A few hundred metres later, he dismissed it as paranoia. He even managed to smile at himself for being silly. He chanced a look at his speedometer and saw that he was approaching 180 km/h. How silly! I mustn't get unglued. He slowed down to a respectable speed and felt some of the tension leave him.

As he entered the police station, he felt his earlier composure deserting him. The Inspector General himself was at hand to receive him and quickly ushered him into his office. There was his Precious wearing the tartiest number he had ever laid his eyes on. She was heavily made up and her eyes were blood shot. His eyes breathed fire at her but she hung her head down. She dared not look at her father

'She was found during a police raid on a party at one of the Opposition Party leaders' houses. We had a tip that there were a lot of drugs and illegal weapons there. I took personal charge of the situation, as it was very sensitive. It is there that we found her. I should have brought her home but as I've said the magnitude of this case made it impossible. I also imagined you might like to deal with the situation yourself. However, if you like I could deal with it.'

A night in any of the local holding cells was enough to sober up even the most hardened of criminals. I G Mwansa was standing behind Bwalya and now placed his hand on Bwalya's shoulder, giving it a gentle squeeze.

'That's all right,' Bwalya said. Mwansa nodded understandingly, and let his hand hang there for a moment before he sat down with a sigh.

Mwansa had known Bwalya virtually his entire life. He was the only one, it was rumoured, who could talk squarely to Bwalya. Mwansa was a seasoned professional who enjoyed doing his job. He just wished that politics would stay out of it. He had known that what was going on at the opposition party leader's home was no more criminal than what was going on in some ministers' houses. In fact, if he had to be honest with himself, there was more criminal activity in the ministers' homes than the poor arrested politician's home. But the orders had come from above and it was his duty to follow orders, wasn't it? It was also a question of survival. He knew which side his bread was buttered on, to use the cliché. Ultimately that was what it came down to; Survival.

The private press was calling for his blood and condemning his impartiality. Yet he knew that given the same circumstances they would do the same. Earning the bread was more important than one's principles.

When he had joined the Force as it was called then-presently it was known as the Service, which was the same difference as far as he was concerned- he was a starry eyed constable who would make a difference and be the best policeman ever. He was very soon disillusioned. He discovered that you couldn't really do your job properly without enough resources nor was it worth risking one's life for peanuts. Sure it was part of the job, but hearing A K 47 bullets whizzing past ones head was enough to make one stop think twice.

He knew there was rampant corruption, but he also knew that his ill-equipped and underpaid force was just trying to survive like anyone else. It was the unwritten law of the land, practised by everyone from the top down. It was not an easy thing to turn around people's attitudes when they weren't willing to do so. Even idealism has to succumb to a greater force than itself-Reality. Yes sir! This would be the right time to retire-after insuring a reasonable pension, of course.

Bwalya was barely able to contain his annoyance. Annoyance at being here, annoyance at his weakness and annoyance at how well his friend knew him. The last thing he wanted was an all-knowing friend showing sympathy. That sort of thing was tolerable from a stranger, not one's best friend.

'Are we still on for that round of golf this weekend?'

'Of course we are.'

'Good. See you then.'