by Jeremy Tiang
They started to move again, but Lifeng’s legs suddenly went soft and she slumped, unable to walk. The others screamed at her to stop this nonsense, there was no time. Her eyes were blank, and Xiongmin understood. She was trapped in that single moment, when her body had assumed the position it had been taught in a thousand drills, and a spiderweb of red had spread across the enemy’s throat before exploding horribly.
He took her shoulders. “You had to,” he said. “If the Thais left us alone, we wouldn’t bother them. This jungle is our home. If people come into our home, we have to defend ourselves.” Plain words, he sensed, would be more use here than any number of revolutionary slogans.
“We could have taken him prisoner,” she whispered. “What if he has a family? We could have kept him alive.”
“How long could we hold him?” said the patrol leader. “We can barely feed ourselves. And look.” He opened the map. “See what he was doing. Each red circle here is a land mine. He was laying them.” The soldier’s bag stood open, a tangle of metal and wires. “These ones here, they’re not designed to kill. They have a charge but no shrapnel, so they’ll only blow your feet off. They want to leave the victims alive, just crippled, so they become burdens on us. How could a human being think so cruelly? Are you still sorry you killed him?”
“I never—” Lifeng cleared her throat. “I never said I was sorry. Of course I’m not. It was my duty.” She rose, shakily, to her feet.
“You’re a good person,” said Xiongmin, which seemed inadequate, but exactly what she needed to hear. She rested her hand, just for a moment, on his arm, and looked like she wanted to lean against him.
They hid the dead soldier in some undergrowth and went back the way they came. They would make their report, and be praised for their bravery. Lifeng would receive a special commendation for her part, though she would be wise to self-confess her moment of weakness too. This would make them all stronger. They tramped on, the rear line obscuring their footprints, leaving no trace behind as the jungle swallowed them again.
4
Revathi
Revathi stomped down St Martin’s Lane, cursing the frost on the pavement, the sharp chill in the air, everything. February had reached the point when it seemed entirely probable that winter might go on forever. Even the brief hours of daylight were grey and besmirched. A man in a bowler hat walked right into her, as if it were her job to get out of his way. She smiled blandly at him, tamping down the impulse to drive her umbrella into his foot, and thought fuck it, this day can go to hell. She’d been headed back to the office, but now swerved into the Nag’s Head, where the boys were usually to be found.
Someone called her name as she stepped into the pub, but her glasses fogged up from the warmth, and she had to swipe at them with her scarf before she could see again. It was Fred Robertson, waving from the usual corner. She swabbed her boots on the mat and waved back. “Lars is looking for you,” he called, as soon as she got within earshot.
Revathi shrugged. She’d had a beast of a morning, tramping round half of Willesden chasing down a quote. Lars could wait. She brusquely asked if anyone wanted anything, and headed for the bar before they could answer. Time to lose herself in an unladylike pint.
The boys were unusually absorbed in a newspaper, not theirs. “Have you seen today’s People?” one of them called, new chap, blond, some forgettable name. He was already shoving it across the table at her.
“Rhodesian Independence Close to Reality?”
“Below that.”
“Horror in a Nameless Village? Bit melodramatic.”
“Amazing what some people will believe,” sneered Jim Carrington. “Listen. ‘The corrupting and fearful effect of war on otherwise decent men.’ Talk about purple prose.”
She scanned the article. “You don’t think there’s any merit to this?”
“My dear girl, you have to learn not to believe everything you read.”
She bristled. “Don’t you dear-girl me, I’ve been on the pol desk longer than you have.”
“So? You’re still paddling round the shallows, like the rest of us. Give it a rest.” He raised his glass and took a large slurp.
She looked around for support, but the others seemed happy to spectate. “Come on, you have to admit it’s a serious accusation. You don’t think it’s worth investigating?”
“So we’re meant to believe these blokes wiped out a whole village of chinks—”
“You can’t say that word any more, Jim.”
“And then covered it up—”
“I’m not sure it was ever okay, to be honest.”
“What do you care, you’re not a chink.”
“Jesus, Jim. It’s 1970.”
“So?”
“So, if you use language like that, how do I know you’re not calling me a darkie when my back’s turned?”
He flushed, and she realised belatedly that perhaps she hadn’t wanted to open that particular can of worms. Best not to know. “You lot will be in charge in a few years anyway,” he muttered, turning away. “The whip hand, Powell said. He knows what’s what.”
Everyone else at the table was suddenly very busy, bent over crosswords or rolling cigarettes. Screw you all, she thought, downing enough of her pint that it wouldn’t look abandoned. “Always a pleasure, gentlemen.” Breezy as you like. She snatched up the paper and shook her hair out as she left.
The idea formed in her head as she was stomping up to Lars’s office. Stopping outside to take several deep breaths before knocking, she was pleased her “Good morning, Mr Erickson” came out calm and cheerful. He started badgering her about the copy she was supposed to be turning in, and she cheerfully assured him that yes, she had doorstepped like a pro, and it would be in on time. As she spoke, she casually draped the People across his desk. “Seen this?”
He quickly skimmed it. “Interesting. Sounds like Pinkville de nos jours.”
“You think so?”
“Could be major. Could be nothing.” But he was turning to the inside pages, snuffling for more details.
“I thought it looked important.”
He studied the lines of print. “No one’s disputing those men got killed and their village burnt down, just a question of whether it was justified. Heat of war.”
“You think this doesn’t have legs?” Go easy, make him think it’s his idea.
“Well, there’s a story, there definitely could be a story. Wouldn’t have to prove anything, just make people wonder if there’s more to it.”
“Lots of secrets there. It’s my part of the world, you know.”
“Thought you were a Brummie.”
“Born out there. Parents moved to Birmingham when I was eight. They lived through the Emergency, said you wouldn’t believe what the British got up to in the name of stopping the Communist bandits. Would be quite a scandal, if it got out.”
“Indeed. Thanks for bringing this to my attention.”
She stopped herself saying anything more. Take it slow. He was still staring at the paper as she left the office.
The next morning, she made sure to get in early, formidable in her boxiest jacket. When she tapped on Lars’s door and went in, he was eating toffees from a paper bag, a sure sign of nervous excitement. “Good, I was going to send for you. I need you to go see Ian Spender.”
“What for?”
“The Batang Kali story. We’re pursuing. I cleared it with Hal yesterday, just need you to brief Spender before he heads out. Useful phrases, poisonous snakes, that sort of thing. Good thing you said you were from there. Handy to know.”
“You’re sending Spender?”
“He was out there a couple of years, back in the day. National Service.”
“So he might have shot these chaps himself?”
“I don’t believe he saw much action.”
“Story of his life.”
“He won’t need much. Quick jaunt, interview a few natives, in and out. I made a few calls. Unnamed sources at the Home
Office. Apparently there was an attempt by the locals to get compensation years ago. Nothing came of it, but someone coughed up the name of the local lawyer. He seems keen to help. Probably hoping publicity will get the case re-opened.”
“Do you really think Spender’s up to it? The heat, you know. Over 30 degrees, most days. He’s not a young man.” This was persuasive—Ian Spender reddened and started breathing hard if he sat too close to the central heating. Easy to imagine him keeling over beneath the tropical sun.
“Well maybe young Robertson would be—”
“Fred Robertson’s been with us ten minutes.”
“Maybe instead of shooting down my best men, you suggest someone then?”
“Me, Lars. Send me.” No hesitation, deadly serious. She had his attention now. “I’m from there, I speak the local language.” This was technically true, though she hoped he didn’t know there was more than one. “I have all the background already. Grew up with it.”
“You’re a bit junior—”
“Lars, how long have I been under you? You know I’m grateful, but story after story gets passed over my head. I know, I know, you owe this chap a favour, that other chap has first dibs, there’s always a reason. So here’s something that’s actually up my alley. You know I can do it. Have I ever turned in substandard copy? I have at least as good a shot at getting this right as the next person, probably better, and you know I won’t succumb to malaria in my first hour there.”
He looked like he might be swayed. “I’d really be sticking my neck out for you—”
“That’s what I love about you, Lars. You’re the sort of visionary who knows when to take a risk. Can you imagine the sort of story I’ll bring home? My Lai is now Our Lai.”
“Good thing you don’t write the headlines,” he laughed, but she knew she had him. Still chuckling, he thought a little more, scribbled down some notes to himself, and let fly with a string of instructions—all conditional on approval from above, of course. Head down to the morgue and get the coverage from Doris, all the way back to 1948; go talk to accounts about the plane ticket and so forth, they had a travel agent on retainer; he hoped to god her passport was up to date; he must be mad letting her do this, but after all people deserve a chance now and then, and her work was good, but dammit she’d better not let him down or they’d both be out on the street.
She listened very carefully, scarcely able to believe she’d pulled it off. This could be—but best not to imagine what this would do for her career if she nailed it. First she had to get it right, and something told her that she would only get one shot at this. Deep breath. She imagined Jim Carrington’s triumphant grin if she failed, and knew this had to be on the front page.
•
One of the other girls at the boarding house was happy to lend her a suitcase. “Just take care of it, would you? It’s a good one: Peter Jones.” Revathi smiled and said of course she would, the tropics could be hard on luggage but she’d keep it away from monsoons and so forth.
“And send us a postcard, if they have those where
you’re going.”
“There are postcards in Malaysia, Lucy. It’s not a war zone.”
“Isn’t that why your parents left?”
“It was rough for a while. It’s not like that now.”
Lucy still looked concerned. She was a typist, and as far as Revathi could tell, hadn’t left West London many times in her life. “There was a chap on World This Weekend I just heard, said he wiped out a whole village. Not just him, a whole battalion of them.”
“A battalion is five hundred soldiers.”
“Oh, it sounded like less than that. One of those smaller ones. A company?”
“Platoon. That’s the story I’m covering. But it was a couple of decades ago. During the Emergency.”
“So why’s it all coming up now? Hardly news.”
“People are only now coming forward to say what really happened, so we have to look into it.”
“Is it true? That they killed a whole village and had to lie about it?”
“It wasn’t the whole village, just the men, and I don’t know what’s true yet, that’s what I’m going to find out.”
“Just seems so unlikely. All of them got together and lied about what they’d done, and then suddenly after twenty years they decide to come clean?”
“It happens. Guilty consciences. Look at My Lai.”
“You think this is like My Lai? But that’s huge. That’s an enormous story. That makes sense, they wouldn’t fly you out all the way there for anything less.”
“One step at a time. I’ve got to come back in one piece first.” Then, seeing her friend’s eyes widen, “I was joking! It’s perfectly safe, but after all I might not find anything worth writing about, or stuff it up some other way, you never know, and they’ll never send me anywhere again.”
“At least you’ll get to go. Even if it’s just this one time, you still have something to tell your grandchildren. And you have a hunch, don’t you? You’re following it into the jungle, all intrepid? If you break this story, this could be the making of you!”
Revathi blinked, suspecting sarcasm, but Lucy’s eyes actually were sparkling. Well, all right, she had a point, if this went well she would indeed be in for a different beat, something more challenging. There weren’t many opportunities to get ahead. Plenty of people thought she should be grateful to be where she was, plenty more thought she shouldn’t be there at all. She hadn’t been to the right schools, wasn’t a member of any of the right clubs, her parents spoke with an accent—and that was before you got on to the colour of her skin, or her being a woman.
She shook her head. Be a big girl, stop blubbing that you’ve been lonely. So no one slapped you on the back or took you to lunch when you first stepped into that newsroom, not like the boys. Never mind. Hold your own. She thanked Lucy for the suitcase and went down to call her parents.
“It’s not too late to change your mind,” said her mother, by way of greeting.
“It actually is, I’d get fired.”
“I can talk to your boss, if you like.”
“That’s a terrible idea. Anyway, I want to go.”
“Rev, why?”
“It’s where I’m from. I want to see it again.”
“When British people ask you where are you really from, I see you get annoyed. Suddenly you’re from there again?”
“Well, I am, sort of. Where you’re from, then.”
“I’m from Singapore.”
“I’ll see that too. We’re changing planes there.”
“It’s not safe.”
“Things are different now, Amma. It’s fine now.”
“It’s never fine. That’s why we brought you to England. You were supposed to have a better life.”
“I looked up some file pictures. Kuala Lumpur’s a modern city now. Taller buildings than London, even.”
“What about all those men who got killed?”
“That was decades ago! Don’t you see what a big story this could be, though?”
“You are uncovering the truth after all this time?”
“I might. Don’t make fun of me.”
“Your father wants to speak to you.”
Her father took the phone and said, gruffly, “Take care of yourself, Kutti,” which was demonstrative for him. She hung up and went to bed, thoughtful.
That night, she dreamt of Malaysia for the first time in many years. Her parents had driven up north a couple of times, taking her to be cooed over by long-gone relatives. She saw the plantations they’d driven past, those tall trees blocking out the sun. Then she was running between the spindly trees, each trickling a channel of milk-white liquid into a Carnation tin. Her parents smiling as a foreman urged on his workers. She sprinted along the mathematically regular rows as they grew wider and wider, or perhaps she was shrinking, until the latex overflowed and lapped around her ankles, then knees. She struggled to get clear of it, but the viscous liquid made it
hard to move. She called her father, but he’d disappeared. Amma? There was no one in sight. Out of nowhere, gunshots tore into the trees, and each wound produced a fresh stream of purest white. She opened her mouth to scream, but it filled with liquid before she could make a sound.
•
The heat was a shovel to the face, a blunt force smacking her entire body. Now she remembered. She’d braced herself for mere temperature, but this was altogether fiercer, the saturated air swaddling her so in seconds she was gasping slightly, her blouse soaked and hair clinging to her forehead. Was it possible the climate had become more hostile than in her childhood? Yet the locals seemed unbothered, moving minimally and not too fast, going about their business as if this whole country wasn’t a furnace.
Mr Leng, the lawyer, met her at the airport. She was surprised he’d come in person rather than sending someone, but he brushed away her thanks, he enjoyed the drive out here anyway, there was a stall nearby with the best nasi lemak, always good to have an excuse to go there. Would she like some? Oh, of course, she must be exhausted, how long was her flight? Well, he’d take her directly to the hotel.
The Herald had booked her into the Hotel Merlin, a startlingly luxurious establishment, at least to her eyes: a tall slab of concrete and glass windows. From her room on the twelfth floor, she could see all the way to the horizon. Did the ringgit make things cheaper here? Or had she stumbled into a different level of her career, one in which there was somehow money where none had been before, the way the paper managed to pay Ian Spender significantly more than her, even though he took naps after his long lunches and turned in maybe two articles a week.
Mr Leng said as soon as she’d freshened up, he had a couple of people for her to meet in town.
The first visit felt like a warm-up, someone who’d already spoken to the papers at the time—the headman of the village that the women and children had been brought to after their houses were set alight. After his place, too, was razed, he’d come to the city to live with his brother. They sat in a cracked concrete courtyard, on rickety wooden stools. Everything he told her was already in the coverage, but it was useful to have it restated, and she’d be able to say it was as fresh in his mind as if it was yesterday. Readers liked that, to feel the past brought to them.
