Browning Sahib

by Peter Corris

  'Oh, Andrew . . .'

  'My name is Ranu, Grace.'

  'What a beautiful name! And your body matches it. My God, I've never seen anything so beautiful.'

  'Grace. Grace. Your skin, it is . . .'

  'Yes, yes, kiss me there.'

  'I thought I had killed you. I was sure the elephant would trample you and that it was my fault. I wanted to die with you.'

  'Darling, darling, don't say that. Yes, oh, yes, that's wonderful.'

  Well, maybe I would have snuck away at that point, but Grace suddenly went all practical. 'Andrew, Ranu. Stop! We have to be sensible.'

  'What do you mean, Grace? Oh, please . . .'

  'No. No.'

  I was nineteen once, and I could guess at what those two words were doing to the poor young devil. I couldn't see anything, dared not risk a peep, but I could almost see, imagine anyway, how Grace was playing it.

  'Grace, please . . .'

  'I want you. I want you with all my heart and soul. But we can't let it happen, Ranu. There is no future for us. I'm nothing at all, and you are a fugitive . . .'

  'Grace, Grace, my love. My father is a very rich man. I have a British passport. I have a first-class British Airways ticket to London. I am going to study law at Oxford University. My father will buy me a house. Oh, oh, they are so white, so lovely . . .'

  'Ranu, yes. Oh, yes . . .'

  That's when I backed quietly away from the door. It didn't look as if we were going to have any more trouble from Miss Grace Drewe. I'd parked a bottle on the stairs and I went back to fetch it before wandering through the big house, taking an occasional swig. I should have been feeling good. The four thousand was in the bag and I could look forward to a decent cheque from Asher in a few days' time when the shoot wound up. But the more rooms I looked into and the more I drank, the bluer I became. I suppose it was partly a natural let-down after the adrenalin rush, but I was also regretting my lost youth. I remembered when I thought nothing of driving 150 miles to take a girl to a party with the hope of spending the night with her. I remembered the excitement, the feeling of being prepared to do anything to get a woman into bed. Well, almost anything. I was never much of a one for taking risks with irate husbands. I remembered Nancy Barnes on the P&O liner and how we did it in a lifeboat.36

  I was about to let out a long, satisfying belch when a hand clamped my mouth and nose shut and something very sharp pricked me above the right kidney. I nearly choked as the grip tightened and the sharp object went in a little deeper.

  'Be silent or I will kill you. You understand?'

  I nodded. It was about the only movement I could have made. The weakness was back in my knees and I was fast running out of air. There were three of them, all Tamils, all dressed in black, and they'd risen from the darkness without a sound. The one who'd spoken carried a pistol and he used it to indicate that I should walk down the passageway in the direction of the room where Ranu and Grace were plighting their troth. The blade left my back but I had no doubt that it could be put back.

  The leader nodded and the hand left my face. I gulped in air and was about to speak when the pistolero shook his head. The third man, who hadn't so far done any threatening, took Ranu's .38 from the holster I'd been wearing slung across my shoulder with the Sam Browne rig attached. I was pretty sure it was empty but after all the confusion I couldn't be sure. The Tamil didn't seem to care. He fingered the gun lovingly and whispered something to the leader, who replied impatiently and in the negative. I'd picked up a bit of the language when I'd been kidnapped, but scarcely enough to follow a conversation. At a guess, this exchange was about whether to kill me now or later.

  The boss-man carried the day and we began to move slowly and quietly along the carpeted passage. There was a turn to make and a short flight of stairs to mount before we'd be close to where I'd left Ranu and Grace. A couple of doors to pass which might or might not be locked—a slight chance to get in a punch or a kick on the stairs, but not against this toey little threesome, with their guns and knives and me quaking and still half-drunk.

  They seemed to know where they were headed, indicating that they'd scouted the place not long before. I wondered why they hadn't just gone ahead and done what they planned to do. Then I realised that they must have thought I was a guard of some kind and had decided to take me out first. Good strategy. We were headed towards the back of the house, well away from where the elephants were being penned, where people were mopping up after the shoot and where Dana Andrews was probably still pouring champagne for anyone with a thirst. Back here, everything was quiet, and these crazy characters could do what they liked.

  We reached the room and the leader peeked in while the guy with the knife reminded me of his presence. He dug in a little too deep and I couldn't suppress a yelp. That pushed things along. The two pistol-packers jumped through the doorway and I was shoved inside after them. Ranu sprang from the bed. He was naked and glistening with sweat. He stood, shielding Grace from the intruders. The leader barked out instructions I couldn't understand. The man standing behind me kicked the backs of my knees and forced me to kneel on the floor. I felt the knife at my throat and was sure this was the end of the line.

  Ranu yelled something defiant and the leader raised his pistol. Grace screamed.

  'I will address you in English, since you are not a true Tamil,' the leader said. 'You are to be executed for crimes against your people. On your knees, pig!'

  Not good news for yours truly if kneeling was the execution position. Rather than kneel, Ranu seemed to grow in stature. He stood tall and spread his arms. 'I am ready to die, but you must not harm the woman.'

  'A whore who has seen our faces? She will die with you, and this drunken one as well.'

  I have to give Ranu full marks for guts. He shouted something that sounded very uncomplimentary and launched himself straight at the man with the gun. I closed my eyes and heard a shot, expecting not to hear the next one. Instead of oblivion, there was a scuffling and more shots, shouts, screams from Grace. I heard a grunt and the breath rush from the body of the man nearest me, so I threw myself sideways and rolled, still not looking. There was another shot and I was still alive and unwounded. I opened my eyes to the stink of cordite in the air and to see the three Tamils sprawled in attitudes that meant they weren't ever going to move again.

  Two Singhalese were bending over the bodies. Grace, naked and rosy, was being clutched by Ranu. The knife that had been held at my throat was lying on the floor. I scrambled to my feet as Vasco Da Silva entered the room. He nodded approvingly and told Ranu to get his clothes on and take himself and his lady friend off to the airport at once. Ranu gaped.

  'Do it!' Da Silva barked.

  Ranu and Grace dressed hurriedly and departed. Neither gave me more than a glance. It was as if they thought I'd brought in the Tamils. Somehow I managed to get a cigarette lit and to speak in an almost normal tone of voice. 'Vasco, what the hell is going on? Who are these guys?'

  'Dick, my friend,' Da Silva said, 'things aren't always what they seem. I've got some pals in the security service here. We struck a deal—trade Ranu for a couple of the Tamil hot-heads.' He pointed his unlit cigar at the leader of the group. 'Him, for example. They wanted him badly.'

  'Ranu thought he'd been spotted.'

  'He was, by the one who had hold of you, but it took a while for them to come after him. These excellent chaps were keeping an eye on things. They were very worried when that bloody elephant looked like messing everything up.'

  'A deal, you said. You mean Ranu walks away?'

  'Absolutely. Just between you and me, they're happy to see him go. Excuse me, I have to help them clean up here.'

  I was still having trouble absorbing the information. 'Were you in this all along?'

  Da Silva laughed. 'Don't ask, Dick. But I'll tell you one thing, I'm happy to put a few thousand miles between that Tamil bastard and my daughter. Why don't you go and find yourself a drink?'

  25

/>   I staggered away, relocated my bottle and was trying to get drunk again when I found myself outside the house, standing in front of the set that had been used for the blazing bungalow sequence. Of course, it's mostly faked that sort of thing—done with gas jets from concealed canisters, smoke machines using cooking oil and trick lighting. But in this case there had been a certain amount of real combustion, and there was a smoky haze and a smell of burnt paint in the air. I lit a cigarette and looked at the set, thinking what a waste of time and talent all this was, when I heard my name being called.

  'Dick, Dick, old man. What the hell are you doing?'

  'His name's Rich, Peter. He's my Rich. The best motorcar driver and elephant handler east of Suez.'

  It was Finch and Vivien, arm in arm, coming towards me across the lawn. They were both holding glasses and neither was anything like sober. The weird thing was, they were both wearing semi-Indian costume—Vivien in a silver and gold sari with a daub of paint on her forehead and Finch in a long white shirt over an ankle-length sarong. He had something wrapped around his head like a badly constructed turban. I took a last drink from my champagne bottle and threw it at the smouldering set. It hit something hard, and broke. I sat down on the grass, which had become wet from the water used to put out the fire.

  'Life is a puzzle,' I said. 'A total puzzle.'

  'No,' Vivien said, very serious. 'No, life is wonderful. Isn't it, Peter?'

  'Wonderful,' Finch said.

  I wasn't in the mood for any more of this. 'Where's Sir Larry?'

  Finch laughed. 'He's gone. That's why life is wonderful.'

  Vivien wasn't as drunk as Peter, but she was operating on a different plane, which amounted to pretty much the same thing. 'He hasn't gone,' she said. 'He's just not here.'

  'Right,' Finch said. 'Dick, we're going to a fire-walking ceremony. You have to come with us. It's amazing. I insist that you come.'

  'Now?' I said.

  Finch took the cigarette from me, drew on it and threw it away. 'Of course, now. It's night, isn't it? Can't be spiritual in the daytime.'

  'Spiritual?'

  'You're at a very low ebb, old son. Personal energy's way down. I can feel it. Can't you, my dear?'

  Vivien nodded, somehow managing to keep the drapery over her head in place. Finch hauled me to my feet and we all staggered off towards the front of the house where a horse-drawn cart was standing.

  'Can't go in a motor car,' Finch said.

  I grinned. 'Not spiritual?'

  'That's right.' He managed to hand Vivien up onto a seat in the cart and to climb aboard himself. I doubted whether I could make it but somehow I did. We set off down the drive and I have to admit that there was something soothing about the clip-clop of the horse's hooves and the flicking sound of the driver's whip as he urged them along. The rushing air was cooling on the skin and I began to feel better—not sober by a long way, but sensible enough to take an interest in what was happening.

  'Where are we going, Peter?'

  'To a temple on a hill near here,' Finch intoned with the million dollar voice working well despite the grog he had on board. 'Very sacred place. Just heard about it today. Seemed to be the right thing to do after . . . everything. Not for tourists, you understand. Only for the enlightened.'

  'Are you enlightened?'

  Vivien's slightly wrinkled, heavily be-ringed hand crept up Finch's arm like a glittering snake. 'We're trying to be, Rich. We're trying.'

  I think they believed what they were saying, even though lust and alcohol and, in Vivien's case, other drugs were playing a bigger part in their emotions than spirituality. I'm not a very spiritual person myself, as you will have gathered. In fact a very little spirituality goes a long way with me, as Michael Caine says in Alfie.37 (God, I would have loved to have played that part.)

  We drove on through the soft, velvety night. Finch and Vivien were murmuring to each other and I might have dozed off a few times. When we stopped we were in a clearing with thick jungle all around. A small Buddhist temple was outlined against the night sky and there were quite a few yellow-robed figures among the people grouped around the fire-pit. Music was playing and the air was full of the smell of incense. Some of the people were swaying in a kind of dance and others kept up a rhythmic chanting that seemed to block out all thought and analysis.

  'Isn't this wonderful?' Vivien said, clutching at Finch's arm.

  I wasn't so sure. I felt a mixture of fear and resignation, as if everything that was going to happen was inevitable and nothing could be done to change it even if I had wanted to. We were instructed to remove our shoes and socks, leaving me in my pukka sahib shorts, and led to a position near the fire-pit and invited to toss bits of dry grass onto the coals. Peter threw a handful and it disappeared in a puff of smoke. The odd thing was that the bed of glowing coals didn't seem to be giving off much heat, but the flaring grass was convincing enough.

  'Bloody hot,' I muttered, squatting down.

  'Ssh, Rich,' Vivien whispered. 'This is a religious ceremony. It's like being in church.'

  Being in church usually put me to sleep and, indeed, with all the incense and music and chanting, I was close to nodding off again. Someone threw some water on the coals and a cloud of hissing steam rose into the air. That brought me wide awake.

  'Here they come,' Finch said.

  A procession wound its way through the crowd down towards the pit. There were eight men, ranging in age from youths to bent-backed ancients. They wore sarongs that came to just below their knees and were bare-chested apart from garlands of flowers that hung around their necks. Their faces were daubed and streaked with white paint. They wore flowers in their hair, with the exception of one old boy who was bald. They carried carved sticks, which they tapped against the open palm of the free hand. More water and handfuls of something else were thrown on the fire and the smell of incense and herbs became almost overpowering. My eyes began to water and I watched the proceedings through a stinging, salty film.

  The chanting increased in volume and tempo, the drum beat kept time, the bed of coals crackled as insects and bits of floating grass were consumed. The men walked around the pit, which was about two-thirds the length and twice the width of a cricket pitch. I stared at their faces as they passed close to me the first time. Their eyes were wide and fixed on some point in the far distance; their lips were moving in a low, humming chant and sweat was pouring from their foreheads. They completed one circuit and began another. This time I looked at their feet—bare, of course, with no sign of any protective ointment or covering.

  It was hard to look away but I managed to shoot a glance at Vivien and Finch. Both were fascinated, utterly still, mouths open. Then the first man stepped onto the coals and I heard myself draw a breath. I was aware of the sweat running down my face and that I was swaying slightly to the rhythm of the chant and the tapping sticks. The firewalkers, young and old, did not hesitate—they stepped from the grass onto the coals and walked slowly down the middle of the pit. At the end the group split into two—four turned right, four turned left and they returned along the edge. More incense and herbs were thrown as the men stepped out of the pit.

  I realised that I'd been swaying and holding my breath. Now I took in a deep lungful and felt the heated, scented air rush through me. My face and shirt were saturated. The shirt that had been stuck to my back by dried blood now hung free. There was a roaring in my ears as if the chanting was going on inside my skull. To my amazement I found myself standing up and, along with a few other people, moving towards the end of the pit. I didn't think about what I was about to do and I was untroubled by it. It was as if I was outside my body, indifferent to what happened to it, and resolved to have this experience. I was aware of almost nothing except a magnetic force drawing me to the coals. Like the others, I was handed a carved stick and I began to tap it as we filed towards the pit.

  I wasn't the first in line and I wasn't the last. We did the two turns around the coals the way the other
s had done, drawing a little nearer each time. Flowers were dropped over our heads. The man in front of me ambled onto the dark, rough, unevenly glowing surface and I followed him like a soldier marching in step. A delicious feeling rose inside me, something like the effect of good marijuana or three gins and tonic on a hot day. I don't remember anything more.

  26

  'I can't understand how they could have let you do it,' Louise said.

  'Who?'

  'Vivien Leigh and that idiot Finch, of course. It was just madness.'

  'They couldn't have stopped me. I was in the grip of a higher power.'

  Louise laughed. 'In the grip of whisky more likely. The highest power you know is Johnnie Walker.'

  'Might have been a bit of that in it, but there was more to it. I'll tell you one thing though, that's the last firewalking I'll go to.'

  I was in bed in my hotel room in Kandy four days after the firewalking. I'd collapsed immediately after getting off the coals and been taken to hospital with second-degree burns to the soles of my feet and a wound in my back. I'd been sedated for the first few days while they worked on the damage. Someone had sent for Louise and she'd taken a few days' leave to nurse me. There's nothing like a professional nurse to make you comfortable, especially when she'll let you take a few liberties with her person and offer you relief in more ways than one. Thanks to my much-abused but excellent constitution I was mending fast and it wouldn't be long before I'd be able to try a step or two. I have to admit I wasn't looking forward to that. My feet were still very, very tender, but Louise said I had to get back on them for the sake of my confidence, ligaments, etc.