“I’m pregnant,” she said forcefully. “I’m going to have baby.”
Bob froze in his tracks. He turned back very slowly to face her.
“What did you say?” he asked weakly.
She also turned, to look him full in the face.
“I said, I am pregnant. You are the father.”
He stared at her in silence for a moment, as though unable to comprehend her words.
“Pregnant?” he echoed at last. “But … you can’t be…”
“I am. I have seen doctor.”
A few seconds of silence passed, a few seconds that seemed like an eternity. Then Bob said simply.
“Jesus Christ.” Lim had just broken his dream. Only in that, it had been Melissa Tremayne who was pregnant. He scratched his head, glanced over to the open front door. “Well … I have to go now, Lim. We’ll talk about this again, alright…? Don’t worry, we’ll sort something out.” He headed for the door at top speed.
“But Bob Tuan, it is too late to…” But he was gone, hurrying out into the bright glare of morning. Ché was waiting impatiently in the Land Rover. Bob clambered in alongside him and sat for a moment, gazing blankly at the empty street ahead.
“Something is wrong, Tuan?” enquired Ché, impatient to be off.
Bob frowned, shook his head.
“Nah— Come on kid, let’s get after this stripey.” He revved the engine and accelerated wildly away from his parking spot, kicking up a thick cloud of acrid dust in his wake. His driving was even more reckless than usual and Ché was obliged to hold on tightly for fear of being thrown clear of the Land Rover, every time it bucketed over a rise in the road. It took a little over ten minutes to reach Kampong Penjang, where a crowd of noisy and very excited villagers had gathered to await the Tuan’s arrival. Snatching up his rifle, Bob followed Ché in the direction of the stream, while the whole rowdy entourage trooped along in his wake. After a few minutes walk, they had reached the water and Ché was indicating the scene of the brief struggle. The ground here was fairly muddy and a clear set of drag marks led away from the blood-stained ground and off into the undergrowth.
“Right, let’s get after the bastard,” whispered Bob. “We couldn’t hope to be on the scene any quicker.…” He took a few steps forward and then realized that the villagers were still following him. “Tell this lot to stay where they are,” he told Ché. “They’ll scare the tiger away.”
Ché translated the terse message and immediately, the people started making loud noises of disapproval.
“They want to come along,” observed Ché.
“You just tell ’em, anybody who follows me is liable to get a bullet through his head. Out in the jungle it’s hard to tell a man from a tiger.”
Ché announced this and the villagers quietened down considerably. Bob and his young assistant were able to move off unattended. They stooped to duck beneath a thick overhang of thorn bushes. Beyond, everything was clammy green silence. Ché peered apprehensively in and gave a nervous cough.
“Maybe tiger will be gone when we find the body,” he reasoned.
“Maybe. Maybe not.” Bob wished vainly he could rid his mind of what Lim had just told him. God, but she’d chosen a wonderful time! He frowned, shrugged, moved cautiously from sunlight into shadow. He was terribly aware of the eyes of the villagers on his back. He turned to face Ché for a moment, held one finger to his lips, and gave the boy a sly wink. He moved onwards, walking as silently as possible and Ché followed. The bushes closed around the spot where they had been standing. To the villagers, the impression was that the jungle had simply swallowed them whole. Realizing that the show was over for the time being, the people began to drift back to the kampong and the more usual routine of their lives. Only the sound of gunshots would serve to bring them running back to this place, in the desperate hope that the man-eater had finally been destroyed. Till then, they would have to be content to wait and hope.
The sun began its long slow climb across the empty sky.
CHAPTER 32
IT WAS UNUSUAL for Pawn to be late and Harry was annoyed, annoyed as only a man who was consistently punctual could be. It was not that he was particularly hungry and required his breakfast; it was simply that a certain time had been agreed upon at the beginning of Pawn’s contract and she had always managed to make an appearance within a few moments of that time, thus far. This morning though, she was over an hour late. Harry was suffering from a mixture of irritation and anxiety. Supposing she was ill or something? Supposing she had suffered an accident on her way to the house? It was a break from routine, and at Harry’s age there was nothing more upsetting.
He gave a sigh of relief when he heard the iron gate creak and he quickly settled himself into his favourite chair on the verandah, opening his copy of the Straits Times and pretending to be absorbed in it, in a typical show of unconcern.
Pawn came hurrying along the driveway, quite out of breath.
“Oh … so sorry, Tuan, so sorry…”
“Sorry?” He glanced nonchalantly up at her. “Sorry about what, Pawn?”
“I am so late. It is unforgivable.”
He glanced at his wristwatch.
“Well, so you are! Do you know, I’d quite lost track of the time.…”
“The man-eater, Tuan, it killed another old man from the kampong this morning. Everywhere there was such a fuss, such a noise…”
“Another one, eh?” Harry shook his head. “Is that eight … or nine? I’m beginning to lose count.”
Pawn nodded.
“Tuan Beresford was very quick coming this time,” she told him. “The people say there is good chance shoot the striped one today … and with Ché tracking for him, he…”
Suddenly, Harry was up out of his chair, the newspaper lying forgotten on the table. “What was that?” he demanded.
Pawn looked confused.
“I sorry, Tuan. What was…?”
“About Ché. You said he was tracking…”
“For Tuan Beresford. Yes, that is right. He has helped before, you see.”
“Well, yes, I know that. But you say they are going right after the tiger? They’re not going to build a machan and wait for him to return?”
Pawn shrugged.
“I cannot say, Tuan. What do I know of hunting the tok belang?” She climbed the steps of the verandah and made as if to go into the house.
“Where did you say it happened, Pawn? Near the village?”
“Yes, Tuan. By the stream that borders it on the west. It happened early this morning.…”
“Yes, well thank you.” He sat down again, a look of intense worry on his face.
“The Tuan is troubled?”
“No no, I’m fine. You can get about your business now, Pawn.”
“You are hungry?”
Harry shook his head. Pawn shrugged and padded away into the house.
It was ominously quiet out in the garden. Harry felt a strong premonition of impending disaster settling around him. Something was terribly, terribly wrong. He thought of Ché, trailing along through the jungle with that irresponsible idiot Beresford and the image made the blood in his veins run cold.
“It’s not done,” he muttered grimly. “You don’t track a cat through his own territory, you just don’t.” He got up from his chair again and walked out into the garden where he paced restlessly about for several minutes, muttering darkly to himself. He could not rid himself ofthe conviction that something bad was going to happen, even though he rarely set any store by such feelings. He squinted up at the sky for a moment. The sun was a relentless ball of flame, searing, oppressive. He could almost smell the humid stink of the jungle undergrowth, he could almost picture the great striped cat, crouched down in shadow, awaiting the approach of the hunters. A fishing eagle sped across the great blue vastness of the sky and was gone. Harry turned to stare back at the house; and then he was hurrying towards it, his mind abruptly made up. He went on inside and made his way directly to his bedroom where he began
to rummage frantically in drawers and cupboards. A few moments later, he appeared in the kitchen and handed a surprised Pawn his haversack and a water bottle.
“Put some food in here, will you? And fill this from the tap.”
“The Tuan is going somewhere?”
But he had already vanished, back in the direction of his room. Now it was Pawn’s turn to mumble as she filled the haversack with whatever leftovers happened to be in the refrigerator. Had the Tuan taken leave of his senses? He hadn’t used these things since he had come to live at the house. What on earth was wrong with him? A short while later, she had further cause for alarm, when Harry rushed into the kitchen dressed in khaki green jungle clothing and wearing a broad-brimmed bush hat. He had his rifle slung over one shoulder and he paused only long enough to throw the haversack and water bottle across the other, before heading for the front door.
“Where is the Tuan going?” enquired Pawn meekly.
“Out!” was the simple reply.
“And … when will you be back?”
“How the hell should I know?” He strode away along the drive, flung open the gate and set off down the street at what could only be described as a fast march. Pawn stared thoughtfully after him. The next door’s amah, pegging out some washing on the line, directed a questioning glance at Pawn, but the old woman could only shrug expressively and spread her hands in a gesture of bewilderment. Harry was around the corner and out of sight in a matter of moments.
Once out on the coast road, Harry strode along waving frantically at every vehicle heading in the direction of Kampong Panjang. He must have presented a curious spectacle, this lone overdressed Englishman, sweating and toiling along in the heat of the day and carrying a lethal-looking weapon over his shoulder. But the Malays being a very forgiving race, a ramshackle flatbed truck soon drew to a halt and the grinning driver was urging Harry to clamber up on the back, along with a pair of tethered goats. This would normally have been below Harry’s dignity, but such was the urgency of his mission, he climbed aboard and sat, straight-backed and resolute as the old jalopy sped him bumpily to his destination.
Once at Kampong Panjang, it was a relatively simple job to find the place where the killing had taken place. As soon as he appeared, there was a whole crowd of noisy children eager to lead him to the spot. He went along with them and stooped to examine the blood-stained ground that they indicated.
“Hunter-man already go after him,” observed one of the older boys.
Harry nodded. He gazed calmly at the deep set of drag marks, where they vanished into the undergrowth. Then with no further explanation, he stooped to pass beneath an overhang of spiky thorn bushes and set off in pursuit. The children called after him a couple of times but they received no reply and they were too nervous to follow the old Tuan into the jungle. So they retraced their steps and resumed the game they had been playing before his arrival. After a few short moments of boisterous play, they had forgotten that he had even been there.
Time passed. It was a little after midday.
* * *
“SHE NEEDN’T think I’m going to marry her,” thought Bob, as he moved resolutely forward. The tiger had dragged his food an incredible distance and the hunters had spent several hours creeping fruitlessly along in pursuit. The kill had to be near now, but still Bob could not keep his mind on the matter in hand. “After all, she’s got no real hold on me. Strewth, I can be well away before the baby’s even born … of course, I’ll have to leave her some money to help make ends meet. It won’t be easy for her.…”
Ché was tugging at his sleeve and indicating that they should move to the left. Bob wondered vaguely how the kid could know that. The ground here was hard and rocky … unless of course, that sudden bird call had meant something … bloody hell, but it was hot out here! He paused for a moment to mop at his brow with his already sodden shirt-sleeves. Ché had moved instinctively ahead and was peering cautiously through the tangle of greenery ahead. The silence was unbearable.
“I’ll have to tell her when I get home,” thought Bob with calm conviction. “I’ll have to show her she can’t trap me in any way. Christ, you can’t let one mistake ruin the rest of your bleeding life.…”
Ché was tugging at his sleeve again. Bob glanced down in irritation, then saw that the boy was pointing directly ahead, his dark eyes flashing with excitement. Bob stared intently in the place where Ché was indicating … and Christ, what a stroke of luck! For there was the tiger, stretched out in a small clearing, beside a meandering jungle stream and the bastard was still feeding on the old man’s skinny carcass. It was the chance that Bob had been praying for since he began the search for the man-eater. Gently, hardly daring to breathe, Bob inched his rifle up into a firing position. He had already pushed a bullet into the breach a mile or so back, something that was generally disdained by the hunting fraternity, but Bob wasn’t going to let the sound of loading rob him of his long sought-after trophy. He blinked the sweat out of his eyes and lined up a bead on the great cat’s black-striped hide.
Sunlight dappled the tiger’s fur, giving a false impression of movement but the cat was sprawled like a domestic fireside pussy, tearing contentedly at the feast which he held in his vast front paws.
“A neck shot,” thought Bob calmly. “I’ll go for a neck shot. Always the best chance that way … take my time, no need to hurry. He’s not going anywhere.…” He glanced down at the boy beside him. Ché was staring at the potential target too, holding himself absolutely still. The moment was almost at hand. The bullet would burst through the tiger’s hide and smash that great old heart to pieces. Bob aligned the barrel fractionally, allowing the front sight to become as one with the tiny notch set in the back-sight. For some reason, Bob had not bothered to bring the telescopic unit, but there was little need of it here. He was too close to miss. A smile of triumph curved itself over his lips and he gently squeezed the trigger.
The butt jumped against his shoulder and for an instant, Bob’s smile faded. There seemed to elapse a long eternity of waiting, before the bullet actually found its target. But then abruptly, the tiger’s long flank shook with the impact of a terrible blow, a blow that sent the heavy body lurching upwards through the air. It happened in eerie silence. There was no roar from the cat, no gasp of exhaled air. The striped body simply twisted sideways and crashed through the undergrowth, rolling over and over and finally vanishing from sight in the greenery beyond.
The screams of exultation that erupted from the throats of both hunters seemed to echo through the jungle. They burst into abrupt motion, leaping up, flinging their hands skywards as they yelled their triumph to the four winds.
“Tuan, you have killed him! You have killed him!”
“Did you see it, Ché? One shot, one brilliant fucking shot! He went down like a stuck pig, the son of a bitch!”
“The man-eater is dead, Tuan! Dead, dead!” And Ché was running forward, eager to examine the corpse, to measure the great man-eater, to see the size of his teeth, the curve of his great claws. Bob came strolling after him at a more leisurely pace, the rifle slung carelessly over his shoulder, a victor’s smile on his sunburned face.
And then, suddenly, horribly, everything was nightmare. The undergrowth burst aside and the tiger came charging out from cover, straight at Ché, straight at the boy who was now no more than a few feet from those great slavering jaws. Bob screamed something, he didn’t know what. He tried to fumble the heavy rifle back to his shoulder, he tried to work the heavy bolt, but his strength had evaporated and he could only look in horrified fascination at the awful slow-motion sequence that was playing out before his very eyes; the huge bristling form of the tiger, leaping up now at the screaming boy, with pain-maddened eyes blazing fire, while the great open jaws roared thunder and vengeance. Bob fell to his knees, struggling helplessly with the bolt. The gun was jammed, he could not make it work. And then the teeth were around Ché’s neck in a single, crushing, destroying bite and the child’s frail bo
dy was being shaken like a rag doll, left and right, the nerveless limbs flailing wildly.
The great formless scream of anguish that wrenched itself from Bob’s throat shattered the silence, drove the tiger back into cover but it was already too late. Ché was dead, his body little more than a broken, tattered doll, discarded in the undergrowth. The victory had gone horribly, horribly awry. Sobbing, confused, Bob broke and stumbled back in the direction from which he had come, the discarded gun trailing uselessly from his left hand. He ran blindly, overcome with horror and the shame of his own recklessness. He banged headlong into a low tree branch, fell back with a groan, and lay weeping like a child, no longer knowing or caring where he was. And it was there, some minutes later, that Harry Sullivan found him.
Harry had made good time through the jungle. Less concerned with the problems of tracking a dangerous quarry, he had simply travelled at the best speed he could manage. The drag marks were well defined and needed little more than a cursory glance from time to time. But it was the recent blast of a rifle that had brought him up with Beresford. What he saw now confirmed his worst fears. He moved forward until he stood beside the sprawled hunter. He prodded the man’s quivering shoulder with his boot.
Bob looked up, his tear-filled eyes staring but not seeing. Then he sat up with a groan of misery, cradling his head in his hands.
“Where’s Ché?” demanded Harry tonelessly.
Bob pointed back along the track and tried to speak, but his voice failed him.
“Where is he, dammit? What happened?”
Bob gestured helplessly. His voice when it emerged was a dry emotion-filled croak of despair.
“The tiger … I put him down. A good clean neck shot. I was sure he was done for.” He shook his head slowly from side to side, reliving the gut-wrenching terror of the incident. “The boy … ran forward. He thought … we both thought … and oh God, the cat got back up again, he came right out at the boy and…” Again his voice collapsed into a wheezing fugue of misery. Harry reached down, grabbed a handful of Bob’s shirt material and yanked him unceremoniously to his feet.
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