Highways to a War Read Free Page B

in a subtle hardening about the eyes. Otherwise the looks of his youth were unmarred, the blond hair a young man’s.
    He already looks dead, I thought.
    Instantly, I tried to dismiss the thought; to disbelieve it. But it did seem to me that Mike’s face had the final, fixed, historic quality of the dead. The newsreader continued, and the picture of Langford disappeared, to be replaced by film clips of black-clad Khmer Rouge soldiers with automatic rifles, marching through paddy fields and villages.
    “Violent purges within the country are reported to be continuing, and any Western journalist apprehended entering the country could expect immediate arrest and detention. However, Australian embassy officials in Bangkok have received no report of Langford’s arrest. Enquiries concerning his whereabouts directed to the Government of Democratic Kampuchea have received no response, and the embassy is treating his disappearance as serious.
    “Michael Langford began as a news cinecameraman for the Australian Broadcasting Service and British Telenews, covering the Vietnam War. Later he specialized in war photography for magazines such as Life, Time, and Newsweek, winning a number of awards. He has been described as one of the best war photographers of his generation.”
    The item ended; another began; Lockhart got up and switched off the set. He turned, standing in front of it with his hands behind his back, contemplating us both. His mustache twitched; he cleared his throat, but said nothing.
    Diana was frowning at the gray, extinct television screen, her hands still locked in her lap; she seemed to expect some further image to spring into life there that would change what had gone before. Then she drew in a breath, and shook her head. “No. Not Mike. He’ll be all right,” she said. Her tone was matter-of-fact. “If he wasn‘t, I’d know,” she said.
    “Would you, Di? Yes, I suppose you would.” Lockhart surveyed her with an expression that resembled sympathy; but something in his face made me uncomfortable, and wish to draw his attention away from her.
    “There must still be a reasonable chance,” I said. “Surely.”
    He looked at me quickly. “A chance? There’s always a chance, mate. But it’s as simple as this, I’m afraid: he’d have to have high-level contacts with the Khmer Rouge to survive there for five minutes. And since they’re said to arrest anyone with Western connections, that seems a bit unlikely, doesn’t it? So we have to hope he didn’t fall into Khmer Rouge hands. Because if he did, he’s now in prison, or dead.”
    “Michael’s not dead,” Diana said.
    “I hope you’re right,” Lockhart said. “But I was trained to take facts into account.”
    Diana stood up. “Bugger your facts,” she said. Her tone remained calm, but her face had grown paler than usual. “Excuse me,” she said, and walked out of the room.
    Lockhart was still standing in front of the TV set, eyebrows raised. “She’s a bit emotional,” he said to me.
    “I should be going,” I said. “Mike survived for so long—I don’t want to believe this either, Locko. Will you let me know if you hear anything?”
    “Hang on a moment, Raymond: don’t rush off,” he said. “I’ll see that Di’s all right.”
    Left alone in the living room, I sat in my armchair and studied the picture of the Lancaster, and the group outside the hotel in Singapore. The clock ticked loudly.
    I sat for a considerable time, hearing the distant murmur of their voices, probably from a bedroom. They weren’t raised; their tone seemed even; muffled. Eventually the voices stopped, and I heard the bang of the back door.
    I lost patience, and went out through the dim, carpeted hall with its dark-stained timber paneling and framed colonial prints. One or both of the Lockharts had gone into the garden; the situation was growing awkward, and I intended to find whoever was there and take my leave.
    The house at the back looked out across the