The Khufra Run. Jack Higgins
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out of the darkness into the headlights of the jeep.
It was as if the camera had stopped turning, freezing the shot for a moment. Dark hair cut very close to the skull - unnaturally short - even the men were wearing it longer that year. Wide eyes above high cheekbones, filled with a kind of calm desperation rather than fear.
And the rest of her, as was to be expected, was calculated to take the breath away. Firm, round breasts, rather small but sharply pointed, the flat belly of a young girl, the hair dark between the thighs.
She came straight into my arms as if unable to stop that head-long flight, clutched at my sweater for a moment then pushed me away with a sudden, desperate cry. I grabbed hold of her by the wrists and held on tight.
‘It’s all right,’ I said. ‘It’s all right,’ then repeated myself in Spanish for good measure.
She went very still, staring up at me, gasping for breath like the hunted animal she was, not saying a word, and a man ran out of the darkness.
Hippies, they will tell you, are God’s own chosen people. Flower folk. Gentle souls who only want to drop out of the hell that is modern industrial society. Maybe that was true once when they were content with marijuana, but things have changed since they got on to heroin and L.S.D., and most of the crowd who’d washed up on the shores of Ibiza had drifted up from the bottom of a cess pool in my estimation.
The character who crouched a yard or two away, chest heaving as he fought for breath, was a vintage specimen. His black hair hung well below his shoulders and he wore a plaited leather headband, a scarlet shirt secured by a broad leather belt with a round brass buckle, six inches across, that glowed in the headlights like a small moon. The one incongruous feature were the wire spectacles, the eyes glinting behind them like some malevolent fox, on finding the farmer between him and the chicken.
I didn’t need to hear his crazed laugh to know he was as high as a kite or the sight of his shaking hands. It was round about then that two more came crashing out of the pine trees, one of them losing his balance and arriving in an untidy heap in the middle of the road. He got to his feet as the other joined him and they ranged themselves behind Redshirt.
They really were quite something. Identical twins from the look of them and barefooted. Filthy, ragged creatures with tangled beards and long, matted hair, like something out of a child’s nightmare about wild men from the woods coming to get you.
Redshirt spread his arms wide and said in a surprisingly soft voice, ‘Plenty for everyone, man. You wait your turn is all.’
I said to the girl, ‘Get in the jeep. You’ll find a reefer jacket in the back.’
As I opened the door for her he came in fast and when he was close enough, I gave him a good, old-fashioned boot in the crutch. In other circumstances it might have killed or crippled him, but the fact that I was only wearing canvas rope-soled sandals took a little of the steam out of things.
In any event, the end result was perfectly satisfactory. He kept on going for a moment, carried forward by the momentum of his own rush, did a rather neat somersault and ended up in the ditch at the side of the road, curled into a very tight ball.
I shoved the girl into the jeep and scrambled in beside her as one of the Terrible Twins howled like a dog and rushed me. I gave him the door full in the face, rammed my foot down hard and took the jeep forward. I had a final impression of the other gibbering like some great ape in the headlights, then he bounced to one side like a rubber ball and we were away.
The girl leaned over the seat, as exciting and disturbing a sight as any man could wish for, and searched vainly in the shadows for the reefer coat. I gave it half-a-mile, just to be on the safe side, then pulled into the side of the road on a small bluff that overlooked the sea. I found the coat, gave it to her then got out of the jeep and walked to the edge of the cliffs. As I lit a cigarette the door slammed behind me. When I turned, the girl was watching me. She’d buttoned the reefer to the neck and turned up the sleeves, but it was still five sizes too large. The contrast between how she now looked and her former condition was incongruous enough to be almost funny.
She came forward, hands in pockets and I offered her a cigarette which she refused. ‘Are you all right?’ I said.
Her answer was to collapse against me with a long, shuddering sigh. I got an arm around her quickly and held on tight.
After a while, she pulled away. ‘Thank you. I’m all right now.’ Her English was excellent, but with a pronounced French accent.
I said, ‘I’d choose my company a little more carefully another time if I were you.’
She ignored that one and turned to look out to sea again. ‘It is really very beautiful, this world of ours, don’t you agree?’
Which, considering what had gone before, was calculated to take the wind out of anyone’s sails. But she was right, of course. It was a night to thank God for.
‘I know,’ I said. ‘Where every prospect pleases and only man is vile.’
She looked up at me, frowning slightly. ‘You’re a strange man. You can be so gentle, yet back there …’
‘I know, angel,’ I said. ‘Red in tooth and claw. I served my apprenticeship in a rough school. Of course, I could have passed by on the other side. Would you have preferred that?’
‘Please forgive me. I’m being very stupid.’ She held out her hand. ‘My name is Claire Bouvier and I’m really very grateful.’
I held on to that hand for a moment longer than was strictly necessary, not for romantic reasons, but out of simple curiosity at discovering how work-roughened the palm was. She just didn’t look the type.
‘Jack Nelson,’ I said. ‘Was I in time back there?’
She took another of those deep breaths. ‘Yes, Mr Nelson. You were in time.’
‘That’s all right then. Where are you staying?’
‘A hotel in Ibiza on the Avenida Andenes close to the pier where the boat leaves for Formentera.’
‘All right,’ I said. ‘I’ve got a friend who has a villa about a mile from here. I’ll take you there first, get you some clothes, then I’ll take you to your hotel. Or to the police - it’s up to you.’
‘No - no police.’
The reaction was sharp and definite.
I said, ‘Why not? They’d probably run them down without too much difficulty, the state I left them in.’
‘No, they’ve been punished enough.’ She was almost angry. ‘And it wasn’t that kind of assault. It wasn’t how it looked. Don’t you understand?’
Curiouser and curiouser, and I think she was on the point of telling me more, but I had enough troubles of my own to carry without taking on anyone else’s.
‘Your affair,’ I said. ‘Anyway, let’s get going.’
I moved to the jeep, opened the door. When I turned she was still standing there at the cliff edge.
‘For God’s sake,’ I said. ‘If I’d wanted to rape you I’d have been at it by now. And you’re not my type. Thin as a rail and your hair’s too short.’
She didn’t move an inch. Just stood there looking at me gravely, her face pale in the moonlight. I suddenly had that vaguely helpless feeling one gets on occasions when faced with a stubborn child, intent only on going its own way.
I said as gently as I could, ‘All right, you’ve had a rough night, I understand that, but you’ve got to start trusting people again. My friend’s place is no more than a mile from here and she’s a woman so she’ll be able to fit you up with some clothes, give you anything you want. You may