Lynda Plante - The Talisman

He gulped at his drink and lay back closing his eyes.

‘They put pressure on him, secret police, he told them to sod off, so they leaked a rumour that the poor son of a bitch was a spy. They framed him, and to increase the rumour they put a lot of pressure on his black friends; so the poor sucker was running to black and white trying to make them believe he was straight. You know what he did? He walked into the fucking lab, man, into the photographer’s darkroom, and gulped down a mugful of chemical fixer. They said it was suicide... some bloody suicide.’ His face streamed with tears... and he finished his drink, throwing the glass at the wall.

Edward made sympathetic noises and watched as Skye stripped off his clothes. He was down to baggy white underwear when he turned to Edward. ‘Well, what are you waiting for? Into bed, prick.’

Edward backed off fast and said, very embarrassed, that he was straight.

‘Why on earth have you stuck like glue to my side all night long if you’re not queer? Isn’t it obvious? Aren’t I obvious?’

Edward sat in a chair by the chaotic dressing table while Skye propped himself up in his bed. He lit a cigarette and lay back on the pillows. ‘Ahhhh, deary me, my sob stories usually get the boys into bed with me. Don’t you just love their tight black bums? I just die for them... did very well tonight, see, real tears. Maybe one day I’ll be able to tell the truth, there again maybe I won’t... Eh? You want some coffee, you able to cope with that percolator thing in the kitchen? If so, I’d adore a cup.’

As Edward got up to go into the kitchen, he again caught sight of the photograph of the beautiful blonde. ‘Who’s the girl? She’s lovely.’

Skye picked up the picture and snuggled down under the bedclothes. When Edward came back with only half the percolator, the other half, sadly, missing, Skye was fast asleep with the photograph held tightly in his arms. For a moment Edward thought he resembled an innocent child. As he crept back to the door, it creaked open, and he winced, hoping the sound had not woken Skye... it hadn’t, his body remained still deep in a drunken sleep.

Edward wandered around the messy house. He searched all the rooms thoroughly. There were books piled in heaps and on every available surface. The bookcases were crammed full. Many were on politics and there were plays from every period. Several shelves were devoted to film-making and there were stacks of movie magazines. Mr Duval was a complex character... Edward also reckoned he was a dangerous one. Why did he tell him the long elaborate story about his friend’s suicide? To get him into bed, or to alleviate his own guilt? Edward was more than sure Skye Duval must have assisted if not organized the frame-up that caused his friend’s death. He began to read a folder of press cuttings relating to Skye’s articles. They made fascinating reading and were well if rather flamboyantly written. He replaced the folder and searched the drawers, finding a lot of clothes with good labels that were badly in need of washing. The wardrobe contained many suits in similar condition, and to Edward’s surprise a set of women’s expensive clothes. Everything was muddled, haphazard. In a desk drawer Edward found so many bills that he gasped. Skye owed money everywhere. His bank statements were old and torn, his entire overdraft facility having been exhausted months ago.

The record collection was mostly classical, a few big jazz bands, Swing along with Sammy Kaye, Horace Heights and his Musical Nights, Louis ‘Satchmo’ Armstrong and Billie Holiday plus a few blues singers, some German records and a couple of recordings of black pop groups. They were dusty, many without covers or in the wrong ones. Edward was about to stroll out to the verandah when he found another bunch of folders. These contained photographs of Skye in flowing robes and the story of the trek across the Sahara in manuscript form. Looking through the photographs Edward again got the impression that Skye was one of the handsomest men he had ever seen.

A car drew up outside and Edward walked out to the dark verandah. The small Volkswagen, which a young black boy was driving, parked and he saw a very attractive white girl sitting in the back seat. The boy got out and it looked as though he was carrying something for the woman, falling into step behind her as they entered the house. They walked in silence, and then Edward heard her laughter, the lower tones of the boy. At first he had presumed him to be the girl’s servant, but there was familiarity in that laughter. They did not enter the lounge, but went straight to the spare bedroom and closed the door.

Edward was unsure if he should make some noise to let them know he was in the house. He knew they would be arrested if discovered. Any romance across the colour line was illegal in South Africa, the land of so-called racial purity. If they had ever shown in public that they were on equal terms they would have been arrested immediately. Skye would also be charged if it were discovered that he allowed his home to be used by them.

Edward waited for a while and then lay on the sofa, eventually dozing off.

Around dawn, Edward was woken by the sound of the lounge door opening. Skye entered the room. ‘Christ, are you still here? I thought you’d have gone. Do you want some wine? It’s chilled in the kitchen.’

When he returned with the wine, Skye said abruptly, ‘Well, what do you want? You’ve certainly waited long enough.’

Edward noticed the change immediately — Skye’s lisp had disappeared, and he seemed tired. Edward detailed his plan, but the only indication that Skye was listening was the constant twitching of his foot. When Edward finished, Skye set his wine glass down carefully and lit a cigarette from a half-smoked butt. He gave Edward a lopsided grin, and his lisp returned. ‘My, my, you have been busy. And, well, what can I say? It’s certainly interesting.’ He leaned back in his chair, his foot still twitching and getting on Edward’s nerves. Again he grinned, but this time it was more like a smirk. ‘How old are you, my Cambridge friend?’

Edward added a few years and said he was twenty-six. Skye raised his eyebrows. ‘Same as myself... you look younger, but there again, perhaps not. Be a good fellow and bring the bottle, will you?’

Skye’s eyes were shrewd and watchful. He picked up the telephone and dialled, and Edward came back in time to hear him speaking. His heart lurched — Skye’s voice was sly and his lisp was obvious. He was rocking back and forth in his chair. ‘I may have something for you, but, you bitch, I want my passport... Yeth, yeth, yeth, fair exchange.’

He removed the bottle from Edward’s hand and poured for himself. He did not look at Edward as he spoke. ‘About this offer — you’re on, it will also help me out of a rather nasty situation — not merely financial. Well, I think you overheard — my passport is being, shall we say, “held”, against my will. It’s rather debilitating to say the least.’

Skye drank most of the bottle of wine as he told Edward that ever since he had arrived in South Africa he had loathed and detested apartheid. He had broken every rule in the book, hating how the rich whites lived. He had stayed mostly in black townships, knowing he was breaking the law, for to enter a black area a white must first obtain a special permit and he had never bothered. He had, therefore, been under the watchful eyes of the South Africa security police, and was listed as an ‘undesirable alien’.

‘I was ordered to leave South Africa within seven days, that was three days ago. I have had to do certain things to be able to remain here, like retrieve my passport from the police.’

Edward asked why he wanted to stay so badly if he hated the country so much. Skye laughed, but it was a humourless, bitter laugh. ‘Because, old chap, I was born here. My mother took me to England on a false passport when I was a baby, helped by a certain group of people, and unwittingly I returned here, I wanted to become a reporter so I ingratiated myself with the inner sanctum of the Pretoria secret police. It was easy enough — as I told you, I just betrayed my friends... Rather good at that — in fact, fucking marvellous.’