The Steam Pig (23 page)

Kramer and Zondi spun and started for the outside door, going up on their toes ready to sprint round and make the most of an attack from the rear.

Then it happened. Lenny died. And his own body current was discharged totally, blowing his mind and causing a sinew-snapping spasm that put a bullet into Mrs Beeton.

The shot did not echo but everyone seemed to listen to it for a very long time.

At least that was how it seemed until the door to the dining-room crashed open. Ensign Roberts, who had the advantage of having the light coming from behind him, took one glance at the slumped form on the sink. The fight was spectacular.

But Jackson did not stay to watch.

Kramer's right elbow hurt like hell, worse than his groin. He flinched.

“So you think this is bad?” Strydom murmured, removing another fragment of spectacle lens.

Kramer made no reply. He had said nothing about his injuries except to use them as an excuse to get him into the hospital without attracting undue attention. It was just that the District Surgeon always made a point of cheering up his patients by comparing their sufferings favourably with those of others.

“Christ, you should take a look at Ensign Roberts in D Ward,” he said. “He's got a right eye like a squashed guava.”

“Stupid bastard.”

“
Ach
no, Lieutenant, that's not the attitude. He was trying to help. He thought—”

“We'll never bloody get Jackson now.”

“The Colonel seems to think different.”

“He would. Him and Van Niekerk dancing round at HQ, organising their ruddy roadblocks and slapping each other's bum. They haven't a hope.”

“Why not?”

“They don't know what he looks like.”

“What about his car?”

“Moosa chucked a brick through the back window—he'll have it changed anyway.”

“Who?”

“Just a churra we know.”

“Pity it wasn't the windscreen. But that's coolies for you—no guts.”

“Uhuh.”

“Anyhow, you should have no worries. You got the brother—and a few others besides, I hear.”

“Oh yes?”

“No, I'm not trying to get anything out of you. The Colonel said it was hush-hush but he was very pleased.”

“Big deal. He won't have a scrap of evidence when that little lot he's questioning see their lawyers and lose their memories.”

“Look, what more can you do?”

“Get the bastards behind it.”

“Oh, so there's not just Jackson?”

The sister in charge of the casualty department came over and cleared her throat in A minor.

“Excuse me, Doctor,” she said, “but there's a boy outside who wants to see this patient.”

“Zondi?” Kramer asked.

“He says he's from the CID.”

“Fine, send him in, Sister. I'm almost finished.”

“Thank you, Doctor.”

Zondi entered with his eyes respectfully averted and handed Kramer a slip of paper. On it he had scrawled: “Colonel telling Van that Ferguson can die soon. 2100 hrs.”

This was just what Kramer had been waiting for—and his only way of getting the information without arousing suspicion. Now that Lenny was dead and Jackson had fled, he knew of only five men remaining who had plainly registered something when he had mentioned the Steam Pig. Four already disclaimed any knowledge of the phrase but they had their lives to live. The fifth had not.

Kramer winked his gratitude at a good and faithful servant and then dismissed him.

The drag of the next five minutes was a greater agony than anything Strydom's clumsy fingers could inflict. In fact it seemed a full hour of missed opportunity before Kramer arrived in the side-ward and began to browbeat the nurse at Ferguson's bedside into allowing them to be alone. As an only son, he claimed that right.

She was touched and left. There was only the one bed in the room.

“I'm dying,” Ferguson said, looking awed, then giggled.

Kramer could just catch his words by bending low over him. Actually Ferguson did not look all that bad, but he had the right idea if he was going to be of any assistance.

“Remember me?” Kramer asked.

“Hmmmm?”

“Any ideas?”

“Specialish?”

“Try again.”

“Brother—Jack?”

“Shall I tell you?”

Ferguson nodded with the eagerness of a child anticipating avuncular delights.

“I'm from the Steam Pig. Remember?”

This brought a strange smile to the candle-wax lips. It broadened jerkily into a leery grin.

“Give her. My love.”

“Who?”

“Her. Little piggy.”

“I said Steam Pig.”

Ferguson brightened.

“She's dead,” he observed with satisfaction.

“Who? Peggy is it?”

“You are a bit thick,” Ferguson scoffed, becoming lucid all of a sudden. “We all called her the Pig after Derek said it first. What a laugh! A dirty pig all right—the things she'd let you do. Oh my.”

“Holy jesus.”

“Nobody knew who the Pig was, you see. We could talk about her in the club and nobody knew.”

“But
steam?
”

“Very clever. I said
Steam
Pig. Chuff, chuff, chuff. It was like a steam engine. Chuff-chuff-chuff she'd go in time to the music. We added Steam just for fun. Like a code.”

And Ferguson began to hum Greensleeves with a distinctive locomotive rhythm that Kramer recognised instantly.

“You poor bloody sod,” he said.

“Steam Piggy thought it such a joke!”

“I bet.”

Kramer left abruptly.

“Holy jesus,” he said again, in the passage. The nurse, returning with her cup of tea, stared after him with the utmost sympathy. He looked ill.

He was sick to the stomach to think that of all the types of names he had considered, not once had the idea of a nickname occurred to him. No wonder nobody had ever stopped to explain it before—the topic had always been the girl and they must have supposed he understood what such a trifling thing meant. It had never been important.

Except to Shoe Shoe and he had missed the point as well. Look where that had got him. God, the consequences could be almost as devastating if this ever got into the Colonel's after-dinner joke book.

Oh sod him. He'd never catch Jackson and so he'd sodding well never know. The sod.