The malodorous room was small and square, hidden behind the kitchen quarters of Block C, with a solitary window that looked onto the communal shithouse. The walls, once a light shade of cream, had darkened with mould, and parts of the ceiling were falling in from where the rain had poured through. Over the window, Stepney threw a scratchy cotton blanket to shield himself and his friends from prying eyes. ‘‘All set,’’ he said. Mr. Yorkie, perched on his shoulder, bobbed his head in agreement.
Iain hunkered over the schoolmaster’s chalk, using Stepney’s eyeglasses as a surrogate magnifying lens. He looked up and fixed his gaze on the naked, spluttering bulb that dangled from the ceiling. It buzzed like a Zero with a shot engine.
‘‘I can’t see what I’m doing,’’ he said.
Stepney hobbled over on his gammy legs and handed Friendly a long line of metal pipe. Friendly extended his arms to the ceiling and sheathed the light bulb in the piping. Almost immediately, Iain’s hands were submerged in luminescence.
‘‘Better?’’ asked Friendly, angling the beam over his shoulder.
‘‘Better.’’
Using the edge of a specially-serrated razor blade, Iain peered through Stepney’s eyeglasses and sliced into the schoolmaster’s chalk, fashioning little white discs that resembled miniature ice hockey pucks. Next, with the aid of a metal ruler, he scored a line right across the centre of the pill, and carved the legend M&B 693 above it.
As he laboured, he breathed in deeply, trying to clear his mind of the effulgent heat in the room, the tickles of perspiration dripping down his neck, the raw light that now stung his eyes. He had to press down hard with his thumb and forefinger, but not so hard that the chalk would split and crumble. Sweat dripped from his brow.
Twenty minutes later Iain had made a total of thirteen pills, despite his trembling hands. He rubbed the knuckle of his right thumb, the joints were tingling.
‘‘What’s the matter?’’ Stepney asked.
‘‘My fingers are cramping up. Can you take over?’’
‘‘I don’t think my hands are steady enough.’’
They were making tablets that were to be peddled to the Japanese as sulphapyridine, a medication produced by May & Baker Ltd in London as an antidote for the venereal disorders the soldiers caught from their caravans of jugun ianfu, the comfort women in their travelling brothels.
There had been no discussion of the American victory over the Japanese in the Bismark Sea, nor of the talk of a Fuso class battleship, armed with twin turret guns, patrolling the Hong Kong harbour, not even of the rumour that U.S. cipher breakers had cracked Admiral Yamamoto’s five-digit number code. Instead, they worked in complete silence, with Iain’s eyes, like his knife, cutting through the chalk.
A bead of perspiration flicked off his forehead and dropped onto the chalk. ‘‘Shit!’’ said Iain.
Iain pushed his hands away in frustration and the metal ruler clattered to the floor. He let out a staggered breath and kneaded the back of his neck. His face felt puffy and tense; there was a thick, gritty sensation in his mouth. He could feel it creeping up on him, brewing behind his eyelids. A migraine was coming. He scraped his chair back and plunged his arms between his legs, hunching his shoulders. He suddenly felt hopelessly exhausted. He pressed the pads of his hands to his temples and felt the muscles of his jaw tighten. Five days had passed since his release from the cooler; his strength was regenerating and his wounds healing, albeit slowly. Seconds later the bell for afternoon roll-call sounded.
The internees fell in for roll-call in the dusty square. They formed a scraggly, irregular line, one misshapen body after the other, all elbows and knees. Iain stood in the front row, in a heat haze of dust, the afternoon sun stinging his eyes. His head was aching.
‘Hai!’ shouted one of the sentries. Everyone bowed deeply.
‘‘The new camp commandant,’’ somebody behind him whispered.
Out of curiosity, Iain rose on tiptoes and craned his neck for a better look. He saw Sergeant-Major Hamuri edge forward and salute. The camp commandant strutted along the line of internees, shoulders hunched. Iain watched the man approach. Since being interned he had developed a survivor’s instinct for sensing danger. And something about the new Japanese officer told him that this man was dangerous.
Under the commandant’s cap, Iain could make out a beak for a nose, skin as dark as loam soil. There was a dim glimpse of recognition. The ambiguous features seemed horrifically recognizable. He stopped close to where Iain was standing and peered about.
‘I introduce your new superintendent,’’ announced Hamuri. ‘‘Colonel Takashi.’’
The name Takashi sounded familiar to Iain, but he couldn’t quite work out why. Then suddenly he remembered and his face went white. It was as though he had woken next to a cobra.
The camp commandant stood on an upturned soapbox so that he could look down on everyone. He had humped shoulders, a beak nose and tapering eyebrows that curved like half-moons.
‘‘Today,’’ said Takashi, ‘‘being my first day, I wish to call on one of you to come forward. Internee number 6177.’’
Sergeant-Major Hamuri waved his hand, indicating Iain should step out and present himself.
Iain emerged from the line. He approached Takashi with caution, feeling as though his mouth was caked with dirt. He felt isolated. Colours were too sharp, sounds seemed strangled. His head ached more than ever.
‘‘Konichiwa, Mr. Suzzerland.’’ Takashi smiled blackly.
Iain did not respond. He bowed again.
‘‘I remember you very well from our time in Macao,’’ the commandant said with ominous menace. The vulture eyes from years before glared at him, measuring him. He saw that Takashi carried a leather crop in his hand which he raised with intent. This is it, thought, Iain, it’s going to be a public flogging.
Iain braced himself, expecting a blow. Instead, Takashi clapped his hand on Iain’s back.
‘‘All of you listen,’’ the commandant said, speaking to the crowd. ‘‘I want to formerly congratulate Iain Suzzerland for his work here. You should learn from zis man. He has proved that we can work side by side and come togezzer. He has supplied us wiss much information regarding the organization calling itself BAAG and on uzzer vital matters. His knowledge of possible escape routes into China has also been most enlightening. And please do not view his cooperation as a betrayal to you, but see it more as a building of bridges between our two sides. Because of Mr. Suzzerland’s collaboration, I will be rewarding you all wiss an extra portion of fish for tomorrow’s meal.’’ Takashi gave a sharp self-congratulatory sneer. ‘‘Dis is all.’’
The crowd, silent up to now, grew restless, breaking into disorderly mutterings – a muffled vitriolic hum. An Australian woman in the back of the roll call line, known only to Iain as Mrs. P., shouted out. ‘‘Sutherland,’’ she howled. ‘‘You’re a bloody traitor!’’
‘‘Shut your mouth, woman!’’ Friendly yelled, shouting her down.
Takashi made a face at the woman and wagged his finger like a pantomime baddie. After several seconds he stepped off the soapbox and, leaning in close, said to Iain in a shallow voice, ‘‘I am going to enjoy playing with you, Mr. Suzzerland. It will be like the cat and the mouse, no?’’ Then he squeezed Iain’s arm and walked off towards the officer’s mess as Iain was shunted back into line.
Later that afternoon, Iain was curled up in bed, knees drawn up like a folded child. The chalk dust swirled across the floor, over mice droppings, dancing like Gobi sand over desert dunes. Iain heard the spontaneous laughter of children coming from an adjoining room. There was also a faint sound of thumping. The shock of hearing giggles muddied his dream and shrank it, making it unseeable. The images of Manchurian snowstorms faded, whitening out into nothingness, as though a theatre curtain had come down, ending proceedings. Iain rose from the bed to see what was going on. He found Friendly making animal shadows on the wall using a hand torch. He was surrounded by a dozen skinny little boys and girls from the Married Quarters.
‘‘How’s the head?’’ asked Friendly, looking up from his bunny rabbit ears.
‘‘Much better, thanks. Sleep did some good. Bloody ravenous though.’’
‘‘Aren’t we all? Listen, Sutherland, I just want you to know that none of us believe a word Takashi said out there. We know what kind of game he’s trying to play. He wants us to turn on you. He obviously doesn’t know us very well. And don’t worry about Mrs. P making trouble. We’ve given her a stern talking-to.’’
‘‘Thanks, I appreciate it.’’
Iain went to sit down on a bench. From an open window in B Block, he heard the thumping noise start up once more; a measured sound of dough being kneaded – the last of the flour before the ration supply ran out. He felt the hunger tighten round his stomach like a wire. His mouth wetted with the prospect of hot, baking bread. He tried to imagine the cushiony, spongy parcel of flour and yeast being gathered in someone’s hands, being pulled apart, then flattened, and shaped. Would there be an egg to glaze it and give it that wonderful golden colour, he wondered? Just as his senses started to fantasize about bannocks and baps, buns and brioches, farmhouse loaves, sourdough, johnnycakes, crumpets with cream, slabs of thick butter, lashings of jam, Stepney came rushing into the room. He was panting and his shirt was sopping wet with perspiration. Mr. Yorkie, balanced on his shirt collar, was busy cleaning his whiskers.
‘‘What is it?’’ said Iain. The children had stopped their giggling. Friendly got to his feet.
The Yorkshireman’s spectacles were steaming up. ‘‘Red Cross parcels,’’ he gasped for a fresh intake of breath, swallowing mouthfuls of air, ‘‘Father Luke’s arrived with some parcels and he’s got someone with’im.’’
‘‘Who?’’
‘‘There’s a woman, dressed as a priest. She made contact with one of the women in the Dutch Block, passed her this cigarette. Said it was urgent she find you.’’ He removed his glasses to wipe his face.
‘‘Show it to me.’’
Iain took the cigarette. He unraveled it, spilling tobacco like sparks. There was a message inside written in a small girly scrawl. Come now. Have plan. N. Iain read it through twice. The words made no sense to him. Who on earth was N? Why would BAAG send a girl and why had they not mentioned it in their last communiqué? Confused, he shredded the sliver of paper in his hands and headed out the door.
Under the long shadows of a setting sun, Iain and Stepney made their way from B Block, over a scrap of scrubland, past the row of bullet-scarred quarters that once housed St. Stephen’s School, towards the godowns that overlooked the bay. Friendly had sprinted on ahead. It was here, at the base of the hillside that the ration lorry usually parked. Breathlessly, he wondered aloud why BAAG had sent a Chinese woman. Surely she was more vulnerable, more of a target for the Kempeitai.
They crossed the narrow strip of road, kicking up clouds of yellow dust that spattered their ankles like sun-dazzled gnats. In the distance a pair of Sikh guards completed a drill and marched behind some trees, disappearing from view; a little further on Iain spotted the green ration lorry.
He began to say something to Stepney when, all of a sudden, he felt his feet slide away from under him and his knees strike the dirt track. His eyes stared across the path as a wave of nausea washed over him. Gripped by a stomach-turning lightheadedness, Iain looked dumbly at the ground.
‘‘Sutherland!’’ Stepney cried. It was only then that he realized he was on all fours and the muscles and tendons in his arms were quivering uncontrollably. ‘‘It’s all right,’’ whispered Iain, collecting himself, shaking his head. It was the days without proper food, he said, the migraines, the Kempeitai questioning, the injuries to his face; they had all taken their toll on him. Stifling the trembling and nausea, he lifted his head.
Stepney pointed to a nearby rock. ‘‘You ought to sit down.’’
‘‘I don’t want to sit down.’’
‘‘What you need is a nice mug of beef tea,’’ said Stepney. ‘‘D’you fancy that?’’
Iain nodded. ‘‘I’m better now,’’ he said.
‘‘Well, then, let’s see if we can grab a cube or two from the rations truck, ay?’’
They stumbled along a few yards, their eyes on the horizon – the ocean was turning brilliantly pink with the setting sun, its waves cresting white. Iain’s stride shortened to allow for Stepney’s gammy legs.
‘‘Is he drunk?’’
Iain looked round to see the bearded sugar trader, Hoarde, leering at him. He had a tomcat in one arm and a tin of Peacock’s peaches tucked under the other.
Hoarde’s lips thinned into a thing of poison. ‘‘Like a pair of Glaswegian drunkards out on a Saturday night piss-up.’’
‘‘He’s not had proper food for days,’’ said Stepney. Mr. Yorkie scrambled off his shoulder and hid in his shirt pocket.
‘‘I don’t need defending,’’ Iain’s eyes cut from Stepney to Hoarde.
‘‘What’re you going to do with the cat?’’ asked the Yorkshireman.
‘‘I intend to have it for breakfast tomorrow. Pretty little thing, don’t you think?’’
‘‘Better bloodline than its owner, that’s for sure,’’ Iain said.
‘‘I’m worried about you, Sutherland. How’re you going to manage your escape if you can’t even stand up straight?’’
‘‘What makes you think I’m planning an escape?’’
‘‘Don’t have to be a genius to know what you’re up to. I’d watch your back, Sutherland. You’ve made a number of enemies in camp, especially, now that you’ve been exposed as a collaborator.’’
‘‘We both know who the real collaborator is. Now bugger off or I’ll – ’’
‘‘Or you’ll what?’’ Hoarde rubbed his beard and bared his teeth, delivered a dry laugh. He turned up the hill, swinging the can of peaches in his left hand like a trophy. ‘‘Oh,’’ he called out. ‘‘When you see Takashi, tell him I said, hello. And ask him to send me some of that carnation milk he’s got in his room to go with my peaches. See you by the India hut. Sayanara!’’
‘‘Nasty, treacherous little prick,’’ said Stepney. ‘‘There’s enuff moock between those ears to grow potatoes.’’
They shuffled their way down the slope to where a military relief truck was parked. There were about fifty people thronged around it, casting long, sharp shadows. Barebacked men were shifting crate after crate of condensed milk, tins upon tins of tapioca and bully beef. Friendly appeared from out of the shadows cast by the trees and stood outside the godown doors, waiting for them. Just behind him, Iain noticed about a dozen bamboo clotheslines strung with clothes and bed sheets, and a long line of galvanized tin pails where the washing was done.
It was when the sun glinted off the pails that he saw her through the crowd, standing at the far end of the laundry ropes, wearing a priest’s gown and biretta, silhouetted against the backdrop of swaying grey-white linen. Bewildered, at first he refused to believe his eyes. Had he taken leave of his senses? Was he delirious? He blinked hard to erase the hallucination – but the more he blinked the clearer his vision became, etching out her form, her face, with increasing clarity. A cry of joy tumbled from his mouth.
His nausea gone, Iain threw himself into a run, made his legs move faster than they’d moved in months. A smile stretched the sides of her face; he saw her eyebrows rising in the middle; a look of happiness, relief, alleviation. With a lump in his chest, he saw her lips mouth his name; he longed for them, longed to hold the smooth softness of her flesh against his. He wanted to take her face in his hands, wrap his arms over her, kiss her, shout her name. The need to embrace her was overwhelming. He shortened his stride, began scraping his fingers through his hair, smoothing the front of his shorts. But then, six or seven steps from where she stood, he stopped abruptly. The flow of euphoria suddenly ceased. A shadow passed over him. A single tear ran down his face, which he quickly wiped away.
He realized he couldn’t embrace her – the guards would be watching. He also realized she was in great danger. ‘‘How did you get here?’’ he asked. Paralysed by the thousands of conflicting questions in his head, he searched her face for answers. ‘‘What are you doing here?’’ he repeated. His anger was growing. ‘‘Nadia, for God’s sake …’’
He saw the lines grow around her mouth and her nose pinch with the injustice of his tone.
Her mouth went dry. ‘‘What do you think I’m doing here? I’ve come to see you,’’ she said, keeping her voice low.
A mark of anger stained his cheeks. Sweat began to soak his neck, his back. He stormed off, found there was no place to go and came straight back. ‘‘Come to see me? Have you any idea what the hell you’ve gotten yourself into – ’’
‘‘I’m here to help you. I’ve brought you some provisions – cigarettes and all sorts of things in my bag,’’ said Nadia.
‘‘No. You’ve got to get out of here. Now,’’ he said, looking around.
Her voice climbed in protest. ‘‘Listen to me – ’’
‘‘Turn around and leave.’’
‘‘I said, listen to me! Will you just listen to me! We’ve been planning this for weeks,’’ she said. ‘‘I’m going to get you out of here whether you like it or not. I don’t know where this war is heading, I don’t know which sides will win and lose, but I do know that I can’t let you live like this. You’re all I’ve got, Iain. I can’t lose you. I’ll be damned if I let you rot away in here!’’
‘‘Costa’s to blame for this, isn’t he? Did he put you up to this?’’
‘‘Nobody’s to blame, Iain. I volunteered for this. It was my decision to come. And when we heard about Takashi, we knew we had to get you out.’’
Across the piece of ground, he heard his name being called. It was Friendly’s voice; a call of warning. His eyes focused on the tall figure of a Sikh guard strutting towards them, truncheon in hand. He grew scared, not for himself, but for Nadia. He felt his shoulders stiffen, his insides boil and simmer with a new emotion now; one of dread. Panic gripped his throat, like jungle creepers tightening. Swamped by an instinctive, primitive urge to defend her, he tried to pull Nadia aside, shield her with his body, to push her into the shadows.
‘‘You two!’’ the Sikh shouted. ‘‘What are the pair of you doing?’’
‘‘Leave this to me,’’ said Nadia, muscling Iain to one side.
Iain’s face drew taut. ‘‘Don’t Nadia … they might …’’
‘‘What – take me in for questioning? I’ll be a yebanat vonuchii if I let that stop me.’’
She took out her papers and showed them to the Punjabi. His skin was as dark as tea leaves.
He gave the documents a cursory glance. ‘‘I am watching the pair of you nattering.’’ There was fire in his voice. ‘‘What is it you are plotting?’’
‘‘We were plotting nothing,’’ said Nadia. ‘‘This man was asking whether we had any liniment for his face.’’
‘‘Lini-munt?’’
‘‘Do you have any De Witt’s Golden liniment in the ration store? Or any Chinese Deet Da Jow?’’
‘‘I do not understand?’’
‘‘Look at this man’s face, look at his wounds. The bruises look like burnt toast. Shouldn’t he be in the infirmary?’’
‘‘This is not my area of responsibility.’’
‘‘Well, it is the Red Cross’s responsibility to ensure that internees are treated humanely and it is the Catholic Church’s responsibility to ensure that there is no mistreatment in this camp.’’
He was waggling his head. ‘‘I did not beat this fellow.’’
‘‘Nobody said that you did. Now if you don’t mind, please let us be.’’ And here she motioned to Iain. ‘‘Kindly take a seat on that tin bucket and I’ll see what medicines we have in the truck.’’
The Sikh grunted and went off in a huff, no longer swinging his truncheon.
Outside the double gates of the camp, by a screen of flowering blue hydrangea, Nadia told the driver to stop the lorry. She told him that she had to piss. Lifting the hem of her cassock she scuttled past the gendarme post, along the fence, towards the cliffs that commanded a view of Stanley Bay.
She took a deep breath, steadied herself, arguing that Iain’s belligerence was merely to protect her. Not even a smile or a how are you! Svolotch! Sooksin! She was glad to have left the camp when she did. She mulled this over for a few seconds then, quite suddenly and unexpectedly, her anger left her. She felt an unforeseen levity settle on her. And the more she wanted to suppress it, the worse it got. Tickled, her eyes melted and she almost began to giggle. Wondering where this lightheartedness sprang from – she quickly realized it was the result of finding Iain alive. Oh, but the expression on his face! Priceless! Like a pimple wanting to be squeezed – he looked like he was going to burst! His mouth, his nose, his ears turned tomato red, as if he’d sat on a thistle! The stupid ass! Anger jettisoned, she began smiling to herself with genuine pleasure. She had to bite her tongue to stop herself from laughing out loud, gloving it as best she could in her throat.
Glancing over her shoulder, Nadia noticed that the two Formosan guards at the gate were asking Father Luke about her – where was the boy priest going, what was he doing? He informed them that a man of God was not permitted to relieve himself in front of ordinary mortals.
Within a minute she’d passed the watchtower and reached the crag of shelly rock bordering the wired enclosure. With her back to the distant guard post, pretending to piss like a man, she studied the terrain in the dwindling light. She saw a long, snaking line of Burma reed; a thin, yellowing track on the outer seafront side of the fence; followed by a steep drop of 100 feet, at the bottom of which was a swirling suckhole of tidewater which caused the seas to erupt and crash against the rocks.
The skin of her cheeks tightened as she imagined herself negotiating the narrow trail in pitch-blackness. ‘Opposite the flame tree,’ Iain had said, his face as tight as she’d ever seen it, ‘that’s where I’ll meet you. At 4 a.m. opposite the tall flame tree on the Stanley Bay side of the camp. And for goodness sake, be careful.’
She strained her eyes – it was only then that it occurred to her that she had no idea what a flame tree looked like. She looked down the twin lines of wire and crisscrossed metal, plucked at her sweaty collar. She saw two parallel railings running down the channel with curls of barbed wire in between. About a hundred yards away, the edge of a red-hued branch flopped against the bend in the fence. She made a mental note, tried to calculate the distances between the places offering visual cover, then she turned and made her way back to the waiting lorry.