Melissa’s mother took a more persuasive tack.
“It would mean so much to him if you were to come along with us,” she reasoned. “Why not bury the hatchet once and for all?”
Melissa nodded.
“Of course I’ll come,” she said simply.
“Oh … well that’s alright then.” Kate was vaguely surprised that her daughter had succumbed so easily. Perhaps she really had got this Bob Beresford fellow out of her system. “I’ll make something to eat then,” said Kate, moving off towards the kitchen.
“I’ll give you a hand,” offered Melissa. Like many Forces’ wives, Kate preferred to do her own cooking and employed an amah just to do basic cleaning, allowing her to return home in the early afternoon. Kate and Melissa prepared a simple meal of fried rice and fresh fruit, accompanied by a little green salad. When the meal was ready, the three of them sat down and ate more or less in silence. After clearing away and washing the dishes, they went out to the car and drove over to Harry’s house.
It was a fine clear evening. The sky was cloudless and the stars were particularly striking, twinkling like great handfuls of polished diamonds scattered across the blue velvet heavens. Far off to the right, the richly forested hills plunged down to meet the placid tranquil waters of the ocean. Abruptly, Melissa found herself reflecting that there were some things she would miss about this country. She knew that England had its own cold, rather austere beauty but where in that far-off land would she ever find a scene so wild, so relatively untouched by civilization as the vista that she could glimpse now through the car window? And also, in that moment, she realized that Harry would never be persuaded to leave this place; the hot sun and the palm trees and the great shimmering sweep of ocean were in his veins and were as much a part of him as he was a part of them.
They turned in at the small estate where Harry lived and Dennis brought the car to a halt outside the familiar white bungalow. They all got out and stood for a moment, gazing apprehensively at the closed doors and darkened windows. They could see no light inside.
“I hope he’s alright,” murmured Kate.
Dennis led the way in through the gate and they advanced slowly up the drive, paused at the front door. Dennis reached out and rapped politely with his knuckles. The house seemed ominously silent. After a few minutes’ wait, he knocked again. At last they were rewarded with a soft tread beyond the door and the sound of the latch being withdrawn. The door opened and there was Harry looking just as he always did, in the peak of health. He peered out into the night and then his tanned face broke into a cheerful grin.
“Hello there, Dennis … Kate! Well you two are a sight for sore eyes, I must say! Well, come in, come in…” He ushered them inside and then, for the first time, he noticed that they had not come alone. Melissa stood on the doorstep, an expression of uncertainty on her face.
“Hello, Uncle Harry,” she murmured.
He stared at her in silence for a moment, surprised and a little taken aback by her unexpected visit.
“Hello stranger,” he said at last and his voice was rather tremulous. “Well now … come along in. It’s good to see you again.…”
“It’s good to see you too, Uncle Harry. But, before I come in…” Melissa glanced self-consciously at her parents, and they obligingly moved further into the house in order to let her make her peace with Harry. “Before I come in, I rather think I owe you an apology.”
“Indeed?” Harry raised his eyebrows. “And why is that, may I ask?”
“I think you know. The argument we had … about Bob’s tiger. I was a little fool, Uncle Harry, shouting my mouth off about something I didn’t know anything about. Then, afterwards, when you were proved right … well, I suppose I was just too proud to admit that I was wrong. Pride’s a terrible thing.”
“Well, that’s true enough,” admitted Harry. “And I’ve got more than my fair share of it myself, I can assure you.” He smiled, extended his hand. “Here, come along inside … or are you going to stand around on the doorstep all night?”
Melissa smiled, accepted his hand, and squeezed it gently. It was good to be back. She let Harry pull her into the house and as she passed through the entrance, she quietly closed the door behind her.
* * *
“STOP HERE, TUAN,” said the bomoh’s assistant.
Bob pulled the Land Rover to a halt and sat for a moment, gazing cautiously around. They were on a deserted stretch of dirt road, a short distance beyond Kampong Machis. On either side of them lay thick, shadowy stretches of jungle, dank and forbidding in the darkness. Bob did not much fancy the prospect of wandering in there at this late hour. He turned to ask his companion a question, but the man was already clambering out of the Land Rover.
“Hey, hang on a minute!” Bob groped around in the back of the vehicle, found his rifle and a powerful flashlight that he always used for hunting at night. He slung the rifle over his shoulder and flicking on the torch, he climbed down and hurried after the bomoh’s assistant. The man was already striding fearlessly through the long grass that flanked the road. “Hold on a bit.… I’ve got a light here,” called Bob.
“I know my way,” replied the Malay, matter-of-factly. He ducked beneath a tangle of low-hanging branches and disappeared momentarily into the gloom of the jungle. Cursing to himself, Bob hurried after the man, tripping and stumbling over the unfamiliar ground. At last, with an effort, he managed to catch up with him and despite the fellow’s assurance that no light was needed, he directed a powerful beam of yellow light across the ground in front of them. He was momentarily startled by the alien appearance that the jungle took on at night. Features that would have seemed quite ordinary in the daylight, took on a decidedly weird quality in the stark glare of the flashlight. Tree trunks and hanging creepers possessed a twisted, serpentlike look that was rather disconcerting. Ferns and leaves cast dappled moving shadows that suggested that they had somehow come alive and were gradually closing in on the two men. Birds, resting in the lower branches of some of the trees, flapped away in alarm as the light sought out their leafy sanctuaries, and the beat of their wings in the silence was enough to set nerve endings jangling like a peal of bells.
“Nice place to visit, but I wouldn’t want to live here,” muttered Bob grimly. His companion did not even acknowledge the statement. He was seemingly intent on wherever he was going and nothing was going to keep him from his goal. Exercising a good deal more caution, Bob was on the alert for possible dangers. It was he who saw the snake first, a small dusty-brown creature, wriggling violently in the glare of the flashlight. It was a krait and despite its lack of any great size, Bob knew it was one of the most venomous of the local snakes, possessing a poison in its tiny fangs that worked neurotoxically, acting on the nerves and causing paralysis of the limbs, jaws, and eyelids. More often than not, bites proved fatal. But the bomoh’s assistant gave no indication of having spotted the danger. He was striding straight towards it and the creature was suspended in the grass at a height where it must surely brush against the Malay’s bare legs.
“Hey, watch out!” yelled Bob. “Snake!” He pointed into the beam of the light, but the Malay simply smiled, did nothing to check his speed or alter his direction. He brushed roughly against the snake, knocking it down to the ground by his feet; then, instead of moving quickly on, he stopped stock-still. Gazing down in horror, Bob could see the krait coiling and writhing against the bare flesh of the man’s ankles.
“For Christ’s sake, move!” urged Bob. “That thing is deadly poisonous!”
“But of course, Tuan.” The man turned his head to smile mockingly at Bob but he still made no attempt to move away out of harm’s reach. Instead, he stooped abruptly down and to Bob’s astonishment, snatched the krait up in one hand and held it out for inspection. “See! Beautiful, is it not?”
“Jesus Christ—” Bob stepped back instinctively and gazed in sheer disbelief. The creature thrashed and writhed in an attempt to escape the man’s grasp, but it
did not attempt to bite him. The man’s smile deepened into a grin. His teeth were very white in the darkness.
“Why … why doesn’t it bite you?” asked Bob weakly.
“A snake only attacks that which fears him,” replied the Malay matter-of-factly. “Since I am not afraid, he does not bite.” He stared at Bob thoughtfully for a moment. “He would bite you though,” he added and seemed to be on the point of handing the snake over to his companion.
“I’ll take your word for it,” said Bob hastily. The man gave a short derisive laugh and then flung the krait contemptuously aside. Then, the incident seemingly forgotten, he strode away again, his gaze fixed straight ahead. Bob took a long deep breath in order to calm himself and he stumbled after the Malay again. He was beginning to feel very uncomfortable.
“Look, how much further is it?” he demanded irritably. “I wasn’t expecting a bloody marathon.”
“Not far now, Tuan.”
“Well, I hope not. Listen, if the bomoh was so anxious to talk, why didn’t he come and see me himself?”
The bomoh never leaves his hut … at least, not on two legs.”
Bob gave a sneer of contempt.
What’s that supposed to mean? Look, mate, don’t try pulling the old mumbojumbo on me, it won’t wash!”
The man shrugged indifferently.
“I only say what I know,” he replied calmly.
“Yeah. You’re a smart feller alright…” Bob remembered the dream he’d had some time earlier. He’d never really identified the man with the tiger’s face.… He forced himself to remain logical. “Once you let your imagination take over, you’ve had it,” he warned himself. “Anyway, that’s how these people work, it’s exactly what they’re after—”
The bomoh’s assistant had come to an abrupt halt.
“We are there,” he announced tonelessly. Bob was taken by surprise. He stopped too and stared in the direction in which the Malay was pointing. At first he could see nothing but an unrelieved backdrop of undergrowth, but then the beam of his torch picked out a low, flimsy wooden shack that was virtually surrounded on three sides by trees and bushes. It was a crudely constructed ramshackle affair, not even raised off the ground in the familiar local tradition of building. The tiny window apertures were glassless and covered with lengths of mouldy sacking and the only element that suggested any life within was a thin plume of grey smoke issuing from a roughly made hole in the corrugated iron roof.
“That’s it?” enquired Bob dismally. Now that he had arrived at his destination, he felt strongly reluctant to go into the place.
“The bomoh is waiting for you,” murmured his companion.
“Aren’t you coming in?”
“No. I wait here.”
Bob frowned, shrugged.
“Here goes nothing,” he thought to himself and hoped that he didn’t look as apprehensive as he felt. He approached the hut slowly, keeping one hand on the stock of his rifle, so that he might snatch it from his shoulder if necessary. The low doorway at the front was also covered with filthy sacking. Bob reached out to grip it in his fingers and a large black spider skittered abruptly down the material and away across the ground. Bob shuddered involuntarily, and his skin began to crawl. He dreaded to think what other nightmarish creatures might be creeping about on the floor of the dingy little hut. He glanced back and saw that the tall Malay was still watching him, so he pulled the sacking roughly aside and entered the hut, stooping low to avoid banging his head.
Inside, there was a low wood fire burning dully in the very centre of the floor, the air was thick with fragrance of woodsmoke, and a powerful smell of incense mingled with hashish. A small, half-naked man was sitting in front of the fire, his legs crossed comfortably beneath him. He was wiry, apish-looking, with a completely bald head. Several diagonal scars ran across both his cheeks, some kind of ceremonial markings, Bob supposed. The man’s eyes were tightly shut and he seemed to be in a trance. Bob felt unsure of what to do, but then, unexpectedly, the man spoke, without opening his eyes.
“So you are here at last, Mr. Beresford. I was beginning to think that you would not come.” The voice was surprisingly cultured, the command of English excellent. “Come, sit opposite me. There is a place by the fire.”
Bob lowered himself awkwardly onto the floor, half afraid that he would sit on a scorpion or, worse still, a tropical centipede. It was oppressively hot in the cramped interior of the hut, and a thick sweat began to ooze from his armpits and chest.
“Why are you afraid?” asked the bomoh. “There is nothing to fear here.”
Bob was about to reply but at that instant the bomoh chose to open his eyes, and the Australian was transfixed by the sight of them. They were two pale orbs that caught the flickering glow of the firelight. In the very centre of each eye a tiny, tar-black pupil rested like a pinprick of black emptiness. They were not the eyes of a man at all, but the cold malignant eyes of a cat. Despite the heat, a cold shiver tingled its way down Bob’s spine. The bomoh smiled, displaying tiny white canine teeth that had been carefully filed to sharp points.
“You are reminded of your dream,” he said.
Bob’s jaw dropped open. He was on the point of leaping to his feet in panic, but somehow he restrained himself.
“How the bloody hell did you know that?” he whispered fearfully.
The bomoh spread his hands in a slow, expansive gesture.
“How does a man know anything?” he enquired. “I watch. I listen. And then all is revealed to me. And besides, the dream was necessary. If you had not had the dream, then I do not believe you would have come here.”
Bob took a deep breath, but the thick cloying atmosphere only served to make him feel lightheaded.
“It’s some kind of trick,” he said with conviction. “I don’t know how you did it, but it’s some kind of trick.”
The bomoh chuckled, a low, guttural unpleasant sound.
“Is that not typical of the Western mentality?” he observed. “Always suspicious of that which they cannot readily explain—But, since you like to call it that, I shall not argue with you. The Malay people would perhaps have another, more accurate name for it.”
“Yeah, well cut out the clever talk, mate. It might impress the people in the kampongs, but it doesn’t cut any mustard with me. Let’s get down to brass tacks, shall we? Why did you ask me to come out here?”
The bomoh gave a short, mocking bow of agreement.
“We have similar aims, Mr. Beresford. We both wish to see the old man-eater disposed of. I, because I fear that the wrath of the local people may turn against me; and you, because you are driven by a desire to prove yourself.”
“What are you talking about?” Bob fixed the bomoh with an outraged glare. “I hunt that tiger because he’s a menace, that’s all. Somebody’s got to put a stop to the killing.”
“Well, whatever your reasons, I feel I can be of help to you.”
“You think so, huh?” Bob frowned, stroked his chin for a moment. “Listen, if you’re so worried about the talk in the kampongs, why don’t you just go and explain the situation to them?”
“Perhaps my assistant did not make it clear to you before. The form I take when I leave this hut would not make me very welcome in the habitations of humans.”
Again, Bob found himself wondering how the bomoh could know about this; but, he reasoned, it would be a simple enough thing to set up beforehand.
“Oh yeah, I forgot,” he murmured sarcastically. “You’re the tiger-man, right? Must make things very awkward for you, no doubt.”
“Indeed, it does. For instance, Mr. Beresford, the lateness of your arrival does not give us very long to talk. In a short while, I must go out to hunt for my evening meal.”
Bob gave a short derisive laugh.
“Well, I’ll have to stick around,” he said. “I’d like to see that.”
The bomoh shook his head.
“Oh no, Mr. Beresford, I don’t think you would. However, since y
ou are a free man, you must do as you think fit. Meanwhile, let us consider the ways I might be of use to you. For one thing, I know the tiger that you are seeking, I have seen him on several occasions. As I said before, he is an old devil, very cunning. He has some porcupine quills embedded in his right foreleg and the wound has made him lame. They cause him considerable pain and that is why, for instance, he has begun to suffer terrible rages, such as the one that made him leap into your tree last night.”
Again, Bob was amazed, but he replied stolidly, “You could have heard about that from anyone at Kampong Panjang.”
“Of course, Mr. Beresford. And they too, could have told me how the tiger tore the rifle from your hands, leaving deep teeth marks in the wooden stock; and how only your agility and presence of mind saved you from becoming his next victim. But really, Mr. Beresford, I do not particularly care what you think or believe about me. Only the outcome of this meeting is important. The tiger must die if I am to enjoy the continued assistance of the kampong people.”
“Assistance?”
“For many years, the local people have turned a blind eye to my preying upon their livestock; but as the wildlife here in the jungles declines, it becomes necessary to hunt nearer to places of habitation. The people allow this because they have a healthy respect for me, a respect born of fear; allow that fear to turn into anger and eventually, they will fight back.… Do you understand?”
Bob took a deep breath. The thick perfumed atmosphere in the hut was making him feel distinctly dizzy. Coupled with the bomoh’s fantastic conversation, the event seemed to possess a vivid, hallucinatory quality.
“Tell me something,” muttered Bob. “Where the hell did you learn to speak such good English, huh?”
The bomoh shrugged.
“How does a man learn anything?” he enquired. “I watch. I listen. And then …
“Yeah, yeah…” Bob waved him to silence. “Christ, it’s hot in here.”
“I can tell you one thing for certain, Mr. Beresford. You will never catch the old tiger by putting out baits, or by lying up in the treetops. He has lived too long and learned too many tricks to allow himself to be trapped.”
Tiger, Tiger Page 28
