The Pencil Case

by Lorraine Cobcroft

  “The last bit is absolutely true. I wouldn’t.”

  “You’re just like the rest of them. They all say the same thing. And they all do the same thing. Even your straight–laced prim and proper lady aunts. I’ll bet half the men in town know what they look like with their clothes off and what their grunts sound like when they are into it.”

  “That’s a disgusting thing to say, Paul. How dare you?”

  “Your mother couldn’t hold a marriage together. Which bloke did her husband catch her with?”

  She slapped me then and I hit her back. I punched her in the eye and in the stomach and I swore at her. Then I pushed her down on the bed and ripped her panties off and held her savagely while I forced myself into her.

  “Is that what you were after?” I spat. “Think a fancy pants warrant officer would have a bigger one than me? Give you more pleasure?”

  She lay like a statue under me, silent tears streaking her face, lips tightly set. When I was done, she turned her back to me and I heard her sobbing softly. I hated myself. I hated her. I hated the world. I swore I would murder that bastard warrant officer.

  Everything I wanted --- everything that gave me pleasure --- someone snatched away.

  ~~~~

  26: MURDER ON BUGIS STREET

  JUNE, 1971

  I went down Bugis Street the next evening. I left Fran at home angry and brooding and threatening to leave me. That was no surprise. It was rather surprising she had stayed this long. It was hard for her living in a foreign land and trying to mix with a social group to which she would never belong. I wasn’t a soldier by choice. I hated the army, and she would never be a soldier’s wife.

  I carried my guilt over last night like two monstrous suitcases, weighing me down and causing my shoulders to sag. I pictured her at home, miserable. It would serve me right if she sought male company. I don’t deserve a faithful wife. It’s probably best she leave. I love her, but I’m no good for her. She deserves better --- someone who isn’t haunted by demons and driven to crazy fits of jealousy and rage. Someone who can be gentle and tender with her, the way I am when the demons leave me alone. Someone with ambition and a career path, who can offer her a future.

  Bugis Street was dirty and dangerous and corrupt. I went out of curiosity, because it was famous everywhere for its gaiety, evil and iniquity. I wandered alone through the pasar malam in Chinatown, with its colourful hangings and its quaint discordant music. The cymbals clanged, the hawkers shouted, and weird and fascinating wares were displayed for sale. The air was thick and heavy. The sweet smell of sweat mixed with scents of perfumes, sticky sweet rice cakes, chow mein, and the stink of raw fish, dog, cat and rat.

  Along Queen Street, I stopped now and again at a boozer for a long, tall glass of Tiger, sitting to rest and drink at one of the dozens of little round tables that crammed footpath and roadway. I paused, when I thought a shadow or a gawking crowd obscured me, to stare at the flashy cross–dressers strutting awkwardly in their high heels and pulling back their shoulders to project their artificial breasts. It was easy to tell the beanie boys from real women. They were drop–dead gorgeous and I marvelled that a man could make himself up to look so feminine and lovely.

  Lingering at one table, obscured by a group of boozing G.I.s, I watched the famous ‘Dance of the Flaming Arseholes’ performed on the flat toilet roof and listened to the Aussie sailors’ foul–mouthed chant. Occasionally, a tartily attired young Chinese or Malay accosted me to offer entertainment, quoting prices ranging from extortionate to almost free. When I shook my head, they squawked insults in their native language and pushed past me to the next prospect. There were plenty. The streets were packed with tourists, American G.I.s and ANZUK servicemen --- many seeking sex with either prostitutes or homos, and there were plenty of both to choose from.

  I was fascinated, but uncomfortable, so I pushed on to Tanjong Pagar where the dock workers drank at night. I was ill at ease among the gangs of ruffians shouting swear words at transsexuals and puckering lips at the pretty pros gyrating sensuously among them. I considered seeking a rickshaw to go back, but my search took me closer to the docks. I was near the water now. Here and there, between reflections of the brightly coloured lights, were shadowy corners and dark niches.

  When I first saw him, I was uncertain. Then I looked more closely and recognised him. Jungle! The bullying Balcombe senior I had outwitted for a prime camp spot some six or more years before. He had nicknamed me

  “Jungle”, calling out “Hey you, Jungle” and prompting the whole platoon to laugh as he explained his jibe. “Green and dense,” he had said mockingly.

  I had exacted my revenge on a bush training exercise. Jungle laid claim to the prize campsite --- sheltered, shady, and well grassed. He invested a full 20 minutes pitching his tent and meticulously preparing his camp site. He was just preparing for a welcome rest when I approached him, sniffing.

  “I smell snake,” I said, my nose wrinkling. Jungle frowned and glanced nervously about him at the long grass.

  “Yep. Definitely snakes here. I’m from the bush, you know. I know when there are snakes about.”

  Jungle pulled down his tent and gathered his belongings and made a hasty retreat. I made little attempt to hide my mirth as I pitched my tent and unpacked my belongings right on the spot he had vacated. “Who’s green and dense?” I muttered to myself with a chuckle.

  Jungle wore three stripes now and the badge of the Infantry Corp.

  Huh. So Mr Big Time is a footslogger? The thought pleased me. The stripes made no impression.

  He was arguing with a feisty little Malay. The words were inaudible, but the waving arms, Jungle’s threatening fist and the Malay’s fierce spit spoke of the intensity of their dispute. The Malay pulled a knife. Jungle pulled a pistol.

  It was over in an instant. The shot wasn’t loud, only a swift, sharp crack. The Malay fell. The soldier calmly wiped the sweat from his face with his handkerchief and tossed the pistol into the dark river. It hardly made a splash. He turned and walked in my direction.

  Nervousness turned to fear. I recognised him. It was likely he’d remember me. Even if Jungle’s memory was short, bandsmen are generally well– recognised, if not well–known, for we are so often out on public display. The focal point at military ceremonies, we were noticed, in civvys, for our less– than–optimum physique. We were frequently observed making rowdy returns, at two or three a.m., from a late–night gig. The engineers, clerks and infantry men would emerge bleary–eyed on balconies, whining that we woke them and disturbed their infants, shouting abuse and ordering silence.

  I shrank back, eased stealthily towards a pylon and crouched behind it, panting, squeezing my lips to silence my breathing and holding my chest as though trying to quieten a thumping heart. I waited and listened. How long? No sounds. The dull thud, thud and the occasional clink, as the metal caps of Jungle’s boot kicked a bottle or can, had faded and stopped.

  I dared to rise now, sliding to the side of the pylon and leaning forward to peer into the blackness. Empty. He was gone, or hiding, waiting? The pier stretched ominously into the blackness, lapping water caressing its legs. There were hiding places under it and in boats anchored alongside, and up among the stacked containers, and in the warehouse doorways, set back, as they were, to form little sheltered porches.

  I sought out the shadowy corners I’d earlier taken such care to avoid, creeping along, close to the walls, or darting from one doorway to the next, clinging to the darkness.

  What if a harlot invites me inside? Would I welcome the promise of safety, or run from the risks of her ire when, having given her the nod, I rejected her favours? Do I fear the soldier more, or the prostitute and her pimp?

  I dripped sweat and was conscious of my body odour, despite the heavy, sweet smells of the sticky tropical night. My breathing was loud and desperate over the clanging, singing and shouting. I felt the eyes of a hundred transvestites and a thousand warfies watching me intently as I sca
nned the crowds to see if the footslogger’s eyes were among those fixed on me, monitoring my every move.

  Which way did the soldier go? Did he see me? Does he know what I witnessed? Will he come after me to silence me?

  I inched along a darkened stretch of wall, then tried to blend with a mob of raucous sailors, although my attire was different and my face was pale with fear where theirs were ruddy from the grog and gaiety. It seemed that every finger pointed at me and every eye stared. I feared any moment now they would cry in unison, “He’s here”. Over and over, I imagined the lunk bearing down on me. I felt his iron fist smash my jaw and tasted blood. My head swam and my legs gave way.

  I pulled myself upright and swallowed hard. There was no blood. There was no wound. I clenched my fists and primed myself to choose my mark, duck the soldier’s blow, and reply quickly with one fast, deadly swing.

  What’s wrong with me? I’m a boxer, and all but unbeaten. That arsehole, Jungle, is no match for my speed and skill. I could kill the bastard with one punch.

  My self–assurances were unconvincing. I ducked back into the shadow and slid along another wall section. I found the middle of a large group of European tourists and ambled casually, listening for the soldier’s heavy tread, but taking care not to look behind.

  Finally, I was back in Chinatown among the hawkers, men–women and crowds of Europeans swilling beer, flirting with the trans’, and occasionally allowing themselves to be led off with a gleam in their eye by a pretty Oriental to a grubby overdressed parlour and a semen–stained bed.

  I hailed a black cab and called “Katong, Johnny”, using the name soldiers used for all Asian cabbies. The taxi rattled and shuddered up a back lane and on to the main road. Entering the courtyard, I urged the cabbie close to the left entrance. I paid the John his double fare without complaint, then ducked out and ran up four flights of stairs, shaking out my keys in readiness before I reached the first landing.

  In the morning, I flicked the pages of the paper without comment and feigned disinterest when the murder was reported on the TV news. I told Frances nothing, but for weeks I nurtured a deep fear. I rehearsed my reaction if I saw Jungle.

  Stay calm. Be normal. Nod, smile, keep walking.

  Should I go to the MPs? The local police, perhaps? Would an Aussie soldier get a fair trial here? Would the brass allow a trial at all, or would they simply drag the soldier off to Holsworthy after a perfunctory court–martial held only to appease those who demanded a semblance of justice? Perhaps, anyway, Holsworthy would be a picnic compared to an Asian jail?

  Perhaps I was mistaken? Perhaps I hadn’t recognised the murderer correctly? Maybe it was self–defence? The locals could be aggressive sometimes.

  I remembered the night I argued with the cabbie over a fare. I was terrified that night. I might easily have ended in a ditch with a knife in my chest if I hadn’t thrown a handful of bills at the man and run.

  And what about Simms, the man I swore to find and murder for sentencing me unjustly to spend my youth incarcerated? I’m planning a murde, and perhaps Jungle had equally good cause.

  Fascinated by the antics of the Kai Tais, my mates went often to enjoy the vibrant nightlife. I never went down Bugis Street again. Over breakfast, I began the first of many agonising debates with my conscience. Annoying pangs would invade my thoughts at the most inconvenient moments: while performing, just at the climax of that solo when the notes rang out in perfect sequence and the tone was sweet and clear, and only the music should occupy my thoughts. They would come while I tried to sleep, my wife curled in a foetal ball beside me, pressing her tight buttocks against my thighs.

  When reading, I often had to go back and read the chapter over again, and still an annoying twinge of guilt tainted the author’s message. When I watched a movie, I was sometimes so distracted that I missed a key part of the plot. I dared not ask Fran what I missed for fear of her interrogation. She must not know of my dilemma. Then I would have to tell her what I planned to do to Simms.

  I ought to have reported the incident. Evil should be punished. An eye for an eye; a life for a life. That’s what they taught me. They, who brutally beat little children for the most minor transgressions. They, who cursed me with the belief that I was so worthless that I had no right to life. They, who told me I was the scum of the earth, born of no–goods and destined to be a no–good. Who were they to tell me what was good and what was evil?

  I was taught it was wrong to kill and then I was handed a gun and trained to be a killer. And I planned to kill a man one day. Simms deserved to be killed. He killed me, in a manner of speaking. He killed my spirit. He only left an empty, hurting body to stumble and struggle through life cursed.

  I planned to become a killer and the killing I planned was justice. The community wouldn’t see it that way. Society would condemn me. The community only understood about killing bodies. No–one in the justice system understood the murder of a soul.

  ~~~~

  27: THREE STEPS TO RECOVERY

  JULY, 1971

  I was drowning in an ocean of remorse and fear. Fear of Jungle. Fear of losing Fran.

  I’d said “sorry” a thousand times. I’d begged her forgiveness. Then I’d told her she should not forgive me, for I knew what I had done was unforgiveable. I said I knew I didn’t deserve her and I wouldn’t blame her if she left. I expected she should, for her own sake.

  People came and people went in my life. I had been determined to be prepared for her to go, but I could no more reconcile myself to the idea of life without her than to losing my right arm. Then she spoke two words that turned my whole world upside down.

  “I’m pregnant.”

  Panic gripped me, but it was mixed with an ecstasy I could never have imagined. I stared at her blankly for a moment, trying to take it in.

  “I can’t leave, Paul. I can’t deprive my child of its father. But you have to find a way to control your irrational outbursts. Something has hurt you very deeply --- broken a part of you. Tell me about it, Paul, and maybe I can find a way to help you mend.”

  I shrugged. “I don’t want to talk about it, Fran, and you don’t want to know. It was all a very long time ago and it’s over. Forgotten.”

  I caught her in my arms then and lifted her off the floor and twirled about singing, “I’m going to be a daddy. I’m going to be a daddy”. I kissed her tenderly and said “I’m so sorry I hurt you, Fran. Forgive me, please. I promise it will never happen again. I love you. God, how I love you!”

  If only it could end. If only I could forget.

  #

  Murdering Simms was one of three steps I planned to remedy what I perceived was wrong with my world. My second step, vital now that I was to be a father, was to acquire wealth. The wealthy dictated to and suppressed the masses. They created and manipulated the system that enslaved the less advantaged. I wanted to be rich enough to give my child everything I never had, powerful enough to effect changes that would ensure no kid ever suffered as I had. I wanted to find a special place to build my version of Ohio --- a place for homeless boys to call home, to be safe, to learn how to live and to find their place in the world.

  I never respected the rich. In my opinion, most were deserving of loathing and scorn for the way they acquired and used their money. I was convinced all wealth was acquired through inheritance, crime or amazing luck. Hard work could only ever keep the wolf from the door, but I’d fluked a big win on a racehorse once and I’d become obsessed with the idea that if I could find a way to pick winners, I could achieve my dream. I began an intensive study of form, the configuration of racetracks, and the different results achieved by selected horses running different distances, in different conditions, and with different jockeys on their backs. I hardly ever wagered money, but I was convinced there had to be a statistical formula that would provide the key to consistent winning. I was determined to find it and then to use my winnings to achieve my dream.

  The prospect of fatherhood, combined wit
h observations of life in Singapore, revived another obsession. I wanted to find my family. The nuns had indoctrinated me with the belief that my parents had abandoned me. The fact that they had never sought me out tempted me to believe. My own lifestyle caused me to fear what I might return to if I could ever find them. After years of seeing families living in neat little houses with running water and electricity and plenty to eat, the memory of a rough, poverty–stricken lifestyle disturbed and embarrassed me.

  Witnessing the lifestyle of poor Singaporeans changed that. The cheerful little paupers slept rough and scrounged food, or slaved all day for less money than I’d had in pocket money as a teenager. They walked littered streets with stinking open drains alongside carrying filthy water richly polluted with food scraps, urine and faeces. Yet the bent–up old rickshaw driver laughed and joked as he ran along pulling his cart full of tourists. The young boy who worked his way up rows of army houses polishing lines of shoes and boots left at the front door each morning, earned barely enough to buy a cup of rice a week, but he sang happily as he went about his work.

  We hired an amah to clean and do the laundry. Eng talked happily of the rough hut she had shared with her seaman husband, nine children, chooks and a few pigs, before the Government forced them to move to a single sterile room in a high–rise, with a washbasin and single kerosene burner at one end and a shared latrine down the hall.

  I watched with amazement as that cheerful little woman shuffled about our apartment scrubbing floors, beating mats and scrubbing jungle–green uniforms on a washboard before dumping them into boiling starch and ironing them until shirts and shorts stood stiff and erect. The nuns would have called her a heathen when she declared that the pictures decorating our walls must always hang on a slight angle so that any evil spirits would slide off the top. They would have recoiled in horror when she banged, clanged, clapped and shouted as colourfully dressed natives joined funeral parades waving pointed sticks at the air to frighten the spirits away from their dead. But she was a good, kind, honest woman. She would never beat a small child until his skin was broken, nor brand him ‘filth’ or ‘trash’ and threaten him with hell and damnation for no greater crime than being born poor.