Lynda Plante - The Talisman

Edward’s work was inspected, but the four scientists were doubtful of any beneficial outcome. However, Edward requested a month off to begin taking samples from as far afield as the Belgian Congo, Ghana, and the Ivory Coast. He wanted samples from as many ‘live’ mines as possible to counter-test with the dormant ones.

Edward was granted two months’ sabbatical, paid for by De Veer’s. He did not, as they presumed, begin work immediately, but searched around Pretoria for the haunts of local journalists. He became a regular visitor, sitting chatting and drinking with reporters in pubs and clubs, making it his job to get well acquainted. He was amused that all the bars he went into had ‘Men Only’ signs up, and no women were to be seen drinking.

The barman at the Night Light Club, Nkosi, proved an invaluable asset. Edward was looking for a very specific kind of journalist, and had begun to despair of finding one when Nkosi whispered to him that he should, if he had nothing better to do, come and meet a friend of his called Skye Duval.

Edward was waiting for Nkosi when the tiny bar closed, and they drove out of town on to a dirt track. They veered off, and Edward stared around him, trying to get his bearings. He began to feel uneasy, not knowing where he was, but eventually they stopped at a small shanty with lights streaming from every window, the threadbare curtains unable to prevent it. Loud music blared from the shack.

Nkosi tapped on the door and entered. It was closed behind them by a beautiful black girl who beckoned them into the shanty’s living room. Edward was surprised to see white men sitting with their arms around black girls. It was, of course, illegal to fraternize, and everyone stared at the door as Edward entered. Seeing Nkosi leading him in, they relaxed again, and the room was soon filled with the hubbub of their chatter.

Nkosi talked quietly with a fat-bellied man who sat with his arm around a very young black girl. The man had some information for sale and the pair of them slipped outside.

Skye Duval was the most handsome man Edward had ever set eyes on. He entered the room to a few ribald comments from the men, and he smiled. He was very tall — not as tall as Edward, but lanky so that he appeared taller. His hair was black and worn long, but it was well cut. His almond-shaped eyes were dark amber, his nose almost hooked, the wide cheeks and small mouth made the face strangely pretty yet arrogant. Skye had a dimple in his right cheek and a lopsided smile. He was stoned out of his mind, and he walked as if on air, a cigarette stuck in the corner of his sweet, girl’s mouth. Edward watched him closely as he kissed two of the girls, obviously a familiar customer of the house.

Skye caught the can of beer someone threw him and moved with hazy eyes through the lounge. He opened the beer, which sprayed all over his cream-coloured suit, but didn’t bother to wipe it away. He drank from the can while he surveyed the room. Edward met the eyes, glinting amber, tiger-like, which flicked over him, and Skye raised one finely arched eyebrow. He may appear drunk, thought Edward, but the man’s taking everything in, and no one enters or leaves the room without those strange eyes recording it.

Skye made his way over to Edward. ‘Well, you’re a strange face... Skye Duval... no, don’t get up, I’ll join you.’

Skye’s method of joining Edward was simply a slow, languid collapse on to the sofa next to him. His voice was very upper-class English, drawling, and Edward noticed a heavy signet ring on the small finger on his left hand.

‘So which are you here for, the news items or the broads?’

Edward estimated Duval could not be much older than himself, yet he seemed very worldly and confident.

‘I’m just passing through.’

‘Aren’t we all, but you were brought by the infamous Nkosi or whatever they call him. He usually drags in the most dreadful types, sometimes it’s hard to call the place home...’

‘Is this your house?’

Still lolling on the sofa, Duval turned his head. ‘You joking?... Christ, my shoes are crippling me, it’s the heat, makes the feet swell.’

Skye stared at his scuffed shoes, then caught a beer can tossed to him by one of the black girls. It hissed as he pulled the ring off and guzzled the beer, spilling it over his clothes again. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. ‘I am a reporter, Johannesburg Sunday Express , don’t suppose you’ve got a scoop for me? If I don’t send them something soon, I’ll be out of a job. You’re English, aren’t you? Where are you from?’

Edward gave him Allard Simpson’s address, and Skye laid his slim arm along the back of the sofa. ‘Kensington? Know it well, my family lives in Cadogan Place. What are you then, a student?’

‘I was, at Cambridge. Now I’m just travelling.’

‘Travelling, are we? Oh God, I’m buggered. I’ve got to get out of this dump, it’s driving me nuts... You drive, Cambridge fella?’

Edward put his beer can down and Skye promptly picked it up and drained it. He burped, then flung an arm round Edward’s shoulder. ‘We English should stick together — you got any money? Show you a nice time, or you can show me... Ha, ha, ha...’

Skye got into the driving seat once they were outside the bungalow, and drove so recklessly that Edward hung on for dear life. They went on a club crawl that made Skye so foul-tempered he got himself thrown out of the last one.

‘Well, that’s that for the night, another day passed, another day gone that I won’t see again.’

He drove around the town, then headed out for his own place. He didn’t seem interested in where Edward lived, or even if Edward wanted to go with him. He simply accepted that he was there.

Inside Skye’s house Edward tried to talk sense to him, but he was blasted out by Purcell, played so loudly it nearly shattered his eardrums. Skye passed out on the sofa and Edward looked around the place. He moved quietly into the bedroom, saw the unmade bed, the clothes strewn around. At the side of the bed was a photograph of a very beautiful girl, a blonde, standing on a beach and shading her eyes to look at the camera.

Skye appeared behind Edward. He had taken off his shoes and Edward hadn’t even heard him walk in. ‘Trouble is, I’m sick of this fucking country, they want you to act as spy, every fucker is spying on everyone else...’ He flopped down on the bed, rolled over. ‘You know, I did this article on travelling across the Sahara on camels, with my friend... He was my friend, understand, really close friend. When we got back, they all loved the story... but it wasn’t enough... editors want blood, prefer shit like “Suspect I observed yesterday has a pen friend in Moscow and he collects Russian stamps. I think he could be a Communist.” You believe that kind of crap? An’ I’ll tell you something else. Every one of those guys you saw tonight screwing the knickers off the little black whores — even the most liberal Afrikaner — if approached by the security branch and asked to spy would. Bastards leak rumours if you don’t spy, and that fucks you over, and the police will destroy you anyway even if you do spy. There’s no chance in this shit-hole of not being a goddamn sodding spy.’

Edward, trying hard to decipher what on earth Skye was talking about, asked him if he was a spy. Skye turned on him in a fury. ‘Course I’m a fucking spy you arsehole, what in Christ’s name do you think I’ve been talking about — I fucked him over, didn’t I?’

He swayed drunkenly in front of Edward and shouted, ‘I’m talking about my mate, the one that came on the caravan with me, I’m talking about him.’ He slumped into a chair, and his lower lip trembled... ‘Like a bear he was, Cambridge blue, rugger forward, maybe a prop, I dunno.’