Bob nodded slowly and watched as the boy rewrapped his precious item and replaced it in his pocket.
“And I bet I know where that bloody thing came from,” thought Bob drily. A vivid image of the tiger’s lacerated body, stark in the lantern-light, came briefly back to him. But he could not bring himself to blame the boy, who probably knew nothing about the theft. He experienced a sudden flash of guilt when he realized that he had been quite unreasonable transferring his resentment to Melissa Tremayne. She too was innocent of any blame, yet he had let his anger linger on for several months, an irrational and immature way to behave. He remembered their petting in the Land Rover, the soft feel of her warm flesh beneath his fingers, the heady aroma of her perfume … an abrupt rush of desire stirred within him and he had to force his mind to move back to more immediate problems.
“Well, let’s move on, shall we?” he suggested.
Ché was off across the road, like a greyhound let off the leash. Bob followed at a more cautious pace, unslinging his rifle in anticipation.
“Don’t get too far ahead,” he warned the boy. “Just in case…”
They moved on into thicker jungle and once again, after a little casting around, the drag marks became evident: a wide trail of flattened leaves and disturbed grass, leading over rough and fairly inaccessible terrain.
“The boy’s worth his weight in gold,” thought Bob, as they trailed onwards. “If it had been left to me, I’d still be back at the kampong.” Luckily, the boy seemed eager enough to be involved and Bob decided to offer him some kind of partnership, whereby he would pick up the boy whenever there was a kill and make use of his considerable skills. Ché would probably be prepared to do it for nothing, but the offer of a few dollars would doubtless be an extra incentive to him. The children were currently on holiday from their various schools and would be for the next month, so there should be no problem about his availability.
The trail led onwards for about half a mile and then, at last, they came to a broad stream where they found the corpse of the woman lying. It was not covered with foliage in any way.
“He must have heard us coming,” whispered Bob, gazing around. “I’ll bet he’s not far away.”
He reached out an arm protectively to draw the boy back from the dismembered body, not wanting him to see it, but Ché pulled away and walked boldly over to the grisly remains. He stood gazing down at them thoughtfully. The old woman had been mostly consumed. All that was recognizable was her head and shoulders and her left arm. Everything else from her torso downward was mangled meat and bone. There was still an expression of shock on her grizzled face.
“He was very hungry,” observed Ché, with surprising calmness, but then he turned quickly away, doubled over and was violently sick on the grass. After a few moments, he straightened up, his eyes streaming with tears.
“You alright?” asked Bob helplessly.
“Yes, Tuan. I am sorry.”
“Don’t apologize. I often feel like puking myself.…” Bob frowned, turned to take a long slow look at his surroundings. It was terribly quiet in the jungle, not the sound of a single bird broke the silence.
“He’s watching us alright,” murmured Bob. But there was any number of places where the cat might be lying in wait. That long stretch of grass there. Behind the vine-covered trunk of that fallen tree. The thick patch of bamboo over to the right. Bob sighed. His desperation had not yet reached the point where he was prepared to go after the tiger on foot.
“Alright, Ché, let’s go back for the machan,” he suggested. “Think you can get another man to help us fix it up?”
Ché nodded.
“My friend, Majid, will help.”
“Alright then. We—”
Bob broke off in alarm as there was an abrupt rustle amongst the dry grass to his left. He swung the gun around to bear on the movement, which was progressing quickly towards him, travelling to the very edge of the long grass. Whatever was making the commotion should burst forth from cover at any moment.…
A large magpie flapped out into the open, then took off at a steep angle with a few quick strokes of his powerful wings. Bob swore viciously beneath his breath and lowered the rifle. He felt uncharacteristically jittery today and he decided that the length of this hunt was beginning to get to him. The thought of another night spent out on a hard machan made his spirit sag, but he would not allow himself to give in now. The chances were that if he let one opportunity go, along would come Mike Kirby and put the bugger down with one lucky shot.
“The cat belongs to me,” he thought grimly. “I’ve earned him.” He mopped at his sticky brow with his shirt-sleeve. He still could not rid himself of the distinct conviction that the cat was watching him, somewhere close by. He turned back to Ché and saw that the boy was gazing at him curiously.
“We go back now, Tuan?” he enquired.
“Yeah, sure. Look kid, you did a good job here. How would you like to track for me again?”
Ché smiled, nodded eagerly.
“I would like that very much, Tuan!”
“Good boy.” Bob reached into his pocket, took out his wallet and produced a couple of crumpled dollar bills. “There now. You get that each time you track for me. And a special bonus when we finally put an end to old stripey.” He pressed the money into Ché’s hands and then patted him gently on the back. “You just hold yourself ready to go whenever I call for you. There’s not much time and I ain’t going back without him.”
“Maybe you’ll get him tonight,” suggested Ché encouragingly.
“Tonight. Yeah, maybe.” But Bob was dismayed to realize that he already doubted this. Too many failures were leading him to believe that the tiger had some kind of charmed life, that he would never be shot from a machan. But what alternatives did that leave? Again, Bob stared off into the long grass from which the magpie had recently emerged. Then he glanced at the mutilated corpse of the old woman and he shuddered involuntarily. He remembered something that Harry Sullivan had once said to him.
“The only possible reason for following a cat into the jungle is to put it out of its misery after your first shot has failed to finish it off.”
The trouble with Sullivan was, he seemed to know exactly what he was talking about. So far, he’d been right all down the line. Maybe it was potential suicide to go after a man-eater on his home ground. But the way things were, there couldn’t be many more opportunities to finish the cat off and maybe the time would come, when he’d have to follow up through the long grass with just his wits and his gun to aid him.
He shrugged and moved away. For the time being, he’d give the machan another try. He retraced his steps back into the jungle, and Ché followed close on his heels. Soon their figures were lost in the dark shadows of the trees. Several minutes passed in silence. Then there was a slow swishing motion in the grass. A bird perched high in the treetops gave a single warning shriek and flew away. The movement progressed to the edge of the grass and then a lean striped shape emerged and went to continue the meal that had been so rudely interrupted.
* * *
HARRY STROLLED in through the open doorway of the Mess. It was Wednesday afternoon and although Dennis had warned him earlier that he would not be able to keep their usual appointment, Harry had decided to come in anyway, rather than break with his usual habits. He was shocked and rather saddened to see that he and Trimani were the sole occupants of the place. Over the last few weeks, attendance had been steadily dwindling, so this should really have come as no great surprise; and yet it was the first time that Harry could remember such an occurrence in this hallowed place. He approached the bar, his hands in his pockets, and Trimani must have shared his feelings because the little Tamil shook his head sadly and gestured with his hands, as if to say, “Ah yes, Tuan, how sad it has come to this.”
Harry leaned on the bar, hardly knowing what to say. He accepted the glass of Tiger that Trimani gave him and he drained it in one swallow and indicated that he would like anothe
r. He took out his cigar case, handed a smoke to Trimani, and took one himself. He lit the two cigars and there was a long moment of silence as the two men inhaled and exhaled, both of them lost for the moment in their own memories. At last, Harry broke the silence by asking, “How much longer do you stay open, Trimani?”
“Until the very end, Tuan. There are still some officers left to take care of things.” He shrugged. “Two, maybe three week. Then, close down.”
“And what will happen to you then?”
“Me, Tuan? Oh, it is not too bad! I am old now, ready to step down. I have a good family, who will take care of me … did I tell you, Tuan, that my eldest son is now a lawyer in Kuala Lumpur? He sends money home to us every week.…”
“Yes, Trimani, I believe you did, but I’m very pleased for you anyway. Will you not be getting a pension from the British government?”
Trimani shook his head.
“There has been no mention of it, Tuan.”
“And how long have you been working here?”
“Fourteen years.”
Harry nodded slowly. He felt ashamed of his own race, amazed that such brazen ingratitude could be dealt to a man as loyal and trustworthy as Trimani. He glanced up at the large, framed equestrian photograph of Queen Elizabeth II hanging above the bar. He knew that Trimani loved this photograph and that the little barman polished the glass that covered it every day of his life. But now the queen’s stern expression and patriotic salute seemed nothing more than a hollow mockery, a travesty of what it had once stood for.
“Have a drink with me, Trimani,” suggested Harry suddenly.
The barman shook his head.
“Thank you, Tuan, but you know it is not allowed. The rules…”
“Oh hang the bloody rules! D’you really think that they have the right to impose any? Fourteen years you’ve stood behind this bar and not once have you been able to have a drink with me; what difference can it make now, for God’s sake?” He gestured around at the empty building. “Besides, who’s here to see you break the rules? Pour yourself a beer, and I’ll have another one too.”
Trimani frowned. He still did not much like the idea, but after another glance around to assure himself that the chances of being caught were very remote, he stooped down, removed two cans of beer from the refrigerator and poured them out into glasses. He handed one to Harry.
“That’s the spirit, Trimani! Now, what shall we drink to?”
Trimani turned and indicated the photograph above his head.
“Let us drink to this fine lady,” he suggested.
“I’m surprised that you should want to considering what’s happened,” said Harry.
“It is not her fault, what’s happened here, Tuan. It is British government who give the orders. The queen is no more than their puppet. My eldest son told me that.”
Harry smiled drily.
“Sounds like a bright boy,” he observed. And he raised his glass to the photograph. “Queen Elizabeth II!” he announced.
“One fine lady!” added Trimani. The two men drank deeply. Trimani banged down his empty glass on the counter. “Ah, very nice!” he exclaimed. “Tiger is very good beer.”
“Pour yourself another one,” suggested Harry.
“Oh, but I should not, Tuan. I am not a great drinker and I may get drunk.…”
Harry gazed around at the empty bar.
“Do you see anybody here who’s likely to complain?” he asked.
Trimani grinned.
“No, Tuan, I don’t!” And he took another two beers out of the refrigerator.
“What shall we drink to now?” asked Harry. His mood was improving by the moment and he was beginning to feel ever so slightly tipsy. He usually made it a rule not to drink more than two Tiger beers during the heat of the day, when its effect seemed even more powerful than it was at night, but now he had cast his usual caution to the winds.
“Let us drink to our friend Captain Tremayne,” suggested Trimani brightly. “He has always been most kind to me.”
“Dennis, it is!” agreed Harry gleefully. “In fact, I can’t think of anybody more deserving of being drunken to … of being drunk to…” He scratched his head. “Of having a drink drunk to them…” His words weren’t coming out quite as he meant them. “To Dennis!” he cried.
“Captain Tremayne!” The two men drank their beers.
“Ah, that’s better,” observed Harry, wiping his mouth on his sleeve. “You know, Trimani…” He leaned across the counter as though confiding a secret. “Poor Dennis has so much work, he couldn’t even be here to drink with us in person.…”
Trimani took a deep breath.
“I feel very strange, Tuan,” he murmured.
Harry slapped his shoulder encouragingly.
“That means you’re ready for another one!” he explained. “Come on, line ’em up!” He took a handkerchief from his pocket and mopped at his brow. “Whew, it’s damned hot in here.” He gazed up at the large electric fan suspended from the ceiling above his head. Turning rhythmically, it seemed to be largely ineffectual and simply serve to move currents of already warm and stale air around the room. Harry took off his jacket, laid it across the bar and rolled up his shirt-sleeves, a rare break from decorum on his part.
“Now, let’s get down to some serious drinking!” he suggested. “Come along Trimani, thash another two beers…”
“Oh, Tuan, I’m not sure I should…”
“Nonsense, m’boy. You don’t want me to have to drink alone, do you?”
Trimani sighed, shook his head. He took two more beers out of the refrigerator.
“What shall we drink to this time?” wondered Harry.
An hour passed. Nobody else came in, and Harry and Trimani steadily drank their way past the point of no return. During the course of their drinking, they proposed toasts to an increasingly obscure series of subjects. They drank to the health of Trimani’s family, Doctor Kalim, various former officers of Kuala Hitam barracks, alive or dead, the manufacturers of Tiger beer, the late Chinese trishaw driver and his son, and other subjects that suggested themselves as blurry phantoms looming through the grey mists of their drunkenness.
“Whash next?” enquired Harry blankly. He was leaning rather unsteadily on the bar for support and Trimani was, with great difficulty, pouring out the next round of drinks.
“Oh Tuan,” he groaned. “The room is going around my head.…”
“Nonsense!” Harry waved an admonishing finger. “Once you begin to believe that my friend, you are halfway to being … halfway to being…” Harry considered this statement carefully and decided that in spite of Trimani’s blank expression, it did make perfect sense. He grabbed the next glass of beer and stood there, swaying dangerously from side to side. “Whash next?” he demanded again.
“My family?” suggested Trimani.
“We’ve drunk to your family already.”
“Oh yes, so it is. Well, your family then.”
“Yesh, my family.” Harry raised his glass, hesitated, then brought it down again. “No good,” he muttered. “Haven’t got a bloody family.”
“Oh yes, Tuan. I am sorry.”
Harry patted the barman reassuringly on the shoulder.
“Don’t worry about it. Whash next?”
“Ah Tuan, I know!” Trimani pointed excitedly to the tiger’s head over the doorway of the Mess. “Your old enemy. You always drink to him, but today when we are toasting, you have not!”
“That’s it! Trimani, you’re a genius.” Harry gazed up at the snarling face. “Trimani, did I ever tell you how I came to shoot that fellow…?”
“No, Tuan. I asked you before, many times, but you would never speak of it.”
“I wouldn’t?” Harry looked puzzled. He set down his drink, fumbled in his jacket pocket for his cigar case and then realized that he was no longer wearing the jacket. He abandoned the scheme.
“I’ll tell you now,” he announced grandly. “It was … 1958. I wasn�
�t quite as old as I am now … reports started coming in that a big tiger was taking cattle from the kampong stockades. He wasn’t a man-eater or anything like that, he’d just wandered out of the jungle, looking for food … but of course, everybody was convinced that he would become one in time … so they all got on to me to go out and have a crack at him. ’Course, in those days, I was always ready to have a go.… I still thought of it as some kind of sport, God help me! So I tied out a cow and built myself a machan. That night, the tiger came down to eat and I put a bullet through him; but it was a bad shot. I heard him howl and then he ran off into the jungle. Naturally, the sporting thing to do was to follow him up and put him out of hish misery.” Harry laughed bitterly. “Even more sporting would have been to leave the poor bugger alone, but still … he went into a patch of long grass and I waded in after him, like the bloody arrogant fool I was. In those days, I believed totally that carrying a gun put you above all retribution … then … thish is hard to explain.…” Harry reached forward and grabbed Trimani’s arm. “I tell you what, I’ll show you. You be the tiger, climb up on the bar here. That’sh right, up here.” He half pulled, half assisted Trimani up onto the wooden bar-top, where the little man crouched unsteadily on his knees. “Now then … the tiger … that’sh you … was up on a small outcrop of rock, lying flat so’s I couldn’t see him. Now, we need some thorn bushes between us—” Harry reeled away from the bar and began to overturn chairs, heaping them into a pile in front of the bar.
“Tuan, what are you doing?” cried Trimani.
“These are the thorn bushes in front of the rocks,” explained Harry. “Thish is hard to explain.…” He kept on adding to the pile until he had a large spiky pile of wooden chairs heaped up in front of him. Now he stumbled over to the corner of the room and snatched up Trimani’s broom, which he wielded as though it were a rifle. “Now then,” he explained. “You’ll have to use your himagination here … these tables at the front, these are the long grass and that pile of chairs there are thorn bushes … meanwhile, up on the rocks there, is the tiger; thatsh you. Now get down low!”
Tiger, Tiger Page 24
