The Horatio Stubbs Trilogy

by Brian W Aldiss

  As to what happened, it was best that I spoke to nobody about it, nobody. He would be seeing General Hedley in the morning, when he would report the incident personally. Such events occurred in difficult situations. This was a bad campaign in which nobody had any glory. For the rest, the three killings, that was the business of the Dutch. I must not concern myself. If I had been killed, that was different; then the Division would have been forced to mount retributive action, with a general hotting up of tension all round. Mercifully, we were spared such unpleasantness. All that could be said was that there must be no breaches of discipline. He and I were old campaigners and had survived in difficult theatres of war; now it was peacetime, despite appearances, and both of us were entitled to retire with honour to our peacetime destinies.

  ‘Peacetime,’ I said, and laughed.

  He presented his case and offered me his De Reszkes, pressing them on me when I refused. ‘No, no, Sergeant, take one and smoke later, after your shower. There are different conceptions of wartime and peacetime, as we come now to realise.’

  I took a fag and lit up automatically when he did.

  ‘I let myself be taken by surprise. Asking for trouble … I feel responsible for their deaths.’

  ‘Yes, yes, I understand, but you must tell yourself that is not so. To survive is not a disgrace, but rather a virtue. Confidentially, give me just one platoon, Sergeant, one platoon, and you and I would wipe out these murdering swine for ever.’

  The jeep dropped me before my billet in Djalan Sennal Road. I climbed out, drew myself up, and ripped Jhamboo off a smart salute. He returned it, his expression lamb-like again as he regarded me.

  As I peeled off my filthy uniform and climbed into the shower, recent events kept returning vividly before my mental gaze.

  After I left the go-down, I had to make my way back through the jungle alone. The Indonesians had removed Jan’s truck from its place of concealment. I walked on through the burnt-out kampong and eventually emerged on a road where a Dutch patrol found me. Good old Dutch, they never gave up!

  They drove me straight to their grey Medan HQ, where Ernst Sontrop’s office was. There I was given a cup of coffee, a ham roll, and a cigar, while four officers assembled to question me. One of them was a grey-haired man with mild gold-rimmed spectacles and a brutal mouth. He belonged to PEA Force and introduced himself as a friend of Jackie Tertis.

  The room filled with smoke. More coffee was brought. A good deal of phoning went on.

  Jhamboo arrived. I greeted him with relief. A friendly face! The Dutch had tried to contact the elusive Boyer, without results. Throughout the interviews, the Dutch – even the villain from PEA Force – were unfailingly courteous, unrolling their faultless English like stair-carpet down each step of the enquiry. All the while, I felt like a prize shit; I knew they thought I should have died with my pals.

  From my description, they identified the TRI lieutenant with the scar as a man called Hamil.

  ‘He’s just returned from Java, we happen to know,’ said PEA Force. ‘He’s not a good man, but we shall get him.’

  ‘Hamil’s a tough egg,’ agreed one of the other officers, with a cool mastery of English slang.

  By not executing me, by refusing even to take me captive, Hamil had avoided a possible confrontation and snubbed both Dutch and British authorities. He showed that he knew we were withdrawing, and that that withdrawal meant the beginning of the end for the Dutch. The TRI wanted us out of the way with as little fuss as possible. Their battle was half won.

  All of which must have been gall for the Dutch, but they just made a few more serious phone calls. The questioning was over. They rose and thanked me for my co-operation, apologised for my misadventure, congratulated me on my escape from death, and hoped that I would return to Medan after the uprising had been quelled, when they would be happy to see I had a pleasant visit and could shoot crocodiles in a more congenial atmosphere. I shook hands all round and left with Jhamboo.

  By now, as I stood wearily under the cold shower, an armed escort would be out at the go-down. If the three bodies weren’t collected quickly, the shite-hawks which had feasted on the crocodile would be greedying it in the building. How do you eat people? It’s just like eating crocodiles …

  Iwa? No doubt the terrible men in PEA Force would sort out his role in the ambush – to their satisfaction if not to Iwa’s.

  When I had dried myself, I stretched luxuriously on my charpoy and reached for my tin of cigarettes. I never made it.

  Some maniac, some vaginaphobe, with his hand on my shoulder was asking me if I wanted to buy a battleship.

  Groaning, I heaved myself up and looked blearily round.

  ‘You want to lay off the kyfer before it kills you! I thought you were bloody dead, mate. I’ve brought you a late lunch.’

  There was Johnny Mercer; behind him, the Chinese mess servant, standing grinning with a tray of food and a beer.

  My Indian watch told me that I had been asleep for only twenty-five minutes. All the same, I felt better. Putting a towel round my middle, I sat on the edge of the bed and began shovelling the food in the top. Johnny took it for granted that I had been with Margey, and proceeded to go into great detail concerning his adventures of the previous evening, which revolved about the twin axes of alcohol and women. It appeared that he had had a good time.

  It was impossible to concentrate on what he had to say. Before my eyes floated a picture of three bodies lying against the wall of the go-down, while ants meditatively inspected their life-blood. I wondered how I could behave naturally before my friends, now that this terrible knowledge was in me. Coming back alone through the great forest, with nature at its most luxuriant all round, I had been startled by a chain of monkeys swinging in the branches high overhead, screaming as they went. Perhaps the monkeys knew death. But monkeys were innocent. They did not know Harm. It was Harm that I had discovered, and instinct demanded that I should conceal that discovery from my friends.

  ‘How about a game of badminton? I’ve been on ration duty all morning.’

  ‘No thanks, I bloody must go back into town.’ I scraped up the last of my treacle-sponge pudding.

  Mercer looked a bit embarrassed and stuffed his hands into his pockets. ‘Did you speak to old Boyer last night? About this problem of yours. You know, about marrying this Chinese girl?’

  ‘You mean Margey?’

  ‘Of course.’ He gave his neighing laugh.

  ‘Then why not fucking say so? You know her, don’t you? You fucking well used to screw her, didn’t you?’

  ‘Keep your bloody hair on. I only asked if you spoke to Boyer.’

  I put my plate down, rose and started to dress.

  ‘Boyer was pissed as arseholes. His bird’s off on the Van Heutsz this afternoon.’ I checked with the watches; one said twelve-twenty-five, the other one-fifteen.

  ‘What’s the time?’

  ‘One-forty.’

  ‘I’m supposed to be seeing Boyer this afternoon at the company office, three pip emma. Ten to one he won’t turn up.’ I heaved myself into a clean uniform.

  ‘Look, Horry, for fuck’s sake take the advice of an old mate. Forget this idea of marrying Margey. It’s not on. There are oodles of bits of crumpet back in the Blight, lying around with their legs open and their little twots pulsating, just waiting for handsome young sergeants like us to come home.’

  I looked at him. ‘Young? Piss off!’

  ‘Well, old, then. It’s a bugger, Horry. I was a kid when I joined up – now I feel about fifty. Where have the years gone? Still, I still think you’d be mad to marry old Marge. If I may say so without offence, you don’t have to do it just to impress your mates, you know.’

  ‘Who’d want to impress you?’

  ‘Give those gin-palaces back and I’ll tell you.’

  I punched him lightly on the chest. ‘Come down the bazaar and I’ll buy you a drink with the ill-gotten gains.’

  At the canteen, I bought five h
undred Blighty Players, a tin of Colman’s Mustard, a packet of Edwards’ Desiccated Soup, a bar of chocolate, and some Branston’s Sweet Pickle. At the company stores, I left a note for Captain Boyer telling him where I would be. At the office, I collected a green slip from Jhamboo, which I handed to the Armourer-Havildar at the armoury. He was an enormous man with handlebar moustaches. He issued me with a new revolver and made me sign without comment. Pistol, Revolver, Webley .38 in MK. 4.

  As I emerged into the sunshine, Mercer rolled up in the mess Jeep. I climbed in beside him.

  ‘Bloody Tertis has just gone tear-assing by on his bike. Business as usual.’

  ‘They’ll get him one day.’

  ‘Today, I hope.’

  We drove past the grey fortress of the Dutch HQ. Poor Jan de Zwaan would never catch the Van Heutsz, on which many of his countrymen and women were even now embarking. I could not get over the sight of his face in death, with the absurd Jap helmet still on his head. The memory came between me and the outer world. Death followed me like the speeding bird which had shadowed our launch back to harbour.

  I’d have to write to Addy about Ernst.

  A thunderstorm was building up, with high vivid clouds the shape of anvils piling above the rooftops. Sunshine became a searchlight.

  We pulled into Margey’s alley and stopped. I saw that something was pinned to her door. Bright objects glittered among what was faded and grey. We drew near. Elaborate Chinese characters had been cut out of red and gold card and attached to the entrance. Strings of little white flowers, painstakingly threaded together, hung wilting on the old blistered doorway. I put my hand against the stone to study them better. They conveyed a meaning, but not to me. The door stood ajar. Mercer pushed in and I followed. Of course, he’d been here long before I had …

  The room was transformed. It was draped in white. Dozens of small candles in tin holders burned about a coffin, which occupied the centre of the space. The coffin itself was smothered in little foil decorations which gleamed in the candlelight. A heavy scent hung about the room, languorous yet threatening. For a crazy moment, I thought they must have collected Sontrop.

  Many people stood by the coffin in their best clothes. They kept their deep Chinese gaze away from Johnny and me. Some of the old women clutched flowers in their weathered hands. Daisy was there, carrying her baby; she glanced at us, then away.

  As we paused, someone hurried from the rear of the throng and blocked our path, raising his hands before him. It was the Chinese journalist, Tiger Balm, immaculate as ever.

  ‘You may not come in here today, sir. It is not convenient.’

  ‘I am in, mush. I’m not going to cause any trouble. What’s going on?’

  He shook head and hands. ‘You must depart quietly, please, sir. Buddhist ceremonies are in progress, following the death, so we have to require you to leave. This is not a place for British soldiers. Go, please.’

  ‘The old lady’s dead? I’m sorry – she was a nice old girl.’ I tried to push forward as I spoke, but Tiger Balm remained unmoving.

  ‘Yes, old Auntie’s spirit has departed, and you must not interrupt the ceremonies. The military have no business with mourning.’

  ‘Look, chum, I’m not going to break up your bloody ceremonies. I just want Margey. Where is she?’

  ‘Let’s sod off, Stubby,’ Mercer suggested. ‘We can come back later. Let’s go and have a drink.’

  While I hesitated, Tiger Balm said, ‘Good idea, Sgt Stubbs. Go and have a drink or two. It’s in your line.’

  Margey’s brother-in-law came panting up from the shadows, shaking his head, tutting, waving his plump paws.

  ‘Ah, Missa Stuss, poh Auntie pinnish. You no come, you go, I give cigalet.’

  ‘I don’t want your fucking cigarettes, chum. Where’s Margey?’

  More waving of hands. ‘Margey no here. Margey go Brastagi.’

  ‘Brastagi? What the fuck’s she gone to Brastagi for? Why didn’t she tell me she was going?’

  ‘Keep your voice low, sir, if you please,’ said Tiger Balm, edging Johnny and me towards the door. ‘Acts of devotion are in progress and must continue during two days. Such is our form of worship to the dead. Margey will return tomorrow, escorting some relations.’

  The coffin and the mourners confused me. Existence suddenly appeared threadbare, and I was inclined to be pugnacious about it. ‘She didn’t tell me she was going to be away. What’s going on?’

  ‘Margey could not speak with you because you did not come here this morning as you promised. Please leave without further high spirits.’

  Fat echoed the suggestion. ‘Yessah, Missa Stussa, prease lee, see Margey ’moller.’

  So did Johnny. ‘Let’s go and get a bloody drink. Coming or not?’

  ‘Okay, okay.’ I looked angrily at the Chinese. Tiger Balm bowed slightly, Fat bowed and smiled, showing gold teeth. Behind them, Daisy’s baby uttered one brief cry. The room was stuffed with sweet and sour smells. I pushed the things I had brought for Margey into Fat’s arms, and left with Johnny.

  Almost opposite the Deli cinema was a little Malayan bar where we sat and drank carioca and Red Fox. No sooner had we arrived than rain fell in great gusts, filling the streets with noise. Thunder pealed morosely overhead.

  ‘Brastagi’s miles away,’ Johnny said, wiping his lips. I could guess what he was thinking: ‘If the bitch just keeps out of the way for two more days, Stubbs will be safely on his way home.’

  It grew dark inside the tiled room. A number of Sumatrans dashed in to shelter in the doorway, the main source of light. The manager greeted Johnny like an old friend and summoned his wife from the back parlour. The wife’s name was Che Jah or something similar. She spoke some English, having worked in the British Consulate in pre-war days. She sat at our table and talked, pleased to air her knowledge of the language.

  Che Jah wore a sarong and a smart white muslim jacket fitting tightly about her generous breasts. Dark hair pulled back from a handsome olive face with broad cheekbones. Sitting talking to Johnny with controlled ease, she leaned forward across the table, smoking a cigarette, smiling as she spoke. Her teeth were perfect. Her wrists, her smooth hands, her fingers, one adorned with a silver ring, moved with delicate precision as she lifted the cigarette to and from her broad lips. The fabric of her tightly buttoned sleeves, chafing against her arms, made a faint sound, as of thigh moving against thigh.

  How magnificent women were! Life’s answer to death! What an experience it would be to share the existence of such a vivid creature. In her was the spirit of Sumatra incarnate, rather than in my pale Margey …

  Brastagi was a long drive from Medan, approximately fifty miles. Margey had spoken of some distant relations there, whom she had once visited with the old Auntie. It was an agreeable mountain village with a cool climate. I had driven through it early one morning as a sea-grey dawn was breaking. I remembered long houses on stilts by the roadside and three women standing in a striking monumental group, dressed in tight black clothes, wearing heavy turbans. We could have been in Tibet, rather than on the equator.

  That had been during the momentous drive overland from Padang, that arse-breaking unforgettable trip. The day before reaching Brastagi, we stopped at a village called Prapat, on the shores of Lake Toba. It seemed one of the remotest places in the world. Lake Toba itself must be all of seventy miles long – you could heave the Grand Duchy of Luxemburg into it and leave but a splash – yet only the Dutch have ever heard of the place.

  It’s beautiful, cool and high. The lake itself is formed out of one crater of a string of volcanoes which blew themselves out long before man emerged on the planet. In the middle of the lake lies an island, Samosir. You couldn’t miss Samosir from Prapat; its malachite cliffs rise sheer across a narrow stretch of water. I had stood on the bank, looking across at it. There were people on that island. Then one of my mates called to me and we had to move on.

  In my mind’s eye, I still saw Samosir, its peak crown
ed with jungle. I had resolved that one day I would return to Prapat and go across to the island. Now I knew that was impossible. People died, men were shot like crocodiles. There was no place for the Dutch and British on Sumatra. The events of the morning made it clear that if I was going to marry Margey, we were going to have to live somewhere else. And wasn’t it the spirit of Sumatra itself I really wished to embrace?

  That animated face only three feet away, with those moulded lips, those liquid eyes, those fine eyebrows, and that clear skin, was still talking to Johnny Mercer. A Batak woman. Orang Batak. Cannibals, ferocious people, said Margey. In her face dwelt a sort of fire. Yet it was difficult to see her clearly, so sharp was that dusty image of de Zwaan lying against Sontrop and Nieuwenhuis in a spreading pool of blood.

  Che Jah turned and darted me a direct look. My eyes flicked away from hers, lest she saw the dead bodies. She said, as if we were long familiar with each other, ‘You will go back to England next week, and that is best.’

  I met her gaze, and then looked down at the cane tabletop. ‘I shall never forget Sumatra.’

  ‘Is best for all mens go back to the land where they belong.’

  Only a day earlier, I might have interpreted her words as consolatory. Now I wondered if they concealed a threat; perhaps she and all the other inhabitants of Medan had already heard of the TRI’S coup that morning. In any case, the good simple sense she appeared to speak was meaningless upon examination. Not everyone had places to go.

  This was Ernst Sontrop’s country as much as hers. Margey would not be welcomed in her dreamed-of Shantung Province. What rude awakening was I in for when I returned to the Blight?

  Leaving the table, I went to peer out of the doorway at the rain, which hit the pavements so hard that it sent up a knee-high mist. There were displacements for the whole damned lot of us in the pitcher of time. I recalled fragments of old ABCA lectures, passages from history books. Both the English and Dutch were of that Indo-European stock whose origins lay in the sub-continent from which the British Raj was now being expelled. Come to that, the Bataks were descendants of nations driven south from Indo-China by Mongolian invaders. Despite all territorial claims, nobody belonged in Che Jah’s sense to any particular land, only to the globe itself. There was no real settling down.