by Peter Watt
There was an outburst of joyous shouts from some, subdued silence from others. To them, Australia seemed like another world and they were uncertain of what awaited them.
David sat down at the edge of the beach, taking in the contents of the Order of the Day. It seemed so surreal. He could not think of a time in the past five years when he had not been entirely focussed on more efficient ways to stay alive and kill the enemy. Now they were going to be demobilised to return to a civilian life of quarter-acre blocks, a wife and three kids in the suburbs.
David knew he could never do that. He had seen too much death and suffering.
*
At first Anne Bambury thought she was hearing things – church bells! Then she realised it was true. The war was really over and the bells were ringing out the news. Already the Chinese villagers nearby were sending in eggs, butter and milk for the prisoners. Anne looked up and saw the Allied aircraft roar low overhead, with no anti-aircraft guns responding to their presence. For some strange reason all she could think of was a Yorkshire pudding, and then she remembered that Diane was still in the hospital. It was imperative that she tell her best friend. On her last visit, Diane had been slipping in and out of consciousness. The news might help her hang on until proper medical help arrived. Young Sam had spent all his spare time sitting by her cot, holding her hand. Anne hoped that had soothed her.
Anne hurried to the hospital, only to see Sam with his head down, tears streaming down his face. He was holding Diane’s limp hand. Suddenly Anne felt sick in the stomach.
‘No, God, no!’ she shouted, looking down on the wan face and wasted body. It was obvious Diane was dead, and Anne fell to her knees to hug the frail body.
‘Our boys won,’ she cried. ‘It’s all over.’
A woman walked up behind Anne, one of the heroic doctors who had fought for every patient she had treated. She placed her hand on Anne’s shoulder. ‘I’m sorry, my dear,’ she said gently. ‘We could not beat the malaria. She was too weak from malnutrition.’
Anne nodded. She had seen so many people die in Changi without recourse to the drugs and specialised treatment the Japanese had kept from them.
‘I believe you were close to Mrs Duffy,’ the doctor said. ‘Do you know any of her next of kin?’
Anne dried her eyes with the back of her hand and stood up. ‘I only know she has a son in Australia, and that her husband was killed before the war in Iraq.’
The doctor glanced at Sam, still clutching the hand of the woman who had been the only mother he had known. ‘I see in the records that Sam has no living parents, nor do we know about any other next of kin.’
‘I will look after him,’ Anne said. ‘He’s a good boy. I’ll see what I can do to take him in.’
‘Good luck,’ the doctor said, knowing that adopting a mixed-race child would not be easy. She left to tend to the other sick and injured patients in the ward.
When Anne went to hug Sam, he pulled away. What Anne saw in his face frightened her. There was a savage expression in his eyes she had never seen before.
‘It’s not fair. I hate everyone!’ he spat, and stormed away.
Anne never saw him again.
*
Father James singled out young Patrick as he was going to a class.
‘Yes, Father,’ Patrick answered. The priest indicated he would like to talk to him in private. He led Patrick to his office and closed the door behind him.
The Jesuit priest looked uncomfortable, placing his hand on Patrick’s shoulder. ‘Patrick, we’ve just received news from the Red Cross that your mother passed away in Changi,’ he said.
‘Passed away,’ Patrick echoed, the term not quite making sense.
‘I’m afraid your mother is dead,’ the priest said. This time, Patrick fully understood.
‘My mother will not be coming home to me,’ he said, gripping his pile of schoolbooks to his chest. The priest nodded.
‘I have to go to my class, Father,’ Patrick said. ‘Can I go?’
‘Yes,’ the priest replied and watched as the young boy walked away. The Jesuit had not seen any real sign of grief in the boy, and wondered if Patrick really understood what death was.
As Patrick walked along the corridor to his class he had horrific memories of the smashed bodies he had seen on the retreat south to Singapore. He squeezed his eyes shut to make them go away, and wished he could remember his mother’s face. She was a blur, someone he had barely known.
He found his desk in the classroom and sat down. He started to shake and tears rolled down his cheeks.
‘Look at the sissy,’ sneered a boy he did not like. ‘Crying like a little girl.’
Patrick slammed his books down on the desk and launched himself at the boy. Only the strength of Father James, who had entered the classroom to conduct lessons, held Patrick back. The priest ordered Patrick from the room.
Before Father James joined Patrick he turned to the young faces watching him. ‘Patrick has just learned his mother died in Changi prison at the hands of the Japanese. I want you all to take out your rosary beads, and say ten Hail Marys for her. I will be able to hear you in the hallway, so make sure you say every Hail Mary.’
That evening Father James called Sean Duffy to pick up Patrick and take him home for a while.
*
Jessica Duffy received news that her mission was not going ahead when she returned to Cairns, and that she was due for leave. She travelled to Townsville after receiving a telegram that said the family solicitor would be reading her father’s will. After booking into a hotel she made her way to the legal firm, and was ushered into the lawyer’s office. He was a rotund man in his fifties, and wore spectacles on the end of his nose.
‘Ah, Jessie,’ he said. ‘Please accept my deepest condolences. Tom was one of the finest men I will ever know.’
Jessica accepted his condolences with a grateful smile, sitting down in a chair opposite the country solicitor. She noticed a thick manila folder on his desk.
‘I know you’ll be very surprised when you learn the extent of your father’s dealings over the last few years. He and I have worked closely while you were on your missionary work in the islands, to restructure much of what Tom owned. For a start, your father sold off almost all his cattle stations in Queensland with the exception of Glen View. Your father reinvested the money into sheep properties in New South Wales and Victoria. He felt wool would be in great demand after the war. He also took out shares in various kinds of companies. I have a list of them here.’ The solicitor passed Jessica a couple of sheets of typed paper.
Jessica glanced down the list of companies, and drew a breath. ‘Many of these companies are linked to the Macintosh family,’ she said. ‘Why would my father invest in the companies of our enemy?’
‘According to discussions I had with your father, not all the Macintosh family were enemies,’ the lawyer said. ‘We were also working with your legal representative in Sydney, Major Sean Duffy, and I can see you were not aware that a Mr Donald Macintosh and his mother secretly assisted Major Duffy to identify which Macintosh companies to invest in.
‘As a matter of fact, they also paid over their shares to ensure your father became the major stockholder, under the guise of his company, Burkesland Holdings. It appears Sir George was unaware of Tom’s incursion into the Macintosh holdings. He only knew a rival was at work, but never suspected your father. I calculated that you probably have a fifth share of the Macintosh financial properties which, I must say, are proving to be very profitable. I have to give credit to their new head, Sarah Macintosh, for pushing their enterprises ahead. She is proving to be one of the most astute players in the world of commerce, and she is so young – and a woman.’
For a second Jessica almost felt an affinity with her hated enemy at the lawyer’s obvious chauvinism, but remembered that Sarah Macintosh was behind her fathe
r’s murder. She placed the sheets of paper on the desk. ‘What does all this mean?’ she asked.
The lawyer leaned back in his chair, steepling his fingers. ‘It means that the way you are positioned, you could cause a lot mischief to the Macintosh millions. The last purchase your father made was in construction firms in Sydney, and according to the papers from down south, the Macintosh companies are going to be heavily involved in the housing business. In a sense, they will have to deal with you.’
Jessica was trying to take in her father’s grand strategy. It seemed that he was launching an attack on the Macintosh family from within. Not once had he mentioned his scheme. Jessica shook her head, smiling at her father’s tactical skill. ‘My dad was a lot smarter than all those fancy whitefellas,’ she said.
‘For a man of any colour, your father was one of the smartest men I ever knew,’ the solicitor said. ‘He has also allowed for a very generous allowance to his beloved wife, Abigail, from the dividends of the stocks and shares, ensuring she will never know hard times.’
When the will had been read, Jessica stepped out onto the Townsville street and into a blast of hot air. She walked away with a grim smile, reflecting on how her wonderful father had left her the ammunition to destroy Sarah Macintosh. She would be the gun to fire that ammunition.
TWENTY
Despite the coming warmth in the southern hemisphere, it was cold inside the dank room that smelled of chemicals and death.
Sean Duffy stood at the edge of the metal gurney, where the body of what was once a beautiful young woman lay. He could see the damage the speeding vehicle had done to her body, breaking bones and twisting them into awkward angles.
‘It is her,’ he whispered, as the morgue assistant held back the covering sheet.
‘I’m sorry, sir, but I’ll require you to clearly state who this person is,’ said the uniformed constable beside Sean.
‘Miss Allison Lowe,’ Sean replied, leaning on his cane, and hoping his artificial legs would not collapse under him. ‘She was my personal assistant.’
The constable scribbled in his pocket notebook.
‘All I was told was that Miss Lowe was the victim of a hit-and-run motor-vehicle collision last night,’ Sean said as the morgue attendant dropped the sheet over Allison’s deathly pale face. ‘Can you tell me anything else about the incident?’
‘Not really, sir,’ the constable replied. ‘I was called by a lady who found the deceased in the street. She told me she heard a screech of a car engine, and then a heavy thump. When she ran down from her flat she found the deceased lying in the street, and went upstairs to call an ambulance. I’m afraid with all the celebrations going on last night, I couldn’t find any other witnesses. Even if we could arrest someone, it’s likely no jury would convict anyway.’
Sean knew what the constable meant. A driver charged with killing someone under such circumstances was rarely found guilty of a serious offence. It was the perfect murder, since it would be written off as an accident. So many people killed in motor-vehicle collisions did not get the attention they should. Juries often went easy on the offenders, perhaps because they thought the person in the dock could easily be them.
‘Is there any next of kin I can inform of the lady’s death?’ the constable asked, his pencil poised to write. ‘A husband, fiancé, parents . . .?’
‘Not that I know of,’ Sean said, turning to walk away. ‘I would like a copy of the police report on the matter,’ he continued, ‘and also notification of when the coroner’s court hearing is to be held.’
‘I’ll make sure you’re kept up to date, Major Duffy,’ the policeman said. ‘I’m sorry for your loss.’
It was a sunny day outside but the smell of the morgue lingered. As Sean made his way to a tram he thought about David. He would have to be informed, but he was still somewhere in northern New Guinea. It would have been better to tell David the tragic news in person, but Sean knew it would have to be a letter from him. How many times had he written letters to the next of kin as an officer in the last war? Too many times.
Sean also thought about young Patrick, who was at home. Should he tell Patrick that the lady he liked so much was dead? No, Patrick was suffering enough from the news of his mother’s death.
It was peace, Sean thought bitterly. And good people close to him were still dying. Had Allison been an innocent victim of a hit-and-run? Suspicion ate at the lawyer. He knew Allison had been the victim of a previous campaign to discredit her. Had Sarah taken her campaign to destroy Allison to another level? Sean was convinced the accident was something more, but proving so would be tedious and difficult. Sean was determined to do so, but also knew work on the case could stretch into months, if not years.
*
The heat shimmered over the Okinawa airstrip where the great new giants of the American air force sat idle. James Duffy stood at the edge of the airfield gazing through his aviator sunglasses at the B29 Super Fortress bombers, now redundant since the declaration of peace in the Pacific. It was strange, he thought, that the word Pacific meant peace.
Beside him was his seabag. He was dressed in his precisely pressed summer uniform, ready to board a transport aircraft to fly, first to Hawaii, then onto the west coast of the United States. Points for service had got him an early trip home to await his discharge. No longer would he sit in the cockpit of his Corsair staring through the perspex as his rockets and heavy machine-gun bullets tore into living flesh. No longer would he feel the intense fear and exhilaration of aerial combat.
It was hard to believe that such dramatic events had transpired to bring the Japanese to the peace table. No more the terrible dread of being part of a great invasion of the Japanese home islands, with massive casualties on both sides.
‘Goin’ home, sir?’ a young aircraftsman said, as he loaded a pallet with bags of cement meant for more permanent structures on the Japanese occupied island. Under his breath he muttered, ‘Lucky son of a bitch.’
‘Yes,’ James replied, but wondered, what was home? The past few years, home had been either in the cockpit of his fighter or some foxhole in the Pacific. How could he and his comrades ever really leave behind the memories of heat, jungle rot, sudden death and lost friends? Already his nights were racked with nightmares, and all he could do was hope they would fade with time. An air force senior NCO waved him over to a transport aircraft, and James picked up his bag and wandered over. As much as he was overjoyed the war was over, he also feared what lay ahead in the peace. He was going home to a very uncertain future.
*
Springtime had arrived in the southern hemisphere, an appropriate season to see life return to the land after the winter of war. Jessica Duffy had received her discharge from the air force, and took a train to Sydney to consult with the man she knew had worked closely with her father, and who she considered as close as any family member.
Sean Duffy was delighted to see Jessica walk into his office, and rose to embrace the young woman.
‘I was expecting you,’ he said when he disengaged himself. ‘I regret I was unable to attend your dad’s funeral, but time and distance were against me doing so. My learned friend in Townsville rang to brief me that he had read your father’s will, and now I feel you have a thousand questions. But first, where are you staying while you’re down here?’
‘I’ve moved into our place at Strathfield. It’s handy, with the railway station nearby.’
‘You were welcome to stay with me, you know,’ Sean said. ‘I’ve just sent Patrick back to school. His mother died in Changi hours after the war ended. On top of that, I have to contact David in New Guinea. The woman he loved has been killed in a motor-vehicle accident. On the very night we were all celebrating victory in the Pacific.’
‘God help us,’ Jessica said, sitting down in a chair in Sean’s office. ‘It’s as if we’re cursed, for both deaths to occur so closely in our family circle.�
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‘It has been said that is so,’ Sean replied, taking the weight off his legs by resuming his chair behind the desk cluttered with files. ‘Glen View has always been at the centre of tragedy in the Duffy and Macintosh family histories. I remember the old whispers that it all dates back to a long time ago when old Wallarie’s people were massacred . . . I should also say, your ancestors were related to Wallarie. With your father buried beside so many others of both families, it appears the curse is not over yet. I know it’s not rational to believe in curses, but how do you explain the violent history of the Duffy and Macintosh lineage?’
Jessica tried to smile. ‘I feel something in the universe is shifting. It feels as if the guiding hand of Dad’s spirit has set up circumstances to finally destroy the family responsible for any curse – if it really exists.’
‘Your father certainly spent a lot of time considering ways to undermine them,’ Sean said. ‘You know you virtually own a fifth of the Macintosh financial empire. It’s not enough to destroy Sarah Macintosh, who I strongly suspect ordered Tom’s death, and Allison’s, but it’s enough to worry her when she finally discovers who’s behind the associated companies in their portfolio of interests. You now control those companies.’
‘Ah, Uncle Sean, there was a time when I could just shoot people,’ Jessica said with cold certainty, ‘but now my life’s ambition is to see Miss Sarah Macintosh on her knees, begging for mercy.’
‘You’ll never see her beg, but you just might be able to bring her to her knees in the future,’ Sean said. ‘It’s better revenge that she lives a life, where the memory of failure is ever with her. That would be a living hell for the likes of Sarah.’
‘Well, I’m here to find out from you the many ways of seeking revenge,’ Jessica said.
Sean was only too eager to advise her.
*
Captain James Duffy was now Mr James Duffy. After his discharge he returned to the West Coast where he switched his uniform for a civilian suit. His first stop was a small bar in San Francisco. There were still men in military uniform, but James noticed that civilian enthusiasm for their service was quickly dwindling as peace swept over the United States. Industry was swapping its machines of war for refrigerators and automobiles. The country was experiencing a second economic boom as factories began producing the consumer goods discontinued during the war years.
