by Peter May
He watched her for a few moments, until the silence forced her to look up. ‘Know anyone there? In Edinburgh?’ She shook her head. He nodded. ‘Running away, then.’
She was stung to defend herself. ‘I’ve got nothing to run away from.’
‘Except the past.’ He tamped down the tobacco in the bowl of his pipe. ‘Only you can never do that. You carry your past with you always. Wherever you run, you’ll only find yourself, waiting there for you when you arrive, like an old friend – or enemy – you can’t get rid of.’
‘You always have all the answers, don’t you, Sam?’
‘If I’d had all the answers at your age, I wouldn’t be where I am now. I suppose you’ve got to find your own answers.’
She tutted with irritation. ‘Maybe when I’m your age I’ll be as smug as you.’
He grinned. ‘Coffee?’
‘No thank you.’ She was still annoyed.
‘Well, I’m making some anyway. If you change your mind give me a holler.’ He eased himself out of his chair.
‘I want to know about the massacre in Aden.’
He hesitated for only a moment. ‘I already told you about that. A long time ago. Milk, no sugar, isn’t it?’ He headed for the kitchen.
‘You told me a version of it,’ she called after him. ‘I want to know the truth.’
He stopped and turned, sudden anger in his eyes. ‘Do you? Why? So you can hate him? Consign him to the past, like another bad memory? No, no, that would be too easy, Lisa. It’s far easier to hate than it is to love. If you’re going to feel anything for him it should be pity. And you should carry that pity around with you for the rest of your life, and maybe one day you’ll be able to forgive him!’
Tears sprang to her eyes. ‘I’m sure he wouldn’t have wanted me to pity him.’
‘No, he wouldn’t. He’d have hated it. And he’d have rather you’d hated him. You’re just like him, you know. He always wanted the easy way out, too.’ He put his hand to his forehead. ‘No, that’s not true. I’m being unfair to him. He took it all on himself. All the responsibility, all the guilt. But his way of coping with that was by shutting everything and everyone else out. He just died inside, emotionally.’
He turned and stared out across the river. ‘We all died a little.’ His laugh was without humour. ‘They talk about the innocent victims of war. But sometimes the real victims are the ones who survive.
‘Oh, yes, we walked into that village and killed all those people. It was no accident, and I’m not going to try and excuse it. We lost control. A moment of madness. It happens. But, you see, what happened, happened as much to us as it did to them. They died, but we had to live with it, and I think dying was the easier of the two.’
A small boat drifted by, a young couple in winter coats and scarves laughing at some shared intimacy.
Blair turned towards Lisa. ‘What I told you before, about what happened – it was our defence at the court martial. It’s what we told our wives and our girlfriends and our parents. It’s what we wanted the world to believe, what we wanted to believe ourselves. How could you tell anyone, or even admit to yourself, what it was you’d found inside? Something dark and evil that you’d never even suspected was there. Something so rotten you can’t ever wash the taste of it from your mouth. Like coming face to face with the devil, only to realize you’ve seen the face before, looking back at you from the mirror when you shave in the morning.’
The tension in the room was electric. Lisa sat rigid, her look of horror quickly replaced by one of guilt. She felt as if she had desecrated a grave, uncovered a body it had taken years to bury. And the corpse was still alive. She said feebly, ‘I’m sorry,’ and couldn’t bring herself to meet his eye.
As if to deflect his own pain, he said, ‘Most of us learned to live with it, one way or another. But it was Jack’s name in the headlines, his life that could never be picked up on. When your mother disowned and divorced him there was no way back. Whatever capacity he’d had for love turned to hate, most of it directed towards himself. I said before, it’s easier to hate than to love. It’s also easier to be hated than to be loved. He lost his humanity. He cared for no one, least of all himself, and that way expected nothing in return. He was a lost soul, Lisa, lost and lonely. So don’t ever hate him.’
She stared at the floor, and he stood for a long time without speaking. He felt old and tired. Fat drops of rain began to fall outside.
‘I’ll make that coffee now,’ he said.
CHAPTER FORTY-SIX
A slight breeze stirred the freshly starched tablecloths on the dining terrace of the Batu Beach Hotel. The guests were seating themselves for lunch at their usual tables, overlooking the clear blue waters of the South China Sea. A middle-aged American couple, some Australians, a small party of Japanese, a group of English on a four-centre tour of the Far East.
‘Would you look at them!’ the American said, his voice rasping with irritation. The Japanese chattered animatedly at their table, cameras still dangling from necks, or laid next to plates.
‘What about them, George?’ said his wife. She smiled in their direction but got no response.
‘You’d think they’d won the goddam war the way they behave.’ It annoyed him that they had ignored his overtures of friendship. They were completely wrapped up in their own company. They ate together, went to the beach together, all went in the swimming pool at the same time, and they never stopped taking photographs of one another. It was as if the rest of the world did not exist.
‘The war was a long time ago, George,’ Yvonne said.
The babble of Japanese voices two tables away rose suddenly in pitch. George glowered in their direction, and saw that something out at sea had caught their attention. Yvonne put a hand on his arm. ‘George, look! What’s that?’
He craned round and saw, just clearing the headland, a big wooden trawler listing severely to starboard. The vessel was clearly in trouble, shipping water, and limping towards their beach. The forward deck appeared to be crowded with people waving towards the shore.
The waiter arrived at their table with pieces of barbecued marinaded chicken on bamboo skewers, and two bowls of spicy peanut sauce. ‘Hey, fella, what the hell’s that out there?’ George asked him.
The waiter looked up and frowned. ‘Boat people,’ he said. ‘Damn nuisance.’
‘Boat people? What, you mean people who’ve escaped from Vietnam? Refugees?’
‘Refugee, yes,’ said the waiter. ‘Bad news. Very bad news.’ And he hurried away.
‘Refugees?’ Yvonne said. ‘Oh, George, how dreadful.’
George stood up and dropped his napkin on the table. ‘I’m gonna take a closer look.’
But the Japanese had beaten him to it. They were flocking down the steps to the beach. Several other guests followed.
The trawler ran aground in shallow water two hundred metres offshore, and tipped precariously on its side. Some of the sixty or so refugees who had survived the journey jumped overboard and began swimming for shore. Others, clutching all their worldly possessions, slithered down ropes into the water. Guests, and some staff from the hotel, gathered on the beach to watch. Japanese cameras whirred and clicked. Yvonne caught up with her husband and held his arm. ‘These poor, wretched people,’ she gasped. ‘We must do something for them.’
‘It’s not up to us, dear. The authorities’ll deal with it. Anyway, God knows what kind of diseases they might be carrying.’
‘Do you think so?’
The first refugees made it to the beach and stood gasping, looking in wonder at the curious stares of these affluent holidaymakers. An odd silence settled on the sand. Yvonne’s grip suddenly tightened around her husband’s arm. ‘George, there’s a white man with them!’
‘Where?’ He followed her pointing finger and saw a tall, dark-haired European in a white shirt and ragged bla
ck pyjama trousers, staggering through the shallows, supported by two Asian women and a small boy. ‘Goddam!’ he said. ‘He could be an American.’
Behind them, a jeep pulled up in the car park overlooking the beach, and two policemen stepped out.
*
From his comfortable bamboo armchair, in the air-conditioned lounge overlooking the ocean, George could see the white man sitting in the hotel lobby, where he had remained most of the afternoon. He made a curious figure in his ragged pyjama trousers and bare feet. He had a thick growth on his face slashed through by a livid scar on his cheek where the hair refused to grow. His patience, it seemed to George, was infinite.
By inclining his head a little, the American could see down to the beach, where the Asian refugees squatted in family groups in the sand, watched over by an armed Malay policeman. His attention was caught by the arrival of a thirty-foot launch, which had appeared round the headland a few minutes earlier. It passed the wreck of the trawler, and dropped anchor a little closer to shore. A Malaysian flag fluttered on the bows of the launch, and he could just make out the figures of half a dozen armed policemen standing, smoking, on the rear deck.
The excitement of it all had been too much for Yvonne, and she had retired for an afternoon nap. But George’s curiosity was aroused. At last he could contain it no longer. He eased himself out of his chair and sauntered through to the lobby. Another policeman stood just outside the main door. George wandered casually through the tropical pot plants. The downdraught from the ceiling fan scattered his cigar smoke. He nodded at the seated figure. ‘American?’
Elliot looked up. ‘English.’
‘Ah.’ He tried not to show his disappointment, but his curiosity was not dulled. ‘Must have been quite a journey.’
‘Yes,’ Elliot said. He leaned forward on his knees and examined his hands.
‘I mean, uh, you hear about these boat people.’ He laughed. ‘I guess there’s not many Englishmen among them.’
‘I don’t suppose there are.’
The American stood smiling awkwardly for a few moments, then he thrust his hand out towards Elliot. ‘Calvin. George Calvin. San Diego, California.’
Elliot glanced up, hesitated, then gave the outstretched hand a cursory shake. ‘Elliot.’
‘Pleased to meet you, Mr Elliot. You must have been right glad to make land.’
Elliot nodded.
‘If there’s anything I can do . . .’
The door of the manager’s office opened, and the captain of police appeared in the doorway. ‘Would you come this way, please, Mistah Elliot.’
Elliot rose. ‘Excuse me.’
‘Sure.’ George stepped back and watched Elliot shuffle into the office.
Captain Ghazali closed the door, and left Elliot standing in the middle of the room as he crossed to the desk and picked up two passports. He examined them briefly, then dropped them back on the desk and sat down. His eyes were hidden behind dark glasses. ‘So,’ he said. ‘Your passport seems genuine enough. Perhaps you would like to tell me how you came to be travelling on fishing boat PK 709, registered to the Vietnamese port of Rach Gia.’
‘I’m very tired, Captain. I’ve told the story several times already.’
‘One more time.’ Ghazali smiled. ‘For me.’
Elliot sighed. ‘I’ve been on holiday in Thailand.’
‘Where?’
‘Bangkok, then Pattaya Beach.’
Ghazali grinned. ‘Lots of pretty women at Pattaya, they tell me.’
‘Yes. Lots.’
‘Go on.’
‘I was sailing in the Gulf of Thailand.’
‘Alone?’
‘Yes, alone. I got caught in a storm, lost my rudder and my outboard. I was drifting for several days before these people picked me up.’
‘Which explains why there is no exit stamp from Thailand on your passport.’ Ghazali removed his sunglasses and sucked the end of one of the legs thoughtfully. ‘You must be very grateful to them.’
‘I am. I injured my shoulder during the storm. They patched me up.’
Ghazali gazed at him with shrewd eyes. The story was plausible enough. It was Elliot who didn’t ring quite true. There was something about him. He didn’t look like a holidaymaker out for a sail. The weapons and kit that lay on the seabed a mile offshore might have told him more, had he known of their existence.
‘Is that why you are so keen to help this . . .’ He glanced at one of the passports. ‘This Ang woman and her family? Gratitude?’
‘That’s right. She told me her husband is in Bangkok. He escaped from Phnom Penh before the Khmer Rouge victory and now has US citizenship.’
‘Of course.’ Ghazali made no attempt to hide his sarcasm. ‘She has no doubt been in constant touch with him.’ He shook his head and lifted Elliot’s passport. ‘I have heard many such stories, Mistah Elliot. One grows weary of hearing the same tune.’
‘Why don’t you phone Bangkok?’
Ghazali stood up, his patience suddenly worn thin. ‘I would not waste my time, or my government’s money.’ He handed Elliot the passport. ‘You will remain here until immigration officials from Tumpat come to clear your entry into Malaysia and stamp your passport. Then you are free to return to Thailand. The border is only twenty miles from here.’
He moved towards the door. Elliot grabbed his arm. ‘Wait a minute! What about Mrs Ang?’
Ghazali pulled his arm free and glared at the Englishman. ‘Do not touch me again, Mistah Elliot. Mrs Ang and her children will be taken with the other refugees to Bidong.’
‘What’s Bidong?’
‘It is an island some way off the coast. If any country will take them, then it will be arranged by the United Nations High Commissioner for Refugees. They will find many like themselves there. Criminals and drug smugglers. These people have given us very much trouble.’
*
Elliot watched the captain of police climb into his waiting car and drive off. The policeman at the main door touched his arm. ‘You wait here for immigration.’
‘I know.’ He looked down to the beach and saw the first refugees wading out to the waiting launch. Serey was still squatting in the sand clutching her single bag of belongings. Ny was gazing out towards the launch. Hau spotted Elliot and waved.
As he approached them Serey rose to her feet. She knew at once from his face. ‘My passport?’
He shook his head. ‘They kept it. They say you have to go with the others.’
‘And you?’ Ny asked.
‘They’re letting me stay.’
Serey held out her hand. ‘I’ll say goodbye, then, Mistah Elliot. And thank you.’
He took her hand and shook it. ‘For what?’
‘Our lives.’
Ny threw her arms round him and pushed her face into his chest. She clung to him for several moments, long enough for him to feel her stifled sobs. Then she turned away and, taking her mother’s hand, started wading towards the launch without a backward glance. Hau stood uncertainly for a time, then he too held out his hand. Elliot shook it firmly, and the boy turned away to hurry after his mother and sister, fighting hard not to let the tears show.
Those who still remained on the beach came in turn to shake his hand: the doctor who had dressed his wounds, the captain who had saved his life. They all smiled their gratitude. And he watched them head out to the waiting boat. He had done everything he could. He knew that they did not blame him. He would tell Ang that his family were on Bidong Island. His money and his passport would buy their freedom from there. Yet still he could not turn away. The only reason he could stay and they must go was the colour of his skin, the crest on his passport. But his skin colour had not mattered to any of these people when they had saved his life. He remembered how Ny had washed out his wounds with her own urine, how she had lain with him to give h
im her body warmth when his fever had left him shivering. He remembered that it was Serey who had got them all safely out of Phnom Penh, that it was Hau who, along with McCue, had dragged him, bleeding, halfway across the city. He had come to rescue them, and it was they who had rescued him.
He turned and walked back across the sand and climbed the steps to the hotel. He found the American, Calvin, sitting in the lounge, smoking a cigar and reading a copy of the International Herald Tribune. Calvin turned and smiled as he approached. ‘I hear they’re letting you stay, Mr Elliot.’
‘That’s right. I wonder if you’d do me a favour?’
‘Sure.’ He folded up his paper. ‘How can I help you?’
*
The last of the refugees clambered aboard the launch, helped by the Malay policemen. The anchor was retrieved and the driver started the motor. The relief of only a few hours before at safely reaching land had turned now to confusion and uncertainty. A warm breeze blew from the land as the sun dipped low in a sky glowing pink in the west.
The driver gunned the motor, and was about to slip the engine into gear when one of his fellow officers tapped him on the shoulder and pointed towards the shore. A single figure was wading towards the launch. The driver released the throttle and let the engine drop back to an idle. Elliot reached the boat and, with the help of outstretched arms, pulled himself aboard. The officers looked at him uncertainly. Elliot waved a hand dismissively. ‘Don’t let me hold you back.’
Serey pushed past the others and stared up at him. ‘What are you doing?’
Elliot shrugged. ‘I guess I’m going with you.’
CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN
Bidong Island was a lump of rock that rose three hundred metres out of the sea, its steep flanks choked by jungle sweeping down to narrow coral sand beaches fringed with coconut palms. The light was fading as the Malay police launch chugged past the French ship, Isle de Lumière, which lay anchored in the bay and served as a floating hospital. As they drew closer they could see that the whole of one side of the hill had been stripped of all vegetation. A tropical island slum of three-storey shanties climbed its slopes. The frames of the wretched dwellings had been constructed from the timbers of the trees felled to make way for them. Walls were made of tin and cardboard and bark, roofs from blue plastic sheeting, or bone-coloured waterproof sacks. The smoke of countless fires drifted up in the dusk, like mist.
