The Wrecking Crew (Janac's Games)

by Mark Chisnell

  He managed to pay off the first bus driver, and that got the pair of them through the slack border controls into Malaysia. But Singapore was a different matter, with a different driver, who, after eight hours of constant crying, had had more than enough of Michael and Ben Toliver. And so, two days after leaving Chiang Mai, Hamnet stepped out of the serene cool of the air-conditioned bus into the noise and heat of Johor Bahru, less than a kilometre short of the Malaysian customs and the causeway to the island state of Singapore. He stood, baby in his arms, rucksack at his feet, watching the bus disappear round the bend ahead, with only a belch of diesel fumes for goodbye.

  Ben howled, and now Hamnet understood how parents could strike their children. And he had no idea what to do next. Try and bluff his way through? Local buses travelled the causeway regularly. But he’d have to get off and go through both the checkpoints on foot. What would they say about the baby? There was no way he could prove Ben was his; only once back in Singapore would he have any chance of reclaiming his identity. He could call on friends who knew Anna had been pregnant, friends who would help explain his case. Friends like Dubre. He sank onto the backpack at the thought. Helpless at the betrayal, the loss, that had brought him to this. An exhausted, lonely man, so close to but never so far from home.

  Chapter 17

  Hamnet didn’t notice the car pull up beside him. Barely heard, never mind recognised, his name above Ben’s yowling. In fact Anthony Bullen almost wound up the window and drove on Hamnet’s response was so mute. But his wife, Margaret, was more sure of herself. She was convinced that this dishevelled man with the baby was the same man, who, with his lovely wife, had rented their apartment from them for the past couple of years. She knew it was Phillip Hamnet, whatever the papers said about his disappearance. She tapped her husband’s hand away from the electric window control, the smile lines around her eyes crinkled with concern. And the higher, more urgent pitch of her voice penetrated Ben’s noisy expressions of discomfort. Hamnet heard his name and turned.

  The faces peered anxiously at him through the open window of the Rover. He struggled with their sudden closeness, their unplaceable familiarity. There was the dry smell of leather, a waft of air-conditioned coolness, kind eyes. He struggled for words, a name.

  Margaret was the first to speak. ‘Phillip! My God, what’s happened? Where’s Anna? Where have you been?’

  Anthony interrupted. ‘Hey, give the man a chance to speak.’

  But Hamnet could only stare in silence. Until slowly, gently, a tear rolled down his dusty cheek. Margaret was out of the car in a moment, one arm round his shoulder, the other taking the baby off him. Hamnet’s head was bent now; he bit his lip, sucked back a juddering, shaky breath. ‘I can’t get home. The baby’s not on the passport. I don’t know what to do any more. Anna’s . . . Anna’s . . .’

  Margaret hadn’t been a nurse and the wife of a GP for forty years for nothing. She knew about priorities, and it was very clear to her what the priority was. Anthony swept a nervous hand through his thick silver-grey hair but protested in vain. ‘For God’s sake, we can’t smuggle the baby across the damn border. God knows what they’ll do if they catch us.’

  ‘Don’t be ridiculous. We’ve been across that border a thousand times and they never check us. Quite apart from the fact that the poor dear is incapable of even explaining to us what’s happened, never mind to some bossy Malaysian official. Heaven knows what a fuss there’ll be if we try to do things properly. Now do as I say and help him into the car and find his passport. I’ll look after the baby.’

  For his part, Anthony Bullen hadn’t been married to his wife for forty years without learning that there were times when you simply did as you were told. He helped Hamnet into the back seat, threw the backpack into the boot and rummaged through the side pockets for the passport. He found it, noticed it bore the wrong name alongside the right picture, and sighed. He slammed the boot shut and returned to the driver’s seat before discreetly showing the passport to his wife. Margaret was carefully arranging the baby in a mound of loose clothing at her feet. She looked up and sighed too. ‘He’s obviously in some trouble,’ she murmured.

  ‘Mmm,’ said Anthony. ‘You read . . .?’

  ‘Yes, dear, of course. All the more reason for getting him home and sorting him out. Drive on.’

  Anthony smiled, despite himself. He glanced over his shoulder at Hamnet, who had recovered sufficient composure to take in what was happening and now looked him in the eye and said, ‘Thank you.’

  Anthony nodded and smiled again, avuncularly. ‘Just let us do the talking,’ he said. Then he slipped the car into gear and drove on.

  The Malaysian border official had just come on duty. He recognised the spotless old Rover as it slowed on its approach. He’d seen it go past on its weekly shopping trip dozens, if not hundreds, of times, and normally he would have waved it straight through. But this week was different. The financial crisis that had gripped his country and the rest of South-east Asia had led to limits being set on the quantity of certain basic foodstuffs, which could be obtained more cheaply in Malaysia than in Singapore, crossing the border. He had orders to check the Singapore shoppers, and held out his hand.

  ‘Damnation!’ swore Anthony under his breath, his ruddy freckled face reddening further. ‘He wants us to stop.’

  ‘Stay calm, dear,’ said his wife as she wound down her window. ‘I’m sure it’s nothing. We have to give him Phillip’s — I mean Michael’s — passport anyway.’

  Anthony slowed the car and pulled up beside the official, who bent his head down to the nearside window.

  ‘Sorry to delay you, madam, sir. But we have to check people returning to Singapore. The food allowances, you understand,’ he said in accented English.

  ‘Of course,’ replied Margaret as though expecting to be searched. ‘Our friend here is a British visitor, leaving Malaysia.’ She proffered the passport of Michael Toliver and turned to her husband. ‘The boot, dear.’

  But Anthony was already climbing out of his seat, anxious to divert the officer’s attention from the interior of the car, particularly from the baby, who, for the moment at least, swaddled invisibly in the bundle of clothes, was silent. He didn’t trust the little blighter to stay that way a moment longer.

  Hamnet shared Anthony’s concern — from his experience it was clear Ben cried all the time. There was no reason why he should behave any differently now. In a slow-motion, underwater kind of way, Hamnet realised he would be dragging these kind people into his trouble if Ben was discovered.

  Margaret was more confident. She hadn’t brought up five children, and helped with six grandchildren, without acquiring a certain skill when it came to keeping them quiet. But it didn’t come with any guarantees.

  The officer followed Anthony round to the boot. Hamnet’s eyes tracked them in the rear-view mirror. The engine filled the human silence inside the car, its revs rising and falling as though it shared their nervousness. The Rover shook slightly as the officer pulled open bags in a cursory search. Ben stirred, sniffled. Margaret shut the window. Hamnet closed his eyes and prayed. There was a final lurch as the boot slammed. A couple of seconds later, Anthony climbed back into his seat and handed Margaret the passport. The official was already walking back to the cool of his office.

  ‘One down, one to go,’ muttered Anthony as he pulled away and drove onto the causeway. A kilometre ahead was the Singapore immigration and customs checkpoint. Margaret reached down to her feet and gently lifted a piece of clothing. Ben was still sleeping.

  Anthony clicked the air conditioning onto full chill. ‘If we cool it right down in here, condensation will form on the outside of the windows and it’ll be harder to see in.’ He looked in the rear-view mirror. ‘Phillip, when we get close, try and make yourself inconspicuous without actually hiding. If you get an entry visa, they’ll know Michael Toliver has entered Singapore, and if that happens, they’ll want to know why he didn’t leave. And they’ll come to us f
or an answer.’

  It was Margaret who replied. ‘We’ll just tell them we never saw him again; that he was a friend of one of the children over from England who stayed for a few days and left. Goodness knows they’ve sent enough people through our house without seeing or hearing of any of them before or since.’

  Anthony nodded slowly. His eyes flicked from the road to his wife and up to the mirror again. ‘Hmmm, all right. But look, if they don’t stop us, we’ll just drive through. It’ll be simpler in the long run.’ He turned to Hamnet briefly. ‘That all right with you?’

  Hamnet nodded slowly, as if in a dream. ‘Yes,’ was all he could manage.

  The causeway stretched before them to the island state as they drove slowly across it. Grey cloud loomed, and a few drops of rain spattered the windows, adding themselves helpfully to the gathering mist of condensation. Anthony clicked the wipers onto intermittent to clear the windscreen. Ahead, a car had been pulled in. The leather of the back seat creaked as Hamnet slid into a half-lying position. Once again, Anthony glanced in the rear-view mirror, then at his wife.

  ‘Hold up the passports, please. Two will do.’

  He eased the car back to fifteen kilometres an hour as they approached the checkpoint. The only immigration officer visible had his head in the window of the stationary car. The Rover slowly rolled up behind it. The officer looked up at the sound of the engine, saw the Singapore plates and recognised the car. Dr Bullen had treated his child for colic only a few weeks before. He glanced at the two figures in the front seats and the proffered passports — and waved them through. Anthony indicated, checked in his mirror, pulled out and passed the parked car before carefully accelerating away.

  Margaret was gazing back through the condensation. ‘Wasn’t that . . .?’

  ‘Yes, I think so,’ Anthony replied. He gave his wife an anxious smile. ‘I don’t think I’ve got the stomach to ever be a smuggler, darling.’

  The Bullens didn’t live far from the causeway, and the midmorning weekday traffic was light. It was a little under twenty minutes down the expressway to their Bukit Timah home. As they pulled through the gates the bump started Hamnet awake. Ahead of them lay an extensive single-storey home with red tiles and brick walls, neatly settled into a lushly landscaped tropical garden. Margaret sighed with relief and twisted in her seat.

  ‘The first thing is for you to sleep. You’ll stay here for a few days so I can look after the baby for you. Anthony will show you Susie’s room — it has its own bathroom. Would you like to eat?’

  Hamnet shook his head.

  ‘Is there anything else we can do?’

  Hamnet stared ahead as his exhausted mind considered the question. ‘No,’ he said finally, his eyes flicking to Margaret, ‘there’s nothing else you can do. You’ve been very kind. But I’d appreciate it if you didn’t tell anybody I was here.’

  Margaret didn’t even hesitate. ‘Of course, there’s plenty of time for us to talk about that after you’ve got some rest.’

  Phillip nodded his thanks. Anthony pulled the car straight into the garage so they could unload away from prying eyes. Hamnet followed him to a bedroom that had most recently been their youngest daughter’s. Susie had been away at university in London for two years, but had never bothered, on her short return visits, to clear the evidence of her teenage presence — cuddly toys and posters of Take That. Hamnet barely noticed, collapsing into the big, soft double bed and falling asleep before the air conditioning had even finished warming up to start cooling down. Anthony watched him for a few minutes, gently took his pulse and checked the regularity of his breathing. Satisfied, he left quietly, closing the door behind him.

  Hamnet slept for just over twenty-hours. When he woke, the sun was streaming in through chinks in the curtains. The sheets were clean, the bed comfortable, the air cool. He lay for almost an hour, half awake, listening to the birds outside, putting everything in its place. Finally he rose and found a towel, next to the clothes he had been wearing, now cleaned and pressed in a neat pile on an ottoman. His backpack stood untouched at the foot of the bed.

  The shower pinned him against the tiled wall, and he stood under the jet for a long while before drying and dressing. He opened the bedroom door and padded softly down a corridor on bare feet. The corridor led into a big square room, open on two sides to the garden, with three ceiling fans gently stirring the air. Margaret sat at a beautifully laid table in the centre of the wooden floor. White linen, toast, orange juice, fresh coffee and silver cutlery were spread before her. She looked up from the Singapore Telegraph, peering over the top of the horn-rimmed reading glasses she allowed to slip down her nose.

  ‘How’s Ben?’ asked Phillip.

  Margaret looked a little puzzled.

  ‘My son, I’d like to see him.’

  ‘Oh of course, the baby. I’m so sorry.’ She hesitated, took her glasses off and allowed them to drop on their silver chain so they rested against her crisp white blouse. ‘Ben, what a lovely name. Ben’s just fine. Anthony had a good look at him — he’s a little malnourished. But nothing a few injections, vitamins and some decent rest and nutrition can’t cure. He’s asleep now. Better not to disturb him. He sleeps very lightly and I’ve just put him down after feeding.’ She paused, eyes gently on his. ‘And yourself, how do you feel?’

  ‘Much better for the sleep, though still a little muzzy and dazed — and very hungry,’ he added, eyeing the table.

  Margaret beamed, her face setting happily into its familiar smile. ‘Of course, the arman — the maid — is in today. Would you like a cooked breakfast?’

  Hamnet nodded and smiled as he sat. ‘Very much.’

  He ate solidly for almost an hour — two full cooked breakfasts, endless plates of toast and marmalade, countless cups of coffee and glasses of orange juice. As he ate, he slowly told Margaret the story, from start to finish — leaving out only the incident with the fisherman, Dubre’s part in the early release of the information about the Shawould, and all reference to Ben’s twin. She listened carefully, asked the occasional question, and said all the right things when he came to Anna’s death. Margaret had been a child in Singapore during the Second World War and had spent much of it under the Japanese in Changi. After that, she had gone to the Korean War as a nurse, where she had met Anthony, then a serving British army doctor. Tragedy and deprivation were two things she had in perspective. For his part, Hamnet was businesslike in the telling. He knew he had to be — there was too much to do to allow the luxury of emotion.

  When he had finished, the two of them sat for a long moment in silence. Hamnet washed down the last of the toast with a final splash of lukewarm coffee, then asked, ‘So do you have any idea how much longer he could have stayed in that hut before the experience would have had some permanent effect?’

  Margaret sat back. ‘My goodness, that’s a question. Well, every moment he was there he was exposed to goodness knows what dreadful diseases without having any of the normal inoculations. But assuming he didn’t catch anything truly life-threatening, the pace of the malnutrition wasn’t so bad as to kill him. Over months, though, it would have stunted his growth.’

  ‘What about his mind? Would it have had any effect on his mental development?’

  ‘Hmm, certainly with no external stimulus his language development would have suffered. But it would have taken years to affect him badly. There have been some extraordinary studies of children who have been severely neglected — locked away in rooms or chained to beds for years before being discovered by the authorities or neighbours. Even such unfortunates retain the ability to learn a language to some extent — although they require a great deal of personal attention and tuition.’ She sighed. ‘Really, the greatest danger over a period of months or weeks is disease.’

  ‘You sound like an expert.’

  ‘Oh, I was a mother, and a nurse before that. Now I read all the books — it keeps the mind alert. I’ve always been interested in new ideas and theories. But it’s
nice to do a little practical work now and again as well.’ She leaned forward and patted his arm gently.

  Hamnet smiled wanly, running over her words in his mind: disease, months, weeks. He had no time to lose.

  They got up from the table and went to look in on Ben, and then Margaret gave him his second lesson in preparing formula and feeding. Finally, inevitably, she asked the hardest question. ‘So what will you do now?’

  Hamnet looked up from the hungry bundle in his arms. ‘Well, the insurance company and accident investigators, and probably the Indonesian police, will all want to talk to me. I have to explain what happened. Then, assuming everything goes smoothly, I have to find another job, a shore job, so I can look after Ben.’

  ‘How long will it take to sort everything out?’

  Hamnet shrugged. ‘It could take months, years even. In the meantime I could have my master’s certificate suspended, but that shouldn’t stop me getting an office job.’

  Margaret watched father and son benignly for a moment, then said, ‘Until you sort things out you’re very welcome to stay here rather than go back to the flat. Once you get yourself settled, I’m sure you’ll have no problem finding someone to help with Ben during the day. In the meantime, I’d love to help, and that will be much easier if you stay here.’

  Hamnet shook his head. ‘I don’t know that I could do that to you . . .’

  ‘You must. The house is so big and empty now the children are grown up. I’d be grateful for the company.’

  Hamnet looked down at the concentrating face of his baby son, well aware that he couldn’t afford to turn down the offer. He looked back up, smiling. ‘I can’t thank you enough.’

  ‘Not at all, my dear.’

  There was a short silence before Hamnet asked, ‘Why are you doing all this?’

  ‘Oh.’ Margaret waved her hand depreciatingly. ‘How could we not help?’

  Hamnet spent the day with Margaret and Ben, revelling in domestic calm and orderliness, but always aware that the coming night might change that world for ever. At six in the evening he fed Ben and put him to bed in the room next to Margaret and Anthony’s, Margaret having decided Hamnet wasn’t yet rested enough to be woken in the night and content to attend to Ben herself. The maid had agreed to come in full-time during the day to help with the house.