Gerald Seymour - A song in the morning

"Rather more than conjecture," the P.U.S. remarked quietly. "And conjecture or no, we still have to finalise a position in view of what can be regarded as changed circumstances."

"Carew hangs on Thursday, what has changed?"

The Director General said, "Prime Minister, we believe that Carew's son is aware of his father's true position, that his father was an employee of the Service, that is what has changed. Further, we believe that if he were arrested by the South African security police he would very probably give them that information. We also believe that if Carew were to know, before his execution, that his son had been killed or arrested, then he might divulge what he has so far with-held. On two fronts we confront a new danger."

"Very well… what do you recommend I do?"

The P.U.S. ducked his shoulders. The Director General was reaching for his pipe.

"Silence all around me…?"

The Prime Minister smiled, mocked them.

"… Not normally so reticent, gentlemen. It's surely clear that we find ourselves with two choices of action, both unacceptable. I suggest we hold onto our seats, and trust that nothing happens."

"Shifting ground is a poor foundation for trust, Prime Minister," the P.U.S. said.

"This afternoon, Prime Minister, we confirmed that Jack Curwen did indeed fly to South Africa shortly before the police station bombing took place," the Director General said. "Also that in his work for a demolition company he had acquired a knowledge of explosives. In my opinion, something will happen."

"This young man, can he be stopped?"

"By calling in the Ambassador and putting all our cards on the table… " t h e Director General said.

"In the present state of our relations with the government of South Africa that would be intolerable."

"Then as you put it, Prime Minister, we hold onto our seats and hope that we have anticipated only the blacker prospects."

There was a light tap at the door.

The Prime Minister shifted in annoyance at the interruption.

A secretary came in, glided past the Prime Minister with a grimace of apology. The secretary spoke in the Director General's ear. He gestured his excuses and followed her from the room.

The Prime Minister reached for a worn leather case, as if to indicate that the meeting was concluded.

"If only a few small bombs are thrown at police stations, we can weather that, I believe."

"I thought you'd like to be kept fully informed, Prime Minister."

The P.U.S. pushed himself up from his chair.

The Director General stood in the doorway. There was a man behind him, a creased raincoat, hair that hadn't been combed. The Director General ushered him into the room.

"Just tell the Prime Minister what you've told me, what you understand to be Jack Curwen's objective."

The man who had been a friend to Jimmy Sandham looked around him.

It was a moment to savour.

He spoke drably, without expression, flat monotone. "It is Mr Curwen's intention, apparently, without anyone else's help, to blast his way, using a home-made device, through the walls of the hanging section of Pretoria Central prison to his father's cell. This with a view to taking his father out."

There was an aching silence in the room.

The Director General nudged his man away through the door, and closed it. The P.U.S. whistled his astonishment.

The Director General was stony-faced.

The Prime Minister's head swayed, right to left, left to right, slow movement, bemused.

"God help us, Director General, let's call the meeting to a halt before you spring any more surprises on us. I'm going to camp in the air-raid shelter for the next five nights and pray. Either that he makes it out safely with his father, or that they're both killed, with their lips sealed. Given the choice, which do you think the good Lord would wish me to pray for?"

Sam Perry had thought it a good notion to take his wife to the golf club social.

She'd lost nearly a stone in weight in the days since Jack had left for South Africa. She was gaunt, and moping through the house each day. She knew most of the wives at the club and he'd thought it would be best for her to be out, not sitting in the house and knitting and unpicking what she'd knitted. He'd taken to coming home for his lunch because then they had a chance to talk it through without young Will being there. They made a show for the youngster when he came rattling in from school in the late afternoon, but the child must have known from his mother's appearance that crisis touched his family. They talked in the middle of the day, but there was nothing to talk about. Her first husband was going to hang, her son was in danger and beyond her reach, and Sam Perry could only say that they had to live with it, live in hope.

On any other evening at the golf club she would have sailed into the drinking, shouting crowd, confident, happy among friends. Not on this evening. She was by his side from the moment they went through the doors and into the bar. As if she were frightened to be more than a yard from him. While he put away four gins she sipped at two tomato juices, and every ten minutes she looked at her watch.

It hadn't worked out. He wondered if it would be better when it was over, when Jeez was dead and buried, when Jack had been… when Jack had come home. He thought it would be a bloody long convalescence. It was a swine of a thought for Sam Perry, that she might never recover, might never regain her fun and the gaiety that he loved in her.

He knew she had made an effort to come out with him.

He realised she couldn't last long that evening. He saw the pleading in her eyes, he started to make their excuses and shake hands. As soon as was decently possible. He thought of the tittle-tattle that would follow their backs out of the room. There'd be a few of them who'd get a laugh out of speculating on the problems of Sam and Hilda Perry.

It was still too early to pick up Will from Scouts.

They'd go home first… He heard the strong sigh of relief from Hilda when they were in the car park and clear of the raucous celebration of the bar.

A mile to their home.

Sam Perry drove slowly. He let his left hand rest on her arm, moved it only to change gear.

He turned into Churchill Close. He could hear her crying, very faintly.

"Don't hurt yourself, love," he said. "You couldn't have stopped Jack going."

He looked at her. He was going to kiss her cheek. He saw her startled, staring eyes. She was peering through the windscreen and at their home at the end of the cul de sac.

He saw what she had seen. They always drew shut their front bedroom curtains when they went out in the evening, nice curtains but not heavy curtains.

He saw the traverse of the torch beam.

Sam Perry braked. He backed away to the end of the road. He drove fast to the police station.

To the two constables the Ford Fiesta was an obvious target of interest. It was far from commonplace for an old car to be parked in the shadows between the extremities of the street lights in this sedate suburb. Via their radio link the constables had heard that two men had been arrested following a forcible entry to a property in Churchill Close.

They had heard that four officers had used truncheons to subdue the intruders. They had heard that no getaway vehicle had been found in Churchill Close. They had heard that the arrested men's accents were thought to be South African. Two streets away the Fiesta and the man sleeping behind the wheel were worth a check. It was smoothly done.

Door opened, keys out of the ignition before the man had tumbled awake. Major Swart was escorted to the police station.

* * *

"Twice in one day, Major Swart. Extraordinary."