One Blood

by Graeme Kent

  ‘If I tell the Malaitans on this island to stop work for a week and to prevent your technicians from working as well, they’ll do it. You know that, don’t you?’ he asked.

  For a moment Michie looked defiant. Then his shoulders sagged and he sat down behind his desk. ‘You’d do it, too, wouldn’t you?’ he asked. ‘What sort of a copper are you?’

  ‘Unusual,’ said Kella. ‘What’s happened since I was last here to make you pull up the drawbridge?’

  ‘There was a radio message from head office,’ said Michie. ‘They were afraid that local activists might be stepping up their operations against the island. So they sent those two so-called hard men over from one of their operations in Papua New Guinea to keep the place secure. A waste of space, the pair of them.’

  ‘And?’ prompted Kella.

  ‘They said they were taking additional precautions at a higher level. They wouldn’t tell me what that meant. That’s all I know. You can tear the camp to pieces, I still wouldn’t be able to tell you any more. Now will you kindly sod off? As if I haven’t got enough on my plate, I’ve had orders to show a bunch of visitors round the place.’

  Reflectively Kella walked back down to the water’s edge. He had the feeling that many things at the logging camp had changed since his last visit to Alvaro. Fifty yards offshore, a launch was coming to a halt. Its distinctive appearance marked it as the fifty-two-foot-long vessel with a steel hull and an aluminium superstructure belonging to the Australian tourist company.

  A dozen canoes propelled by Malaitan labourers were heading out to the ship. The Malaitans remaining on the beach had allowed the two big Australians out of the water to sit on one of the logs littering the beach. The bald man’s jaw was swollen. The scarred man was hunched forward, holding his stomach. Kella paid no attention to them. He saw Zoloveke, the older Malaitan who had taken him to the temple in the bush on his previous visit, and beckoned him over. Zoloveke came forward grinning, followed by a few more islanders. He jerked his head in the direction of the two stricken white men.

  ‘The next time you do that, tell me first so that I can come and watch,’ he said happily.

  ‘Have there been any other visitors here since I last came?’ Kella asked.

  ‘You think I spend all day on the beach like a Chinaman waiting for customers?’ asked Zoloveke. ‘How would I know? I’m a working man.’

  ‘I saw someone a few days ago,’ said a younger islander in Lau, coming forward. ‘I was working here on the beach when he arrived.’

  ‘What were you doing on the beach?’ asked Zoloveke. ‘Were you licking whitey’s arse again?’

  The young man ignored the older one. There was an undercurrent of animosity between them. Perhaps Zoloveke suspected that the younger islander had ambitions to challenge his leadership among the Malaitan labourers on the island.

  ‘What did you see?’ Kella asked, before a quarrel could develop between the two men.

  ‘Boss Michie came down to the beach to meet him. This made me think that he was a big man. He spent much time in Boss Michie’s office.’

  ‘What was this visitor like?’

  The young islander bit his lip with the effort of concentrating. Zoloveke jostled him impatiently to hurry the young man up. The islander refused to be rushed. ‘Blackfella,’ he said after a while. ‘A Roviana man, but I see him often in Honiara as well.’ He abandoned his native language which did not contain the words he was seeking, and broke into pidgin. ‘Plenty talk-talk long bigfella house. Himi luluai.’

  ‘Luluai,’ Kella said. ‘He was a talk-talk man, a politician?’

  ‘Him now,’ said the young islander triumphantly. ‘Politisen!’

  ‘What did he look like?’

  The young islander was in full flow now. He seemed eager to display his knowledge of pidgin, while Zoloveke stood frowning disapprovingly in the background.

  ‘Hair bilong himi grey. Himi gottim mouthgrass. No catchim tuhat,’ he said.

  ‘A politician with grey hair and a beard, who did not sweat,’ said Kella. There was no doubt about it, the young islander had just described Welchman Buna.

  The canoes were returning from the launch. Each one contained a white man or woman sitting behind the islander paddling. When they reached the shallow water, the Malaitan jumped out and signalled to his passenger to climb on to his back. Galloping through the spray, the islanders carried their white passengers piggyback and deposited them gently on the warm sand. Kella noticed Joe Dontate following behind the others, walking unhurriedly through the water. This must be the American tour party from Munda that he had heard about, he thought.

  ‘Welcome to Alvaro logging camp,’ boomed Michie, walking down the beach. ‘If you folks will just follow me to the company store, refreshments will be waiting for you, and then I’ll give you a conducted tour of the island. This way, everyone.’

  Chattering animatedly, the tourists straggled up the beach after the logging boss. Most of them cast curious glances at the battered security guards slumped on the log. Michie ignored the two Australians.

  ‘I see that you’ve been doing your bit for community policing again,’ said Joe Dontate, stopping and indicating the two guards.

  ‘It’s a dirty job, but somebody’s got to do it,’ said Kella.

  Michie was ushering the tourists into the company store. The Malaitans were dragging their canoes up on to the beach and dispersing to their jobs. Dontate did not move. He was wearing shorts and flip-flops. The long, smooth muscles of a professional athlete rippled effortlessly across his bare torso.

  ‘When are you going to stop picking on amateurs and see what you can do against me?’ Dontate asked.

  ‘Whenever you can fit me into your busy schedule,’ said Kella. ‘They tell me you’re too concerned with getting rich at the moment.’

  Dontate grunted and turned away. He followed the tourists into the store. Kella watched the former boxer go. Dontate was right. One day the pair of them would clash. In the meantime, like Dontate, he had more important things to do. What had Welchman Buna been doing at the logging station? There were no votes to be garnered here. Kella also wondered about the tour party. It seemed to be turning up all over the lagoon. The visitors would have an excuse for being almost anywhere. There were still too many loose ends to be put together.

  He pushed his canoe down the beach into the lagoon. Next he would look for Welchman Buna and ask the politician what he had been doing at the logging camp just before Jake Michie had increased the security arrangements there.

  Chapter Seventeen

  THE AIRSTRIP AT Munda was crowded for so early in the morning when Conchita tied up her canoe at the wharf and walked up the slope. Eight or nine American tourists were waiting for the flight to take them back to Honiara. Joe Dontate was helping a couple of islanders to bring their luggage from the rest-house and take it down to the beach. Later it would be rowed out to a launch to follow the tourists to the capital. Clark Imison and his two partners were sitting on the ground in a semicircle apart from the other Americans, talking earnestly and ignoring the bustle. An attractive, self-assured Melanesian girl in a white dress walked across to Conchita with a welcoming smile.

  ‘Good morning, Sister,’ she said. ‘I’m Mary Gui, I supervise the rest-house. Were you looking for a room?’

  ‘No, thank you,’ said the nun. ‘I’ve just come over from Marakosi to pick up a consignment of quinine for our clinic on the morning flight. You look busy. Is everyone leaving?’

  ‘Most of the Americans are flying back to Honiara,’ said the girl. ‘Just a few are staying on for a couple more days.’

  ‘Let me guess,’ said Conchita. ‘Mr Imison and his two friends are remaining in the West.’

  ‘That’s right; how did you know?’ said Mary. ‘They must like it here. They’ve hired Joe Dontate to give them a special tour of the lagoon for the rest of the week. They want to go to Kasolo and Olasana in particular. I can’t think why. There’s nothing at either pl
ace, not even a village.’

  The too offhand way in which she pronounced the islander’s name made Conchita wonder if the girl’s feelings for the former boxer were more than casual.

  ‘I believe that they are two of the islands where John F. Kennedy was stranded in the war,’ she said.

  ‘Really?’ asked Mary, in a tone that expressed her lack of interest in the subject.

  ‘The war’s been over a long time.’

  ‘The past is important to some people,’ said Sister Conchita. ‘The time before can mean a great deal.’

  ‘Not to me,’ said Mary. ‘That’s the trouble with this place. Too many people are living in the past. Still, it’s good business for Joe, running his tours.’

  That should be fun, thought Conchita, remembering how Dontate had expressed his low opinion of the three Americans the last time she had visited the rest-house. Still, the islander would do almost anything for money, and presumably Imison and the others would have a plentiful supply of dollars.

  ‘I’m sorry about your open day,’ Mary said. ‘It was going really well until that dreadful accident.’

  ‘Were you there?’ asked Sister Conchita.

  ‘Sure, who wasn’t? We don’t get many social events in the lagoon.’

  ‘You’ve been busy this week,’ said Sister Conchita. ‘This can’t be an easy place for a woman to run.’

  ‘It’s hard enough being a woman anywhere in the world,’ said Mary. ‘In the Solomon Islands it’s like pushing a pea uphill with your nose.’ She stopped, as if she had said too much. She looked at her watch. ‘I’d better go and make sure our guests haven’t left anything in their rooms,’ she said. ‘Excuse me.’

  The girl walked back into the rest-house. She was tough-minded and independent to a degree far beyond that of the usual Solomons woman, thought the nun. She could not make up her mind if she liked Mary Gui on such short acquaintance. She certainly had a strong personality. It would probably depend upon whether she was on your side or not. Glancing through the open door of the rest-house, the nun took in the layers of dust everywhere and the frayed and stained woven mats on the floor. Whatever her other qualities, Mary Gui did not seem to rate good housekeeping highly among them.

  Conchita stood unobtrusively in the shelter of the eaves, looking on at the bustle of events around her and missing little. Mrs Pargetter, the plump tourist, saw her and waved. The nun waved back but did not walk over.

  ‘Good morning, Sister Conchita,’ said a voice in her ear.

  Conchita turned. Welchman Buna had stepped out of the rest-house. As usual the politician was immaculately dressed. His khaki drill trousers were pressed to a knife-edge and he was wearing a white shirt that refused to wilt in the sun.

  ‘I’m beginning to think that if I stay here long enough I’ll meet everyone I’ve ever known,’ said Sister Conchita, shaking the man’s offered hand.

  ‘The rest-house does indeed tend to be an obligatory focal point for visitors to the Roviana area,’ agreed the politician.

  ‘Something like Purgatory,’ said Conchita.

  Before she could say anything else, Mrs Pargetter left her group and fluttered over to them. ‘Sister,’ she said. ‘Come to see us off? That’s might gracious of you.’ She turned her attention to the Advisory Council member. ‘Mr Buna, how nice to see you again! This is almost like having an official delegation to bid us goodbye.’

  Buna looked politely puzzled. Mrs Pargetter shrieked with affected laughter. ‘Why, you naughty man,’ she chided. ‘I do believe you’ve forgotten me already. We met at the open day at Sister Conchita’s mission. We were in the church and I asked you a question about the carved crucifix on the wall. You were very gracious and told me all about it.’

  ‘Yes, of course,’ said Buna. ‘How could I forget?’

  ‘I didn’t know you were at the open day,’ said Conchita. She seemed to be learning something new every minute this morning.

  ‘It was very crowded,’ said the politician dismissively. ‘I didn’t stay long. Now, if you will forgive me, ladies, I must be on my way. I have a number of villages to visit on foot on the island today in my perennial search for votes. Glad-handing, I believe you Americans call it. Then I have arranged to meet the estimable Sergeant Kella and the District Commissioner in Gizo tomorrow afternoon to discuss the annoying raids on the logging camp. No peace for the wicked!’

  He nodded and walked towards the fringe of trees at the far end of the airstrip. He stopped when he reached Imison and the two other American men, and sat down cross-legged in their circle, talking earnestly for some minutes. Then he stood up, nodded and continued on his way.

  Joe Dontate saw him and left the pile of luggage he was guarding, in order to greet the politician. They spoke urgently in undertones for a few minutes. Buna seemed to be pleading with Dontate, while the ex-boxer was shaking his head obdurately. Buna put a placating hand on the other man’s shoulder. Dontate shook it off angrily. Buna shrugged and continued on his way. Soon he was out of sight among the trees.

  ‘Mr Buna is such a nice man,’ said Mrs Pargetter, oblivious to what had been going on by the trees.

  ‘That’s right,’ agreed Conchita absently. ‘Tell me, when you were in the church with him, was Mr Blamire there as well?’

  ‘I believe he was,’ said the tourist, screwing up her face in concentration. ‘I think he was sitting on one of the benches by the altar rail. I guessed he was probably praying, so I didn’t disturb him. That was odd really. I’d never taken Ed Blamire to be a religious man. Perhaps he had problems. My husband used to say that there were no atheists in the trenches, though how he knew that I don’t know, because to my certain knowledge Wendell never went near a trench in his whole service life. A few bars, certainly, but trenches, never. It could be, I suppose, that if we’re in trouble, the most unlikely of us turn to God as a last resort. No offence, Sister. Oh, there’s our plane. I must be off. It was nice meeting you. If you’re ever in Baltimore, look me up.’ Mrs Pargetter indicated Imison and his companions with disfavour. ‘And keep away from those three. They’re bad medicine, I can tell. Snake-oil salesmen with attitudes, that’s all they are! So long, honey.’

  The lumbering twin-piston-engined de Havilland lumbered over the lagoon, steadily losing height. It taxied to the end of the runway and stopped. The only passenger to descend was Andy Russell, the VSO. He was carrying a box with a hospital green cross on the lid. A young pilot who did not look as if he could possibly be much more than twelve years old began to supervise the waiting passengers on to the aircraft. Dontate and the two islanders came back from piling the luggage on the beach. Andy reached Sister Conchita in a coltish jumble of long legs and handed her the container with a shy grin. He was as lathe-thin as ever, but he was looking much better than he had done the last time the nun had tended him at the mission clinic.

  ‘Good morning, Sister,’ he said. ‘They asked me at Number Nine if I’d bring these medical supplies back for you.’

  ‘Thank you, Andy,’ said Conchita, accepting the package. ‘Have you been ill?’

  ‘No, I’m fine. The DC sent me over to Honiara for a checkup after I got back to Gizo from Marakosi, but you’d already fixed me up great. I hitched a flight back here on the charter.’

  So her representations to the District Commissioner had had some result, Conchita thought. At least the official had been concerned enough to make sure that Andy was all right. Number Nine was the sobriquet of the Central Hospital just outside the capital, so-called because it had been established on the site of the ninth field hospital in the Solomons during the war.

  ‘I don’t know if they’ve sent a boat to take me back to Gizo,’ said Andy, looking hopefully in the direction of the wharf. ‘What the heck, I’ve been stranded in worse places than this.’ He caught Conchita’s eye. ‘Sorry! Constant flippancy can be annoying, can’t it? It’s just a defence mechanism.’

  The de Havilland wasted no time. It began to taxi along the airstrip a
nd then took off economically with its crew of two and load of tourists. Soon it was just a dot across the lagoon. At the last moment Mary Gui came out of the rest-house and perfunctorily waved the passengers off. Dontate walked back from the wharf, dismissing the two islanders who had been helping him, slipping some notes into their hands. As he passed Mary Gui, he put an arm around her waist. She shook it off expressionlessly. Dontate looked aggrieved and sat down with Imison and the two remaining Americans.

  Conchita wondered how many other people she knew had been present at the mission open day besides Welchman Buna. And how many of them had encountered Ed Blamire as he sought sanctuary in her church? She turned back to Andy Russell. She decided that she needed to swallow her pride and ask for help. It was something she should have done earlier.

  ‘I’ll take you back to Gizo in my canoe,’ she said. ‘You’ll have to wait for half an hour while I write a letter, and then we can go. There’s a favour I’d like you to do me as well. Is there anywhere around here where I can get some writing paper and an envelope?’

  Andy opened his holdall and took out some creased paper and an envelope. He rummaged in the holdall again and produced a stump of a pencil and gave it to the nun.

  Then nodding without any visible signs of curiosity, he headed for the shade of the rest-house. Mary Gui grinned at the VSO and went back inside with him. Conchita saw Joe Dontate glaring across at the building. It looked as if Miss Gui was capable of playing the field, thought the nun. However, she would probably be ill advised to trifle with the volatile ex-boxer’s affections. She looked at the writing paper Andy had given her. It was unused, and bore the printed heading SIIP.

  As she started to compose her letter, the nun wished that she could turn to Father Pierre for help, but he was back at Ruvabi mission on Malaita. Conchita knew that there was only one other person with the experience to help her, and that was Ben Kella. She would have to hope that he had forgotten how coldly she had treated him on his last visit to Marakosi because he had seemed so much at home in the company of the other nuns. Her pencil travelled quickly over the paper as she described the events of the last ten days, ever since the open day at the mission. She described Ed Blamire’s terror as he waited in the church for death to arrive, and the stories of the quarrels he had had with Imison and the other Americans. She wrote of Imison’s interest in the dead scout Kakaihe and of the rumours of the latter’s connections with the young Lieutenant John F. Kennedy. She depicted Sister Brigid’s traumatized state and her refusal to discuss the last fateful journey in the Roviana Lagoon that had resulted in the scout’s death. She went into some detail about the shell knap knap with the picture of the frigate bird that she had found among the dead magic man’s possessions. She mentioned the discovery of the war club with the tissues of blood and hair embedded in it. She tried to leave nothing out, including the refusal of the authorities to take any interest in the affair. Discarding all reticence, she begged the police sergeant to advise her on what she should do to bring the killers of Ed Blamire to justice.