Tears of the Dragon

by Jean Moran

  Looking at that patch, Rowena had expected to feel emptiness, but instead she was about to burst with emotion that was too much to bear. The silence was deafening and the emotion had to come out. She opened her mouth, expecting words of damnation, but instead she sang, her voice rising like a lark in the meadow:

  ‘O God, our help in ages past,

  Our hope for years to come...’

  Nobody moved. Even the guards stood transfixed.

  Just a few lines and her voice broke with sobs, the hymn taken up by a male voice, then everyone else.

  The guards got nervous, pushing and shoving, shouting orders and slamming their stakes or their rifles across shoulders and backs.

  Rowena, her voice faint now, sang the last lines:

  ‘Be Thou our guard while troubles last,

  And our eternal home.’

  For some reason they left her alone until she’d finished, then she joined the rest in loading the cart before walking back to the cemetery, burdened with the remains of lives that should have been longer.

  At first they thought it a mirage, the piper who had somehow preserved both his kilt and his instrument. He saw them at the same time as they saw him, primed his bagpipes and struck up a plaintive lament. The familiarity of his dress and the music did something to everyone there. Rowena felt the burden of pent-up emotion fly with the notes of ‘The Flowers of the Forest’.

  The piper led them with slow, sliding steps to the last resting place of those who had been human and were now only sacks of dust. The guards, without officers to note their respectful air, stood back, some with bowed heads, others with strained expressions as though they wished they were far away, not party to this.

  At the graveside an army pastor stood ready, bare-headed, peering at them awkwardly, thanks to a crack across one lens of his spectacles. His vestments were in as bad a state as those of the medical fraternity, but he held his head upright, leather-bound copy of the Holy Bible clutched reverently in one hand.

  The chaplain waited until everything was ready and everyone was gathered, his stance stolid, his face expressionless. He explained he would conduct a non-denominational service.

  ‘I would not want to offend anyone so thought I would mention it. Please feel free to leave if you wish.’

  ‘As if,’ murmured Rowena, and jerked her chin at the grave. ‘That is offence enough.’

  ‘I am the Resurrection and the life...’

  Every so often he raised his eyes to Heaven as a fine ash rose from yet another sack handed down to somebody in the pit.

  The task could have been done more quickly by throwing in the sacks, but instinctively two men had climbed down into the pit to see their brothers in arms and sisters of mercy laid to rest in a reverent manner.

  When every sack was accounted for, a shower of petals and leaves was thrown in.

  ‘Earth to earth, ashes to ashes...’

  The last line.

  As she joined in with the final amen, Rowena felt the hatred flooding back. Her life would never be the same again, and how would she cope with her child looking so much like them?

  *

  For days, even weeks afterwards, sadness and resentment simmered among the imprisoned residents of Fort Stanley in the form of a stilted silence broken only by the laughter of children at play.

  Rowena immersed herself in her work, the only way she could blank the events from her mind. She went about her tasks with her usual efficiency – as far as medical supplies would allow.

  Anger rather than resentment burned in her heart. She could not look at a Japanese soldier, even the more amenable ones, without wanting to stick a scalpel in his groin or his eyes, replicating some of the atrocities he and his comrades had carried out. She would probably never have the chance to do that. Their guards sauntered around outside the medical facility, which was for the use of prisoners only. They had their own clinic, though occasionally one would come smiling and bowing with something minor. Those who did this were willing to barter valuables for food. Their punishment if caught was severe, but still they came as if they, too, were trying to lead something resembling a normal life.

  Along with their smiles they brought family photographs, proudly pointing out and naming their wife and children.

  One day she got close enough to take revenge in an uncommon manner.

  ‘Yashito has a problem with his private parts. I’ve told him we’d take a look.’

  Rowena flinched. That was the last thing she wanted to do to an enemy soldier.

  Catching sight of her expression, Dr Anderson, who had once practised in Harley Street, reminded her of her duty. ‘He’s been able to steal morphine from the army dispensary – for a price, of course.’

  ‘So it’s to our advantage, though I don’t see why he can’t see one of the army doctors.’

  ‘He has a rather bad infection of pubic lice. Crabs, as our own men call it. Face, my dear. He might lose face. Losing face is important to the Japanese and I for one understand that.’

  ‘I see.’

  She was still disgusted but also took a certain sadistic delight in his plight, just as soldiers like him had taken in her. The problem could be put down to not washing, a difficult thing in times of war, but there was another cause and that was the one she favoured. It was well known that the Japanese frequented ‘comfort houses’ set up to administer to their troops. In order to contain the transmission of sexual diseases, the women there were very young, mostly abducted from their homes in Korea and elsewhere. However, containing disease was never easy, and Chinese whorehouses, run by well-established criminal organisations, often undercut the official brothels. To save money from their army pay for sending home, a number of soldiers preferred them.

  Aubrey Anderson began inspecting the man’s genitals. Rowena turned away, chilled to the bone, though beads of sweat dotted her forehead. She had a strong stomach, but she couldn’t bear to look at the man’s genitals. The memory was too raw and the aftermath was swelling in her stomach.

  Her colleague noticed. ‘You all right, Doctor?’

  ‘Fine.’

  The man was carefully examined.

  ‘Just crabs,’ the doctor said jovially, as he dabbed the man’s private parts with DDT. ‘If he wants any more of this he’ll have to get it from his own doctor. The Japanese Army must keep tons of the stuff. Can you go with him outside and get Mrs Greenbank to interpret my prognosis to this chap?’

  The ambling soldier looked nervous at the prospect of hearing what he was suffering from.

  Marjorie had been giving a talk about Royal Doulton porcelain to a group of women. Most had come along with their knitting or mending, patching together items of clothing that, under other circumstances, would have become dusters.

  ‘And with that, ladies, my talk on Royal Doulton is over. Next time I’ll be talking about Charles the Second and his love of the arts.’ On seeing Rowena she grinned. ‘Love of the arts indeed. Actresses mostly – and a certain voluptuous young woman who sold oranges!’

  The comment deserved a smile, which, in present company, Rowena found hard. Revenge was said to be best taken cold. She wasn’t cold. She was on fire. The sight of those sacks, the shovelfuls of ashes and bones...

  Marjorie was her usual breezy self and had a tendency to put bad things behind her. ‘So what do I tell him?’

  ‘Tell him he’s got the pox and is likely to die within the next month.’

  ‘Oh, I say. Poor chap.’

  Rowena walked away. She didn’t want to see the man’s distress: she wanted to relish it. Her smile broadened. In time he’d go to the army doctor and find out the truth. In the meantime he would suffer.

  On hearing her return, Dr Anderson looked up. ‘My dear. I wanted a word with you.’

  ‘And I with you.’

  His eyebrows rose. ‘Oh, really?’

  ‘You first.’

  ‘That’s very kind of you,’ he said, his jovial manner seemingly undeterred by the prese
nce of cockroaches in the skirting and flies settling on his bald head. ‘I couldn’t help noticing, my dear, that your coat is getting a bit too tight for you. By chance I happen to have a spare one that might suit.’ He turned to an upturned tea chest he used as a table.

  ‘That’s what I was going to talk to you about. I don’t want this to go any further.’

  The coat he held was a little less than white, but looked clean enough.

  Judging by the look on his face her meaning wasn’t clear.

  ‘I’m sorry, my dear. What exactly do you mean?’

  She dug her hands into the pockets of the straining white coat she was presently wearing, then raised her eyes to meet his. ‘I don’t want it.’

  A look of uncertainty came to the doctor’s craggy features yet she knew he understood. His mouth hung slightly open. He was obviously waiting for her to explain and not wanting to hear the question he feared most.

  ‘I have no wish to bear a child fathered by one of these monsters. I was raped on Christmas Day, though you probably already know that.’

  He looked taken aback at her vehemence, the way her lips curled over each word as though they were poison. ‘You’re not quite too far gone. Four months?’

  She nodded. ‘Quite a Christmas present, one I didn’t want.’

  He sat with his head bowed, the loose skin of his neck like a frill upon his worn collar. He was studying his hands, first the palms then the backs, which were speckled with age spots. ‘Like you, I pledged to save lives.’ His voice was thin and sad.

  She knew what he was saying and she, too, had truly believed in that oath: ‘First do no harm.’ St Luke or Hippocrates? It didn’t really matter. She was a victim of a time, a place and an occurrence of the modern day. The centuries had rolled on. ‘Do you think that in the circumstances you could do something?’

  His eyes dropped from her face to her swollen belly. ‘Have you any idea what you’re asking of me? I’d have to ignore my professional ethics.’

  Rowena pinched her lips between her fingers and squeezed her eyes almost shut. She was indeed asking a lot but knew deep inside what she might do if the child was born. ‘It won’t make any real difference – getting rid of the child before or after it’s born. I recall there being an orphanage in Macau run by a Swedish mission.’

  His fingers interlocked in front of him. The tired-looking white coat fell back onto the upturned tea chest. ‘I sometimes feel ashamed of my own sex but tell myself they wouldn’t act like that if we weren’t at war. However, there are times when I’m not so sure. I can understand your hate.’

  ‘The child will look like them.’

  ‘Perhaps.’

  ‘I don’t think I could bear it. I don’t think I could love it.’

  He nodded stoically, then intoned the words she was desperate to hear. ‘Tonight. Come at a quarter to midnight.’ He turned his back and left her standing there, feeling unexpectedly sad, though tears of relief streamed down her cheeks.

  She’d wiped her face by the time Marjorie Greenbank appeared in the doorway, an unreadable look on her face. ‘Is something wrong?’

  ‘That man you said would die of syphilis or whatever. He’s dead.’

  ‘He didn’t have syphilis, just pubic lice, and they wouldn’t have killed him. A dusting of DDT would have done the job.’

  Marjorie’s face clouded with concern. ‘Oh dear, but I’m sure I interpreted your prognosis correctly.’

  ‘You did.’ Rowena faced the sudden guilt and made a useless excuse. ‘I was feeling a little mischievous. He couldn’t have died from crabs.’

  ‘He didn’t. He committed hara-kiri. Suicide.’

  ‘Oh, God.’

  ‘Oh God indeed.’

  ‘I’m sorry.’

  ‘We’ll all be sorry about a lot of things once this war is over.’

  15

  Orange, crimson, yellow and pink: sunset.

  ‘Best time of the day, Vicky. Do you hear me? Best time of the day.’

  The colours randomly splashed across the sky filled Connor with wonder and always would.

  Sitting like a meditating Buddha, cross-legged on his favourite concrete block, he gazed unflinching at the sunset. At times he felt he was flying towards it, its warmth caressing his aching muscles. The sun shone all over the world, anywhere and everywhere, and if he narrowed his eyes he could believe the same of himself: no prison camp or barbed wire, but a verdant land, the sound of birdsong and Atlantic waves crashing onto shoreline rocks.

  The house of Kim Pheloung was rose-coloured in the dying rays. The block he sat on was slightly bigger than the rest, the one with the best view of that house. His eyes searched in vain for some sign of the doctor with the fine singing voice, but he hadn’t seen her since the day she’d given him the lighter.

  He still had it in his pocket, wrapped in the only handkerchief he had left. The lighter would stay with him, never bartered for food or anything else, not until he had a glimpse of her.

  He held onto this promise to himself and every night, as soon as he’d eaten, this was where he came. Kim was keeping her in seclusion, a common practice in some Asian societies. If he stretched his neck he could see the tail end of the car in the outer compound. If it had been out, it would have been in the daytime. At night it stayed parked.

  Victoria had learned the knack of springing halfway up the concrete block, but the height was too much for her to get up unaided. Claws scraping on the concrete, she yelped for him to reach down and scoop her up. Lying beside him, front legs outstretched, she, too, narrowed her eyes against the sun, two of a kind enjoying the warmth and, for the moment at least, alone.

  The camp was overcrowded, but despite being overworked, starved and bored, they all rubbed along somehow. Their days consisted of work and their nights were haunted by dreams of food, freedom and visions of home.

  It was one of those nights when there was no glorious sunset, the rain falling and filling the numerous receptacles spaced liberally around the camp that Harry again made him promise to take his remains home. ‘The last time I mentioned it, I was rather flippant, but we were under fire at the time. So forgive me for blithering on. You know the mothers of ancient Sparta used to tell their sons to come back from war walking upright or on their shield. Get me home in a bucket if you have to, but get me home. Promise?’

  Connor threw back his head and laughed. ‘Bloody hell. In a box, a bottle or a jam jar.’

  ‘Anything. In a paper bag if you have to.’

  A thoughtful look that was out of character with his normal ebullience turned Harry’s handsome features more serious than Connor had ever seen. He knew his friend had sunk a few mugs of hooch, but his expression was sober and his voice was serious. ‘I mean it. My darling mother will forever wonder about me if I don’t get back – one way or another. So I want you to promise. I swear this is the last time I shall ever ask you.’

  ‘You’re obsessed.’

  ‘Yes, I am.’

  Their eyes met, and not for the first time Connor felt as though he was looking at a reflection of himself. Even their views on life were similar, both keen to drain it to the dregs. The bar had been part of that, a prankish diversion from the everyday slog of being in the army. It could have won them a dressing down, confinement to barracks, or even a period in a military prison, but that to them was all part of the fun. That was the way they both were, daring to push the boundaries. Luckily they’d not been found out.

  ‘I miss the bar,’ said Connor. ‘It was a fine adventure. Dangerous, but a fine adventure. And we kept ahead of them all – the army and the underworld.’

  Harry thought about it and frowned. ‘We defied convention.’

  ‘Damn convention.’

  ‘We could have been killed.’

  ‘Or court-martialled.’

  They sank into silence as they contemplated their brush with more dangerous people than the army high command.

  It was Harry who broke the silence. ‘Whe
re do you think he is, Kim Pheloung?’

  Connor’s face darkened. ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘You’re thinking of the doctor.’

  ‘Uh-huh.’

  ‘Look on the bright side. She’ll have enough to eat.’

  Connor had to agree that he was right, but that didn’t stop him wondering.

  ‘The bright side will be when a Samurai sword cuts off Kim’s head. He’d be one man who deserves it.’

  ‘Too right, old boy. I suspect it wouldn’t have been long before he muscled in for a cut of our profits.’

  ‘He’s probably got it to himself now. Poor old Yang. I wonder how he’s faring, whether he’s set himself up in the rice-ball trade. I must admit they tasted good.’

  Recalling the day Yang had passed them a message with the rice balls, Harry laughed. ‘We set up that bar in defiance of convention. Do you think we were a bit naïve?’

  ‘We didn’t allow for a criminal like Kim Pheloung to come along, so I suppose we were. Mind you, I never was one for convention.’

  Harry laughed again and shook his head. ‘Connor O’Connor, you’re a wild man and a bloody good soldier. Did I ever tell you that?’

  ‘Did I ever tell you that you drink too much?’

  ‘Constantly.’

  In defiance, Harry helped himself to another mug of hooch.

  Connor shook his head. ‘I’ll see you in the morning. Vicky needs her late-night walk.’

  The dog followed him obediently, only inches from his heels. They headed for the narrow strip of grass winding between the dusty compound and the perimeter fence. One step towards the fence, and the guards looking down from their elevated vantage points would fire a warning shot.

  By the time they arrived back at the airless hut that was home for the duration, it was lights out. Connor climbed into the bunk beneath Harry’s. Vicky jumped in beside him, burying her head in his thigh.

  Harry was humming ‘Mademoiselle from Armentières’, sometimes slipping in a few of the more saucy words. ‘I don’t suppose it’s worse here than being in a military prison,’ Harry suddenly exclaimed.

  ‘With these killers?’