“You speak English?” asked Bob.
“Sure, Boss! You come shoot tiger?” It was refreshing to find somebody who didn’t mind using the word.
“If I can.”
The foreman indicated his men.
“They no go back to work till tiger dead,” he said, in obvious exasperation. “I tell them there is nothing to worry about. Foolish men!”
Bob could not bring himself to blame them. In similar circumstances, he would be far from eager to go out into those trees until he had seen for himself the tiger’s lifeless body. He asked the foreman to take him to the scene of the kill, and the two of them strode away, leaving the men to chatter amongst themselves.
“This most annoying,” grumbled the Chinaman, as they went along. “Very bad for business. Such a thing not happen for many years now.…” He seemed very annoyed about the whole incident, but purely from a monetary angle. He did not express any regret for the poor devil who had been eaten.
They found the place where the killing had occurred. There was little indication of a struggle, just a couple of pathetic items of bloodstained clothing leading off into the undergrowth.
“I’ll need a couple of men to help me,” announced Bob. “There’s a shooting seat in my Land Rover. Once we find the body, I’ll rig that up over it.…”
But the foreman stared at him.
“The body already found,” he replied and then grimaced. “Very horrible. All chewed up. The workers bring it back hours ago.”
“Well, where is it now?”
“With family in kampong, of course. They arrange for burial.…”
Bob cursed beneath his breath. Of course, he should have expected something like this. A human corpse was not like the carcass of a cow. No grieving family could really be expected to leave the body of a loved one lying unattended in the jungle for even a few hours. It was against all the rules of decency. He thought for a moment about alternative moves. Well, he could tie up some live bait in the area, a cow or a goat … but if this cat was as wily as old Sullivan seemed to think, its suspicions would surely be aroused by such a move. He would come back expecting to find a man and there would be a live goat in its place … and the chances of bribing one of the workmen to act as a human decoy seemed extremely slight, to say the very least. What else then? Bob’s gaze fell on the blood spattered sarong and an idea formed itself in the back of his mind. It was a long shot, but it might just work.
“Well, I’ve got an idea,” he told the foreman. “I’ll still need a couple of men to come with me and help prepare.”
The foreman frowned.
“They may not want to come, Boss,” he said. “They are very afraid.”
Bob slapped the butt of his rifle.
“This will protect ’em,” he retorted. “Anyway, listen, if you want to get this plantation working again, you get the buggers organized! Another thing. The best chance of getting the tiger is to have him come back for another feed on the kill, savvy? I’ve got a plan for tonight and I’ll sit up and try and get a shot at him, but if I don’t and this happens again, you spread the word. The body must be left where it is until at least the next day. Now you do all you can to let everyone know that.”
The foreman shrugged.
“I tell them,” he said. “But they not like it.”
“They don’t have to like it,” replied Bob. “Now come on, let’s get these two men organized. We’ve a lot to do before nightfall.” He went over to the articles of clothing belonging to the dead man and snatched them up. The foreman glanced at him in surprise.
“What you want those for, Boss?” he enquired; and an expression of revulsion came to his face as he saw a large smear of blood across the back of the torn white shirt.
“In the absence of a dead man,” explained Bob calmly, “we’ll have to make one of our own.” And he strode away, while the puzzled foreman trotted patiently along in his wake.
* * *
HARRY WAS ENGROSSED in the morning’s edition of the Straits Times when the peace and quiet of mid-afternoon was rudely shattered by a human whirlwind in the shape of Ché. The boy came pounding down the driveway, his flip-flops slapping loudly on concrete. Pawn had been at the house all morning and this visit was entirely unexpected. So was the commotion that accompanied it.
“Tuan, Tuan! The great tok belang that killed Majid’s cow has turned man-killer!”
Harry glanced up sternly from his reading as Ché thundered onto the verandah.
“Has he now?” he replied icily. “And is that any reason to come here making so much noise when I’m trying to rest?”
The boy looked grieved.
“But I thought you would want to know, Tuan,” he said.
“Well, it’s very kind of you to come all this way to tell me about it Ché. But you know, I could just as easily have read about it in tomorrow’s papers.” He indicated the periodical in his own grasp. “Wonderful things these … when a fellow gets the chance to read them.” Harry felt decidedly crotchety today. The weather wasn’t helping much; the atmosphere over the last few hours had grown muggy and oppressive, the air smelled strongly of sulphur. A storm was due before many more hours had elapsed.
“Are you not going to do anything, Tuan?” Ché moved closer now, staring at the old man enquiringly.
“Do?” Harry folded the paper carefully, slapped it down on top of the rattan table. “What would you have me do, Ché?”
“Why … kill the creature of course! You are the greatest hunter for miles around. You have killed many tigers before, and now it is only right that you should be the one to put an end to this devil.”
Harry could only laugh at the boy’s certainty.
“Ché, I haven’t killed a tiger in … ten years! And most of the ones I’ve told you about were shot in India, during the war.…” A note of exasperation crept into his voice. “When are people going to realize that I’m an old man now! All I want is a little peace and quiet; but ever since this damned tiger stuck his nose out of the jungle, people have been pestering me to have a go at it. Well, I’m not interested, it’s as simple as that. And the sooner everybody gets that idea firmly into their heads, the better.” He frowned. “Besides, I’ve no doubt that Tuan Beresford will be after the poor old devil’s hide soon enough.”
“But Tuan Beresford has never killed a tiger,” persisted Ché doggedly. “It is not right that the glory should go to him.…”
“What bloody glory?” cried Harry, losing his temper. “You think there’s any glory in seeing off a poor old beast who’s too old and too lame to live as nature intended him to? Eh? Well, do you?”
Ché looked confused. He gazed self-consciously at his feet.
“He is a killer, Tuan,” he finally murmured.
“Do you think we’re not? Just because we use guns and insecticides and poisons, while the tiger uses claw and fang…” Harry broke off as a sharp pain lanced across his chest. He massaged it with the palm of his hand and took a deep breath. “There you see, now you’ve given me heartburn,” he complained bitterly.
Ché was still intent on the one theme he had pursued since his arrival.
“I do not think you are too old, Tuan. Besides, I have heard about the shooting contest at the barracks.…”
“Yes, then you will also have heard that Tuan Beresford beat me; therefore, he should be the one to kill this bloody tiger, not me.”
“But I have heard that it was a very close thing.” He thought for a moment and then added, “The people wanted you to win; they would always wish you to shoot the tok—”
“By God, you don’t give up easily, do you?” cried Harry.
“I just think that…”
“Oh, go away Ché! Your chatter’s beginning to tire me!”
Crestfallen, the boy backed away a little, an expression of pain on his face as though he had been physically struck. Then, grimfaced, he turned abruptly on his heels and strode into the house in search of his grandmother.
&
nbsp; Harry felt like a villain, but he was too annoyed to call after the boy. Mumbling to himself, he got up from his chair, thrust his hands into his pocket and stalked out into the garden. The late afternoon sun was being choked as the sky took on a flat, bruise-black tone and all birdsong had ceased as the creatures that inhabited the large garden anticipated the advent of rain and storm that would inevitably come with the brief tropical twilight. The very air seemed to crackle with electricity and the dank humid heat was almost suffocating.
Harry moved past rows of carefully tended orchids, past banana and papaya trees but he was hardly aware of them. His mind was black with resentment. Why was everybody so keen to associate that bloody tiger with him? How many times had he openly disclaimed any glory from his former failings; for that was what they clearly were to him now. Beresford was the one who was so keen to assume the mantle of “great white hunter.” Let him wear it with pleasure!
A large olive-green lizard skittered along the base of the garden wall, searching for a safe nook to shield him from the rain. Harry sighed, then turned, and moved back to the house. He ignored the verandah and instead searched out the relative cool of his bedroom. As he went in, he could hear Ché jabbering earnestly in Malay to his grandmother. Harry closed the door quietly. Then he went to his wardrobe and took out the leather case that held his rifle. He opened the catches, pulled the clean, oiled machine out from its hiding place. With automatic precision, he opened the bolt to ensure that the gun was empty. Then hefting it onto his shoulder, he aimed through the slats of his window, squinting along the sights. In the garden next door, the amah was struggling to snatch up a line full of washing before the deluge began. Harry took careful aim on the middle of her back, then raised the sights slightly, seeking out the tiny area that would send the imaginary bullet crashing into her heart. Taking a short breath, he squeezed the trigger.
Thunder split the sky in two.
CHAPTER 13
HAJI SNIFFED at the air. The storm was close now and he was lying under cover near the place where he had left the kill. He was a little stronger now, but still not up to wandering very far abroad. Still, for all that, he sensed that something was not right. The kill appeared to be where he had left it, for circling past the area earlier on, he had caught sight of a huddled shape stretched out amongst the bushes. But somehow it seemed to have changed in a way he couldn’t understand. Also, Haji had detected a brief movement in a tree some twenty yards off to the left and this, more than anything else, had dissuaded him from approaching his meal directly. He was hungry now and needed sustenance but his all-powerful sense of caution warned him to wait for a while and approach in darkness.
The electrically charged atmosphere served to make him even more nervous. He kept glancing this way and that, growling softly to himself and he was quite unable to settle. He was only too well aware that this was no longer his territory, that he resided here only by the grudging allowance of its new lord and master. As soon as he was strong enough, there would come a time for moving on. Till then, recklessness could only plunge him deeper into trouble; so for the moment, he chose to wait.
The first drops of rain began to fall, large fat globules that burst loudly amongst the broad-leaved ferns and bushes. For a few moments, it was halting, sporadic, as though uncertain of itself; but then, abruptly, it was as though a great hand had plunged a knife into the very fabric of heaven, ripping it asunder. The deluge came down from the sky, soaking everything that lay beneath it. In the midst of the torrent, his head resting on his paws, Haji waited patiently.
* * *
FORKED LIGHTNING exploded in the heavens and momentarily, the dark garden beyond the window, was illuminated in an eerie, electric glow; but Melissa’s attention was centred on her own reflection in a newly acquired vanity mirror. She was alone and bored. Her parents had gone out to attend some dreary Mess function, and since the affair had been strictly for officers and their families with no likelihood of Bob Beresford making an appearance, Melissa had opted to stay home. Now she was beginning to wish she had gone with them. She had quickly lost interest in the novel she was reading and the selection of third-rate American situation comedies on the television that evening was no alternative. The astonishing fury of the storm outside only served to intensify the atmosphere of crushing monotony within the empty house. Even the amah had gone home.
Melissa was putting on makeup, for no other reason than it was something to do. It had always been her solution to boredom as a child and she resorted to it now, though she rarely wore any in everyday situations. Tonight, though, she was putting on the works. She had already whitened her face with powder, giving it a harsh, doll-like quality. Now she was thickening the arches of her thin eyebrows with a black pencil. She liked the effect, thought that it gave her a rather cruel look. Next, she took a pair of false eyelashes, a present that she had so far never used. Resting in their clear plastic box, they resembled a pair of sleeping caterpillars. She extracted them carefully with the aid of a pair of tweezers and affixed them to her own light brown lashes. The effect was extraordinary, she looked like one of the high-class whores who haunted certain areas of Singapore and she could not resist fluttering her eyelids wildly at herself, relishing her own grotesqueness. Now the lips! She chose the darkest red lipstick that she had and painted her lips until they resembled a glossy crimson wound against the whiteness of her skin. And just a touch of blusher to finish the effect … there! She viewed the results critically, moving her head from side to side, to examine it from every angle.
She wondered what Bob Beresford would think of such a look. Supposing she were to just call at his house one night, painted like this and wearing her most revealing dress. Just knock at his door and explain that she was passing by and thought she’d drop by for a drink … then she’d look at him in that certain way, her eyelids half-lowered to show the lashes off. He’d succumb soon enough, the hunter would become the prey. Melissa vaguely remembered something she had heard Uncle Harry say, a long time ago: That you could catch any animal if you used the right bait. She smiled secretively at her reflection and then, on impulse, she reached up and untied her towelling bathrobe, let it fall open to reveal her body.
But then she remembered something that Victoria Lumly had said, about Bob’s attraction for his amah. She bit her lip and frowned.
“It’s only because he hasn’t been given an alternative yet,” she thought. And she gazed at her reflection again and was reassured. When the time came, he would want her. There was no doubt of it. Absentmindedly, she caressed her left breast with the fingers of one hand. Out in the night, great thunders shook the earth and for an instant, she felt as if the power of it was flowing directly into her own body. A flash of lightning gave an extra unreal glow to the light of her bedroom. In the mirror, the painted face held an expression of pleasure. The mouth was open slightly, revealing twin rows of white, white teeth. The image seemed to freeze abruptly, a mask caught in the indifferent click of a camera lens.
The storm gathered force, not outside now, but somehow within Melissa’s own body. Time was suspended. She was a vacuum within which a strange eerie chaos raged briefly, a chaos that was a mingling of so many forbidden sensations. She felt both exhilarated and frightened by them, but she was lost to the storm now and could only go with it. Her back arched, her head tilted back to gaze at the white expanse of the ceiling, she opened her mouth to cry out; but then the storm broke inside her and in a final shuddering convulsion, the power was released. She sat still for a moment, her eyes closed, her breath escaping in shallow, harsh gasps. Then she opened her eyes and saw a grotesquely painted face staring uncomprehendingly at her. She felt abruptly ashamed, confused by her own behaviour. She had not invited the storm in, but it had come anyway, a powerful, primitive intruder. She jumped up from her chair, ran out of her room, and through the sitting room to the front door. Flinging it open, she raced out, across the verandah and onto the lawn. The rain swallowed her, engulfed her in a f
lood of chilling water, dashing the powder from her face and soaking into the fabric of her bathrobe. With a groan, she sank to her knees on the muddy lawn and massaged her face with the palms of her hands. The false eyelashes whirled away like stricken insects. The fine lines of her eyebrows dissolved and ran in two muddy columns down her cheeks. The dark lipstick smeared and oozed like a razor-slash, leaving nothing but the memory of its taste. Melissa began to sob quietly, her shoulders moving convulsively but no sound issued from her mouth.
“I’m going mad here,” she thought calmly, in the midst of nature’s chaos.
She remained where she was, cringing, waiting for the next bolt of lightning. When it came, it was a great blue-white scar against the flesh of heaven, clambering downwards to punish the world below. The power of it was so intense that it seared itself into Melissa’s vision, remaining there for several moments after it had died. Another crack of thunder threatened to pull the earth from under her, like a great green carpet. Then the rain came on with renewed ferocity, stinging her bare flesh where it hit. Melissa shivered and the experience was unique. She could not remember ever feeling cold in this land before.
With a sigh, she got to her feet again and made her way back into the house; on the verandah, she paused to glance back at the tumult she had left behind her. But its blustering rage told her to go in, that she had no place out here in the storm. A bitter wave of resentment started up in Melissa’s chest.
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