Black Water

by Louise Doughty

  Back in the office, Harper raised his eyebrows at Amber. She was on the phone and mouthed, ‘Sorry’ over the receiver.

  Harper went to his own office, sat behind his desk, unlocked his drawer and took out his large notepad and a pencil. Even a drunk Englishman could see President Soeharto was never going to go of his own accord. He leaned forward in his chair, over the notepad, but when he put the sharpened pencil to the pad, the point snapped off. Suddenly, his breath was short in his chest. He sat in the chair, staring at the pencil, and realised he had pressed it down on the pad with such force that his hand was shaking. He put the pencil down, carefully, then gripped his shuddering right arm with his left hand. He squeezed lightly. That only seemed to make the shaking worse. He relinquished his own arm, then leaned back in his seat, closed his eyes and made himself breathe deeply . . . one, two, three, in . . . one, two, three, out . . . His left leg was shaking too, juddering beneath the table.

  Henrikson was absent all day, a fact that Harper was grateful for. Outside, a three-hour downpour saturated the city but when it lifted Harper went into Wahid’s office and said he was going to get a car to take him round some of the bars, just have a drink in each, see which expat communities were still around, talk to a few people. People became loquacious at a time like this – that much he certainly remembered from ’65, they closed ranks but amongst those ranks, they talked. At least, he told himself that was why he was doing it.

  Wahid looked at him and Harper saw concern behind the man’s small round glasses. ‘Is that a good idea?’

  Harper shrugged. ‘Well, we’ve been sitting in the office for days while Henrikson runs around the city like he’s James Bond.’

  ‘Going to check with him first?’

  ‘Of course not. If he asks where I am, say I tried to call him and couldn’t get through.’

  He was woken by the bleep of his pager. Shit, he thought, reeling in bed, his hand outstretched, simultaneously registering that it was bright daylight at the edge of his blinds. What time was it? The apartment seemed unnaturally quiet. Normally, the traffic noise from outside was a blur of sound. Even though he was only half awake as his hand scrabbled amongst the keys, phone, water bottle and tissues on his bedside table, he knew that the streets outside were deserted. He hadn’t a clue where he was, though, or what time it was. Then he thought, the apartment. But how come it was so bright? Oh, he hadn’t closed the blinds when he got in last night.

  Last night?

  The pager had gone silent. He sat up and looked around. It wasn’t on his bedside table. Damn, he couldn’t afford to miss an emergency. Then it bleeped again and he located it on the floor. His trousers lay in a crumpled heap next to the bed – the pager must have fallen out of a pocket. Call Motorola. He called the office message system but instead of Henrikson or Wahid there was a female voice he didn’t recognise. ‘Hi, it’s Alison from the FT, hey, thanks for the mojitos, give me a call when you’re awake, super-discreet as promised. Ciao, buddy!’ The last two words were said with a friendly flourish.

  Why was a journalist sending him messages on his emergency pager? Perhaps she was a client and keeping the tone light. He grabbed the trousers from the floor and pushed his hands into the pockets until he found a business card: Alison Rutgers, Asia Correspondent, Financial Times, and a local number.

  When she answered the phone, she didn’t sound like a client about to request an emergency evacuation.

  ‘Hey, great to hear from you, how’s the head?’

  He mimicked her tone. ‘Hmmm, well, let’s say it’s been better, how’s yours?’

  She gave a little laugh. ‘It was pretty hard getting up this morning.’ And he knew instantly that she was not hungover at all – that however many mojitos they had drunk together the night before, she had been on a non-alcoholic variety, probably by saying quietly to the waiter, skip the rum in mine. He’d been caught out like that before. ‘Café Batavia mix them pretty strong when the owner’s having one of his party nights,’ she continued, ‘he’s an Aussie, think I told you? The real place is the Tanamur, though, can’t believe you haven’t been there yet.’ He was well aware of the Tanamur’s reputation, which was why he had steered clear. But he had confided in her last night that he’d never been? Who the hell was she and what did she want? ‘Listen,’ she said, ‘sadly this isn’t just a call to check you’re still alive.’

  ‘How did you get my pager number?’ he asked, cutting her off.

  There was the briefest of pauses. ‘You gave it to me last night.’ He felt hot, and sick. ‘But listen . . .’

  ‘I have nothing to say to you.’ He hung up.

  Five minutes later, the pager, the highly confidential one reserved specifically for work emergencies, bleeped again. He called the Motorola number. This time, Alison’s tone was very different. ‘Hi John, me again, sorry if I disturbed you, look, I’ll call your head office in Amsterdam and do this officially. I’m just looking for a quote, attributable or otherwise, on the Institute’s evacuation plans, it’s the major banks we’re interested in, but I understand what you told me last night was off the record.’ Her sign-off was unmistakeably spiteful. ‘If you’re all tied up today, I’ll take it through official channels.’

  Shit shit shit. He put his head in his hands. He could call her back. She would probably leave it an hour or so to see if he did. Then she would promise him anonymity in return for the information she needed. But the information would be traceable back to him: she knew that and she knew he knew it too. The Amsterdam office would be closed at this hour but the twenty-four-hour hotline monitored the regular office answering machine and if she left a message they might call her back straight away, head her off at the pass. Damage limitation. Did the bosses have any contacts at the FT that would kill the piece? His head reeled with solutions. Was she working on a feature or a news story?

  He had no idea. He couldn’t remember her at all: a vague image, perhaps, a swoop of dark hair? A hand on his knee, at one point? He thought hard and a little came back to him, but only a little. He had hailed a car and gone to some of the hotel bars first, then headed to Kota. There were still curfews and cordons everywhere, but to his surprise Café Batavia with its photos of Hollywood stars in dark wooden frames covering the walls was still open and quite busy with an influx of journalists and operatives new to Jakarta. There was some kind of party night going on. Someone nudging his elbow, apologising . . . He had turned . . . A smile, that swoop of hair . . .

  He could just about remember her now: brown-eyed, small, vulnerable-looking. He couldn’t remember how long he had stayed or what he had said. He couldn’t remember how he had got home.

  He had told Wahid he was going out on the streets, against protocol, to ask a few questions. Instead, it would appear that he had done the talking. If he had broken client confidentiality, the Institute would sack him on the spot: he was finished.

  And then he thought to check his jacket pocket. The jacket was slung over the foot of the bed. The pockets were empty.

  The taxi didn’t get much beyond Glodok – they were still several streets from Fatahillah Square – when they were forced to stop at a police cordon; official barriers, officers in white helmets. The one who approached the driver’s window had a whistle in his mouth and his hand already resting on the gun in his holster. He and the taxi driver had a hurried conversation.

  ‘Tell him I’m a journalist,’ Harper said from the back seat. ‘Tell him I just need to get through to the square, I left something at Café Batavia last night, it isn’t important but tell him, obviously, I’d be very grateful.’ If he wanted to try getting a bribe into the policeman’s hand, he would have to wind down the rear window.

  The taxi driver was already putting the car into reverse as he shook his head. ‘Sorry, sir, no further.’

  ‘Okay, go back, then right, the end of the street and around.’

  The driver reversed slowly back down the street.

  After two more right turns,
Harper said, ‘Pull up here.’

  The driver did as he was bid but then sat with his hand on the gearstick, looking straight ahead, clearly not wanting to offend a customer. ‘Sir, I think good if I take you back to where you came from. Sir?’

  ‘I’ll get out here,’ Harper replied, lifting his backside so he could reach inside his trouser pocket for some money.

  ‘I don’t think that is good, sir,’ the driver replied, as he took the money, but Harper was already reaching for the door handle.

  He took the backstreets, deserted but not cordoned: the roadblocks were to stop vehicles and large assemblies, not individuals. On foot, it was not hard to get to the square. Down one street, there was even an elderly lady calmly sweeping dried leaves and twigs into the ditch outside a crumbling, deserted-looking building, as if nobody had told her the city was in chaos. Most of the buildings were shuttered, though. People were still staying at home.

  Fatahillah Square was deserted but for a single jeep outside the Jakarta History Museum. A few men lounged in it, smoking. Harper could see from across the square that Café Batavia was closed but he went up to it anyway, lifted a hand and pressed his nose against the glass. In the gloom at the back of the ground floor, he thought he saw movement, although it could just have been a reflection of some sort, but he banged on the glass anyway and rattled the doorknob. When he glanced behind him, he could see he had caught the attention of the young men in the jeep, who were watching him.

  If any staff were inside Café Batavia, then they had no intention of opening up – but Harper knew in his bones he had come on a wild goose chase. What were the chances of the notebook being on the floor somewhere? Alison Rutgers was probably studying it right now, running a manicured finger down the list.

  As he turned away from Café Batavia, one of the young men jumped down from the jeep, landing neatly with both feet together and bending at the knees, and began to walk casually across the square towards him. He turned left and walked swiftly but calmly towards the opposite corner. It was too far to walk all the way back and the sky was heavy and dark; another rainstorm was on its way. He would head south and hope for a cab somewhere beyond the cordons.

  He was half an hour’s walk south of the square when he heard it, the unmistakeable clamour of a crowd with its blood up: it was a collective sound, both ancient and familiar, a mixture of shouts and calls, the clatter of things breaking, chanting. He stopped to listen: it sounded as though it was coming from the road parallel to the one he was on. He turned down a side street that linked the roads. He hadn’t eaten anything before he left the apartment and not a single stall or shop was open. His stomach was hollow. The gathering storm made the air close and humid. It was like breathing in soup.

  The parallel street was full, a big crowd gathered, milling, a denser patch towards a small shopping centre located to his right, on the other side of the road, on a corner. No one paid him any attention. As he pushed through, he could see that there was a thick swarm of people in front of the mall. Most of the people had their backs to him, a group intent upon something in their midst. Foreboding clutched at him, but only briefly. There was a note of hysteria in the shouts of the men and women, a rising inflection in their voices.

  As he approached the group, three men on the edge of it turned. One started shouting and gesturing but the other next to him laughed and Harper laughed back, so they turned away from him again. He was tall enough to see over their heads but because the crowd was mobile, he had to shoulder his way into the midst of it. It was mostly young men, two or three young women – they didn’t look like students, though, shop assistants or factory workers, perhaps, in plastic shoes and loose, plain shirts. Above their heads, the sky was now very dark.

  There was a young man sitting on the ground, in the middle of the group. He had thick straight hair that hung down over his forehead and he was light-skinned, possibly Chinese Indonesian or possibly someone who just had the bad luck to look like one. His hair was matted with blood, and blood ran down his face. His shirt was torn and he was naked from the waist down. A pair of dirty trousers lay scuffed and ripped beside him. He had his arms raised and bent above his head as if to ward off blows and one forearm was gashed and grazed. As the men around Harper fell back a little, the young man on the ground lifted his face. He looked up at Harper and his wide eyes recognised him, with a glimmer of hope and fear, as a figure of authority.

  The crowd pulled back a little, looking at him, waiting for him to react. Harper knew that all he had to do was nod, and draw back, and the crowd would beat the young man to death. He estimated him to be around seventeen.

  ‘He’s the shop owner’s son!’ said a man on Harper’s left, defensively, angrily, although Harper had not asked for any explanation. ‘You know what they are like! This one insulted my sister!’ The man drew his foot back and aimed a kick at the young man on the ground but misjudged it and his foot swung in the air.

  Harper stepped forward into the crowd in three bold, wide strides – the two people pressed either side of him fell back. He grabbed the young man by his injured arm and pulled him roughly to his feet. The young man called out in fear and pain, a high, whimpering cry. He was small and thin and as soon as Harper hauled him up, he slumped in his grasp. As he did, an older man in the crowd lifted his foot high, to thigh level, and aimed a vicious, hammer-like kick that connected with the young man’s torso just above his hip. The kick nearly knocked the young man from Harper’s hands.

  He knew he had seconds. He pulled the limp young man round, away from the man who had kicked him, shouting, ‘Ayo! Nèk wani!’

  The young man then did the right thing for the wrong reason – out of sheer panic, he started to kick at Harper, feebly. This meant Harper could pull roughly at his arm and shout at him in fury, which got the crowd’s support. A couple of them cheered.

  He dragged the young man back the way he had come as fast as he could but several of the crowd followed and the road ahead was wide and clear, a row of concrete shop fronts with their shutters smashed and household goods spilling from them; plastic buckets, towels, shoes and sandals. Lying on its side in the middle of the street was a white metal object that might have been a storage chest or fridge. Broken glass surrounded it. It was a few minutes’ walk back to the side street that Harper had emerged from and there were no alleyways or small turnings down which they could escape. Harper felt the first fat drops of rain on his arms and looked up just as the grey skies above crashed open and the downpour began.

  The crowd of young people shrieked and laughed at each other. The two young men on Harper’s left, who had been following them closely, ran into a looted shop for shelter, where they discovered a pile of tea trays they snatched up and held above their heads, calling out to their friends – and in the minutes this took, Harper watched until he was sure the crowd was sufficiently distracted before pulling at the unwilling young man and saying, ‘Ayo!’ again but this time hissing rather than shouting.

  Still, the young man did not understand he was being saved. Harper had to clench his upper arm in his fist with all his strength as he dragged him along until, finally, at the end of the street he was able to turn right and shove him up against a wall and hold him there for a minute, by the shoulders, looking into his face. ‘Go home. Don’t go back that way. Do you understand?’ he said in Indonesian, but the young man seemed too shocked to comprehend and the minute Harper took his hands away from his shoulders, he reeled from him, back the way they had come.

  Harper called out as the young man turned the corner – he was damned if he was going to have gone to all that effort only for him to endanger them both by running back to the crowd – and the young man stopped, staring back down the main street, then finally understood, reeled round again and, half bent double and with no acknowledgement to Harper, staggered off down the side street.

  It was pouring with rain now. Harper stood for a moment, the adrenaline of the incident draining from him. Already, a small m
uddy river was flowing down the drain on the other side of the street. He lifted his shirt, untucked from his trousers in the chaos, and wiped his face. People would be taking shelter in the looted shops now, all but the most determined rioters that was. It should be safe to find his way back to his apartment but it would be a good idea to avoid the main streets until he was well clear of the old quarter and could find a cab. He lifted his face to the heavens, closed his eyes and opened his mouth, letting the hard raindrops fall on his tongue and sting his face. They were right to send in Henrikson, he thought, I’m too old for this.

  His apartment was on the fifth floor and the lift had broken down several months ago – the maintenance company couldn’t afford the replacement parts, which were German, so it had stayed broken. He climbed the stairs slowly and by the third floor, his legs had started to shake. He paused for a moment, thinking, how hopeless. Then he thought, no, it isn’t just stairs, you’ve climbed these stairs many times without difficulty. It isn’t just the heat or humidity either – it’s the draining of the adrenaline, come on, you know this one.

  His hand shook as he put the key into his apartment door. He closed it behind him and leant against it. The maid had been while he was out and the apartment was tidy, swept. The pile of books and papers he had left on the small dining table was neatened, the pens next to it laid out in a row. His legs were still trembling. How odd. And then, he was shuddering from head to foot, so much it was shaking his lungs, and he began breathing in great gulps. He had saved a boy. Without any part of his body alerting him to what was about to happen, apart from the trembling that seemed to come from everywhere and nowhere, he sank down onto the polished wooden floor, crashing onto his knees. He had saved a boy. It was a fissure. It was enough.