Savages

by Shirley Conran

  “What do we do with him when we leave?” Carey asked.

  “We’ll tie him to a tree.” Annie sounded more decisive than she felt, as she enlarged on this idea. “He’ll either escape or he’ll die. But we’ll be gone. And this way we get free labor.”

  There was a pause, while the women considered this. Building the raft was very hard physical labor; work that might have been relatively easy in a cooler climate was almost unbearably difficult in that humid heat where lethargy was unavoidable, where just taking a few steps required a physical effort that left them streaming with sweat. The temptation of slave labor was great.

  Carey said, “Suppose he doesn’t overexert himself?”

  “We know how fast Jonathan worked,” Suzy said. “If this guy doesn’t work as hard, we won’t give him food.”

  “But then he won’t have the strength to work.”

  Suzy said, “We’ll cut off his ear or shove ants down his shorts to show we mean business.”

  Carey said, “Where’s he going to sleep?”

  “Not with us,” Patty said sharply.

  “If he has the spare bed he might free himself by cutting his rope on the sharp ends of the bamboo,” Suzy pointed out.

  Annie said, “We could hobble his feet with a rope during the day, then spread-eagle him to two trees at night.”

  Patty said, “What was he doing around here, anyway?”

  Suzy said, “The son of a bitch was shooting birds of paradise; he had a game bag tied around him. Those feathers sell for a fortune. I bought two blue ones on a headband last Christmas and it cost Brett a couple hundred dollars.”

  “How do we know his friends won’t come looking for him?” Patty asked.

  Suzy said, “He was alone, which means he probably sneaked out to make a few bucks on the side. Look at his shirt, he’s only a private, not a general. They’re not going to comb the jungle for one missing man.”

  “With any luck, they’ll think that he’s just another deserter, or that he’s been bitten by a snake, or captured by one of the fishing tribes who were after his rifle,” Annie invented hopefully. “Jonathan said that nobody’s surprised around here if you disappear without a trace.”

  Patty said, “Just in case someone comes looking, we’d better gag him, so he can’t yell.”

  Carey said grimly, “He yells once, he gets shot in the stomach.”

  Silvana hurried down from the lookout post. “What’s happening? It’s time someone else went up that tree, I’ve been there for hours.”

  As Silvana bent to look at him, the prisoner whimpered and opened his eyes. Under straight, thick brows, he had the liquid-brown, reproachful eyes of a puppy sitting by the dinner table pleading for scraps. He’s so young, Silvana thought, in his early twenties, and very good-looking. He had a shock of glossy black hair, a straight nose, high cheekbones and a wide, sensual mouth.

  Gently Silvana asked, “Where do you come from?” He didn’t look like an islander.

  “Manila, missus.”

  So that explained the extraordinary good looks of their prisoner, Silvana thought. The Philippines had been a Spanish colony from 1571 until 1898, and this boy clearly had a lot of Spanish blood.

  Further questioning by Silvana revealed that the prisoner’s name was Carlos Vergara and he was the eldest son of a minor government official. He had lived with his eight brothers and sisters in an apartment in the old section of Manila and been educated at a Catholic church school. His mother had wanted him to be a priest, but he’d left school at fourteen to work in the kitchen of the Blue Cockatoo restaurant, where he eventually became a waiter. The previous October, in a Manila bar, he had met a group of older, tough mercenary soldiers, none of whom seemed to be short of money. The following morning Carlos had woken up in an army barracks. By the time he had recovered from his hangover, he discovered that he had signed on as a mercenary in General Raki’s army and had already spent his first month’s wages in advance; not a peso remained in his pocket.

  He had quickly decided that he was in no position to argue. In fact, Carlos had accepted his new situation with excitement and anticipation. Being part of a secret invading army was more interesting than waiting on tables. This was a manly adventure.

  As he explained to the women how he came to be wandering near their camp, Carlos tried to give the impression that he had been abducted against his will, that he had been out of his depth among the older soldiers of the invading rebel army, that he had been too scared to do anything but obey orders.

  Silvana looked sympathetic, but Patty snarled, “Ask him if he helped to shoot our husbands.”

  The prisoner looked up with sad brown eyes. “Carlos no shoot nobody. Work in cookhouse.”

  “Patty, don’t antagonize him,” Annie warned. “We don’t want him to clam up. We want to know what’s going on in the island.”

  Half an hour later, they knew what was happening. Carlos told them about the military coup and what had followed. General Raki had assumed power overnight. He was now the President of Paui and had put the country under military rule. The elections that had voted him into power had been supervised by the army and had ostensibly re-established the control of the right-wing Nationalist Party. President Raki wished for no more troubles, he wished for the happiness of everybody. Soon he was going to set up military posts around the southern shoreline of Paui. On the northwest plains, the farmers were not difficult to control, and there were few people in the mountains; but along the southern coast the fishing tribes were more primitive and fierce, so the prisoner’s platoon was awaiting orders in the Paradise Bay Hotel, now a temporary army barracks.

  The prisoner begged the women to let him go so that he could rejoin his unit. He did not wish to return, but should he be caught with the women in the jungle he would be shot as a deserter. Or they should all return in a group to the hotel, no?

  Patty shook her head. “No!”

  He looked puzzled. “Why you American ladies hide here? Why you no come back with me? My sergeant look after you, take you Queenstown. Is not good, American ladies live like this!” He nodded his head toward the two thatched huts.

  Patty, who seemed to have loathed the prisoner on sight, said, “Remember how they looked after Isabel.”

  Silvana thought that there was something boyish and appealing about the bewildered look in the prisoner’s big, dark eyes. Tentatively she said, “Sounds as if he got in over his head.”

  “It’s a reasonable story,” Annie agreed, feeling sorry for his poor mother.

  “Look at this!” Suzy had just explored the pockets of the prisoner’s jacket. She held up the rusting lemon-drop tin in which Jonathan had kept their watches. After Silvana had lost her emerald ring the women had also put their rings in the tin, thinking that they might use the jewelry to trade with—and anyway, their fingers were now so thin that their rings slipped off.

  Silvana said, “That tin was with the supplies under the lean-to, in one of my bamboo pots.”

  “So the bastard did find our camp this afternoon,” Suzy said, “when we were hiding in the cave.” She looked around at the suddenly alert faces. “Now, do we assume he’s just a common thief? Or do we figure that he was taking back proof that we’re alive and living in a camp in the jungle?”

  “You should have shot him.” Carey looked at Patty. They had never discussed it, but both women knew that they were killers, that they had both broken the basic women’s taboo. Women were supposed to give life, not take it, and whether you called it self-defense, manslaughter or murder, killing is what they had done. Without speaking of it, they each knew the guilt and depression that lay on the other’s conscience, which no amount of justification could erase.

  “I know we should have shot him,” Annie said. She understood exactly what Patty meant. “But we didn’t. I made the wrong decision.” She looked at the two unforgiving faces in front of her and added, “I promise I won’t hesitate next time.”

  Patty lost her temper.
“It’s now that matters!” she yelled. “And because of this, there may not be a next time. Just because he looks like everybody’s favorite brother you’ve endangered our position, you sentimental wimp.”

  Silvana said, “We’ve all made silly mistakes. We aren’t superwomen, and we aren’t automatons. You might make the next mistake, Patty.”

  Patty scowled. “Let’s see what else the bastard’s stolen.” She covered the prisoner with the M-16 while Annie untied his hands.

  Patty said, “Okay, Get them off. Strip. Don’t be shy, we’ve seen it all before.”

  He looked bewildered. “What you want I do?”

  “Take your clothes off. Slowly,” Patty ordered.

  He started to unbutton his torn and dirty shirt.

  Annie said, “He might have some other weapon. A hidden knife, maybe.”

  “I’ve got my finger on the trigger and the safety is off,” Patty told her.

  “Now your pants,” Patty growled.

  The prisoner unzipped. His penis curled in its nest of dark hair. Nobody took any notice.

  He stood before them naked.

  His olive skin glistened with youth; he was muscular and slim-hipped, with the tight, taut buttocks of a bullfighter. He didn’t stand in any particular way, he didn’t seem aggressive, nor contrite nor sexually aware. He stood naked in front of them and fingered the silver dogtag around his neck.

  The eyes of the women focused on only one thing.

  Entwining the prisoner’s right arm, coiling upward from the wrist, was a black and red snake. The head rested against his smooth, brown bicep, but the tattooed fangs reached up to his throat.

  25

  WEDNESDAY, MARCH 6, 1985

  Like a huge fiery umbrella, the dense clusters of red and orange blossoms hung above the prisoner’s head as he lay tethered to the two flame trees in a feigned sleep. As the dark sky changed to pearl, he decided on his victim. He’d also get that tin of jewelry again. The prisoner had no doubt that he was going to escape. His specialty—one which he had studied for years—was the not-so-young American woman.

  In Manila, as he glided over the green tiles of the restaurant floor beneath bedraggled cockatoos in gilded cages, carrying trays of expensive seafood to rich tourists, Carlos had moved with boyish confidence, enthusiasm and charm. His good looks were arresting but not aggressively masculine; there was nothing about his face or manner that might alarm the lonely American ladies off the cruise ships. His charm was on the same order as that of the eager but shy young girl who confesses that, as a matter of fact, this is only her second time. Carlos was always interested in the trips of the American ladies, always eager to suggest outings, to help them enjoy their stay. The ladies found his suggestions both agreeable and reassuring.

  Carlos carefully studied the beautifully dressed young men who sometimes accompanied these older women to the Blue Cockatoo. Watching them, he learned to snap forward his gold-plated Dunhill as soon as the lady produced a cigarette and to wave his own little cheroot with carefully careless grace. At the end of the meal he would casually lean in the opposite direction, seemingly absorbed by some incident at a nearby table and brushing the end of his eyebrow with a forefinger—a mannerism that only appeared as the bill was presented.

  Every morning, in the windowless cubicle that he shared with his two younger brothers, Carlos stood before the peeling mirror and practiced lifting one eyebrow (haughtily, insolently, provocatively) as he blew imaginary smoke rings at his reflection. He knew—he was absolutely sure—that, one day, one of these American women would take him back to the States with her, whereupon he would immediately leave her and catch the Greyhound bus to Hollywood, where he would get a job as houseboy to some old woman movie star, like Raquel Welch. Once he got his chance, he too would become a movie star. He too would be protected, admired, paid a fortune. He too would have gifts and homage showered upon him. This bottomless cornucopia of delight would include the slim, firm, inner thighs of young girls.

  In due course, Carlos acquired an ample wardrobe of cheap, flashily cut clothes. He earned a thin gold-link bracelet, neck chain, cufflinks, watch, the gold-plated lighter and a silver cigarette case. Time after time he’d hinted for a gold cigarette case, but the cruise ships never stayed for more than a few days, and Carlos was well aware that a great deal would be required, for a long time, by the donor of such an expensive trinket. Sadly, all his carefully accumulated treasures had vanished on the night he joined the Paui army. Nevertheless, he snapped his new aluminum lighter with aplomb, as if it were still his gold-plated, guaranteed-exact Dunhill copy from Hong Kong.

  * * *

  When Carlos heard the footsteps, he cautiously opened one eye. Good, it was the quiet one with the bandaged hand. He gave a soft groan.

  “Carlos, I’ve brought you breakfast.” Silvana squatted before him and felt his forehead, which was cool, then fed him hot fish mash, spooning it from the coconut shell with a leaf.

  After breakfast, Annie inspected the prisoner’s feet and dusted them with charcoal. Patty watched the operation with a sneer, holding the M-16 at the ready. After Annie had finished, Suzy tied the prisoner’s leg firmly to a tree and untied his hands. While Patty kept the rifle pointed at him, he washed from an upended turtle shell of water, placed too far from the campfire for him to grab a burning log and use it as a weapon. He was then allowed to put on his boots; everything else had been taken from him. Suzy now wore his pants and Annie his jacket.

  Carlos was shown how to lash the rattan around the bamboo poles of the raft. Silvana cautiously stood behind him, with his own AK-47 pointing at him.

  He worked as hard as he could, for to appear docile and acquiescent was part of his plan.

  When they stopped work at midday, it was agreed that he’d worked well. But Suzy said, “I don’t trust that sonofabitch. There’s something about his eyes. He reminds me of a cocktail waitress I used to know. She was fired for stealing tips from the staff box.”

  Carey said grimly, “He’s not going to get the chance to try any tricks, and he’s going to be too damned tired to move at the end of the day.”

  Suzy nodded, thinking that Carey no longer looked like Princess Diana; instead, beneath her grime, she looked a bit like the young Clint Eastwood.

  As Silvana handed around the baked fish, she said to Patty, “Sinatra’s died again. Please get me another.”

  Sinatra I had eaten a cherry-sized orange fruit and had subsequently been found lying stiff in his cage. Sinatra II had gnawed through his bamboo cage bars one night and escaped. Sinatras III and IV had also died after eating fruit. At the sight of every furry corpse the women felt a chill as they realized how close to death they lived.

  Silvana put the remains of the fish into a bamboo jar and picked up her tattered fishing gloves. “I’ll bury him. The fleas should have hopped off by now.”

  “Let me bury,” Carlos offered.

  Patty snapped, “Don’t speak unless you’re spoken to.”

  Silvana said mildly, “He was only offering to help. To do a nasty job.”

  “Sure, a real Boy Scout,” Patty said.

  Annie looked wary, but said nothing. This squabbling had started yesterday, almost as soon as Carlos had arrived in the camp. If only he had died when he fell from the bridge.

  Annie quietly slipped away, to pray for guidance. She held the scarlet Swiss army knife in her hand and looked upward. “What should I do, Jonathan?” she whispered. “What would you do? Please tell me.”

  She seemed to hear a voice in her head say, “You should’ve dealt with him as soon as you saw him, Annie. It ain’t fair on the others, to land ’em with this worry. But seeing you’re stuck with him, then work his ass off. And, like Suzy says, don’t trust him.”

  * * *

  All afternoon the little party toiled on the raft, except for Silvana.

  After the evening meal, Carlos—his arms spread apart—was tied by the hands to two flame trees near the sleeping huts. B
efore she went to bed, Silvana brought him water in a coconut shell. He looked up at her with sad eyes. He said nothing.

  It was difficult for Silvana to think of this boy as their enemy. After all, he’d only been walking through the jungle, he hadn’t been shooting his way through it. She had first seen him not as an aggressor but as a semiconscious prisoner with a bruised and bleeding face. Of course, he had taken the jewelry tin, but … Maybe he had thought the camp was deserted.

  No, that wasn’t possible. Their equipment was lying around and the fire was burning. He had clearly taken something that did not belong to him. Carlos was undoubtedly a thief.

  But as she covered him with a rifle all that day, Silvana had watched him. He had worked hard at their raft, she had seen the sweat streaming down his body.

  He was only a boy, she told herself.

  Silvana knew that when they left the island, she wasn’t going to let the others leave him tethered to the tree, at the mercy of the jungle. They would simply have to take him with them.

  There was consternation around the campfire when Silvana suggested this.

  Patty said vehemently, “No way am I going to embark on a raft in a shark-infested sea with that bastard sitting beside me ready to shove me overboard.”

  That seemed to be the consensus.

  Silvana looked at the faces around the campfire and said reproachfully, “It’s inhuman to leave him here unless we release him, and you all know that.”

  “We’re not releasing him!” Carey shouted. “And if you don’t stop feeling sorry for the sonofabitch, we’ll leave you here with him.”

  From where he was tethered, Carlos was able to hear the row that followed. Later, when Silvana brought him water, he said softly, “Thank you, missus.” The brown eyes looked up at her with gratitude.

  On the following day Carlos also worked well. By evening his face was gray with exhaustion. Nobody could say that he wasn’t earning his keep.

  That evening, as Silvana walked away from the campfire, carrying food to the prisoner, she told herself that the sympathy she felt for Carlos was only natural. She felt protective toward this youth who was young enough to be her son. She was nurturing him, she was responsible for him. But Silvana was surprised that their prisoner accepted his treatment so stoically. She respected him for that, she thought, as carefully she fed him a mango, held like a hamburger in an elephant’s-ear leaf. She wiped the juice from his lips.