Finally, I heard the distinct timbre of Yamada’s voice. I turned to see him smiling as he entered the hut. ‘It’s like a typhoon out there,’ he said. His face was flushed.
‘Yamada, can I talk to you?’ My voice was high and thin. I indicated the corner of the room.
He came over, his face crumpled with concern. ‘Sensei, are you all right? I’ve never seen you so dishevelled before.’
I ran my hand through my hair and took a deep breath. ‘It’s about Stan Suzuki. I know what you’re planning. Have you already spoken to Hayashi?’
He narrowed his eyes. For a second, the facade slipped. Then he smiled and shook his head. ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’
‘You have to stop him, please. Stan’s a good person. He doesn’t intend to tell anyone about what happened in the mess hall. He has been talking to me about a girl he has feelings for. I’ve been writing a letter for him.’
Yamada’s smile faded. He gazed at me, the warmth gone from his face. ‘Did you eavesdrop on my conversation? How dare you! That was none of your business. You’re mistaken in what you heard, anyway. You have no idea what we were talking about.’ He turned to leave.
‘Wait! Yamada, please don’t hurt him. I’ll tell someone if you do. You think I won’t, but I will.’
He stepped towards me. His voice was a whisper. ‘But, sensei, you forget that you were the one who spurned Stan when he came to see you about his arm. One of the orderlies told me. Isn’t that what made him cut his wrist? And then you didn’t want to operate on him. Even Johnny knows that. If anything happens to Stan, who do you think everyone will say drove him to it?’
My legs felt weak. Yamada stared at me, looking deep into my soul. A feeling of shame rose up through my body, filling my chest and throat. As much as I wanted to deny it, I knew he was right. My refusal to believe Stan had prompted his deterioration. For that, I couldn’t forgive myself.
A siren sounded outside. Starting low, it quickly rose in pitch until it became a constant whine through the roar of the wind.
‘What’s that?’ Yamada turned his head towards the door.
I had never heard the siren before. Thinking someone else must know what it meant, I looked around the room. But everyone in the hut was as bewildered as I was.
‘Is it because of the weather?’ someone asked.
‘Maybe they’re warning us it’ll get worse.’
‘What should we do? Stay inside?’
‘We shouldn’t go outside unless they come and tell us. Remember what Locke said.’
A thought occurred to me. It took root in my mind and grew until I could no longer ignore it. I started towards the door.
‘Where are you going?’ Yamada called. ‘Sensei, don’t be stupid!’
The wind cut through the thin fabric of my shirt. In my haste, I’d forgotten my jacket. But the scream of the siren filled my ears, driving me forward. Grit stung my face. With one hand over my mouth, the other feeling the side of the hut, I staggered along the path until I reached hut two. Dust billowed into the room as I flung open the door. Everyone inside turned to look at me.
‘Do you know what the siren’s for?’ someone asked.
I pushed past the crowd of people gathered near the door and found Charlie and the others at the back of the room. Charlie was on his bed, smoking. Ernie, Ken, Andy, Dale and Martin were seated on two beds, playing cards in hand, midway through a game. They looked up at me, frozen by the siren.
‘Where’s Johnny?’ I asked.
‘Haven’t seen him,’ Ernie said. ‘We thought he might be with you. Marty said you two were talking.’
‘No. Oh no. This is not good. Johnny was acting strange, but I didn’t think—’ I caught my breath.
‘What? You don’t think . . . ?’ Charlie stubbed out his cigarette and stood up.
I nodded.
‘Shit, shit, shit. That fucking lunatic would do something like that.’
‘What are you guys talking about?’ Andy said.
‘The siren, dummy,’ Charlie said. ‘We think Johnny might have tried to escape.’
‘You serious?’
Martin lifted his head. ‘He has been acting weird all day. I saw him coming out of the kitchen after lunch, stuffing bread into his pockets. When I asked why, he told me to mind my own business.’
My heart thumped. ‘Did you see where he—’
A loud crack cleaved the air. Then another. In the seconds of silence that followed, I couldn’t breathe.
‘Was that . . . ?’ Charlie asked.
I lunged towards the door. Blood surged through my body, giving me strength.
‘Doc, wait!’
Dust swirled around me, limiting my visibility to a dozen feet. Stumbling along the path with one hand out in front of me, I headed east, towards the direction of the gunshots. I heard shouts coming from 14B. Fragments of words, like figures in a fog. I ran towards the voices, pushing headlong into the wind. Debris pelted my face. I reached the fence that separated our compound from B compound. I clung to it, straining to hear. The barbed wire pressed against my fingers. The voices sharpened, carried straight to me by the wind.
‘He’s been shot!’ someone cried. ‘Get the doctor!’
‘Here! I’m here! In 14C!’ But my words were torn away from me and carried downwind.
Then a different voice rang out. I didn’t recognise it at first. McCubbin’s deep voice was so choked with emotion it sounded strange. ‘Christ, no. Not him. Jesus fucking Christ, Davies. What have you done?’
I prayed it wasn’t Johnny. I prayed he wasn’t dead. I contemplated scaling the fence that divided the two compounds, but the coils of barbed wire at the top would shred my skin. So I turned and ran back towards the gate. My legs felt light as I traversed the compound. The wind pummelled my back. I almost collided with the corner of a hut. I tripped on a rock and plunged to the ground, scraping my hands and bruising my knees, but I didn’t care. I got up and kept running.
Lieutenant Perry was unlocking the gate to our compound when I approached. I called out to him. He started, and reached for his rifle.
‘No, please, it’s me—Ibaraki. The doctor.’
‘Dr Ibaraki? Thank God you’re here! Someone’s been shot at the infirmary.’
‘Take me there. Quick.’
He let me out and we ran along Broadway, following the line of floodlights that penetrated the haze. I braced myself against the oncoming wind. I wondered why Johnny would be at the infirmary, but there was no time for questions. I would find out soon enough.
We reached the entrance to 14B and one of the guards threw open the gate. Perry led the way, and I followed, staggering into the infirmary grounds. We passed the kitchen, rounded the corner of the infirmary building and emerged into the open space before the fence. I saw McCubbin leaning over someone on the ground. My chest tightened as I took everything in. The victim was slumped on his back, one leg bent beneath him. Hearing us approach, McCubbin looked up. As he shifted his head, I saw the victim’s face. The high forehead, the distinct shape of his nose.
It was Stan.
I visited Johnny in detention on Monday, two days after Stan’s death. The cell was at headquarters, less than a mile from our camp. It had a single window near the ceiling that was the size of a shoebox. My eyes took a moment to adjust to the gloom. Then I saw him, hunched in the corner. His face was covered in scratches and his hands were bandaged.
He lifted his head. ‘How’re you going, Doc?’
I felt sorry for him. I had never seen Johnny so weak.
They had found him in the afternoon on Sunday. He was in bushland about four miles from camp on the outskirts of town. With no water and only a pocketful of bread, his ill-prepared escape had ground to a halt. Someone had seen him drinking from a creek and alerted the camp. When he heard an army truck approaching, he raised his hands and walked onto the road.
Now I helped him up from the floor and onto the bed. ‘What happened to your ha
nds?’
‘Barbed wire on the fences. I went over them with no gloves, no socks, nothing. Stupid idea. Dr Ashton reckons it’ll be weeks before I can use them again. You gotta pay for your mistakes, I guess.’ He sighed. ‘No one saw me when I went over the first fence. It was only the second one—the air must have cleared, and a guard shouted from the tower. I thought he was going to shoot me, but he didn’t. Then the siren started up, and I bolted for the trees.’
‘How long will you be kept here?’
‘Dunno. Perry said they’re trying to work out what to do with me. I could be sent to Hay or I could be released back here. But first I’ll have to face a military court. It’ll be a laugh if it’s anything like the one in Melbourne. That was a bloody joke.’
‘I spoke to McCubbin yesterday,’ I said. ‘He told me all the guards were on alert for an escape. Commander Dean was worried there would be an attempt during the dust storm. That is the reason they cancelled the baseball match and said we could not go outside. That is why there were more guards—why Private Davies was on patrol, even though he had not been properly trained.’
Silence fell between us. He didn’t comment when I mentioned Davies, so I thought he didn’t know about Stan. I took a deep breath. ‘Johnny, I have to tell you something. About Stan.’ I paused.
‘Yeah. I already know. They told me in the truck on the way back to camp. I didn’t believe it. I thought they were lying to make me feel bad. But when I got to camp, Perry told me it was true. Christ, poor Stan. What was he doing outside so near the fence?’
‘I don’t know,’ I said. In the confusion of the dust storm and the escape siren, Private Davies had somehow shot Stan. I thought of the time Hayashi and I had seen Stan outside staring at the sky. What had he been thinking?
Johnny bent forward and pressed his palms into his eyes. My nose started to burn. For a moment, I thought I might cry, too. I placed a hand on Johnny’s shoulder. It trembled beneath my grip. I almost mentioned Mori and Yamada’s conversation about Stan, but it wasn’t the right moment. Johnny was already upset, and nothing would bring back our friend. After a minute, he wiped his eyes on his shirt.
‘What about the funeral?’
‘Stan’s mother and sister want to bury him near his home in Sydney. They’re collecting his remains this week. But Charlie and I talked about holding a memorial ceremony at camp on Wednesday. Something for all his friends.’
‘That sounds like a good idea. Stan would like that. Shame I can’t come.’ He stared at the floor. ‘That bloody trigger-happy bastard, Davies. The way he looked at me at headcount. I should’ve known. I wish he’d taken a shot at me right there and then. I hope he burns in hell.’ He looked up at me. His eyes glistened. ‘It should’ve been me, Doc. It should’ve been me.’
On Wednesday, I woke to a magpie warbling. It must have been perched on the edge of the roof near the window, but its melody was so clear it sounded as if it was by my ear. I looked outside. The sky was once more a brilliant blue.
The memorial ceremony for Stan was to take place that afternoon in the garden next to the altar. Although it was unusual to hold memorial ceremonies near an altar, we chose it as it was the most picturesque area of the compound. Unfortunately, the dust storm had wrought havoc. Mounds of dirt engulfed the fringe of purple grasses I’d planted. The two summer cypress hedges that had been pruned into spheres were battered out of shape. The eucalyptus sapling we’d carefully nurtured for months had been knocked over, its roots upended. The stone-edged path was hidden beneath swathes of loose earth. Only the bamboo thicket looked the same: the thick green stems stood tall, able to bend in the wind.
Locke had lifted the ban on loitering outside, so we spent the morning sweeping away the debris, replanting the tree and salvaging scattered stones. By lunch, we had almost returned the garden to its previous state.
The ceremony was originally intended for only a small group of Stan’s friends—mainly the Australian-born Japanese and me—but that afternoon more than thirty people lined the path that snaked through the garden. For someone so quiet, Stan had many friends. Officer McCubbin stood at the back of the line. He held his hat in his hands, kneading its brim. All the orderlies from the infirmary attended, even Hayashi. I felt a flash of anger when I saw him, but I calmed myself: I didn’t know what role he’d played in the plot to hurt Stan. Perhaps he knew nothing.
Sawada and a few of the other craftsmen had made a plaque from a cross-section of red gum sanded back. It was engraved with Stan’s name in English and katakana, and his dates of birth and death. Sawada and I carried the plaque together down the path through the garden. The air was still. Even the bamboo thicket was hushed, without the usual susurrus of leaves. The sun shone down, warming our faces.
We placed the plaque on a mound between the eucalypts and the cypress brush. We didn’t have any incense, so I lit a mosquito coil instead. As I turned to face the waiting crowd, I noticed Johnny’s gang at the front so I spoke first in English.
‘I only knew Stan a few months, but he left a deep impression on me. He was only twenty-two, but he had the courage to follow his dreams. He joined the army when he was eighteen. He had a pure heart and rarely criticised other people, despite the hardships he suffered. He spoke warmly about his mother, sister and friends. I am sure they will miss him, as will we. Stanley Suzuki, may you rest in peace.’
I swallowed hard. Charlie looked at me, his eyes red. I repeated the speech in Japanese. Then I placed two offerings beside the plaque: a bottle of camp-brewed sake one of the hut leaders had given me, and a cutting of mallee bush. If there had been a plum tree near camp I would have offered that in recognition of his pure spirit, but the mallee was a worthy substitute. Finally, I kneeled, scooped up a handful of dirt and released it above the plaque.
Charlie was next in line. He placed a folded letter on the mound and whispered a prayer, then released a handful of dirt. Ernie followed, saying a few words before placing a packet of cigarettes. It continued down the line, with the orderlies and a few from Stan’s tent laying offerings to aid his journey, until finally McCubbin stood in front of the plaque. He turned his cap in his hands. From my place at the front of the crowd, I could hear him speak.
‘Stan, we didn’t get a chance to talk much, but from what I knew of you, you had a good heart. If only there were more like you in this world.’
He bent down to take some earth and poured it on top. Next I sprinkled water above and around the plaque.
As a final gesture of respect, I signalled to everyone to gather again, and in unison we bowed.
Work outside the camp grounds was temporarily suspended after Johnny’s escape while the army implemented new security measures. The orderlies, however, were allowed to return to work at the infirmary, as it was within the camp’s perimeter. Life more or less went back to what it had been before Stan’s death. But there remained a gap that everybody was aware of yet no one ever mentioned.
I visited Stan’s old ward when Hayashi wasn’t there. The old man in the bed next to Stan’s stared at me with his rheumy eyes. The sheets had been taken down from the ceiling. All that was left was his bed, the blanket neatly folded and tucked. The window he’d stared at for so many hours was shut against the midwinter chill. The ward smelled musty. Nothing remained of the person who’d lain there for weeks thinking, sleeping and dreaming of another life.
Yamada gave me a wide berth. He never addressed me directly in the hut or at mealtimes anymore. When we were still friendly, he and several others used to play mahjong near my bed, drinking and laughing till late at night, and I used to join them if I wasn’t working at the infirmary the next day. But after Stan’s death they moved to the other side of the room. I was also no longer rostered to clean the latrines, a chore I’d been happy to do, and I wondered if it was Yamada’s way of appeasing me. We occasionally crossed paths on our way to the mess hall or the latrines, but his gaze skittered away from mine.
I suppose Yamada was afraid.
I could have told someone about what he’d done to Stan and what I suspected he’d intended to do, and even if Yamada wasn’t found guilty of beating him, the accusation would be enough to force him to resign from his executive position.
I did come very close to telling McCubbin once. He visited me at the infirmary to check that I was aware I had to testify at the upcoming court of inquiry into Stan’s death. He paused at the door before he left. ‘Did you hear about Mori and Yamada?’
‘No. What?’
‘They’ve offered to give Stan’s mother the money for the casket. They’re paying for it out of the profits of the canteen. It’s very kind of them.’
I couldn’t help myself. ‘Yamada and Mori are not good men.’
‘What do you mean?’ He cocked his head, the scar on his cheek flashing red.
‘They seem kind and generous, but they are not. Not when you know them as I do.’
McCubbin’s gaze lingered on me, but I said nothing further. I like to think he understood me, but more than likely he thought I was just acting oddly because of Stan’s death.
Johnny was released after twelve days in detention. He came back thinner, quieter, more introspective. The threat of doing more time hung over him; his court case would take place in two weeks, at the same time as the inquiry into Stan’s death. But more than that, I think he was burdened by the knowledge that his behaviour had indirectly caused Stan’s death.
With no outside work allowed, he and the other Australians sat around smoking and playing card games all day when they didn’t have chores to do. Unlike the wider Japanese population at camp, many of whom spent their spare time doing crafts and rehearsing for the entertainment group, they had no prior experience—nor much interest—in such things.
When I had a day off from the infirmary, I visited the garden near the altar. Dirt still gathered in mounds, obscuring many of the plants. Old Ohmatsu, one of the camp’s keenest gardeners, was trimming the cypress brushes. He’d somehow returned them to their former stepped bonsai shape—two rounded forms among the untamed native shrubs. Stan’s plaque looked unsightly, with the earth that had been poured on top and the assortment of bottles, paper, cigarettes and sweets around it. Ohmatsu stopped trimming as I brushed away some of the matter.
After Darkness Page 22