by Peter Tonkin
*
Everyone had wound themselves up for the next morning but, again, it was something of an anticlimax. Lata Patel had not gone down with Maggie. The Hong Kong bar forbade her to act in this case and although she was happy to be in the Crown Colony and was enjoying her odd combination of vacation and detective duty, she knew that her usefulness ended at the door of the Supreme Court Building. As the tall girl walked up the steps and through that august portal, she felt isolated and suddenly lonely. Andrew was waiting for her immediately inside, however. He swept her along as soon as he saw her. He was formally dressed. This was clearly going to be a very different affair to the slightly shabby Magistrate’s Court. But even so, it was quite an ordinary door. It was panelled teak and beside it was a label in beautiful lettering screwed to the wall saying ‘COURT FOUR’ but that was all.
Andrew opened the door for Lata and ushered her in. Immediately in front of her there was a wall of wood. She paused, confused, until she saw that Andrew was walking away to the left down a narrow passageway between the wood and the wall proper, then she understood that the wood was the solid side of a grandstand. As they had in the lecture theatres in the universities and colleges of her youth — and in the major courts she was becoming used to working in at home in London — the chairs rose tier by tier to look down on the bench at the front of the big, airy room. It was only possible to get a seat by doing what Andrew was doing. You had to walk down to the front where the first row was at floor level, then you had to turn and start climbing, and look for a seat.
Lata didn’t have to climb far, but she soon realised she was lucky to And a seat at all in the crowded courtroom. She was removed from the little team down at the front of the room; very much part of the crowd up here in the gallery. Andrew was sitting down in the second row himself, just behind Maggie and Mr Thong who was acting as her junior. Lata felt a poignant twist of envy and took a deep, shuddering breath. Both of the barristers were fully wigged and robed. Before them, on the parquet flooring of the courtroom stood a solid table covered with books and notes-and bearing also decanters of water. Even before Lata could orientate herself further, there was a movement among the officers of the court and someone called, ‘All rise!’
The High Court judge, Mr Justice Fang was a rotund little man whose figure was over-emphasised alike by the bulk of his formal black robes and bright white wig. He bustled in, bowed precisely to the court and sat, seeming to give off sparks of intellectual energy. No sooner had he sat than he reached into the breast pocket of his jacket beneath his robe. Lata was reminded forcefully of the way Stipendiary Magistrate Morgan sucked on his cough sweets and she half expected to see Mr Justice Fang pull out sweets as well. But no. He took out gold-rimmed half glasses and settled them on the ivory stub of his nose, then he gazed around the court over the top of them.
Lata also took the opportunity to look around. The layout was not dissimilar to a high courtroom at home — in many ways identical in fact, to the court in the Old Bailey where she and Maggie had last worked together. Maggie and Mr Thong sat five levels down immediately in front of her. Away to her right, also at floor level, behind another table, sat Mr Prosecutor Po. At right-angles to the front bench, stretching away on Mr Po’s right there was a range of empty benches which, she realised, were designed to accommodate the jury. Directly across from the jury box was the empty dock which would, any moment now, contain poor Richard. Further round was the witness box, again empty. Across the front of the courtroom, opposite the tables of the prosecution and the defence was a wooden platform surmounted by a high, ornate bench behind which sat Mr Justice Fang. And at his feet sat the officers of the court. Lata sat back and began to observe what was going on — it might just be a worthwhile learning experience, she supposed. And with any luck it would be interesting.
Richard’s trial in the High Court before Mr Justice Fang got under way, but it began with the selection of the jury. In Hong Kong there was only a seven-person jury, unlike the twelve-person jury in the rest of British legal jurisdiction. Even so both Mr Po and Maggie, under the advice of her junior in this case, Mr Thong, had the right to hear details about each member of the jury.
Richard was held below and incommunicado while the time-consuming process of preparing the court to receive the case was gone through. Maggie was particularly glad that Robin was on the Seram Queen. Had she advised Robin to rush back, then there would have been an even stronger feeling of frustrated anticlimax. How could the barrister have explained to the distraught wife that this lengthy process was as necessary as a carefully prepared defence?
It was all settled by the end of the morning’s session, however, and Mr Justice Fang rose for lunch in the full expectation that the afternoon would begin with the reading of the charges.
Richard was brought into the court immediately after lunch and his identity was duly established. Then the clerk of the court read the charges against him.
The charges took a mere ten minutes to read, the simple, bland wording almost concealing the seriousness of the crimes.
Mr Justice Fang paused for a little careful consideration at 2.15 p.m. as he calculated how much business he might reasonably expect the prosecution, on behalf of the Crown, to complete before the end of business for the day. He estimated three and a quarter hours would amply allow Mr Po to present his opening statement.
And so it proved. Mr Po addressed the court for two hours precisely, describing the circumstances of the slaughter of the Sulu Queen’s crew; how they had been discovered, identified, and how the guilty person had been identified, as well as the scientific methods by which his guilt had been established beyond a reasonable doubt. He briefly sketched the manner in which the Crown proposed to establish in the minds of the jury the motive, the opportunity, the evidence and the unassailable guilt associated with the defendant Richard Mariner.
In summing up he touched slightingly on the only defence offered by the accused Captain Richard Mariner — that he could not, in the face of the massive weight of this evidence, remember anything.
‘I ask you, ladies and gentlemen of the jury, how can this stand as a defence? The accused does not tell us “I did not perform these actions; I have an alibi”. No. He tells us that he does not remember! He may have done these truly terrible acts, or he may not, he just does not remember! What sort of an alibi is that? But, at the end of the day, members of the jury, it is a matter for you to decide!’
‘And there,’ said Mr Justice Fang, as Mr Po’s ringing words echoed across the crowded courtroom, ‘I propose to call a halt for this evening. Mr Po, I know you are keen to call your evidence but I’m afraid you must wait.’
‘All rise!’ ordered the clerk of the court.
*
Tom was allowed one hour with Richard at the Queen Elizabeth Hospital between 6 and 7 p.m. that evening. At least having Richard himself back gave the psychologist a chance to try and reconstruct memories of the earlier part of the voyage, before the protective carapace of the Survivor had been born. And it was in this most recent area of Richard’s memories that the psychologist had to concentrate, rather than on the identities of his parents and details of his childhood home which is where he would have preferred to begin.
Hour by hour through five full days he worked his subject back, but all he received was evasion, inaccuracy, outright refusal to remember, and a kind of running gibberish which made no sense to him at all. Had the psychologist possessed maps and charts, had he been able to cross-check the gibberish against landmarks, hazards, islands and shoals, he might have understood a little more, but he was used to dealing with people who understood London and the Home Counties, as Tom did himself. The names of Richard’s apparent gibberish were not the names of roadways and districts or suburbs, villages and stations which might have rang a bell in the Londoner’s subconscious. Here, indeed, though none of them realised it, Robin with her seafarer’s mind would indeed have made all the difference.
But of course she
was not there. She was following the tangled trail of islands, reefs and hazards for herself. All 1,450 nautical miles of it.
Richard was still at the stage of working back from where his mind switched off and his amnesia began. Everything else, including last night and today in court, seemed more like a dream than reality. Unaware that he was tapping a fund of chart-born vocabulary he was utterly ignorant of, Tom was playing word association games with Richard. There were only ten minutes left in the consultation, and Tom was tired and dispirited, but by no means giving up and taking an easy ride. He was recording each word and each association to be checked up and thought through at greater leisure later.
‘Five days back, now Richard; I want you to think five days back. Can you do that?’
‘Yes.’
‘Say the first thing that comes into your mind when I say the following words. Ready?’
‘Yes.’
‘All right, let’s start with something easy and general. Let’s say, animal.’
‘Tapir …’
‘Tapir?’
‘Orang Udang …’
‘Orang-utan?’
‘Orang laut … Orang …’
‘All right, calm down, Richard. Let’s try something else. Names. Girls’ names.’
‘Susan …’
‘Susan?’
‘Mandai …’
‘Mandy?’
‘Jemima …’
‘Jemima?’
‘Damar …’
‘Damien?’
‘Dam … Damn … Damn …’
‘All right. Let’s try places now. Places.’
‘Krakatoa …’
‘Krakatoa?’
‘Helzapoppin …’
‘Helzapoppin?’
‘Hell … Hell … Hell …’
‘Singapore!’
‘Selat Singapore …’
‘Singapore!’
‘Selat …’
‘Singapore!’
‘Sulu …’
‘Singapore!’
‘Argo …’
‘Argonauts!’
‘Jason …’
‘Golden Fleece.’
‘Dragon’s teeth … Dragon’s teeth … DRAGON’S TEETH …’
‘All right, Richard. We’re both tired. Let’s call it a night. When I clap my hands you will wake up. All right? One … two … three …’
*
During that Monday, Robin had settled in as best she could, getting used to being the one officer most obviously in charge of the Seram Queen. She had seen the ship out of the Selat Singapore and into the first section of her voyage while the captain had sat silently watching, at first beside the pilot and then on his own.
Then, with a shy young third officer on watch well after 2100 hours, she slipped down and unpacked her stuff in the first officer’s cabin. She was in no mood to try and scare up some late supper so she went back onto the long, low poop behind the bridgehouse and, trying not to be overly sensitive to the massive bulk of the poop cargo standing weightily just behind her and moaning in the wind, she looked at the falling, fading lights of Singapore away behind the luminescent wake for the better part of a dreamy hour. Then she went back up onto the bridge and passed some companionable time with the third officer before officially relieving him for the middle watch from midnight until 4 a.m. She learnt that his name was Sam Yung and this was only his second stint as third officer. He was terrified of Captain Sin and very nervous of Wai Chan the second officer who was impossible to understand, devious, manipulative and a bully.
Although she discounted any real risk of physical danger, Robin took careful precautions. Before she went to bed she was determined to get a key to her cabin door. The first officer, according to the company job description, was — on top of everything else — officer responsible for security aboard, but it was obvious that the lamented Chin Lau had held no keys. Second Officer Wai Chan glumly and almost impenetrably informed her that he held none either, but he offered her a piece of sage advice which she at first took to be a gratuitous insult.
‘What did you say, Mr Chan?’ she snapped, her voice rising with anger and outrage.
‘Fat Cow —’
‘Mr Chan!’
He was alike unaware of her mounting rage as of any cause for anger. But he was conscious that he was not communicating, and he wished very much to do so. His long face folded into a frown of concentration as he tried to force his civilised, Middle Kingdom tongue round the gweilo barbarian sounds. ‘You ask chief steward, name Fat Chow …’
And so it was that at 04:30 on Monday morning, Robin made the acquaintance of, and earned the undying enmity of, Chief Steward Fat Chow. The skull-like face of this inappropriately named functionary burned in stony hatred as he sorted through his selection of keys under the intransigent gaze of the first officer. It had taken ten solid minutes of pounding at his door to stir him from slumber and it looked as though it would take the better part of a week to find the actual key she sought. But each was carefully labelled and what seemed at first to be chaos turned out to have a sort of order. By ten minutes to five, Robin was holding what she desired even more than she desired sleep. ‘This had better be the right one, Fat Chow,’ she observed apparently mildly. ‘If you have any doubts, you had better bring your whole collection along. Neither of us gets a wink of sleep until I can lock my door.’
‘It iss the correct key,’ he spat, his voice lent an unfortunately sinister hiss by a set of badly perished brown teeth. ‘Iss key to firss offiss’s cabin. Iss true, misssy.’
‘It had better be,’ she said.
It was. And so Robin’s routine of sleep became established. Each night at 21:30 she turned the hard-won key in the lock of her cabin door, then wedged it tightly in place so that it could not be knocked free and pulled under the door; and also so that it could not simply be superseded by a master key. She stripped, dumped her dirty washing in the basket for the stewards’ attention, then replaced it with fresh clothes carefully positioned within easy reach for emergencies, and slipped into the bunk. Then, covered only by a starched sheet, she fell into a deep slumber until aroused by a combination of her personal alarm clock and a solicitous call from Sam Yung on the bridge to warn her that she was due on duty in one half-hour, at midnight.
For all that it took her away from Richard and thrust her into the petty squabbles and worries of this strange ship with its alien, impenetrable crew, being back at sea gave Robin unexpected relief. Monday dawned clear and fair and the monsoon gusted gently behind them all day as they wandered lazily up the recommended course, well clear of the charted obstacles, with nothing to worry about and not a dark premonition in the world.
While still on that first watch, Robin had seen the ship safely past Heluputan and the Kar Katoaka. Soon after she retired they were sailing lethargically past the islands, points and reefs named Jemaja, Mangkai and Siantan. As she came onto the bridge at 0800 next morning to watch Wai Chan hand over to Sam Yung, away off the starboard bow in the vast blue blaze of the morning she could see the warning signs of the Udang marine oilfield and by the time the lazy day was coming to its blood-red end, off the far port quarter she was aware of the most distant glimmer which was the Tapis marine oilfield.
As she settled onto her middle watch at the end of that first day as Monday midnight teetered over into Tuesday morning, with her mind full of an exact breakdown of the first day in court from Maggie and an all too imprecise report from Tom on the latest talk with Richard, she was most strongly aware not of the most recent impressions of the voyage but of one of the first.
On the verge of sleep, but far to good a watch officer ever to slide off the edge, she sat in the watch officer’s chair and thought back to that dreamy hour on the poop looking back across the Selat Singapore along the gleaming wake to the heave of black land lying like a sleeping dragon along the mystic joining of the sky and the sea. Of the thrust of the dragon’s head down to its snout at Singapore itself, with all those g
reat soaring buildings jutting upwards, rooted on the coastline, blazing with their own electricity and catching the first light of a low gibbous moon, standing there like dragon’s teeth magically ablaze in the night.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
The crew all called Robin ‘missy’, except for Captain Sin who insisted on referring to her as ‘Captain Mrs Mariner’ with almost Dickensian formality. Robin didn’t think they meant the term ‘missy’ as any kind of sexist comment, it was simply that they could not conceive of calling a Caucasian woman anything else in formal intercourse — so the term was probably fundamentally racist as well, she supposed. With a wry grin and a mental shrug, she determined to get used to it — she would only have to put up with it for five days at the most. Certainly, she soon discovered, the title — she would not think of it as a mere epithet — was capable of a full range of intonation. Everything from ‘You are utterly wonderful’ to ‘You are a gibbering cretin’ could be contained in the syllable and a half they used to say it. She felt patronised and isolated, almost inevitably, but never really threatened. Not until Wednesday, at any rate — though looking back on it she was able to see the pattern beginning to emerge on Tuesday.
But hindsight, as they say, gives 20/20 vision; at the time, even as late as Tuesday evening, she noticed nothing at all.
The first twenty-four hours of duty took her and Seram Queen away between the oilfields, and past Point Laut, well out into the South China Sea. The next twenty-four hours took her from midnight — through her watches, and through the examination and the cross-examination of Daniel Huuk nearly twelve hundred kilometres to the north — to midnight once again. And in that time the ship ran through what was, in its way, a commentary upon recent history, through many past glories of the British royal family towards Dangerous Ground. Past the banks named for Queen Charlotte, she sailed, and past others in the Vanguard; past still others named for the Prince Consort and Princess Alexandra until the series, backed by the London Reefs, culminated in the Coronation Bank.
