“Why not,” Henry said enthusiastically, his hangover all but completely cured. “Any particular place in mind?”
“No,” Rick replied. “But I wouldn’t mind some curry, a good hot Indian curry. You girls got any ideas?”
“Why Indian?” Sai asked somewhat abruptly. “There are plenty of Chinese restaurants that sell curry.”
It was obvious from the tone of her voice as to what her opinion of Indians was.
“No,” Rick replied. “Chinese curries are too mild. It’s got to be Indian.”
“Real Indian?” she asked, glancing quickly across to Kini.
“Yeah.”
“Okay, turaga. Suva Lodge.”
“Lodge!” Henry exploded. “I’m not going to any Masonic temple!”
“Temple?” Kini queried. “It’s not a temple. It’s an Indian restaurant, in Cumming Street.” She thought for a moment and then added, as much to Sai as to the rest of us, “But not many Europeans go there. It’s mainly for Indians.”
“What’s the curry like?” Rick asked. “Hot?”
“Yes,” she replied.
He looked hopefully across at Henry and me.
“I’m game,” I said.
Henry nodded his head, but it was clear that he wasn’t quite sure.
“Right,” Rick chuckled. “We go.”
******
Seven-thirty.
We had paid off the taxi part-way along the narrow curving one-way street which, with the exception of a Chinese grocery store and the two Indian restaurants, seemed to be comprised solely of duty-free shops; and crossed over to the tired sign proudly proclaiming Suva Lodge. I shrugged my shoulders and followed Henry and the girls as they walked in through the open doorway and headed for the nearest unoccupied table.
I cannoned into Henry’s back as he came to a sudden halt inside the room, and looked over his shoulder and saw what had stunned him: long bare wooden tables, scrubbed tops with here and there deep scars carved into the timber where somebody had dug a spoon or knife; rickety wooden chairs; faded painted walls, the paint peeling and blurred through the intermingling of many colours; frowning dark-skinned men turning their heads from the top of bent-over shoulders to stare at us, some with fingers containing pieces of food poised before their lips, others with fingers stirring through piles of rice on tin plates before them.
“Bloody hell!” Henry gasped, and turned to Rick. “You’re not going to eat here, are you?”
“Come on, Henry,” he mocked. “Where’s your sense of adventure?”
“What would the turanga like to eat?” Sai asked of Henry, taking Rick’s lead.
“Where’s the menu?” he asked somewhat dubiously.
“There isn’t one,” she replied smiling. “You can have mutton curry, fish curry, vegetable curry or goat curry; and you can have it with rice or roti.”
“What’s roti?” I asked, but was drowned out by Henry’s shout of: “Goat!”
“Yes, Henry,” she replied. “Goat; and roti is like flat pancake bread. It’s quite nice.”
“What is?” I asked. “The roti or the goat?”
“The roti.”
“Well, I’m having goat curry with roti,” Rick said cheerfully. “Now, what about the rest of you?”
I reckoned the fish would be the best bet. I had glanced across at a couple of dirty plates left at the end of our long table and seen the pieces of gristle and jagged bones left behind. The girls ordered mutton. Henry raised sufficient courage to sample the vegetable curry.
Our dishes arrived: cracked baked-enamel tin plates accompanied by multi-dented aluminium beakers of water. At first I thought that the girls had been playing a joke on us, and half expected the waiter to burst into laughter and fetch some proper glasses; but it wasn’t a joke; and yet we had been given special treatment: we had been given spoons. Everyone else in the café was eating with their fingers.
Rick started in on his goat and within a minute had gone red about the cheeks, beads of perspiration forming on his forehead. Henry took one mouthful of the vegetable curry and reached, choking, for the water, downing half the beaker in one go as he pushed the plate away, shaking his head and then drinking the rest of the water. The girls laughed as they tucked into their mutton, enjoying Henry’s anguish as much as their meal.
But they weren’t going to laugh at me. I got stuck into the squashed mass of fish and bones, and managed to force half of the pulpy flesh down my throat before deciding I had eaten enough to save face.
“Jesus Christ!” Rick exclaimed as we walked out after paying, and not leaving a tip. “Have you ever seen anything like it? Wait until the guys back home at the pig-pens hear about this!”
“Don’t tell them,” Henry muttered. “I’d never live it down. Pig-pens? That place was a bloody pig-sty!”
The girls had another fit of the giggles.
“Well, Henry,” Mere said, taking him by the hand. “You did say that you wanted a real Indian curry.”
“It wasn’t me!” he burst out, pointing an accusing finger at Rick. “It was that bastard Stephens!”
We turned the corner of Cumming Street and started walking along Thomson Street towards the far end of town, the roadway quiet, the shops darkened. We hadn’t gone more than a hundred yards when my stomach gave a violent lurch, its contents giving short notice of an intention of heading rapidly for my bowels. I made a dash into the Garrick Hotel, frantically searching for and finding the toilet, and sat there for ten minutes, weeping at the agony of curry and chillies playing havoc with my tender body. It was a much weaker and wiser man who staggered out to the bar.
“What’s wrong, mate?” Rick asked, his face serious for once.
“You should’ve tipped the bloody waiter,” I replied. “The bastard’s got his bloody revenge.”
“What do you mean?”
“That bloody curried fish. It’s gone straight through me.” I moaned and made another dash for the toilets.
“Sorry, guys,” I croaked as I breasted the bar again. “But I’m going to have to call it a night.”
“No you’re not,” Henry urged. “You’ll be all right after a couple of brandies.” He beckoned to the bartender. “Come on, Andy. Don’t spoil the night.”
I downed the first brandy and the second, and felt a little stronger, but not much.
We walked the rest of the way to the Golden Dragon without incident, although the furthest thing from my mind was having a good time. I suffered the rumblings for another two hours, and three more trips to the toilet, the smell left by inaccurate patrons not helping matters; and finally did what I should have done those two hours previously.
Kini was on the early shift at the hospital and wouldn’t have been coming back to the boat in any case, although the other two girls said that they would, so I bundled us both into a taxi and dropped her at the nurses’ quarters up in Extension Street, then headed around to Lami and the Sally May for some peace and quiet away from blaring music and stinging cigarette smoke.
I stood on the pontoon and looked down at the dinghy, realizing that if I took it out to the trawler the other four would have no way of getting out when they arrived in the early hours of the morning. A yachtie from one of the other boats emerged from the bar and began to untie his dinghy.
“Excuse me, mate,” I said. “You don’t reckon you could run me out to the trawler do you? There’s a stubbie in it for you, but don’t ask me to join you.”
I explained the rest of the situation and he grinned, telling me to hop in and not to worry about the beer.
That bunk had never felt better. I’d had a glass of milk and five slices of toast before hitting the sack, and my stomach kept quiet for the first time in three hours, although my backside still felt as though someone had attacked me with a red-hot poker.
I lay awake, cursing all Indian food, and all Indian cooks.
There was a bump as something hit the side of the trawler. I hadn’t heard the noise of the outboard and
thought at first that I must have fallen asleep and that the boys had returned, but when I looked at my watch I saw that it was only a few minutes to eleven, and only several minutes since I had last peered at the luminous dial.
I knew that it couldn’t be the boys. Even if they hadn’t been able to start the motor and had been forced to paddle out, there would have been the sound of laughter and yells long before the dinghy reached the trawler. Perhaps it was only a log thumping in to the side of the Sally May. I put it out of my mind and rolled over, and started to drift off again.
The thud of the saloon door sliding fully open against the stop crashed down to my ears, and then a whispered: “Sss!”
I had my mouth open, ready to call out and tell them not to bother tip-toeing around, when something told me to keep quiet, some sixth sense warning me that it wasn’t the boys.
More whispering told me that the strangers had entered the saloon. I slid along to the foot of my bunk and crawled behind the ladder into Henry’s; back in under the overhang of the saloon floor.
I hadn’t been a second too soon. The beam of a torch slashed around the fo’c’sle, cutting across the bunk I had been on those few seconds earlier. There were more whispered words, closer this time, just at the top of the ladder, and in a language I couldn’t understand, a language that didn’t have the same rolling sound as the Fijian spoken by the girls.
And the voices weren’t female.
Seven
There were two of them, and there might have been another one keeping watch out on deck; but I didn’t think so, for one of the two would have gone out to tell him that the coast was clear.
They were talking to each other, their voices sharp, nervous, and mingled with the sounds of drawers being pulled out and cupboards opening, hands rustling quietly through the contents. They were doing it carefully; nothing being thrown about the saloon.
What the hell were they looking for? Money? It could only be money – or drugs; but why pick on us if they needed drugs? There were a dozen more likely candidates for drugs lying just off the sea-wall: the shoestring yachtsmen. No, it was more likely to be cash. A boat the size of ours cost money to run, and they probably figured we carried all the necessary money on board.
They would be wrong. The only money we had was the remains of the five hundred dollars’ worth of traveller’s cheques we had exchanged at the bank. After paying for the groceries, our nights at the Golden Dragon, beer for the boat, and living it up on shore at the Tradewinds, there wasn’t enough left to make it worth their while. Besides, apart from a few dollars lying about the fo’c’sle, the rest of the cash and traveller’s cheques were in a small safe welded to the side of the hull down in the storage hold. I was certain that Rick would have locked it before we went ashore for that poisonous meal.
We all had keys to the safe. Mine were in my trousers’ pocket; the trousers lying in the middle of the fo’c’sle floor where I had dropped them before falling into the bunk. They only had to look down again.
Trapped!
They had me boxed in. There was no way out of the fo’c’sle without revealing myself or making a noise. To get to the hatch in the deck above my head I would first have to leave my hiding place under the overhang and cross the open floor. One sweep of the torch and I would be caught; and even if I managed to get to the part-open hatch undiscovered, there was no way I could open it wider without them hearing the noise the brackets would make as they clicked into place. They would be on to me in seconds. There wouldn’t be time to throw the bloody thing open and haul myself through.
I squatted on my knees and stared up at the narrow beam of moonlight gleaming through the hatch, cutting through the darkness: two feet wide and six inches deep; moving about as the trawler swung slightly on the breeze. So near and yet so far.
There was nothing I could do but wait as they searched through every drawer and cupboard, hoping to hell they turned their attention to the wheelhouse next or, better still, went around to the back deck and tried to get into the storage hold. With luck they might try to force the lock, making more than enough noise to cover any I might make as I crawled through the fo’c’sle hatch and slipped quietly over the side.
If they tried the wheelhouse next I would take my chances, hoping that neither of them glanced back down through the doorway into the saloon as I crept across and dived overboard.
I didn’t know whether they were armed, and if so whether with knives, or maybe even guns. Did thieves in Fiji carry weapons? I crouched down further and listened to my heartbeat breaking the silence in that clammy steel vault.
Eleven o’clock.
The boys wouldn’t be back until well after one. Two hours away! The Golden Dragon didn’t close until two; but surely they wouldn’t stay until the finish.
There was a harsh cry and then a scattering crash as one of them pulled the short cutlery drawer out past the stops and everything fell to the floor; knives, forks, spoons and all those other fancy gadgets skittering and bouncing away. It broke the silence, and would have been funny if things hadn’t been so damned serious.
I rubbed the back of my head, feeling the sore spot where my head had come into rapid contact with the steel bulkhead as I had started at the noise. Had they heard the thump of bone on metal? All that reached my ears was the sound of one of them cursing the other.
There must be something I could use as a weapon, something in the darkened fo’c’sle that would give me at least an edge. There was nothing: clothes and bedding; not so much as a coat hanger. I silently cursed the Customs officers for taking the old Lee-Enfield rifle. It usually sat on a pair of brackets in the saloon, just to the side of the fo’c’sle hatchway.
Customs hadn’t found Rick’s shotgun though, and we had neglected to mention its existence. We hadn’t been certain whether they might impound the firearms. Not that we were worried about the Lee-Enfield, but Rick didn’t want anybody messing about with his Greener. He had wrapped it in canvas before we entered the harbour and had hidden it under a great tangle of three-inch rope in the storage hold.
There was no way I could get to it in time; no way I could sneak out through the saloon, fiddle with the lock on the hatch and jump down. It would take a good five minutes to shift the pile of rope and assemble the gun, not to mention finding the cartridges. All the two men would have to do would be to drop the hatch down and lock me in while they went about their work.
There had to be some other way.
A knife; but knives are sharp, and dangerous, and you have to get close to do any damage. You couldn’t point a knife at a pair of thieves and expect them to raise their hands like you could with a gun; but at least it would be something. And they might back off, and it might give me those few extra seconds I needed to get over the side.
There had been a carving knife in the cutlery drawer, but it could be anywhere by now. I heard them cursing as they gathered the pieces up, clearing away evidence of their visit. For some odd reason they didn’t want anyone to know that they had been on board; and yet if they stole our money we would be sure to know that somebody had been on the trawler. It wasn’t making sense, or was it just my debilitated condition that wasn’t making sense of it?
Had they put the carving knife back in the drawer? I would look a fool if I leapt across the cabin, dipped my hand into the cutlery drawer and came out with the soup ladle.
The diving knives! Of course! They were out on the back deck with the rest of the diving gear, tucked out of sight under the wheelhouse overhang. If I could get out through the doorway before they realized that I was on board I might have time to get hold of one of those heavy-bladed weapons.
There was more mumbling and shuffling of bare feet across the saloon as they sought out the last of the forks and spoons. The drawer slid shut again. Silence. Would it be the wheelhouse, or the fo’c’sle? I knew damn well they would leave the storage hold until last.
The rattling of the wheelhouse door moving on its rollers was the friendl
iest sound I had heard all night. They were moving out of the saloon. I rolled off Henry’s bunk and moved around to the front of the ladder, crouching low on the floor, ready to slide up as soon as both voices became fainter.
“Baiya!” The word came from the wheelhouse, urgent.
Now was the time to move. He sounded like he had found what they were looking for.
I raised myself up on the balls of my feet, feeling foolish in nothing but a pair of jockey underpants; but if I was going to swim for shore, I didn’t really need anything else.
The torch flashed across the fo’c’sle hatchway, one quick sweep, and then the footsteps padded back across the saloon towards me. I ducked round to the side of the ladder, ready to reach up and grab him by the hair if he leaned in.
Torchlight caught me full in the face.
“Jeldi! Jeldi!”
I was half blinded, disorientated by the sudden discovery; and then as my eyes became hardened to the glare I saw the two thin black figures behind the torch: Indians. There was more urgent chatter as they stared down at my near nakedness; more of the Hindi they had been speaking earlier; and I knew then why it had sounded strangely different to the language the girls had been speaking.
“Who are you?” the one holding the torch demanded, the beam now aimed at my chest.
I couldn’t quite see him, but I could see his partner and the dirty blue T-shirt he wore above torn brown shorts.
“Me!” I yelled, trying to take the initiative. “Who the hell are you two?”
He lowered the torch beam to my underpants and sniggered. I put one hand on the ladder and lifted my left foot.
The carving knife flashed in front of the torch and pointed towards my forehead. They had me right where they wanted me, and they knew it; but the trembling blade showed that at least one of them was almost as scared as I was.
“Get away from the ladder!” the one called Baiya ordered.
I moved back a pace.
The Stone Dog Page 9
