Peter Dickinson - A Bone From a Dry Sea

A faint sound from inside the hut made her open her eyes. Dad was sitting at his folding table, writing. He didn’t stir or twitch when the laugh rang out again. He was using his work to shut all that out, to shut everything out – Mum, May Anna, Vinny. No, wrong again. He had noticed she was awake and stopped writing.

‘You’ve slept all right,’ he said.

‘Yes. What’s the time? Didn’t you?’

‘Bit after seven. No. I’m no good at rows. God, I’m glad it’s all over. Look, Watson took the spare jeep into town, so as soon as he gets back we’ll push off, and that means that someone can helicopter back with the Craig people and pick it up.’

‘How long have we got?’

‘Plenty of time. Assuming Watson didn’t crash the jeep, driving a load of girls round town, and assuming he managed to get up this morning, he should be back around lunchtime. That’ll give us just time to clear out before the Craig people show up.’

‘In a helicopter!’

‘They’re the ones with the money. Why don’t you go and find some breakfast? I’ll come when I get to a stopping place.’

He worked on steadily while Vinny dressed. Before she left she went and stood by his chair and put her hand round his shoulder, looking down at the neat straight lines of his notes. His handwriting was almost as small as print, but beautifully clear. He hesitated, wrote another couple of lines, put his pen down and folded his hand over hers.

‘I’m glad you came,’ he said. ‘It’s been a great help not having to go through all that out there alone.’

‘Oh . . . Thanks, Dad. Thanks a lot.’

‘Go and get some breakfast.’

He squeezed her hand before he picked up his pen and started to write again.

The others had mostly finished eating, so Vinny got herself muesli and canned milk, fruit juice and a mango, and ate alone. Dad, she guessed, didn’t feel like facing anyone. She could see May Anna working on her skull. Mrs Hamiska was talking to her. Dr Hamiska bustled into the eating area, glanced around for someone and bustled away, pretending not to have noticed Vinny. He was just like Mr Potterson, she thought, on the day of the school play, rushing around as if everything depended on him and everyone would forget their lines if he wasn’t there.

To her surprise Mrs Hamiska came across and sat down opposite her. Vinny said ‘Good morning’ and Mrs Hamiska answered, but then sat looking at her with her head on one side as if she was trying to decide what sort of person she was. Vinny managed a few mouthfuls before she looked up. Their eyes met.

‘I’m truly sorry things have turned out like this,’ said Mrs Hamiska.

‘It’s not your fault.’

‘No. You know, I used rather to enjoy these academic rows. They can be almost addictive, like a drug. But now I’m tired of all that.’

‘I don’t think there’s anything anyone can do now.’

‘No. I’m afraid not. I’ve been talking to May Anna.’

‘It wasn’t true! He wasn’t trying to keep the site for himself! He wasn’t trying to slow things up! He isn’t like that!’

‘I don’t believe he is. I don’t believe anyone seriously thinks that. Ah, well. I’ll do my best . . . Will you tell him, please?’

‘Yes, of course.’

Mrs Hamiska bowed her head and sat studying the backs of her hands. Vinny went on eating until, in a lull in the bustle of the camp, she heard a distant faint drumming sound.

‘There’s a helicopter,’ she said.

Mrs Hamiska jerked up, startled, and listened.

‘Goodness,’ she said. ‘It’ll be Dr Wishart! He must have caught an early flight! We’re not nearly ready for him!’

She rose. Others had heard the sound. As it came closer they moved into the open and stood watching the sky. Hands pointed. Vinny moved to where she could see. It was a big machine, with two rotors, and not the bright dragon-fly thing which important people get ferried around in, but fat and painted in camouflage colours.

‘Army chopper,’ said someone. ‘Not for us.’

But it neared and neared, its racket now battering the hillside. It hovered, sank and settled in an explosion of blown dust on the flat ground beside the truck and jeep a hundred yards down the slope. Dr Hamiska was already loping down the path with Dr Wessler trotting nervously behind.

A door opened. Four soldiers leaped out, guns at the ready. Then steps were lowered and a tall man wearing an embroidered pill-box hat and a long white robe came slowly down and stood between the soldiers gazing round him. Dr Hamiska strode up with his hand outstretched in welcome, but two of the soldiers raised their guns and barred his way. He stopped, held his hands half up and said something, protesting or questioning, but the tall man ignored him and came slowly up the path to the open space in the middle of the camp, where he stood looking proudly round him. He had a small neat beard. His face was dark brown, with rounded muscles on the cheek-bones below the impenetrable black sun-glasses.

He spoke at last, an order, with a gesture of the hand. One of the soldiers fetched a folding table out from under an awning and another of the group who’d followed the man up the path spread what looked like a map on it. It was at this point that Vinny saw Watson standing at the back of the group, looking for once as if he didn’t specially want to be noticed.

‘Where is Dr Hamiska?’ said the tall man, in English, with a strong, throaty accent.

‘Here,’ said Dr Hamiska calmly, as if all this was normal. ‘Mr Multan, isn’t it? Honoured to welcome you, Minister. How can we help you?’

He moved to face the visitor across the table. Mr Multan gazed at him from behind his shielding glasses, obviously trying to do his own trick of facing him down, but Dr Hamiska gazed confidently back. At length Mr Multan tapped the map three times with his forefinger.

‘You have been digging outside the area for which you have your licence,’ he said.

‘If we have, it’s an oversight. Or a misunderstanding. Fetch the licence, will you, Jane? Forgive me, Minister, but I believe you gave us a licence covering the whole of the Dunahil district.’

Mr Multan tapped the map again, barely glancing at it as he spoke.

‘This (tap) is the Dunahil district, here (tap) . Here (tap) is the boundary. You have been digging (tap) here.’

Dr Hamiska looked at the map, peered more closely, started to say something about it, stopped and straightened.

‘I’m afraid it’s an oversight. There wasn’t a map with our licence.’

‘That is your affair.’

‘In any case I would of course be willing to take out a fresh licence to cover this outlying site, where we have, as you say, started a minor exploratory dig. I must explain, Minister, that we are expecting other visitors today, the Director of the Craig Foundation, which . . . ah, thank you, Jane . . .’

Dr Hamiska took the paper and was beginning to unfold it when Mr Multan snatched it from his hands, refolded it and tore it twice across. He dropped the pieces on the ground.

‘Your licence is taken away,’ he said. ‘Your visas are taken away. You will leave the country within forty-eight hours.’

‘This is ridiculous . . .’

‘Be silent. You think this is a tin-pot country. You think you can come here and do what you wish. You think you can take the treasures out of our soil and we will not know what you are taking, because we are savages. You think your Craig Foundation and its dollars can bribe my officials to look another way. I make it clear we are not your children, we are not your donkeys, we are not your servants. We are your equals. I ask, does it take a white man to dig a hole in the ground?’