A Dawn Like Thunder (22 page)

Napier grunted with pain. ‘Keep going, for God's sake! It might be somebody else!'

Very slowly, they made their way towards the village, using the path of trodden grass their visitors had used to approach the old shed.

The smell of smoke was stronger and more acrid, and for the first time Tucker saw it drifting above the nearest huts like something solid.

He said, ‘It's the place where they fixed your wound.' He felt Napier shifting against him, trying to see what was happening.

Rice was gulping air like a drowning man, his pistol moving from left to right like a talisman. He gasped, ‘If we find Mango . . .'

He fell silent as Tucker said harshly, ‘He can't help.' It came out like a sob. ‘Not any more.' With great care he lowered Napier to the ground and waited for him to find his balance, then he walked to the sprawled body lying across the track and stood looking down at it, knowing he would never forget or forgive.

Someone must have discovered that the youth was carrying food and cigarettes to unknown British servicemen. The Japs had stripped him naked and beaten him until his body was bleeding and bruised all over. Either he had been unable to answer their questions or, knowing his simple loyalty, it seemed likely that he had refused. They had tortured him with a heated blade, most likely a bayonet, on his face, his shoulders and his genitals. Tired of it, they had shot him through the heart.

Flames and sparks shot from a nearby roof and, as the hut exploded into flames, two Japanese soldiers ran on to the track. Tucker noticed that they were both laughing, their small pot-like helmets bouncing up and down as they scampered away from the flames, more like two schoolboys playing a prank than men who had brutally tortured and then killed a defenceless boy with an unpronounceable name.

Simultaneously, they saw Tucker and his companions and, like puppets, each unslung his rifle.

Tucker felt the revolver kick into his hand as he fired, hearing nothing, and with no emotion but a deep, grieving sense of loss. There was no time to reload. He flung the revolver away and dragged Napier's from his belt. ‘Hang on to me! We'll get to the river, find a boat!'

He lifted Napier over his shoulder again and stared round, his eyes blurring and stinging with smoke.

‘Lend a hand, Nick! Back to the water, chop, chop!'

Then he began to run, shambling awkwardly with Napier's weight dragging on his shoulder. He croaked, ‘Bastard's run for it! I should have known!'

He felt something sticky on his fingers and knew Napier's wound had opened again.

It was like watching someone else. He could hear his own rasping breath, could see nothing but the narrow track
with the gleam of water at the far end. But it was not getting any closer. He stared down at the ground and with his free hand he dashed the sweat from his eyes. When he looked up again he saw them. They had appeared from nowhere, as if they were figures of fear in his imagination. The same helmets, intent faces, levelled rifles.

In a calm voice he barely recognized he said, ‘I'm putting you down, sir.' He felt Napier clinging to him, bleeding unheeded as they swayed together, hemmed by those same silent figures.

Tucker groped for his gun, but it had gone.

There was nothing more that he could do. Stupidly he heard himself mutter, ‘Sorry about this, sir . . .' He did not even feel the blow. There was only a sense of falling, and then nothing at all.

THE STAFF
-
CAR SWUNG
round yet another bend in the road, the smart Royal Marine driver handling it with ease, although all his attention was focused on the two officers behind him.

James Ross watched the purple shadows on the hillside, and wondered if the girl named Victoria would be at the house this evening.

He had thought about her a great deal, although he had seen little of her since that night in the Mackenzie house when the news of
Turquoise
's loss had broken. Ross had been kept unnecessarily occupied exercising the chariots against a moored target, all for the benefit of the famous war correspondent, Howard Costain: it seemed he had only to make a request in high places to be granted just about anything he desired. If the Admiralty wanted this venture to remain Top Secret, he thought bitterly, they were not going the right way about it.

He sensed Villiers beside him; he was apparently content to remain silent within his own thoughts. Only once had he spoken, when they had passed the place where Second Officer Jane Clarke's body had been found. All that had been forgotten, or so it seemed. Villiers had said, ‘What kind of man could do that?'

A double question, perhaps. Was he thinking of Sinclair again, and the girl in England from whom he received occasional letters? With Sinclair now sharing their small mess, it was a dangerous thing to do.

The place had its own memories for Ross. How she had clung to the dead woman's hand while the rain roared down and the redcaps tried to cover the body. How he had held her then, and again in Pryce's office, impersonally, for Major Guest's benefit.

He guessed that Villiers was thinking now of the meeting to be held at Mackenzie's estate. Brigadier Davis would be there; like Pryce, he seemed to believe there were too many eyes and ears in and around the unit to keep their discussion secret.

It seemed likely that Davis had got the go-ahead for a landing on Singapore Island to meet the one-time Villiers employee, Richard Tsao. Madness perhaps, but Ross knew he would not let Villiers return on his own this time, no matter what happened.

He tried to find comfort in the thought that the cloak-and-dagger boys probably did it as regularly as clockwork. Even Sinclair had said that there were plenty of agents in Singapore, as well as in Malaya and Burma. A different kind of war; a different sort of man to wage it.

Ross touched his shirt pocket, where he was still carrying a letter he had received from his step-mother.
Evelyn.
The name seemed cool and practical, like her. They were separated now by far more than mere distance. It had read more like a letter from a business associate than one from a woman who had just lost her husband, writing to a son who had lost his father. Ross had never discovered what they had seen in one another, although she had been an undoubted asset to Big Andy's prospering salvage business. Evelyn's cousin was an accountant who had
performed miracles with the company's books; his father's old partner and companion was no match for the world of commerce in wartime. She had mentioned another person who might make a welcome addition to the management.

Was that all? Or was Husband Number Three already in sight?

He stared moodily out of the window as two small boys waved at the car: his depression had made him strangely glad to get away from the base. A makeshift choir had been practising carols for Christmas, which was not far away. He recalled Tucker's pungent comment on one such occasion in Scotland: ‘That's it, mates – a bit of God an' good cheer, and then an almighty piss-up!'

It was impossible to think of him as missing, let alone dead. But as day followed day without news, Ross found it was becoming harder to keep even the faintest flicker of hope alive.

When Howard Costain had been with him at the chariot exercise attack, he had remarked casually, ‘What makes you all do it, I wonder? A death wish, a need to prove more than the other man?' Costain had been perched comfortably on a shooting-stick, smoking a black cheroot, his expensive suit suitably crumpled. Sleek, untouched, unreachable.

Ross had replied sharply, ‘Somebody has to do it. If we're to win, that is.'

Costain had regarded him with a gentle smile. ‘You really believe that?'

Ross had been surprised at how angry he had sounded. ‘I do, as it happens. In my father's war there were no victors. This time that is not enough!'

‘Your Major Sinclair seems to think that if the enemy is ruthless, we must be more so.'

Ross had thought of the dead girl in his arms: the coldness of her skin, her empty stare, with Tucker's words
still there like an echo.
Not your sort.
Now she was nobody's sort.

Villiers said abruptly, ‘Here we are again.' Then, in a more relieved tone, ‘We're first, thank God.'

Ross touched his arm. ‘Sorry, Charles. I'm bad company today.'

Villiers ignored it, suddenly serious, even strained. ‘Look, Jamie. I know what you said. But I won't hold you to it. You don't know Singapore like I do.'

Ross found himself hearing the soft, sad voice as Victoria had spoken of it as home. He said, ‘I'm learning. I'd just feel better if we were together. God knows why.'

The Royal Marine driver sank down in his seat as they left the car, disappointed that he had no buzzes to carry back to his mates. Bloody officers, he thought.

They were shown through the house by a servant and found Colonel Mackenzie sitting in a cane chair, immaculate in white jacket, a tall glass by his elbow.

Ross was relieved of his cap and said, ‘Excuse my rig, sir.' A shirt and shorts seemed strangely out of place here.

Villiers sensed his discomfort and leaped in with chitchat. ‘Is your daughter not here, sir?'

The Colonel's eyes crinkled, so that the massive white brows almost hid them. ‘She'll be along later.' He looked at Ross. ‘Had a good day?'

Ross took a perfect pink gin and wished he had not had a drink before leaving the mess.

Villiers said succinctly, ‘Costain, sir.'

Mackenzie chuckled. ‘Oh,
him!
'

To change the subject, Ross said, ‘Victoria told me the admiral was backing her commission, sir. Did anything come of it?'

‘She'll tell you, I expect.' He glanced at Villiers, who stood up quickly and said, ‘I'll take a stroll round the
gardens if I may, sir, before the heavy guns get here!'

Mackenzie watched him leave. ‘Nice lad.' He smiled, but there was no humour in it. ‘Should be a diplomat.' He creaked forward in his chair. ‘The fact is, Victoria has turned it down. She didn't even think she'd get it, she's like that, but I believed she would after all she's done out here with your lot.' He fidgeted uneasily in his chair, and Ross guessed that the Colonel and his daughter rarely shared their secrets with anybody.

‘She's afraid I'd be lonely, and that if she goes to England on a course she would lose her local volunteer status, which she has here. She could be posted anywhere, although I think that would be good for her.' He fell silent as the servant glided up to refill his glass. Then he said, ‘I'd miss her, of course, but a hell of a lot of people are going through it every day. You, for instance.'

‘There's nobody waiting for me, sir.' He hesitated. ‘And in this kind of work . . .'

‘God, we used to think the same, my boy! Two weeks was the average life expectancy of a subaltern in Flanders!' He looked beyond, into the garden, which was in darkness now. ‘We managed.'

Brakes squeaked in the driveway and doors banged. There was a sudden sense of urgency.

The Colonel was on his feet; he could move quickly for so powerfully built a man. Then he said, ‘She may have told you. There was another man in her life. A naval type, like you. She was in love with him, you see, and I must say I could see nothing against the fellow.' He gave Ross a piercing stare. ‘It was real love, or so she thought.'

Ross could hear Pryce's voice, and another's, Brigadier Davis. There was no more time. He asked, ‘What happened, sir? I'd like to know.'

The Colonel looked away, past him. ‘He went back to
England, got promoted, and married a
suitable
girl from Cheltenham. I'd have cheerfully killed the bastard!' He picked up his glass, but it was empty. ‘I still could!'

Pryce and Davis came into the light, the former in a perfect white uniform, the brigadier in a lightweight grey suit. Pryce shook hands with the Colonel and asked sharply, ‘Where's young Villiers? We have a lot to talk about.'

Ross sat down again, noticing that his glass had been mysteriously refilled.

Pryce said, ‘Before Villiers comes in.' He frowned at Davis, giving him his cue. ‘Tell him what you know.'

Davis said, ‘I've had a report. They tell me that three survived the submarine's loss, presumably the crew of the chariot and one other.'

Ross said, ‘I knew it. Mike Tucker would have stayed with them. I think he was trying to tell me that before he left. In case anything went wrong.' He felt neither relief nor despair. It was simply a confirmation of something, an instinct he had trusted.

Davis frowned slightly, perhaps unused to being interrupted. ‘The area would have been swarming with Japs of course, after the explosion, but if they follow the drill I see no reason why . . .'

Pryce said, ‘What are their chances?'

Davis shrugged and took a glass. ‘Hard to tell. We have people working there but if your chaps are captured they'll probably be taken to Rangoon. The Japs have a big prison camp and jail there. If that happens they'll have to face the Kempeti, the Japanese military police.'

Ross said harshly, ‘Tortured, you mean?'

‘It is possible.' He considered it. ‘More than possible.'

Ross looked at his hands. They should be shaking. With revulsion and anger, with a burning pity for what had happened.

Davis said calmly, ‘I shall do what I can, but . . .' The final word was still hanging in the air as Villiers joined them. He saw their expressions, and knew Ross well enough by now to sense something had happened. He sat down without a word.

Pryce cleared his throat. ‘Still
“on”
for Singapore, Villiers?'

Villiers did not even falter. ‘Say the word, sir.'

Davis looked at Ross. ‘When we first discussed this . . .'

Ross said, ‘I'm still
on
too, sir.'