The Burma Legacy

by Geoffrey Archer

  The table was draped in the red, white and gold of the Matsubara logo. On Kamata’s right sat a much younger Japanese. The name card described him as the company’s Development Director. To the chairman’s left sat a slick-haired Englishman who stood up and introduced himself as the chairman of Brassinger-Mulholland Public Relations.

  ‘Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to this press conference. On behalf of the Matsubara Corporation I’d like to apologise for the late start, particularly to those with imminent deadlines.’ He attempted a mollifying smile. ‘First, I’d like to read a brief statement. Afterwards Mr Tetsuo Kamata, the chairman of Matsubara, will take questions. His answers will be given in Japanese and will be translated for you by his interpreter, Miss Kimura, who is seated at the end of this table.’

  He indicated an attractive young woman dressed in a smart, dark suit, wearing oval designer spectacles, with a pearl necklace round her slender neck. She bowed her head.

  Clearing his throat and glancing at the cameras, the spokesman began. ‘The Matsubara Corporation is pleased to have signed a Memorandum of Understanding this morning with the Walsall Motor Group. It is the company’s intention to complete the purchase of the plant and assets as soon as possible, so work can begin on adapting the factory to produce Matsubara cars in the UK. It is also the company’s intention to re-employ as many as possible of the Walsall Motors workforce and to keep redundancies to a minimum. The signing of the MoU today means Matsubara can now have privileged access to the group’s accounts and business records, a full examination of which will be necessary before the purchase of the company can be completed. Matsubara believes it can produce cars profitably in the UK, selling them both here and elsewhere in the European economic zone.’

  Sam stared at Matsubara’s Development Director looking for any sign of the disagreement he undoubtedly felt. The expressionless face gave nothing away.

  ‘Matsubara’s chairman, Mr Tetsuo Kamata …’ the PR man nodded deferentially to the tense figure beside him, ‘… wishes me to state that he is particularly pleased to be forming this new bridge of friendship between Japan and Britain, which he hopes will be of real benefit to very many people in this country. Mr Kamata is now ready to answer a few questions.’

  The PR man looked round, trying to identify who would be gentlest with his client. Hands shot up.

  ‘The time available is strictly limited, so please keep your questions brief and to the point.’ He aimed a finger at the reporter he’d selected, but it was too late. A pushy television correspondent had stepped forward.

  ‘Mr Kamata. Do you recognise yourself as the same man who tortured British prisoners of war fifty-six years ago? A man for whom the sanctity of British lives was at that time of no significance whatsoever to you?’

  The PR man winced and turned to his client. As the question was translated, the chairman’s only reaction was to blink. Then, staring at some fixed point high up on the far wall, he began his reply. His voice was thin and reedy, the words coming out as a monotone. His answer was brief.

  ‘War changes a man,’ Miss Kimura translated in a strong, clear voice with an American accent. ‘But fortunately once that war is over a man can change back to the way he was before.’

  ‘Did you enjoy torturing British soldiers, Mr Kamata?’ the TV man persisted. There was a growl of ‘oh come on!’ from further back in the room.

  ‘Please,’ the PR interjected, puce-faced, ‘we’re here to talk about the MoU and the rescue of a car factory.’

  Kamata listened to the translation of the question. For a split second there was a flash of anger on his face, then he curbed it and began to speak. He was in control and had every intention of staying that way.

  ‘The war in Burma was indescribably horrible,’ Miss Kimura interpreted, a few seconds later. ‘One hundred and sixty thousand Japanese soldiers died there. It was not something to enjoy. Men on all sides were reduced to the level of animals. But whoever they fought for, they believed that what they did was justified by their cause. Imperial Japanese soldiers had been trained to believe that their race was superior to any other. We were taught that enemy prisoners were sub-humans, not deserving of our respect. I appreciate that for people of your generation it is hard to understand the effect of such a culture and training on young minds. Today we know so much more about the other peoples in the world. We know how wrong those old attitudes were. And if we continue to forge international bonds such as Matsubara’s link with the Walsall Motor Group, then it must surely make it impossible for such terrible things ever to happen again.’

  Sam kept his eyes on Kamata’s face while Miss Kimura did her stuff. The old torturer’s eyes flicked from side to side, gauging the audience’s reaction.

  ‘Now,’ the PR interjected quickly, ‘a question about the MoU please.’ He pointed to a grey-haired industrial correspondent from one of the broadsheets. ‘Bill.’

  ‘How certain is it that this purchase of Walsall Motors will be completed, Mr Kamata? Is there a danger that once you study the books you’ll decide to pull out?’

  Safer ground. But Sam had been impressed by the old man’s blocking of the TV man’s bouncers.

  ‘It is our firm intention to complete the purchase,’ came the stolid reply. ‘We are not anticipating any unsolvable problems.’

  A string of industrial questions followed, mostly about job numbers and guarantees that the company would stay in Britain if the going got tough. The replies were vague, citing the unpredictability of the market.

  ‘Time for just one more …’

  The reporter who raised his hand identified himself as a representative of The Times. ‘This is your first ever visit to London, I believe, Mr Kamata. While you’re here, will you be taking the opportunity to meet any of the former British soldiers you maltreated? To ask their forgiveness? I’m thinking in particular of Mr Peregrine Harrison.’

  At the mention of that name Kamata flinched. His reply was a single word, uttered in English before the translator could take breath.

  ‘No.’

  The chairman stood up. His entourage encircled him protectively.

  ‘Thank you gentlemen – and ladies,’ the PR muttered. ‘That’s the end of this press conference.’

  Cocooned by his staff, Kamata was swept from the room. Most of the press had their heads together, asking one another who the hell ‘Peregrine Harrison’ was.

  TV producers clutching cassettes elbowed their way to the door, heading for satellite trucks. The Japanese journalists each side of Sam looked acutely uncomfortable and also got up. He followed them out, listening to the mutterings around him.

  ‘Bet he won’t call another presser in a hurry …’

  ‘How many of our blokes did he kill …?’

  ‘Have to admit he’s got guts coming here …’

  Yes, thought Sam. Plenty of guts. A written statement would have sufficed today. He suspected putting himself in the firing line had been a matter of face, however. If he hadn’t come, he’d have risked appearing a coward, which would have been an intolerable humiliation for a former servant of Japan’s god-emperor.

  Half a century later the world had moved on. But for Tetsuo Kamata and Peregrine Harrison, it seemed, certain fundamentals had remained unchanged.

  Six

  West London

  Sam had been back at the flat only a few minutes when Julie arrived. It was ten past five.

  Smiling uncertainly, she hung her coat on a hook in the hall, then turned to embrace him, stopping when she saw his look of preoccupation. ‘What’s happened?’

  ‘Nothing. Why?’

  ‘Your mind’s a million miles away.’

  ‘No it isn’t.’ He kissed her cheek which was still cold from being outside, then, twinkling mysteriously, he extracted a slim package from his trouser pocket. ‘For you. Happy birthday.’

  ‘Oh …’ She beamed with pleasure. ‘You shouldn’t have …’

  Sam knew his life wouldn’t have been worth liv
ing this weekend if he hadn’t. The gift was wrapped in shiny red paper and tied with a white ribbon. He’d found it in a smart jewellers in Ealing on his way home from the tube.

  Julie glowed. She’d always taken a childish delight in gift-wrapping. As she slipped off the ribbon and opened the dark blue box she gasped.

  ‘It’s beautiful!’ She draped the bracelet over her wrist. ‘No, but it really is gorgeous. Thank you.’

  ‘You like silver, don’t you?’

  ‘I love it. More than gold – which looks tacky on me.’ She held it up to the light to get a better look. ‘And the stones are adorable. Sort of honey-coloured. What are they?’

  ‘Forgot to ask,’ Sam mumbled, kicking himself for missing an important detail.

  ‘Never mind. It’s absolutely lovely and I forgive you everything.’ She kissed him on the mouth. Then she drew back suspiciously. ‘Unless … Our weekend?’

  ‘Soon as you’re ready.’

  ‘Amazing! Never thought it’d happen. A quick clean up, a few things in a bag and I’m all set. How posh do I need to be? Where are we staying?’ She narrowed her eyes. ‘Four stars? Five?’

  ‘Not quite. More of a glorified pub. All the smart places I tried were fully booked.’

  ‘Liar. I knew it’d be a pub. Smart isn’t exactly your style.’

  ‘Thanks.’

  ‘Anyway, it’s going to be great.’ She walked into the bedroom, expecting to see a suitcase open on the covers. ‘You not packed yet?’

  ‘To be honest I only got back a couple of minutes before you did.’

  ‘What’ve you been doing all day?’

  ‘Seeing people. And fixing things up for our weekend.’

  ‘Choosing pubs, you mean. Very arduous.’ She opened the wardrobe and stared at the garments on the rail. ‘Where is this place exactly?’

  ‘Near Ely.’

  ‘Nice cathedral. Haven’t been there for years. This do?’ She held out a maroon skirt. ‘With a white top?’

  ‘Fine.’

  ‘I mean, I take it the place does have a restaurant,’ she asked, hand on hip. ‘You’re not just treating me to a sandwich in the bar?’

  ‘Certainly it has a restaurant. One which the book says draws its inspiration from the four corners of the world.’

  Julie frowned doubtfully. ‘Sounds like they can’t make up their minds.’

  ‘If it’s dreadful we’ll find somewhere better tomorrow.’

  She laid the skirt on the bed, then put the blouse beside it and some clean underwear. ‘If you feel like packing this for me while I wash, it’d save time.’ She stripped to her bra and pants and stepped into the bathroom. ‘Any particular reason for Cambridgeshire?’

  ‘Not really.’ Sam knew immediately his lie was a mistake, but it was too late. ‘It’s just a part of the country I felt like getting to know.’

  The grunt from the bathroom told him she wasn’t convinced. And she’d been right about his mind being on other matters. He’d dropped into the Ministry of Defence in the afternoon for a snatched cup of tea with his friend in the SAS.

  ‘Contrary to popular belief, the Regiment is not stuffed to the gills with psychopaths,’ the man had said. ‘But there are a few. And Sergeant Squires was one of them. It never appeared on his service record but we took him off duties in Ulster because he showed too much enthusiasm for the job in hand.’

  And Squires was now at large in the Far East.

  With Midge on his tail.

  The traffic out of London was hellish. On the motorway north, a light rain began to fall. The windscreen of Julie’s Peugeot smeared with grease kicked up by lorries.

  For the first hour of the journey she chatted intermittently, telling him about the gossip at the lab, her mother’s rumblings about how it was time she became a full-time parent, and the trouble Liam was having making friends at school. Sam listened with half an ear while he thought about how to approach Bordhill in the morning. Then she asked him a question.

  ‘Where’ve you been in recent weeks, darling? Or is that a secret?’

  ‘Thailand.’

  ‘Checking out the lady-boys?’ she teased.

  ‘No. On a boat.’

  ‘With sails?’

  Her question seemed oddly pointed.

  ‘No. A stink boat this time. Several tons of plastic wrapped round an engine.’

  ‘Disappointing for you.’

  ‘It was work.’

  ‘You were alone?’

  ‘No. But I can’t talk about that …’

  ‘Sure. Sorry I asked.’

  Julie fell silent. Sam realised she was watching him.

  ‘Look,’ she said eventually, ‘I know I’m not supposed to ask questions, but are you going to tell me?’

  ‘Tell you what?’

  ‘About this weekend. I’m assuming your sudden recall to London and the fact we’re going to the empty flatlands of Cambridgeshire are not entirely unconnected?’

  Sam chewed his lip.

  ‘So?’

  ‘Okay. I confess. There’s a place up here I need to take a look at tomorrow.’

  Julie turned away, staring at the blur of tail lights in the slow lane. ‘You’ll be going there on your own, I take it.’

  ‘Hey, come on!’ He patted her knee. ‘Essentially this is a weekend for you and me. Tomorrow won’t take long. Actually I’d love it if you came with me.’

  ‘What is this place?’

  ‘A quasi-religious community. Buddhist. Started by the man whose autobiography I was reading.’

  ‘Fine. But keep me out of it.’

  Her reaction didn’t surprise him. When he’d involved her in the investigation into her father’s murder she’d nearly got killed.

  ‘We can talk about it later.’

  ‘You can talk until your teeth fall out, Sam, I’m not taking part in any more of your lethal games.’ She folded her arms. ‘And if you’ve brought me here as some sort of cover, then you can drop me at a train station and I’ll go and see my son.’

  ‘Julie …’

  ‘Don’t Julie me! The world you work in scares me stiff, Sam. I don’t want to be a part of it.’

  ‘Okay. But tonight we don’t talk about work, all right? Not mine and not yours.’

  Ely

  8.45 p.m.

  The Laura Ashley curtained dining room of the Waterman’s Arms was only half full. Rachmaninov’s Third played in the background, doing nothing to lift the sombre atmosphere of the place. The other diners spoke in whispers or not at all.

  The menu was comically pretentious, with references to ‘fresh caught produce from the rivers and seas’, ‘sun-ripened Mediterranean aubergines’ and ‘Basmati rice watered by the melting snows of the Himalayas’. Sam loved it because the absurdity of the descriptions had broken the ice. Julie giggled at the text, her laughter becoming ever more hysterical as she tried to control it.

  The food arrived under silver domes which were whipped away with an awkward flourish by the school leavers employed as waiters. The dishes beneath were predictably bland, but with the help of some New Zealand Sauvignon, the evening slipped by, with neither of them talking about anything that mattered.

  Seven

  Ely

  Saturday, 8 January

  The next morning Sam awoke early again, his mind turning instantly to Perry Harrison. The little he’d learned about the man had heightened his curiosity. Julie stirred momentarily as he got up, then turned her back. He grabbed Harrison’s book from the suitcase and took it to the bathroom, closing the door and switching on the light. The room was chilly. There was a robe hanging there, which he put on, then sat on the toilet lid to read.

  In the chapter where Harrison wrote about the setting up of the Bordhill Community, he readily admitted his selfishness towards women. He blamed it on having had a doting mother who’d instilled in him a belief that the male of the species existed to be served. Sam noted that his fascination for the female sex seemed to be predominantly phys
ical. Harrison even admitted that when setting up Bordhill, one aim had been to surround himself with beautiful and insecure young women, ‘and then see what happened.’

  There was no shortage of such women in the sixties. As a nation we were emerging from the self-denial years of the post-war period into something else, but what that ‘else’ was nobody was terribly sure. Girls entering their twenties, and young men too, were seeking something they had been deprived of. To some it was spiritual enlightenment, to others it was the physical love which for many had been lacking in childhood. And to the confused young creatures who came to me at Bordhill it was frequently both.

  I have to admit that for me the sexual act is something I need to carry out with considerable regularity. Only at such moments of physical indulgence can I truly escape from the demons inside my head. My thoughts are frequently of death, my own and that of the Japanese who maltreated me so damagingly in Burma.

  Sam understood yet again why his controller had wanted him to read this book.

  When I am in congress with a woman however, my mind and body are generating love instead of hate. Its effect is like morphine to a troubled soul.

  In self-defence, lest the reader think me entirely selfish, I should add that my partners have also benefited from my attentions. I have genuinely tried to help them by bringing a degree of light and warmth into their lives which was not there before, and frankly I think I have succeeded. I believe too that despite such extra-marital sexual activity being contrary to the teachings of Theravada Buddhism, I have been able to combine it with the doctrine of selflessness which is integral to the Dhamma. It has always been understood by my partners that our physical liaisons must be for mutual pleasure and emotional release only. Not for one person to possess the other but as a way of reaching a higher state of consciousness by escaping from the prison of unfulfilled physical wants. Such ‘selflessness’ is not easy for women to achieve, but their struggle to attain it with me has usually proven a valuable therapy.