A Different Sky (31 page)

After some time, he steadied himself and with his one good arm took hold of Ravi's shirt. Bit by bit, wincing with the pain, he pulled him back up the beach to a place he hoped was above the tide. The movement
caused more of Ravi's guts to spill out in a glistening slippery blue heap, beneath the already dry entrails. The flies, disturbed, buzzed in an angry cloud about him. Howard positioned Ravi's body as best he could, the pain in his shoulder bringing a cold sweat to his brow, the vile smell making him vomit up yellow bile. He found a wallet in the pocket of Ravi's shorts that contained an address and some photographs and then, seeing no alternative, left him.

Returning to the beach, he searched unsuccessfully amongst the corpses for Abbas before, holding his wounded arm to lessen its weight and the pain, he took a path leading away from the beach through secondary jungle and the rubber plantation, and knew, by the presence of yet more bodies, that the battle had raged here too. For some time he stumbled on, faint and nauseous, shivering now with fever and exhaustion. Eventually, in a clearing beyond the trees he saw an attap-roofed hut and made his way towards it, dragging himself up the steps on to a narrow veranda with the last of his strength. Then, as he heard steps approaching, blackness overcame him.

When he opened his eyes again he was lying on a firm pallet looking up at wooden beams below an attap roof.

‘Feeling better?' Howard saw a Malay man in his mid-thirties staring anxiously down at him. The nostrils of his thin-bridged nose were so large that, from where Howard lay, they appeared like black tunnels running into his face. Turning his head, Howard saw that the wound on his arm was thickly bandaged and that under a thin cotton sheet he appeared to be naked but for a
sarong
about his lower body. The man noticed him taking note of this.

‘We burned your uniform; it's safer,' he said. The events that had brought him to the hut flooded into Howard's mind.

‘Where are the Japanese? What's happening?' He tried to sit up.

‘The British army have retreated, but you're safe here.' The man pushed Howard gently back on to the bed. A woman came forward carrying a small bowl. She knelt beside them, and began spooning a warm drink that tasted strongly of ginger into Howard's mouth.

‘Make you sweat, then fever come down,' she said and smiled, her plump face creased in concern. She was much younger than the man and Howard wondered if she was his sister or even his daughter.

‘My wife, Ayesha,' the man explained. ‘My name is Mohammad
Abdullah. Sleep now,' he suggested. A wave of fatigue swept over Howard and he closed his eyes, breathing in the warm sun-baked odour of the thatch and the lingering cooking smells in the hut.

When he awoke next, the sun was streaming down on him through a small window of bamboo bars. He did not know how long he had slept; his head was filled with the residue of weird dreams. With an effort he managed to prop himself up on an elbow, and saw a small boy sitting cross-legged on the floor staring at him. Ayesha, who was squatting on her haunches stirring something in a pot, stood up immediately.

‘Fever gone? Two whole days you slept,' she told him; Abdullah seemed not to be about and the child moved nearer Howard's mat and continued to regard him curiously.

‘My son, Hassan.' Ayesha smiled and began gently to untie the bandage on Howard's arm. A scent of
champaca
wafted from her; a small white flower was tucked into the coil of her hair.

‘Must change,' she said as Howard winced in pain and pulled away, his shoulder stiff and sore. When the bandage was removed he saw a clean but inflamed wound.

‘There is infection still, but you were lucky, bullet go in and go out again. Bone not broken.' Ayesha showed him the holes on his upper arm. Placing a fresh poultice of pounded leaves and roots on the wound, she bandaged it up again. Then she heated a bowl of rice gruel on a primus stove and fed him spoon by spoon for he could not lift his arm. Soon, he was shivering and knew the fever was rising again.

‘Rest,' Ayesha ordered, clearing away the dirty poultice.

Howard lay back on the pillow, his mind full of the memory of Ravi, lying dead, staring up into the sun. And what of Abbas? Howard wondered. Exhaustion and weakness weighed him down and made him want to cry. He could not absorb the enormity of what had happened, why they had to die. He remembered the jolting truck with Abbas kneeling to pray; he remembered the dark beach where they had waited with their paltry guns, the soft chug of the Japanese outboard motors. However fearful they had been at that moment, they had not expected death to claim them so quickly. When he signed up to fight, Howard realised now, he had never thought of dying, just of breaking open his life.

‘I left friends on the beach . . . dead friends . . .' His voice broke and
Ayesha, kneeling to some work on the other side of the room, sat back on her heels and observed him.

‘Some the sea took and the others were buried. Men came, Red Cross volunteers, and buried those left on the beach in a big grave,' Ayesha said gently. Howard nodded and lay back on the pallet again, knowing he was helpless to change what had passed. Nothing made sense any more. He turned his face to the wall and wept silently.

Once again he passed through a long sleep of strange dreams and distorted images. He saw Abbas and then Ravi, running along the beach towards him. A monstrous wave rose up, like a great curling tongue, rolling down to claim them. ‘Ravi! Abbas!' he screamed. Hot tears poured down his cheeks; in the belly of the wave, as if behind glass, he saw the boys tossed about like sticks; he tried to follow but the water pushed him back, spitting him up on to the beach, rejecting him. He awoke with a sick start, his heart pounding; he found the fever was gone and another day had passed. Ayesha brought him food and then sponged his body with tepid water and he was too grateful for the luxury to feel any shame. As she finished bathing him, Abdullah came in through the door carrying a bundle of vegetables.

‘I have become a farmer,' Abdullah laughed giving the vegetables to his wife, who was sitting down on the floor beside Howard's pallet. ‘We were worried about you – that wound was bad in your arm. My wife knows about old remedies. Once she was a nurse in a Singapore hospital, but she left to marry me.'

Howard observed that Abdullah did not appear to have the hands of a farmer: his slender fingers and fine-featured face of Arab ancestry appeared more that of a scholar. He wore a loose shirt over a
sarong
, on the sleeve of which was an armband with a tortoiseshell emblem embroidered on it. When he had dragged himself up the steps of Abdullah's hut, Howard now remembered, there had been a paper with the same emblem, pasted beside the door.

‘I was once a civil servant in a government office in Kuala Lumpur,' Abdullah admitted when Howard asked. ‘War changes everything,' he added, his face becoming stern.

‘What's happened? Where are the Japanese?' Howard demanded with sudden urgency, remembering Ravi and Abbas again.

‘From Kranji where you were, they advanced south along Woodlands Road. Now they are all over the island, there is fighting everywhere
these last days, but you are safe here with me,' Abdullah assured Howard, seeing the effect of this news upon him. As he spoke there was the sound of a plane overhead. The hut seemed to be under the path of Japanese bombers, for the sound of aircraft was constant. Sometimes the distant thud of explosions was heard.

‘There is fierce fighting today for Bukit Timah; when they capture the area they will have control of the main water supply. It cannot last long. The British have underestimated the enemy,' Abdullah elaborated.

‘How long have I been here?' Howard asked; he had lost all sense of time.

‘Three days,' Abdullah smiled, seeing the shock on Howard's face.

By evening Howard felt well enough to eat a meal of rice and a dish of some spicy beans. As they ate, Abdullah gave him further news, always speaking without fear of the Japanese advance.

‘You didn't hide when the Japanese came through here?' Howard was puzzled.

‘They will not harm us,' Abdullah assured him with such confidence that Howard fell silent, confused.

‘I must go,' he worried, thinking of his mother and Belvedere now that the Japanese had arrived on the island, but his head spun when he tried to stand up.

‘Another day or two and you will feel stronger,' Abdullah insisted, laying a hand on his arm.

After dinner Abdullah helped him into a chair on the narrow veranda of the hut, and Ayesha brought them sweet drinks of ginger juice and lemon grass. Moths blundered against the hot glass of the oil lamp and with a soft sizzle, died. Fireflies lit up the trees, while the moon shed its empty light on the dark jungle, illuminating the shapes of flitting bats. The night was noisy with crickets. Howard absorbed the peace with some unease, aware of how near the violent reality of war really was. As he sipped the aromatic drink his eyes fell again on the strange tortoiseshell sign pasted on the wall of the hut and he decided to ask Abdullah about it. The man was silent before he replied, as if debating how he should answer.

‘It is the crest of Fujiwara Kikan, a Japanese intelligence unit run by Major Fujiwara,' Abdullah finally replied in a matter-of-fact way.

‘Am I a Japanese prisoner?' Howard sat forward in alarm, for the
first time feeling unsure of the man. Abdullah's eyes rested on him for a moment, then he sighed resignedly.

‘No, brother, you are free to go whenever you want, as soon as you are well. You are in no danger,' he repeated, but seeing Howard's agitation continued.

‘Listen, I will tell you how it is. I tell you because the British cannot prevent what is now happening. Soon, the Japanese will control the island; already as we speak it is happening, and nothing can prevent it. In Kuala Lumpur Japanese army officers approached me. I belong to a small group of people working to improve the status of our Malay race, to awaken our people to themselves and the need to fight for their independence. The Japanese support the efforts of our Kesatuan Melayu Muda because they believe in a free Asia. They wanted KMM members to accompany the Japanese army down the peninsula and liaise with our Malay people for them, helping to make good relations. I was assigned to F Kikan.'

‘Were you happy to go with them?' Howard asked, trying to hide his growing anxiety as Abdullah spoke.

‘When people with guns and swords
invite
you to go with them, you have no choice. For the safety of my family I have done as I was asked. The British have never helped us Malays improve our status. They see us only as tillers of the land. Our children are more likely to be taught to weave bamboo baskets than to become scientists and lawyers. The British have never wished to see us educated, fearing we might rise up against them one day. This is our chance now, the Japanese want to help us.' For a moment Abdullah's voice rose, then he fell silent.

Listening to him, Howard was overcome with a sense of familiarity and knew he had heard this story before. He could have been listening to Raj's brother-in-law Krishna. Abdullah even reminded him of the man. Both were tall and slim; both were men of ideals, as too was the aggressive Wee Jack, who also spoke of similar things. Only he, Howard, seemed to have no ideology to consume him. A feeling of desolation swept through him again, and he leaned back exhausted in the chair as Abdullah continued to speak. From within the hut came a strong smell of grilling meat and Ayesha's voice speaking to the child. Soon, she called them for the evening meal. The child slept on
a mat in a corner as cooking smoke drifted above them, trapped in an aromatic cloud under the thatch of the roof.

Two more days passed before Howard felt strong enough to find his way home. He had lost a whole week and did not know what he would find when he returned to town, or where his unit might be. When it was time for Howard to go, Abdullah opened a battered tin chest and pulled out a fresh shirt and a sarong.

‘Wear these. If any Japanese see you they'll think you are a Malay; they do not take much notice of us Malays.' He laughed good-naturedly as he shook out the
sarong
, holding it up for Howard to inspect.

It was many miles back to Belvedere, and Abdullah arranged for a friend with a cart and a mule, who was going in Howard's direction, to take him to Upper Bukit Timah. Abdullah and his wife and child stood at the door of their hut and waved as Howard departed, until he could see them no more.

‘
Inshallah
. We shall meet again,' Abdullah's voice floated after him.

It was dusk by the time Abdullah's friend dropped Howard off near Bukit Timah. The familiar sound of guns and shelling surrounded him once more. He stood numbly on the edge of the road, weak and exhausted and still unsteady on his feet. Night was almost upon him and he knew he could not continue. A short distance off the darkening road he saw a bombed-out bungalow and made his way towards it. Little of the house remained but Howard found two rotted basket chairs and collapsed gratefully into one, putting his feet up on the other; his shoulder was stiff and painful, his head aching. As he stretched out he loosened the sarong about his waist and Ravi's wallet dropped out. He had folded it in the top of the sarong, rolling the cloth about it. In the fading light he turned it over in his hands, unable to think of the unknown world Ravi and Abbas had now passed into, and from which only he had returned.

The next morning he saw all too clearly the state of Bukit Timah. The road was pitted with craters and littered with abandoned vehicles; houses were destroyed or empty. Trying to clear his mind, counting back over the week of lost days since the night on the beach at Kranji, he realised that it must be 15 February, the morning of Chinese New Year. He wondered immediately about Mei Lan, and what kind of
celebration they or anyone else could have at so grim a time. Only the hundreds of ducks and chickens that would escape slaughter for the usual celebratory feast would have reason to rejoice.