He looked across the boys’ stooped backs, and stared hard at the mocking face of the jungle. It was strange, after all these years, he thought, that he still felt at home in its green menace. His hand moved across the polished wood of the riflebutt, and for a brief moment he could hear the rattle of automatic weapons, the stealthy fumblings of friend and enemy alike, and above all, the maniacal cries of the hidden Japs: `Come out, Tommy! Surrender, Tommy! We give you safe treatment!’ The flat, bland expressions of the Burmese villagers who had betrayed him, and even the smell of the village, seemed to come back to him.
Fraser turned over a plank with his foot. `That’s it all right.’ He studied Blair moodily. `What next?’
Blair still stared into the shadows. `We’ll get Hogan.’
The girl looked up from between the two divers, her eyes searching, but Blair did not notice. `We’ll start at once. Tell the boys to get our gear from the boat.’
Fraser opened his mouth, and thought better of it. He shrugged. `Right. We’ll get Jim, an’ we should be back here the day after tomorrow at the latest. We’re bound to be able to get hold of one of the village headmen.’ As he walked away he added: `Then we can get under way again. This goddamned place gives me the gip!’
Watute gingerly picked up one of the helmets and put it on his frizzy head. Yalla laughed, and sliced the top off a fat cactus.
`What is it, Rupert?’ Gillian’s voice was apprehensive. Perhaps Blair had changed back again, and had forgotten his words to her earlier.
Blair took a deep breath, and met her eyes with a sad smile. `Sorry. Just remembering a few things.’
His eye fell on Watute, and the boy held up the helmet like an offering. Blair took it, and turned its rusted and dented shape in his hands. ‘One of my men,’ he said, half to himself. `What a place to die!’
They walked away from the clearing, and stood side by side on the sand.
Her eyes behind the glass were anxious. `Look after yourself, won’t you?’
He studied her face intently. `It’s just that I want you to know,’ he began, but she raised her hand.
`I understand,’ she said.
Fraser walked slowly up the beach, his face resigned. `Come on then, Major. Let’s get goin’. I never like to be away from the Pearl too long.’ He stared along the graceful sweep of the deserted bay. `We’ll branch off and take the way over that line of hills. It’s quicker, and we shall be able to dodge most of the forest. Suit you?’
Blair gave a forced smile. `Let’s go. I think we’re near the end of the search.’
Fraser took another look at the moored schooner. ‘Yeh. I hope so.’
Blair slipped his arm through the strap of a small pack and lit a cigarette. `Keep an eye on things, Myers. Stay in the ship, or close to it at least.’
`Don’t worry, sir. I’m not keen on this dump!’
`And we’ll have another talk when I get back, Gillian.’ He faltered, aware that they were all watching him. `I’m not too good at speaking my thoughts, but I hope you understand?’ he ended lamely.
`Sure. Now get going before I change my mind and come with you.’ She smiled, but her eyes were misty.
She stood in Myers’ shadow and watched the two lines of footprints in the sand lengthen between her and the backs of the two men. Once, when they had reached the rising slope of bare rocky ground, which jutted into the jungle and reached practically down to the sea, they both halted and looked back. Blair waved to her, but Fraser’s face was grim, and he looked only at the ship. Then they turned inland, up the slope, and vanished.
She made the pretence of adjusting the camera, hoping that they would reappear, and Myers mopped his face uncomfortably.
`Let’s get back then, miss. I reckon it’ll be a bit cooler on board.’
Her hand shook as she put a cigarette in her mouth, and groped for her lighter. Myers waited, his face impassive. `Lost it, miss?’
She nodded. `Hold on a second, I’ll see if I dropped it.’
She stumbled up the slope to where she had intruded on the jungle. She scanned the beach, but her mind was elsewhere. You damned little fool, she reflected, what are you trying to do? Do you think he’ll give a cuss about you when he’s back in the world of money and big business? You’ll just be a nice little incident to be talked about with the boys. She stopped, hating her thoughts, and herself. The lighter lay half buried in the sand, and she stooped to pick it up.
Her mouth was suddenly dry and bitter with nausea, and she froze in the same stooped position, her eyes wide with terror. Behind the jagged edges of a fallen palm she saw the distinct shape of a dark shoulder, and a hand curled around what might have been a spear.
Her fingers trembled on the lighter, and with a sob she forced herself to pocket it and step backwards into the harsh sunlight. Hardly breathing, she walked down to the dinghy.
Myers waved his hand, and first one then the other dinghy shoved off from the beach, and only then did she feel the uncontrollable shaking in her limbs.
Myers squinted at her anxiously. ‘Feelin’ a bit under the weather?’
She turned towards him, her face pale beneath the tan, and laid a hand on his arm. Lowering her voice she said in a flat tone, `There was a man watching me, George!’ She shuddered. `I could have touched him.’
Myers shifted uncomfortably on the thwart, and glanced back at the unruffled shore. `You sure, miss?’
Her fingers dug into his sleeve. `I take back what I said about this place. It is evil! I wish to God I hadn’t chided Vic about it!’ Her face seemed to collapse, and she took off her glasses to peer across the widening strip of water at the bald, rocky slope. To herself she added: `Please, Rupert, take care!’
Myers watched the tall black masts of the schooner, and sighed. She had probably imagined it, but he, for one, would not take any chances. He saw Tarrou’s enquiring face peering down from the high bows, and cursed inwardly. Bloody Wogs, he thought, angrily, everywhere you go!
Gillian hardly noticed Tarrou’s strange expression, and walked quickly to the canopy on the poop.,
She shaded her eyes to study the rising green slab of the headland, and tried to think about Spencer and the mission. Tomorrow I must go over there, she decided. She lay back in the deck-chair and closed her eyes. Getting past it. Where’s the calm and collected journalist who laughed at superstition and danger? She sighed. Had there ever been such a person? she wondered.
6
JIM HOGAN stood uncertainly in the middle of the store and stared with unseeing eyes at the piles of shoddy cloth. Automatically he reached up and touched the unlined corrugated iron roof with a spatulate finger and winced. The metal was like the top of a stove, and although his action was pure habit he never failed to be impressed by the power of the sun, and the discomfort which went with it. Normally, he would at this time of the afternoon sit just inside the double doors which separated the store from his living-room, so as to gain the maximum advantage from any stray breeze which might choose to fan up from the beach, and then he would ponder over his unlikely future in distant Australia, or perhaps just ruminate on the past. Occasionally one or two of the villagers would loiter at the foot of the veranda and stare fixedly at some of his wares, or perhaps one of the elders or headmen might step suspiciously into the shade of the store itself to wrangle over a small deal. Today it was different, and he darted a glance back at the littered table and at the green bottle of Gordon’s Gin which stood half empty by his glass. He moved slowly round the untidy room, touching the familiar articles, and trying to analyse his uneasiness. Perhaps it was the quiet, or maybe the fact that the glass had started to fall, and he had always worried about the very real possibility of a Willy-Willy blowing up and sweeping his ramshackle pier into the sea. That would mean a lot of extra work, and just lately the local headmen had been getting more cunning and avaricious about payments for jobs of that nature. It might mean a nasty cut in his profit, and thereby put back his possible date of retirement.
He looked again at the bottle, as if he half expected it to have vanished. With a deep sigh he shambled across to the padded chair and dropped his bulk on its protesting springs. He filled the glass, and sadly examined the level of the gin remaining in the bottle.
Although only in his late forties, Hogan was an old man, and at last even he was beginning to realize he was losing his taste for this, the only life he knew. For twenty-five years of his life he had traded around the islands, not very efficiently, because when he had started that type of mind was not required. There was plenty for everyone with guts enough to go out and get it. The war had changed all that, and instead of prosperity, he had watched competition from the richer traders-who never left their distant offices-smash down one small man after another.
He gulped down the neat spirit and belched, as he glared apprehensively around his room. `Twenty-five years for all this!’ He spoke aloud, another habit born of loneliness.
He stared at the bare and flaking wall, and the cracked wash-basin in the corner. The smell of the old planks and beams, of rot and termites, all were as familiar to him as the out-of-date calendar with its seductive girl posed on its stained cover. He licked his lips, and thought again about the American girl, Gillian Bligh. Some sheila. Better than all the little black bitches, he reflected savagely. It had been different when he had managed to keep a few lubras round him. Sleek little girls of around sixteen, they had made all the difference to this damned place. But the Yank, he felt shakily for the bottle, she was something else. And what was all this cockand-bull yarn about looking for the wreck of the Sigli? He watched the empty bottle, trying to make up his mind. It might be another month before the schooner called again, but what the hell, a binge would soon put him right. He unlocked the black metal box, and stared lovingly at the neat ranks of gin bottles. He selected one, and relocked the chest. He started to hum to himself, his big red face set in concentration, as he ripped off the metal foil and reached for the glass.
That bloke Blair, too, was a bit queer, he decided. Vic Fraser had often told him about the stuck-up Pommie bastards he had met during the war, and Blair might well be one of them. He fell back into the chair and pulled open his stained shirt, to feel the sweat beading the thick folds of flesh.
Have to get the boys to rig me up a shower. He grinned foolishly at the thought which he had had on and off for twenty-five years. Too late now, Jim, he supposed, and then hurriedly poured another gin, as if to stem the tide of self-pity which seemed dangerously near today.
His red-rimmed eye fell on the dusty gramophone. It had been given to him by a Japanese pearling skipper before the war, in exchange for a pert little lubra from the village. He sighed again. Those were the days. Might as well have a bit of music to cheer myself up. He banged his fist on the rickety table,, closing his eyes with the effort of shouting.
` ‘Ere, boy! Chop, chop, an’ fix the flamin’ music box!’
He sighed, and lay back waiting. Since the collapse of his radio set during a particularly boisterous orgy, he had depended on the gramophone for that one essential link which all of his kind needed, if they were to preserve their sanity.
Wonder how Vic’s getting on with the mad missionary? he pondered. His body shook to a silent laugh. `I’d like to see ‘is face when that lot burst in on ‘im!’
He frowned, and craned his head to listen. Nothing stirred, and the frown deepened into a scowl. `Bloody Abos, got their flamin’ ‘eads down again!’ He struggled to his feet, and wandered out on to the veranda, being careful not to show his head to the sun which hovered directly above the little bay.
He gripped the rail, and peered blankly towards the huts of the village, and at his own outbuildings. ”Ere, boy!’ he roared. `Where the bloody hell are you?’
Some small birds took fright at his voice and scattered amongst the trees. Otherwise nothing had changed. He waited, his mouth hanging open. What the devil was happening? he wondered. There was a soft step behind him, and he spun round to face the wrinkled little Chinese woman who, since her original function had been replaced by a tropic-aged apathy, had become his cook and guardian.
He peered at her lined face. `Where is everybody?’ He shook his glass querulously. `What the ‘ell’s goin’ on I want to know?’
She pattered to his side, her features expressionless. `Gone,’ she said softly. `All gone, ‘cept Jo-Jo.’
Hogan blinked with disbelief. Jo Jo was a young, halfwitted native who could be trusted not to steal and worked around the sheds doing odd jobs. He had to be honest with Hogan, for his own people would have turned him out. They had little time for the mentally afflicted.
`What d’you mean, gone?’
She studied him quietly. `Gone to bush. Run away. I have come from village.’ She gestured briefly. `The cooking-fires are cold.’
The silence bore in on them like a storm, and Hogan stepped quickly back into the room, his drink-reddened face showing his sudden uneasiness. He shook his head to clear his brain, but the woman’s words seemed to mesmerize him. `All gone,’ he muttered. `It looks bad, bloody bad!’
He dropped his glass unheeded on the floor, and strode to the wall where his two huge shotguns stood propped and gleaming in their covering of oil. He snapped open the breech of one, aware that she was still watching his back.
Pulling open the drawer of the old desk, he tore open a packet of red cartridges and slipped two into the breech. He repeated the process with the other, before he trusted himself to speak again.
`Get Jo Jo. Tell ‘im to climb up on to the water-tank an’ keep ‘is eyes peeled!’ He peered across the pathetic strips of barbed wire, and swung the muzzle of the gun towards the jungle. He realized that he was desperately afraid of this silence. `After you’ve told ‘im that, get down to the cutter an’ check the provisions.’
`We are leaving?’ There was not a tremor in her lisping voice.
He faced her with sudden affection, remembering her as she had once been when a schooner had dropped her on the island. A tiny, slant-eyed girl in a tattered cheong-sam. He stared at the wizened little creature who was watching him so meekly, and forced a grin.
‘Yeh, gettin’ out. Soon as I’m sure that we’re doin’ the right thing, we’re goin’ to shove off. Fer good!’
He watched her go, and then squatted down on the edge of his tin trunk and stared fixedly at the jungle.
There had been trouble before, but this was quite different, he pondered. It would be impossible to estimate what life in the islands might have been if the authorities had acted earlier and introduced more `whites’ into the trade stores and the lonely outposts. Nobody had shown much interest in this island, partly because of the hostile natives, and partly because of the lack of decent anchorages. The reef ruined the southern approaches, and steep cliffs deterred even the most reckless skipper from nosing near the other shores. His store, in Resolution Bay, was all there was to show for the uneasy years of a joint Anglo-French government, lack of funds and a general disinterest all round. He belched angrily, and dashed the sweat out of his watering eyes.
He still couldn’t bring himself to believe that tomorrow would be any different from any other day. There had been scares before, and there had been a few minor skirmishes in the jungle. He had often heard the elders cackling about the cannibal feasts and terrible initiation ceremonies that went on within the secrecy of those green walls, but by and large he had managed to remain aloof from the warring tribes, and, at best, had been able to do business with both sides.
He heard the sullen boom of surf on the steep beach, and tried to gauge its strength. It usually told him better than the glass what the weather was going to do. He shivered as a humid gust of air moved restlessly around the room and scattered some papers from the open desk. Seconds later he saw the breeze disturb the fronds on the edge of the clearing and make them glisten like live things.
He heard the patter of the woman’s feet behind him, and
saw her place his
huge mug of coffee at his side. He tried to see into her thoughts. `Well?’ `All quiet,’ she answered.
He sipped noisily, and peered over the edge of the mug towards the trees. `Keep yer eye over there. I’m goin’ to take a look round.’
He picked up one of the guns and stuffed some cartridges into his trouser pockets.
His pace quickened, and with it his uneasiness. He had never really believed such an emergency would ever occur, and now, without the attendant noises and comforting movements of the villagers, he was beginning to realize just how dangerous the position had become. Doors had been left open, and the loose-frame structure of the building, with its wide windows and flimsy defences, seemed to mock him at every turn. He thought of the approaching night, and shivered. He must make a decision, and pretty quick, he thought anxiously. But suppose the villagers came creeping back? He stopped in his tracks and frowned. All his stores would be there for the taking, and he could well imagine what would happen. He stepped out on to the dry earth behind the store and squinted up at the water tank, which was supported by the main beams of the roof.
Jo Jo peered down at him and shrugged vaguely. He was a handsome specimen, but for the looseness of his mouth, which drooped open in a permanent grin.
`No fella come, boss!’ he called.
Hogan grunted. `Maybe. But bang on the roof if you see anythin’ !’
As if in answer there was a sudden dull booming from the direction of the jungle. It started with a series of thuds, disjointed, and then slowly speeded up into a quick, insistent tempo of sound.
The Hostile Shore Page 10