Beneath a Rising Sun

by Peter Watt

  ‘Someone was trying to rob me,’ Sean said, knowing that he had no proof the assailant had been trying to murder him.

  The nursing sister returned to inform Sean that Miss Lowe had been contacted and was on her way to his flat. Sean thanked her warmly. What if he had been killed, he thought with a shudder. Who would look after Patrick then?

  ‘The police have been informed of your attack, Mr Duffy,’ the nurse said. ‘They will be here shortly to interview you . . . Mr Duffy? Mr Duffy, can you hear me?’

  Sean knew he was going into shock as everything around him became blurred. He closed his eyes, and the last thing he heard was the voice of the nurse saying, ‘He could die on us, doctor.’

  Sean saw the black void, and everything around him faded into oblivion.

  *

  When the light came back into Sean’s existence he was aware that he could feel pain and that a face was looming over him.

  ‘I see you are awake, Mr Duffy,’ Detective Sergeant Preston said. ‘You have a few questions to answer.’

  Sean was not in the mood to speak with the corrupt policeman. ‘I was attacked in Hyde Park and stabbed,’ Sean said. ‘I wondered if you had any prior knowledge of my assailant.’ He could see the darkness come over the detective’s face at his inference.

  ‘Another man was brought into this hospital last night, suffering a severe shoulder wound,’ Preston said. ‘He claims that you attacked him – without any provocation – with a sword stick.’

  ‘Don’t make me laugh, Preston,’ Sean said. ‘Because it hurts when I do, and your statement might send me into fits of laughter. Can I guess and say that the man who attacked and stabbed me gave a false name and left before you arrived to interview him?’

  ‘That is correct,’ Preston replied. ‘But we will find him. In the meantime I take the man’s allegation very seriously.’

  Sean wanted to sit up but the pain in his lower back prevented him doing so. ‘You and I both know that your friend Sir George Macintosh was behind the assault,’ Sean snarled. ‘I would not put it past you to be the person who set this whole thing up.’

  ‘That is an extremely serious allegation, Mr Duffy,’ Preston said in anger. ‘You had better have proof of what you are insinuating.’

  ‘You bloody well know I have no proof – unless I can track down your man,’ Sean answered. ‘And I have means to do that, as you well know.’

  He could tell that he was making the police detective uncomfortable, and also noticed that he was on his own. From Sean’s experience, police usually travelled in pairs in such matters. It was obvious that the crooked policeman did not want any witnesses to this talk.

  ‘You will be required to give a written statement to us concerning the incident,’ Preston said. ‘I expect your statement as soon as you are released from hospital.’

  Preston turned to walk away.

  ‘Tell Sir George that I will catch up with him eventually,’ Sean said quietly.

  The policeman stopped and turned around. ‘Let us hope that you do not have another bad accident in the future, Mr Duffy,’ he said and left the room.

  Sean understood the veiled threat. He had friends in the police force who were honest hardworking men who despised this arrogant detective. But they feared him too, and Sean did not blame them – he was a dangerous and callous man.

  Twenty-one

  Sean was ordered by his doctors to remain in hospital for at least two weeks. No vital organs had been penetrated, but infection was a concern and the new wonder drug, penicillin, was used to ensure the former soldier recovered.

  His first visitors were Allison and young Patrick. The boy looked gravely concerned for this man who had treated him as if he were his own child, but Allison assured Sean she was happy for Patrick to stay with her until he was released from hospital. Sean was relieved that Patrick was away from his flat; he would be safer that way.

  Sean and Allison discussed the police case whilst Patrick wandered around the ward, and Sean admitted that he thought the attack was related to the investigation into the murder at Long Bay Gaol. He had brought Allison in on the case so she could assist him with it.

  ‘Major,’ Allison said, taking hold of his hand. ‘You need to give up your investigation. None of us can afford to lose you – especially Patrick.’

  ‘I am afraid it is too late,’ Sean said. ‘I am in a war again with Sir George, and he will not give up this time until I am dead.’

  ‘Do you really think that Sir George is behind all this?’ Allison asked.

  ‘A long time ago he had a bent copper try to kill me,’ Sean said. ‘I could not prove it, but the circumstantial evidence was overwhelming. The Macintosh and Duffy war goes back a long time. I have heard that we have some kind of old Aboriginal curse on us for something that happened on a Queensland property many years ago. I have a dear friend, Tom Duffy, who has persisted in offering to purchase Glen View as he has Aboriginal blood linked to the land there. You have met Tom.’

  ‘Yes,’ Allison said. ‘He came to your office a couple of weeks ago and you introduced us.’

  ‘Tom is a good man, and his daughter, Jessica, a good woman. If anything should befall me, I want your promise that you will do everything in your power to help Tom and his daughter.’

  ‘I am not sure I believe in curses, Major,’ Allison said, patting his hand. ‘But I do believe that Sir George Macintosh is a powerful man to have as an enemy. You need to recover and then lie low for a while.’

  Sean smiled at her. ‘David is bloody lucky to have you in his life,’ he said, and then noticed the stricken expression on her face.

  ‘I received a letter from David yesterday,’ she said, fighting to control the tears welling up. ‘He informed me that he would not be contacting me in the future. He did not say why.’

  Sean gripped her hand, confused at David’s decision. They had seemed so happy together. ‘Maybe he fears that he might not come home and in his clumsy way is trying to spare you the experience of losing him to the war.’

  ‘His letter was only two sentences long,’ Allison said, tears spilling down her cheeks. ‘It seems that he’s furious with me, although I have no idea what for. It is so horrible. I’ve asked him to explain what’s going on, but he has not replied.’

  Sean had received letters from David, but there had been no hint of any problems with Allison. ‘Maybe I can write to him,’ he offered. ‘Sort something out.’

  Allison held a dainty handkerchief to her eyes, wiping away tears. ‘I have Patrick to look after,’ she said. ‘Poor little blighter has lost his mother to Changi and moved around so much since the fall of Singapore. He must be suffering, but he appears to be so resilient in the face of his terrible experiences. I should take a page from his book.’

  Allison smiled bravely, then summoned Patrick from the end of the ward where he was chatting with an old man sitting in a wheelchair. She held out her hand, and Patrick took it, then the two of them said goodbye and left.

  Within the hour Sean received a second visitor. It was his old comrade from the Great War, Harry Griffiths. The tough-looking gym owner plonked himself in the chair vacated by Allison and deftly removed a bottle in a paper bag from under his moth-eaten army-issue greatcoat. Sean took the bottle and slipped it under his blankets.

  ‘Thanks, cobber,’ he said, knowing that the matron of the ward would be furious if she found one of her patients consuming alcohol.

  ‘You are too old to go and get yourself into fights,’ Harry said. He was about the same age as Sean, and the closest thing to a best friend he had.

  ‘It looks like our old friend Sir George is up to his tricks again,’ Sean said. ‘And he has a new accomplice in Detective Sergeant Preston.’

  ‘So, another Jack Firth to deal with,’ Harry said quietly.

  ‘This is different,’ Sean cautioned. ‘Preston is a
serving officer, and if he gets killed, it will bring the wrath of the police down on us. Firth was out of the job when he met his unfortunate demise. There is also something else I need to tell you,’ Sean continued and quietly explained the situation with Ulverstone.

  ‘Bloody hell!’ Harry said when Sean was finished. ‘Talk about a one, two, three knockout blow.’

  ‘Tom Duffy should be back in town,’ Sean said. ‘I need you to contact him on this number.’ He passed his friend a slip of paper. ‘I know that I can trust you, cobber.’

  ‘Boss, you know you can,’ Harry answered with absolute sincerity. ‘When my missus was dying you were there for me and the family. You helped get my eldest boy a commission in the navy. You are my fair-dinkum cobber.’

  ‘Ulverstone is a traitor, and while he lives men like your son and many others can be killed by what he relays to the enemy,’ Sean said. ‘Killing him is a legitimate act of war, although not recognised by the civil laws of this country. Tom will do the job, but he will need your help. I know it’s risky – but so was it for us patrolling into no-man’s-land in the last lot. I suppose we are fighting a war on two fronts – Macintosh and Ulverstone, aided by Preston.’

  ‘I’m in,’ Harry said. ‘It’s a bit quiet around the gym with all the boys gone off to war.’

  ‘I’m hoping to get out of here soon,’ Sean said. ‘You are back on the firm’s payroll as my investigator.’

  ‘Just like old times,’ Harry grinned, producing a couple of small glasses from under his greatcoat. ‘I think we should toast our new war.’

  Sean retrieved the small bottle of rum from under the blankets and Harry poured them a stiff drink each. Glancing quickly over their shoulders, the two men raised their glasses and took long drinks of the dark liquid. Dangerous times were ahead and both men were acutely aware of what could happen if anything went wrong.

  *

  The nightmares had become more frequent for Sir George Macintosh. In the middle of the night Wallarie would come to him and stand at the foot of his bed. His beautiful sister Fenella was often waiting in the dark too, her blood-covered face staring at him with questioning eyes. She would say nothing, only stare, and Sir George would shake with fear until he awoke into the silence of the real world. He knew that his time on earth was now counted in weeks, maybe even days.

  Very early one morning, jerked from sleep by another nightmare, he rose from his bed and shuffled to his library where he had a stock of good liquors. He poured himself a drink and sat down in the big leather chair facing the grand window overlooking the driveway. It was still dark and Sir George wondered how many more sunrises he might expect to experience before the dreaded disease finally took his life. He so desperately wanted to live, and if he could use his vast fortune for just one guaranteed extra day of life, he would.

  Sarah had proven ruthless enough to take his place, but she had a son whose father was the hated David Macintosh. Donald had not yet produced any heirs, legitimate or otherwise, and he was not as business savvy as his sister. As for David Macintosh, he was not even a consideration, and with any luck he would be killed in battle as his father, Alexander, had been in the last war.

  Deep in thought, Sir George took a sip of whisky. Suddenly he dropped his tumbler to the carpet, spilling its contents, and seized his chest in absolute terror. From the corner of his eye he had seen movement, and when he turned his head he saw plainly the semi-naked figure of Wallarie, an old, battle-scarred man holding a long, hardwood spear. Sir George knew that he was wide awake, and that this could not be a dream. He could feel his heart pounding in his chest and a single sentence floated across the room.

  ‘You got any baccy?’ Wallarie asked with a chuckle, before disappearing into the shadows.

  For what seemed like an eternity Sir George remained transfixed in his chair until the sound of the servants starting their duties for the day broke his terror-induced paralysis. It had to be a hallucination, Sir George attempted to convince himself. The strange question ringing in his ears proved to Sir George that it could have not been the old warrior who haunted his family. After all, why would an old Aboriginal ask for tobacco? He doubted that the spirit of Wallarie would ask for something so mundane. The clatter of crockery told Sir George that the world would soon fill with light, and all would be well for the moment. He had made his decision as to who should be the next ruler of the family.

  *

  Captain James Duffy was acutely aware that the battlefront he had returned to was not the place many newcomers imagined from watching the very popular On the Road movies starring Bob Hope and Bing Crosby. The balmy tropical breezes swaying tall palm trees bordering pristine white beaches were quickly replaced by rotting vegetation and monsoonal drenching rain that turned the inland into a sea of mud. Under the canopy of tall rainforest giants insects sucked blood, delivering the deadly diseases of dengue and malaria. Where the rainforest finished, clearings of kunai grass with razor-sharp edges grew as high as a man and the temperatures soared to a hundred degrees every afternoon. That was bad enough, but the high relative humidity caused constant thirst, and the sluggish, jungle streams hid deadly intestinal diseases. Dysentery racked the soldiers who served in the Solomon Islands, along with fungal complaints and heat stroke. The story was similar to other battlefronts for the men who slogged across the islands towards the Japanese island.

  James sat outside his tent, stripped down to his shorts. He wore aviator sunglasses to shield his eyes against the glare reflecting off the open area that formed the airfield, ripped out of the rainforest by the brave engineers and Sea Bees. At least he was not out in the bush patrolling as an infantryman. On the airfield they had access to a few luxuries the marines in the jungle did not have.

  The distinctively shaped Chance Vought Corsairs were lined up under a baking tropical sun ready for action. James had quickly qualified on the Corsair in his first weeks in the Solomon Islands. He was impressed by the fighter bomber that had greater range and speed than his Hellcats, but did have a couple of disadvantages. Its long nose was hard to see over when landing, and it could not outmanoeuvre the nimble Japanese fighters. He knew the best way to destroy the enemy fighters was to get above them and then dive through their formations, firing the six .50 calibre machine guns mounted in the bent wings that gave it the nickname of ‘bent-wing bird’ to Allied personnel and ‘whistling death’ to Japanese soldiers unfortunate enough to be on the ground when the fighter dived on them. The distinctive whistling sound was caused by air rushing through the oil-cooling system.

  James had quickly fitted in with his squadron, who were forever asking him about Hollywood celebrities and had given him the nickname ‘Hollywood Jim’. He had flown two operational fighter bomber missions since his transfer. On his second mission the squadron had flown ground support for the marines in the jungle and had bombed entrenched Japanese positions on a hillside. He had dived on the hill and watched the enemy tracer rounds rising to meet him. They had flashed past his plexiglas cockpit window to trail off into the blue sky, and he had not felt any fear as he focused on a blackened clearing on the hill where log-covered strong points were identified by an earlier photo recon flight. He had released both his bombs so low, ensuring pinpoint accuracy, that he had put himself in dire peril. He could have easily been caught in the massive blast, and had immediately pulled hard and to the right to avoid the blast. Even so his Corsair had been rocked violently as he had climbed away to rejoin his squadron, flying cover above to interfere with any Japanese fighter aircraft. But none had appeared, and all the aircraft had returned safely from the mission.

  When James had landed, his ground crew mechanics had come running over to help him out of the cockpit.

  ‘You were goddamn lucky, Captain Duffy,’ his armourer had said when James had stepped out onto the wing. ‘Looks like you took a good burst of AA fire.’

  James had jumped to the ground and seen w
here heavy Japanese anti-aircraft machine guns had ripped in around his cockpit. Had they penetrated the armour he would have been a dead man. James had felt a shudder of fear then, and had flashbacked to the previous year when he had been shot down.

  ‘Got the devil’s luck,’ he had said. ‘Looks like these birds can take it.’

  ‘Goddamn right,’ the armourer had said, poking his finger in one of the holes.

  That had been four days ago, and now the young marine pilot sat in front of his tent, relaxing in the sun. He was thinking about Julianna. He had received letters from his sister, his grandfather and even one from Guy Praine in Hollywood – but none from Julianna. It was obvious that she was keeping her word to cut off contact with him while he was overseas on the battlefront.

  James was about to amble over to the chow line when he noticed a sergeant from HQ hurrying towards him, a serious expression on his yellow-tinged face. The hue was caused by the Atebrin anti-malarial tablets they took, and all Allied servicemen in the South West Pacific theatre of operations had the distinctive ‘suntan’ – even James.

  ‘Sir, you are wanted at HQ,’ the sergeant said.

  ‘Thanks, sarge,’ James acknowledged. ‘Any idea why?’

  ‘You’ll be told when you report to the CO,’ the sergeant answered evasively and walked away.

  James went into his tent to recover his shirt and cap. He walked quickly over to the tent housing their HQ and reported to the chief clerk, who told him to go straight to the CO’s office.

  The CO was a major only a year older than James. He had been a farm boy who had made it to college to study engineering, but Pearl Harbor had found him flying for the marines and he had proved himself a top ace and leader.

  ‘Captain Duffy, at ease,’ he said from behind his desk. ‘I am afraid that we have received a signal with bad news from the home front.’

  One thought reeled through James’s mind – his grandfather was dead. ‘Is it concerning my grandfather?’ he asked quickly.