'll be there. Come on, get dressed. I'll be back in five.'

‘No. I said I'm not going. You go.'

Steven looked at her for a moment, then his expression grew serious. He sat on the edge of her bed.

‘Look, if this is about last night, forget it. You were down and wanted some company – I can understand that, but I'm not one for relationships. So don't make a big deal out of it. Water under the bridge and all that. Now why don't you get dressed and come have a bit of fun. Christmas and all that.'

Was that how he saw it? No big deal? Water under the bridge? It was all too soon – she didn't know what to think. But she was supposed to toughen up, wasn't she? That's what she'd told herself. Maybe that's how they all behaved – maybe one-night stands were the norm when you didn't know where you'd be from one day to the next. Fine. She could pretend last night never happened. Whether she liked it or not, she still had to work with him. She took a deep breath, raised her chin and looked him in the eye.

‘What made you think it meant anything to me? You're not that great, you know.'

He laughed. ‘Good girl. See you in five. And happy Christmas, kiddo.'

‘Happy Christmas, Steven.'

She felt like crying.

21

Just like her first day in Algiers, DJ's room was packed. This time the atmosphere was more festive. The hand basin was filled with bottles as before, and someone had brought a piece of a pine tree branch and put it in a large jar filled with sand. It stood by the windowsill, decorated with ribbons and what seemed like cheap, strangely shaped baubles but which were – when Nicolette looked closer – inexpensive glass earrings found in most bazaars. On top of this branch, someone had added a star cut from gold cardboard.

‘Nicolette, you're back.' Jean-Paul made his way across the room and hugged her, kissing her on both cheeks. ‘
Joyeux Noël
. I like the hair.'

‘Thanks. Merry Christmas. But you're back too – how was Egypt?'

‘Busy. By the way, congratulations.'

‘What for?'

‘That scoop you guys got – the farmer in Constantine.'

‘You heard?'

‘Yes we heard. By the way, I found out something about that while I was in Egypt. You might be interested.'

‘What?'

‘Wait till it quietens down a bit,' he said, indicating the noisy group standing by the Christmas tree, singing
Silent Night
in a variety of languages. Someone across the room called Jean-Paul and he excused himself. Steven came up to her and handed her a glass of wine.

‘Here,' he said, searching in the pocket of his jacket and handing her a small packet. ‘Merry Christmas.'

Nicolette was surprised. She hadn't expected anything from Steven, especially after this morning. Should she have gotten something for him? For Jean-Paul? No one else seemed to be exchanging presents – but then, they did get here late, so she might have missed it. She handed him her glass and opened the package. Inside were a couple of packets of cigarettes and a simple brass refillable lighter.

‘But I don't smoke.'

‘Wrong. You don't smoke your own cigarettes. You smoke mine, DJ's, even Amoud's. So I figured you'd better have your own.'

Nicolette smiled. ‘Fair enough. Thank you. I'll treasure the lighter.'

‘Hey, don't go making a big deal of this.' He smiled and winked at her. ‘Like I said, it's just time you had your own.' He handed her back her glass and went to look for DJ.

‘So how're you getting on with him?'

Nicolette turned to find Mike Davis, the bureau chief, standing behind her. By the look of him, he'd started his celebrations early.

‘Steven? Okay, I guess. Can't work him out.'

‘Then don't try.'

‘Have you known him long?'

‘Hell yeah – known him since he first started in this business. He was barely out of short pants. Started as a junior assistant to a newsreel team in Indochina. Was there for the Battle of Dien Bien Phu. Poor bastard – that nearly finished him before he'd even begun…'

‘Why? What happened?'

‘He'd never seen anything like it. Was just your average Australian country kid. To see ordinary people with the simplest of weapons fight to the death against professional armies, well, you're pretty impressionable at that age, but still, he was doing ok… But when his girl got killed, I really thought that was the end of him. Thought he'd go back home and become an accountant or something.'

‘What was his girlfriend doing in Indochina?'

‘Not an Australian girl – a Vietnamese. Pretty, sweet little thing. He was crazy about her… Anyway, after the French finally surrendered, the locals celebrated – no one had thought it possible, you see. So there they were, dancing and singing and cheering in the streets, when some French copper lost control – I dunno, got scared maybe, or just pissed off because they'd lost – anyway, whatever the reason, he fired his gun into the crowd. People panicked. She fell and got trampled to death.'

‘That's horrible!'

‘Yeah, it is. Anyway, Morris disappeared from the scene after that, and I figured he'd gone back home. But a couple of years later, there's his by-line covering the Mau Mau uprising. Then he's in Cuba, covering
that
revolution. Pretty soon, his news stories are in broadsheets worldwide. Always from the side of the underdog. Vietnam, Rwanda, Cuba – anywhere there was a war, a civil conflict, Morris was there.' He stopped and looked around the room. Drained his glass. ‘But hey, why the hell are we talking about that? It's Christmas Day, girly, and I need a refill. Happy Christmas.'

#

They were sitting on the floor, leaning against DJ's bed.

‘A lot of it comes from Vietnam now,' Jean-Paul explained to Nicolette, ‘Used to be Czechoslovakia. You could get anything there – a real arms supermarket. And the end user certificates were no problem, no matter how questionable. But then the KGB got in on the act, and that was the end of that. But Vietnam, well, there's a lot of superfluous stuff left over from the war lying around there. AK-47s are the favourite, and of course hand grenades. Vietnam's got plenty of those.'

‘What's an AK-47?'

‘Kalashnikovs – automatic rifles. Russian. Guerrillas love them because they've got a metal butt that you can keep folded forward, so they're a lot smaller than most rifles. Easier to hide. You'd know one if you saw it – they've a curved metal bullet-feed half way down. And they're pretty simple to use, so you don't have to train anyone.'

‘So how'd they get them over here? It's not like you can go over for a quick shopping trip.'

‘They don't go buying it themselves – there's a whole network involved. They form companies and—'

‘Hang on, “companies”? We're talking groups of rebels here – freedom fighters, whatever. They own companies?'

Jean-Paul shook his head. ‘No, they're at the bottom of the ladder. It's complex, Nicolette. At the very top, you have governments of all the major nations who manufacture the weapons, then who want to sell their surplus to other countries. They don't really care who buys them, even if they say they do – it's all about the money. If there's a war on somewhere, great. They have a ready market. If there's no official war, you get your dealers selling stuff off to your smaller groups – civil wars, revolutions, whatever.'

‘Like here.'

‘Definitely like here. The companies I'm talking about are often just a front to launder money. There's a whole system set up to ensure no one knows more than he has to – cells.'