Corrigan's Run

by Colin Falconer

  ‘You are Lobo?’ Sanei asked him.

  The rheumy eyes gazed back at her with disinterest.

  ‘I want you for helpim me. I want to talk-talk longa shark fella. I want for fixim this white feller.’

  Lobo mumbled something under his breath and looked away.

  Sanei reached into the fibre bag on her shoulder and brought out a large pouch of twist tobacco. She had taken it from Manning's store of trade goods. She held it under the old man's nose.

  The shadow of a smile passed across his face. He snatched it from her. ‘You gottim mana longa this white feller?’

  Sanei produced a lock of Corrigan's hair, tied with fibre. She had cut it off his head while he slept.

  ‘Good. You come longa me now.’

  Lobo pushed aside the screen of thatch palm-leaf across his doorway and went inside. Sanei followed him.

  It stank inside. The smell emanated from a large flat stone in the corner. As her eyes grew accustomed to the light she made out the shape of a human skull resting on a small platform of lashed sticks on top of the stone.

  It was the vele man's padagi tidatho - the shrine of his guardian spirit.

  A hardened paste of titi nut had been spread across the skull bones, and its markings of charcoal and lime made it appear as if it had skin and flesh. It was fixed in a wickerwork frame and there was a small hole cut in the top of it. Inside were pieces of areca nut, taro and yam. Next to it lay two stones, one slightly larger than the other. The bigger stone was marked on its flat surface.

  Lobo took the lock of hair and dropped it inside the open skull. ‘I fixim for you very good,’ he giggled, ‘I fixim for you. You see.’

  Chapter 54

  The sow was tethered to a post outside the hut. She was a huge beast, her pale flesh scarred and smeared with mud, and the dugs that hung from her belly brushed the ground as she walked. Lobo took a curved machete from his belt and moved towards her.

  The sow stood very still, the small pink eyes watching him suspiciously. He was just a few feet away when she uttered a terrifying high-pitched squeal and tried to run. The rope around her neck jerked tight round her neck and stopped her.

  Lobo moved with surprising agility, catching hold of the rope and throwing his matchstick legs astride the pig's body. He slashed with the machete and bright blood spurted from the sow's neck.

  She bucked with desperate violence. Lobo was knocked to his feet and as he scrabbled away through the dirt, the sow rushed at him. But Lobo managed to get clear.

  The pig thrashed, the fine spray of blood staining the dirt at her feet into a slush of pinkish mud. Twice the sow sank to her knees, and Sanei thought she was dead. Each time she recovered, charging once again at her tormentor, who stood cackling just out of her reach. Finally she sank to her haunches and keeled on to her flank, grunting and twitching. A final violent motion of her bowels signaled the end.

  Lobo sprang forward and ran the machete along the soft cream underbelly, slicing clean through the thick skin and membranes. The intestines fell steaming on to the dirt. Lobo reached inside the stomach cavity and pulled out the remainder of the entrails. Then he hacked off its head.

  Sanei watched dispassionately. She had seen animals slaughtered many times before. Lobo chopped through the remaining ligaments and muscles of the sow’s neck. When he was done he threw the severed head at Sanei.

  ‘You takim, quicktime.’

  Sanei did as she was told, holding it at arm's length, the blood dripping on to the dirt.

  Lobo stooped down and gathered the steaming pile of innards into his arms. He set off towards the beach, the intestines trailing behind him in the dirt. He indicated to Sanei that she was to follow.

  Lobo waded into the water, up to his knees. He dropped his grisly burden into the lagoon and reached into the small pouch at his waist. He produced the two small stones Sanei had seen beside the spirit shrine.

  He held the larger of the two stones in his right hand and beat it with the other. The sound they made was high-pitched, like the chimes of a bell. Lobo chanted in rhythm with the ringing of the stones, a tremulous wailing sound.

  Sanei saw something moving towards them through the limpid green water. A fin broke the surface; it was a shark, its long, sleek body clearly visible in the shallow water. It was a big one, perhaps twelve or fifteen feet long, a Tiger. It beached itself on the sandy bottom, just a few feet from where the old man stood.

  Lobo reached down into the water and picked up the pig's innards with both hands. He threw them in front of the fish’s snout, like a man feeding a favorite dog. Sanei watched transfixed.

  He turned round and indicated that she was to bring him the pig’s head. Sanei waded in after him and held out the grisly prize, her eyes never once leaving the shark.

  Lobo took it and dropped it into the water at his feet. The shark raised it shead out of the water and swallowed it in one gulp, making a terrible grunting sound as it forced the offering down its gullet. Then with a flick of its powerful tail, it turned its huge body around in the shallows, sending an explosion of salt spray into the air. Then it sliced through the water, back to the deep waters of the lagoon.

  The old man made his way back to the beach, his forearms slick with blood and drying sea-salt.

  ‘All finis,’ he said. ‘You makim good vele. White feller he b'long you now. He b'long you now till he die finis.’

  *****

  That evening Corrigan went to the water pool to fetch water for the evening meal. He found Sanei sitting on a ledge of the rock at the water's edge. Her eyes were puffed and red and when she saw Corrigan, her face creased into a bitter snarl.

  ‘You make pus-pus with white Mary?’

  Corrigan ignored her and started to fill the water canteens.

  Sanei came to stand behind him. ‘You belong me!’

  ‘I don't belong to anyone.’

  ‘We go longa boat now, okay?’

  ‘The boat's gone. It won't be coming back for you, me or anyone.’

  ‘You want white Mary?’

  ‘That's none of your business.’

  ‘You belong me, Iris.’

  What could he say to her? She had been his girl for a long time and he thought she had understood. ‘You didn't think I was going to live with you forever, now, did you? I thought I'd made myself plain on that account.’

  ‘You b’long me,’ Sanei repeated.

  ‘Go back to your village. That's the best thing for both of us. The Japs will catch up with us here sooner or later anyway. Look out for yourself. I'm a dead man now.’

  Sanei tried to claw his face with her nails. Corrigan caught her arms easily so she tried to kick him, spitting and hissing at him like a wildcat. A well aimed kick caught him in the groin.

  Grunting with pain, Corrigan twisted her wrist to make her squeal and threw her to the ground. She fell on her back and glared up at him. ‘You b’long me, Corrigan, I savvy fer to look out for you.’

  ‘You crazy bitch,’ Corrigan muttered. He groaned again and doubled over, gasping for breath. ‘Jesus, I think you've kicked them right up past my kidneys.’

  ‘I stay longa you.’

  ‘No you go back to your village, all right? You may not know it but I'm doing you a big favor. It won't be pretty around here when those little yellow bastards find us.’

  Sanei’s fist closed around a smooth basalt rock. She jumped up again and tried to hit him with it. If he had moved a fraction of a second slower, she would have succeeded.

  But he saw from her eyes what she had a mind to do and he sidestepped her and brought the back of his hand down on her forearm, knocking the rock out of her hand. He grabbed her by her shoulders. ‘Now listen what I'm telling you! You can’t stay with me. It's only a matter of time before the Japs find us! Go back to your village!’

  ‘You b'long me, Iris!’

  ‘I don't belong to anyone. I never did. I'm sorry . . .’ His voice trailed off. ‘I didn't mean to hurt you,’ he mumbled.<
br />
  ‘No! I stay here, longa you. Please, I stay?’

  ‘No, you can’t stay.’

  He turned away, finished filling the canteens and headed back to the camp.

  ‘I go for killim you, Iris!’

  Corrigan didn't answer her; and this time Sanei didn't try to follow.

  *****

  The full moon rose out of the jungle, a huge blood moon that seemed close enough to touch. Rachel and Corrigan sat by the glowing coals of their fire, watching it creep over the towering slopes of Mount Teatupa,

  ‘Tell me about yourself, Patrick,’ Rachel said.

  He looked up at her, surprised. It was the first time she had called him by his first name. ‘What do you want to know?’

  ‘I want to know all about you.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘You intrigue me.’

  He laughed easily. ‘Do I now?’ He stirred the hot ashes with a stick. After he while he said: ‘I was born in County Down. In a little village on Dundrum Bay. You can see the Mountains of Mourne from there. You know the song? Where the Mountains of Mourne sweep down to the sea.’

  ‘It must be beautiful.’

  ‘It is if you don't have to live there. That's why the Irish always sing about it after they emigrate.’

  ‘When did you leave?’

  ‘We moved to Dublin in the winter of 1913. The old man bought a damp little house in Dun Laoghaire. Soon after that he got mixed up in de Valera's crowd. Started raving on about a united Ireland. Lot of good it did him. In the Easter Uprising the English stood him up against a wall and shot him.’

  He paused. Rachel felt he was waiting for her to comment, but what was there to say? ‘What happened?’ she asked finally.

  ‘One of his pals in the Sinn Fein traded the old man's life to save his own neck. Names, addresses, everything. So much for a united bloody Ireland.’ He poked the fire again. ‘I was there in the house when it happened. I looked out the window and I saw the soldiers in the street. My old man ran and got his revolver and pulled me down on to the floor by the window. And do you know what he said? He made me promise to carry on the fight after he was dead. What fight? I mean, what was it that was worth dying for, will you tell me that? Jesus . . . I've never been so frightened in all my bloody life. He stuck his gun out of the window and fired at the soldiers. When the bullets ran out he tried to run for it. They shot him in the leg and took him away in a police van. That was the last I saw of him. A fine, glorious death my father died. My uncles still talk about him as if he were a bloody hero.’

  Rachel laid her hand on his arm.

  Corrigan cleared his throat. ‘It was the last time I ever cried. He was still my old man, even if I did hate his guts. Your uncle would have liked him though. He was a good Catholic. Went to church every Sunday and beat the living Christ out of us the other six days a week.’

  ‘Did you join . . . like your father?’

  ‘Did I hell! What for?’

  ‘You think he died for nothing?’

  ‘I know he did. Ireland's still not united and the old man's been dead these twenty-six years.’

  ‘So you ran away to sea?’

  ‘It's one way of looking at it, but it wasn't quite like that. The point was the old man was gone and if I didn't go out and get a job I was going to starve. It's not a difficult choice, even when you're only thirteen. Ireland's a beautiful place but there's nothing for a sensible man to do there. All my life I'd lived on top of the sea and I had a certain affection for her. So I took crew on the first boat that would have me. She was a cargo steamer, working the Atlantic run between Dublin and America.’

  ‘It sounds romantic.’

  ‘It isn't. You're wet and cold and terrified all the time.’

  ‘Santa Maria's a long way from Dun Laoghaire.’

  ‘Further than you'll know.’

  ‘So what brought you here?’

  ‘Want the whole sordid story, do you now?’

  Rachel waited, resting her chin on her hands.

  Corrigan shrugged. ‘It's not so far, really. Not if you’re constantly on the run. And I've spent my whole life doing that. You'd be surprised how many places it's taken me.’

  ‘What about women, Patrick? You're a handsome man and ...’

  His face creased into a grin. ‘Is this a confession, Miss Goode?’

  She felt herself blush. Thank God he couldn't see it. ‘No,’ she stammered, ‘I just meant that I find it strange that . . . well, there must have been . . .’

  ‘Let me tell you something, your uncle was right all along. They have a special place reserved in Hell for the likes of me. They're going to chain me up in a room with all the women I've known in my life and leave me there. I dare say that most of them won't think that eternity's long enough to make me suffer for what I've done to them.’

  ‘My uncle used to say that no man was beyond redemption.’

  ‘Yes, he said that to me as well.’ Corrigan threw the stick into the fire, watched it crackle and burn. ‘But he’s wrong.’

  ‘What have you done that was so bad?’

  A long silence. Then: ‘There was a woman once. In Dublin. She had the perverse pleasure of calling herself my wife for a time, and gave me a couple of daughters.’

  Rachel caught her breath. ‘What happened?’

  ‘Well, not to put too fine a point on it, Miss Goode, I abandoned her. Went off to sea again and didn't come back for five years. By that time she was dead - pneumonia I think they said it was - and her brother was looking after the kids. When he saw me he came out with a shotgun and told me if I ever set foot near the place again he'd blow my brains out. I've always respected him for that. As for my wife, I'm sure she's down there in purgatory somewhere, keeping the irons hot for me.’ Corrigan fell silent. Neither of them spoke for a long time. Finally Corrigan got to his feet. ‘So you see, Miss Goode, this isn’t a lost lamb you’re talking to here, it’s a snake in the grass. Your uncle had me pegged. He called me a physical and emotional coward. Wherever I go the fact of it remains. I've never forgiven myself for what I did, and I don't expect anyone else to, either.’

  ‘If you’re such a coward, why didn't you run away from here when you had the chance?’

  ‘God knows. I must be crazy as well.’

  ‘Perhaps everyone has to stand up and be counted some time.’

  ‘Bloody hard standing up when you're dead.’

  The night had grown dark. Towering thunderheads rose from behind the volcano, blotting out the moon. The air had become very still, even the noises of the jungle were muted.

  Corrigan looked up at the sky. ‘Don’t like the look of that.’

  ‘Are we going to die, Patrick?’

  ‘Everybody dies. It's only a question of when.’

  ‘We're not going to get off this island, are we?’

  ‘Can’t see how. Your uncle believed in miracles. I don't.’

  She hesitated. ‘Then will you do something for me?’ she said finally.

  ‘And what's that?’

  Rachel looked away. How many ways were there to say it? They were going to die; and knowing that gave her a kind of freedom.

  ‘Miss Goode?’

  She took a deep breath. ‘The thing is - I don't want … I don’t …’

  ‘Spit it out.’

  ‘I don’t want to die a virgin.’

  Corrigan didn’t say anything. She was unable to fathom his expression in the darkness. The silence dragged and she was the first to break it.

  ‘I don't know of any other circumstances where I'd be saying this to a man, but I don't think I can face dying without knowing what . . . well, what it's like. I know it's a sin, but I think God would forgive me in the circumstances.’

  Oh for heaven’s sake, Corrigan, say something!

  ‘Are you shocked?’ she said.

  Finally: ‘You have a talent for the unexpected, that's for sure and certain.’

  ‘Well?’

  He reached out and t
ook her hand. ‘Miss Goode . . . Rachel . . .’

  She put a finger to his lips. ‘No, don't say anything. You don't have to. Tonight, let the Devil look after his own.’

  Chapter 56

  Rachel woke with the full moon shining on her face through a hole in the thatch roof. She wondered at the impossible brilliance of it. The storm had passed as quickly as it came, but the distant thunder still echoed around the mountains.

  Corrigan's head lay on her breast. She ran her fingers through the thick black-rust curls. In sleep his face had the vulnerable sweetness of a boy. She noticed for the first time the long dark lashes on his eyes. She stroked the muscles of his shoulder with her fingers, enjoying the feel of him, and the delicious warm smell of another body next to hers.

  Poor Uncle Matthew. He must be spinning in his grave. But she wasn't sorry. Corrigan had been slow and gentle, not at all as he had been that morning outside the mission church. She could not understand why her uncle had been so against this. Love had made her feel more alive than she had ever felt before, and she didn't care what happened to her now.

  Something broke her reverie.

  It was no more than a slight breath of movement but it was enough to make her turn her head. A shadow fell across their makeshift bed. Sanei was watching them from the doorway, her face illuminated by the phosphorescent glow of the full moon.

  ‘Sanei?’ Rachel said.

  Something flashed in the girl's hand. Rachel screamed.

  If it had won its target, the ivory-handled knife would have pierced her chest just under her heart. Rachel was too slow to react and her right arm was pinned by Corrigan's body. But at that moment Corrigan sat bolt upright and the blade glanced off the bone of his left shoulder, deflecting it away from her.

  Corrigan gasped with pain and then his right arm struck out and Rachel heard the knife fall on the beaten earth floor. Sanei gave a whimper of pain as Corrigan's fist hammered into her shoulder and then she was gone, just a shadow again, running out of the hut and into the night. Rachel heard her crashing through the undergrowth and then she was gone.