Sample

Chapter 1

The Law's the Law

The day had been very hot and Mike Stevens was pleased he was now off duty and could enjoy his first cold beer of the evening at the Kabala Club bar. The car park was full, as usual, and as he parked his black three-litre Rover saloon, Mike noticed that the manager of the Nibanan Motor Company had once again come to the club in a new and unregistered Land-Rover fitted with trade plates. Mike had warned the manager about the misuse of trade plates on previous occasions, but clearly his warnings had been ignored yet again.
     "That’s it," said Mike to himself. "He’ll be getting a ticket this time. I’m sick of telling the bloody man."
     The Nibanan doorman saluted smartly as the white man walked through the main entrance to the club and Mike acknowledged the salute with a slight wave of his swagger stick.
     "Are you well, baba²?" said Mike as he stopped to read one of the notices pinned to a board on the wall behind where the old doorman was sitting.
     "Yesa, I am very well, sa. I hope master is well," replied the doorman, smiling broadly at the white man.
     "I am very well, thank you, baba. Especially now that I’m off duty," quipped Mike.
     "You go catch plenty big palaver job, sa," retorted the doorman as Mike walked away from the entrance hall into the main lounge and bar area. 
     It was not often that Mike Stevens attended the club in his police uniform, but he felt the need from time to time. It was necessary to remind the expatriates who gathered there that he was a policeman and would behave like a policeman, even if he had to deal with his friends and fellow expatriates in the course of his duty.
     Several Europeans turned and greeted Mike as he strolled across the lounge towards the bar, where the steward welcomed him with a smile and said, "A cold beer, sir?"
     Mike nodded and the steward made his way into the back room to select a cold beer from the large bottle cooler.
     "I’ll get that for you, Mike," said a young white man approaching from the other end of the bar.
     "Come on, Neville, you know my rules. I’ll pay for my own beer, thank you." said Mike, in a friendly voice.
     "You coppers and your rules; what does it matter if I buy you a beer? No one is going to think I’m trying to bribe you Mike," said the young white man, flippantly.
     "No, but I like to keep my business dealings and my private life separate, it’s easier that way," said Mike as he touched the bottle to check that it was cold before nodding to the steward that he may begin to pour the beer into a pint glass.
     "Business dealings?" queried the young white man, with something of a sneer. "Who are you going to arrest at the Kabala Club, the bloody gardener, one of the stewards or the doorman?"
     Mike ignored Neville’s poor attempt at sarcastic humour and said, "No, but I shall be arresting you if you don’t stop using your bloody trade plates illegally," in a tone that did not give any room for misinterpretation.
     "Bloody hell, Mike, it is Christmas you know and in case you hadn’t noticed, I’m a bloody white man," said Neville, somewhat taken aback.
     "It’s not Christmas, Neville, it’s the 19th of January 1964, and I don’t care what colour you are; I will not have trade plates used for anything other than business activities. It’s difficult enough stopping the Nibanans from abusing the law, without having to worry about people like you, Neville. When you’ve been in this country a bit longer, you’ll realise how important it is for us whites to obey the law to the letter. This is the third time I’ve warned you, so I shall be issuing you with a fine of two pounds in the morning. It’s your own fault, Neville. You should use your own car, though I suspect you’re saving on petrol by using unregistered company Land-Rovers, not so?"
     Neville didn’t answer immediately; instead, he called to the steward and ordered himself another beer. He then turned to Mike and said, "I suppose you’re right, Mike. I’m sorry, it won’t happen again. Here’s your two quid; send me an official receipt in the post."
     Mike looked at the proffered pound notes for a moment or two and said, "Thanks, Neville, you know it’s for the best in the end. We have to show the Nibanans there’s no favouritism; otherwise, the place would be ungovernable. Now let me give you some advice regarding those pound notes in your hand. I would be much obliged if you would put them back in your wallet. What do you think it looks like to the other members and especially the club stewards, Neville? Use your head for God’s sake. Wait for the fine notification to arrive in the post and then pay the two pounds to the Native Authority treasurer at the Town Hall, and be sure to get a receipt. That’s the proper procedure, OK?"
     "OK," said Neville despondently, placing the banknotes back in his wallet.
     As Neville Watson walked away from the bar with the fresh bottle of beer the steward had just brought to him, leaving Mike Stevens standing there alone, he muttered quietly to himself, "Bloody coppers, they’re all the same."
     The bar steward, having now moved further along the bar to the small sink to wash some of the dirty beer glasses, smiled wryly to himself. He had witnessed many similar exchanges between the white policeman and other expatriates before, and he was pleased that the white policeman behaved in this way. It demonstrated impartiality, a very important attribute for a policeman in Nibana. It was the reason that this particular white man commanded respect from most of the Nibanans in Kabala: he was not corrupt and he was scrupulously fair. It was exactly what the majority of ordinary Nibanans wanted from their policemen and soldiers, but the evils of tribalism and nepotism had always intervened, making life very difficult and sometimes very dangerous for millions of Nibana’s people.

² This is generally taken to mean father, but it can also be used as a term of endearment when addressing an elder of the tribe. 
 

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