The Trial of Maximo Bonga by John Harris

Author:John Harris
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Summersdale Publisher

2

Frank was in his usual position when I woke the next morning. I thought he hadn’t noticed me as I slunk around the corner towards the shower. I’d become sort of invisible in my depression, as though the cloud that hovered above me cast a shadow that hid me from the world.

‘The water ain’t been switched on,’ he said without looking up.

I stopped, put the towel around my shoulders then carried on without replying. I didn’t mind a bucket and handpump wash. In fact I’d become used to it over the past week and enjoyed the physical work. It made me feel a bit like I was doing penance.

It didn’t amount to much really, but it was something. At least I wasn’t using the electricity. I was still paying to stay in Bonga’s, along with Frank, but with no other customers now that the low season was upon us, it was the least I could do.

Frank was running the place in Maximo’s absence, or rather his wife Mary was, cleaning and organising and doing whatever else needed doing. She even cooked for the pair of us, converting the old man’s filthy, rundown kitchen into a neat and tidy workspace that I was happy to eat out of.

She’d cleaned up all the other areas too. Boxes of ammo were now in straight rows, the bullet belts for once in their boxes. Gas masks, puttees, grenades, gun parts and assorted odds and sods were in shipshape little groups. Uniforms, hats, helmets and boots were folded and paired in uncluttered, out-of-the-way corners. Tables, chairs, hung pictures and assorted weaponry that had always been skew-whiff were now squared up and hanging straight.

It all looked horrible.

It was so… un-Max like. Why do women always have to move things? It annoyed Frank as well. Every time he came in he’d stop at the top of the steps and frown. ‘Somin’s up,’ he’d say and scratch his tiny head.

‘She’s moved the sandbags,’ I’d reply without looking up from Seven Pillars of Wisdom. He’d sigh, I’d go to my room and it would pass without further comment. It was just being clean, hygienic, we told ourselves. Even the fresh vase of flowers that materialised every day could be forgiven.

Breaking point came, though. I was woken one morning by the sound of Frank going, ‘No way. That’s too much. Oh my Gaad. He’ll never forgive us for this.’ I dressed and went into the restaurant. Frank was standing there staring, mouth open, at Sergeant Chipstick. ‘He’s been dressed!’ Frank said. ‘Mair-ree!’

More than that, the manikin had been spruced up and now looked like a psychotic tourist. Gone were the ragged, moth-eaten, army-issue combat fatigues, gone was the helmet with the cobwebs dangling from it, and gone was the one remaining boot he wore (the other leg ended in a stump, the plastic foot missing).

Casual Mr Chipstick now looked like a London gent on holiday. He wore one of Frank’s elephantine Hawaiian shirts, a pair of his lurid, hulking shorts,

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