Browning Sahib

by Peter Corris

  The guard looked longingly as I lit the cigarettes and I kept that look in mind. Ranu dragged deeply, blew out the smoke slowly and got himself under control. The funny thing is that, squatting as he was in a mud hut, long lank hair falling in his face, wearing a sarong and sandals, I could almost picture him as a pin-striped barrister addressing a court on behalf of a client. There was something impressive about him that couldn't be detracted from by clothes and surroundings. Another stray thought hit me—he really would be an asset to the movie. I waited until he'd smoked half his cigarette before speaking.

  'Look, you might be right about all that. I wouldn't know. I don't vote, not interested in politics. I'm not a lawyer, I never went to university, Oxford or anywhere else. I'm just an actor. Will you please tell me why I've been brought here.'

  He smiled, showing teeth the handsome Hollywood hunks would kill for. 'And been fed, had your clothes laundered and been treated decently. Is it not so?'

  'As you say.'

  'What do you think of the tactics of Mahatma Gandhi, Mr Browning?'

  'What?'

  'You heard me. Passive resistance, fasting, prayer, what do you think of these as means to achieving political ends? I see the question puzzles you. Very well. Have you heard of the Mau?'

  'Of course. I was in Kenya a few years back. Very dangerous lot, the Mau. They . . .'

  He interrupted me. 'Yes. They kill people. Which of these two forms of protest is the more likely to be successful, in your opinion?'

  He was a born politician, circling round and round, never getting to the point. I shook my head. 'I don't have an opinion.'

  He stood up. 'I am still trying to decide myself and there is much debate among us as to whether the Tamils should follow the passive or the violent path. I lean towards the former. That is one of the reasons for your mild treatment. But perhaps there is a middle course, which is where you come in, Mr Browning. You are being held hostage. Your release will cost the film company one hundred thousand pounds and this action will secure much publicity for the cause of a free and independent Tamil state in Ceylon.'

  16

  It was useless for me to protest that, while Fox or Columbia might have paid a couple of hundred grand to ransom Clark Gable or John Wayne, no one on earth would part with a single dollar to free Richard Kelly Browning. Somehow they had got it into their heads that I was an important man. It was something to do with the connection to Aubrey Pelham-Smith, as well as my association with Elephant Walk. The film had been widely publicised in Ceylon, leading the locals to think it was going to be the biggest thing since Gone With the Wind. I told them that I wasn't even acting in the bloody film, that I was just an advance production man. They didn't understand—or chose not to.

  I ranted and raved and begged them to talk to Vasco Da Silva, who would set them straight.

  'That man,' Ranu said scornfully. 'We would not believe a word from him. He tried to keep Tamils out of his cinemas. He is a bad man. He would certainly lie.'

  I recalled Da Silva's unhappiness about my visiting the Tamil quarter. It was the wrong name to bring up.

  This kind of exchange went on for a couple of days. They let me out of the hut to walk around the village (under guard, of course) and to wash in a stream that ran close by. I still had no idea of where I was, other than in the uplands. There were high hills all around the village. For all I knew, there might have been a tea plantation with hot water and a cocktail cabinet just over the hill. But that jungle was dark, dense and threatening. I saw several sizeable snakes down by the river. One day there was great consternation over a man who limped into the village with slashes on his back and legs. Ranu told me he had been mauled by a tiger. He might have been lying, but I wasn't disposed to put it to the test.

  Every day dark clouds massed in the east, filled the sky and the rain fell. My hut leaked; my straw started to stink and I got very tired of eating curried fish, vegetables and rice and drinking fruit cordial. I gave my captors some of my money and they brought back a substantial supply of local cigarettes. Nasty, loosely packed things they were, but they helped to pass the time. My lighter ran out of fuel and I was forced to use what passed for matches—lousy wood, lousy phosphorus, damp striking surface. You can see how the irritation crept up on me. I asked for whisky, but Ranu wasn't coming at that.

  I dredged into my limited knowledge of the bloody country. 'You're not Mohammedans, are you? What've you got against a drop of whisky? What are you, Ranu—a Hindu?'

  It was the first question I'd put to him for which he didn't have a quick come-back. He hummed and hawed and I stored the reaction away along with a few other things. The fact is that he liked talking to me, exercising his English, trying out his odd collection of ideas on me and trying to make sense of the things I said to him. He was a nice young man, really, with good manners and a sense of humour. He was interested in tennis and films as well as politics, and I could talk to him on the first two subjects, if not the third. He'd been educated at an international school in Colombo and I've no doubt his father was right—he was university material for sure. I picked up a smattering of the Tamil language from him and the others, enough to understand some of what was being said in the village. Not very interesting in fact, mostly, 'Get off your lazy behind and do some work' and 'My grandfather said it used to be hotter at this time of year when he was a boy'—that kind of thing.

  After about a week I lost track of the date but I discovered I'd been in captivity for twelve days when Ranu brought me two newspapers. One was printed in Singhalese and of course I couldn't understand a word of it, but I recognised the photograph. There was Dick, wild-eyed and needing a shave, staring balefully at the camera. There was no picture in the English language paper, just a short item under the heading: FILM MAN MISSING.

  The disappearance of Richard Browne is concerning the Colombo police. Mr Browne was last seen entering the Pettah, where he stated he wished to 'look around'. Mr Vasco Da Silva, the film producer and cinema owner, said that Mr Browne had come to Ceylon to look at locations for the forthcoming motion picture Elephant Walk.

  Mr Browne, 45, is described as being six feet one inch tall and of muscular build. He is clean-shaven, has a dark complexion and was last seen wearing a cream linen suit with a white Panama hat. Anyone with information as to his whereabouts should contact the Colombo police.

  'It is a conspiracy of silence,' Ranu said. He slammed his fist down on the English paper. 'They have not even printed the photograph.'

  'It's a pretty lousy picture,' I said, looking at the other paper. 'What's the story here?'

  'Very much the same. A missing person report is what it amounts to—nothing at all about our demands.'

  'I told you I wasn't important. No one is going to ransom me.'

  Ranu said, 'I have to think,' and rushed out of the hut.

  I had thinking to do myself. Was it a good idea to stress my lack of value to anyone? What isn't valuable is disposable, by definition. On the other hand, if I built up their expectations to gain time, the let-down when they were finally convinced that I wasn't worth a brass razoo was likely to be abrupt and damaging to yours truly. I smoked a few of the lousy cigarettes, drank some fruit juice and did some exercises. Not having had a drink for a couple of weeks and losing interest in the food had stripped weight off me. Walking around the village and swimming in the stream had made me fitter than I'd been in quite a while. Maybe I could grab the .303, make a break for it and cope with the snakes and tigers.

  Nothing about the plan appealed to me, but I set myself to keep my eyes and ears open—to try to find out where I was and how far I might be from some kind of help. A couple of days passed. I cut my smoking to a minimum, continued with my physical activities, adding in a few sit-ups and push-ups, and trying to soak up every word of Tamil I could. I was getting sharp, no doubt about it, and the guys who were guarding me were getting slack and inattentive. I doled out the cigarettes, shambled around, looked depressed. The guards
looked bored. They even said they were bored and I could follow enough of their bitching to get a sense of tension within the ranks.

  Ranu was beginning to look harried. He brought me more newspapers and showed me that interest in my disappearance was trailing off. There was still no mention of the ransom. I could have given them a tip or two—told them that they needed a name, like the Tamil Tigers25 or something such, and that they should send in a few signs that they were serious, like an ear or a little finger. But I refrained. There were two particularly good pieces of news in the papers. Billy Hughes had died at the age of ninety. I'd always blamed him for getting me into the First World War and I was only sorry the little rat had lived as long as he did.26 Anyone who let himself be called the 'little Digger' without living through the shit and mud of the Somme deserved to roast in hell. Jimmy Carruthers had won the world bantamweight title from Vic Toweel in Jo'burg by KO'ing the champ in two minutes nineteen seconds of the first round. I cheered when I read that and the noise brought Ranu into the hut.

  'What? What is that you are doing?'

  I showed him the item. 'He's an Australian. Our first real world champ.'

  Ranu shook his head and squatted on the floor. I put the paper aside and looked at him. I noticed that he'd lost weight, making him even more stick-thin than he'd been before, and that his expression was one of intense distress. I gave him a cigarette.

  'We have to talk,' he said.

  'I'm listening.'

  'No, I mean, we have to discuss what is happening.'

  'Ranu, I don't know what's happening. I'm a prisoner in a mud hut, remember? Under armed guard, night and day.'

  'You have been a soldier. You've told me so yourself,' he said. 'And I've watched you. You are learning everything you can about this place. You are exercising and making yourself strong. You plan to escape.'

  I didn't say anything. I hadn't got quite that far in my own thinking, or in the necessary plucking up of courage. But he was anxious to talk and I let him.

  'The Tamil people have been very badly used in this island. Both the ones who came a long time ago and the more recent arrivals. Always the worst work, always the least land. Now they have outlawed our language. Those of our children who attend school will not be taught in the language of their parents. They will become foreigners to their mothers and fathers.'

  That seemed to be putting it a bit strongly, but I could understand what he was saying. I'd seen a lot of it in America—Jews losing control of their kids, who refused to speak Yiddish or wear the yamulka. The same with Italians and Poles. They talk American, they are American—nothing to be done about it.

  Ranu flicked his cigarette out the doorway, narrowly missing the guard. 'They do not trust me,' he said. 'Because I am not of pure Tamil blood.'

  'Who's they?'

  He looked at me and I could see the doubt, fear and vacillation in his eyes. Take it from an old deserter (as I was in the First World War), young Ranu was ready to give it away.

  'There is an organisation,' he said. 'It is not very strong or well managed. There is much division of opinion as to tactics and strategy, as I have told you. I have argued against violence, but others are impatient. The ransom was my idea. We very much need the money.'

  'No one will pay any money for me.'

  'Perhaps if you wrote a letter?'

  Crunch time for Dick. It was a way to buy time perhaps, but if the patience of Ranu's mates was running short there wouldn't be much time. My best chance was to work on the boy himself. I shook my head. 'I'm not valuable enough to anyone. The only person I'm valuable to is you.'

  'Ah. So we come to it.'

  'We do. The ransom plan is a flop. Everyone is disappointed. A bullet for me. You're the architect of the plan and you're not a real Tamil. Why not a bullet for you as well?'

  'Yes.'

  'Or, you can help me get out of this and in return I'll get you to your father in England.'

  He sniffed and shifted his weight uneasily. 'Treachery, betrayal.'

  'Ranu,' I said, and I put everything I had into the next few words, 'think how useful you could be to the Tamils if you had an English legal training. You don't have to live in Wimbledon and play golf, son. You could come back here and kick ass.'

  'Excuse me, why would I want to kick an ass?'

  'It's an expression. It means cause trouble, get even. You could go into parliament or something. Change these laws you're so much against.' I was speaking softly and I suddenly realised how conspiratorial all this might have sounded and looked. Ranu was leaning forward, listening closely. I shot a look at the guard, but he was busy excavating an ear with his little finger.

  I coughed and folded the newspaper up to fan myself. 'Bloody hot in here. What about a walk?'

  Ranu nodded and stood. He told the guard to follow us at a few paces. The guard hesitated and then fell in behind as we strolled around the village. It seemed to me that Ranu's authority was slipping, along with his confidence. There couldn't have been more than about fifty people in the village and most of them were children. Some of the men appeared to go away somewhere to work, others simply hung around. They had very little in the way of possessions, minimal clothing and I assumed that all the huts leaked like mine. A couple of the kids had nasty sores on their legs that looked ready to ulcerate.

  'Look around you, Ranu,' I said. 'You'll never get anywhere with this raggedy-ass bunch. Use your brains, son. They're the best weapon you've got.'

  'How can I trust you? You would give me up to the police.'

  I shook my head. 'No chance of that. Not when your father will pay me four thousand pounds to deliver you to England.'

  We were standing down near the stream at this stage. Ranu tossed a leaf into the water and watched it swirl around in an eddy before floating away. 'I see,' he said quietly. 'Yes, I believe I can trust you.'

  17

  What followed happened so quickly that I'm not sure I caught it all. Ranu whirled, crouched and leaped at the guard. The next I knew the rifle was falling free and the guard was staggering back. Ranu picked up the .303, reversed it and cracked the guard on the temple with the brass butt plate. The man groaned and went down in a heap.

  'Quick, help me to hide him! We have very little time.'

  We rolled the unconscious guard behind a tree and Ranu threw me the rifle. 'I trust you,' he said.

  I caught the gun and slung it, soldier-fashion, across my back. 'Okay, what next?'

  He pointed upstream and set off at a fast pace. I followed, glad I was fit because the ground was soft and the incline was severe. After a few minutes we came to a rickety bridge. We crossed it and headed in what seemed to be a south-westerly direction. I had on city shoes, not the best footwear for the terrain, but I wasn't complaining. After being cooped up for so long it was delicious to be free and moving, even if I was in the company of what had to be the most impetuous youth in Ceylon. I fell a few times on the slippery, muddy track, but I kept moving and didn't disgrace myself. Ranu seemed to float ahead of me, almost jogging, stepping neatly over the roots and rocks that held me up or tripped me. I was sweating freely after a few minutes of this but my wind was good, and, for all the discomfort, it was good to have the rifle banging into my spine.

  After almost an hour I was glad when Ranu called a halt. I doubt if I could have kept it up much longer. I knew better than to lie down, though. I rested against a tree and concentrated on getting my breath and not letting any muscles cramp up. I tried to recall when I'd last seen or heard the truck in the village. It was the day before.

  'Where's the road?' I asked.

  Ranu pointed. 'A few miles that way. We're going in roughly the same direction but at a safe distance from it. Don't worry, I know this district.'

  'So do your mates, I assume, and I'm probably slowing you down.'

  He smiled. 'Not so much. You are doing very well, Browning sahib.'

  'Cut that out! What about the others?'

  'They will be confused fo
r a time. Then they will come after us. Some of them will wait for the truck. I hope you have still got all that money.'

  The cheap leather wallet had started to develop mildew in the humidity and I'd taken to stowing the cash in my pockets. I had my driver's licence, Pelham-Smith's card and other odds and ends as well. The only things I was missing were my jacket and the Panama hat, knocked off by a low branch early in the escape run. 'I've got it,' I said. 'What's the plan?'

  'There is a railway station not too far away. We can get a train to Colombo.'

  'How long have you been thinking about this?'

  'A few days. Did you notice the reluctance of the guard to do what I said? They were starting to lose confidence in me as time went on and the ransom idea did not seem to be working. Come, we must keep moving.'

  I eased the rifle strap on my shoulder. 'Do I have to keep carrying this?'

  'For a time. They may have sent a message ahead by bicycle.'

  'Now you tell me. Okay, lead on, Macduff.'

  'Shakespeare. I have studied . . .'

  'Ranu, tell me about it later, eh? Let's get to that bloody train.'

  We pushed on down the bush track at a cracking pace, only pausing to take shelter for an hour or so when the afternoon rain came down hard in the usual way. When the track gave way to a rough road and a tiny settlement clustered around the railway station came in sight, Ranu used his handkerchief to sponge the mud from my trousers. I took off my shoes and cleaned them up as best I could with handfuls of grass. Reluctantly I threw the Lee Enfield into some bushes. Ranu, nervous as a bad putter on the first green, giggled when he saw my expression. 'It only had one bullet in it, Mr Browning.'

  'Jesus,' I said, 'if I'd known that, I would have dropped it in the creek when we started.'

  'Yes.'

  He was a deep one, Ranu. We kept our eyes peeled as we tramped along the road to the station. The traffic was mainly bicycles with a few motorbikes and donkey carts. I started when I heard the sound of a heavy engine, but it was a timber truck, revving up to take a hill. We stopped at a stall and, at Ranu's instruction, I bought a straw hat and a couple of string bags. We bought newspapers, some battered and musty books, sweets, cigarettes, some rice cakes and fruit and a few other things and stuffed them into the bags carried by Ranu.