Rogue Raider (32 page)

“No. I didn't know you had written books.”

“Well I have. Some few people have heard of me.” Now he was piqued. “You know, Lauterbach. You should write your own life story. I am sure it would be not without a certain rude interest. Writing is an excellent discipline. I could put you in touch with a publisher, if you like.”

Lauterbach shivered. And clapped his gloves together. “Not my sort of thing at all, Number One. I've never been a man of words.” He put a manly gleam in his eye and thrust out the jaw like the prow of a battleship. “Deeds perhaps – words, no. Anyway, what can there be left to tell? You must have said it all.”

There was a crack, a smashing of glass and a cheer, drowned in a swelling rumble of iron on iron. The ship was sliding down the slipway, the chains and the great hydraulic pistons groaning and screaming. It was a foul noise, drowning out the band with its “Deutschland, Deutschland ueber alles” and the cheering mob. Cold sweat dewed Lauterbach's brow and he staggered back against the rear of the grandstand in sudden vertigo. The birth of a ship was the same sound as that of one dying, tearing itself apart, summoning up the ghostly legions who had perished on the first
Emden.
Ashes to ashes, rust to rust. He wiped his gloved hand over his face and looked at the glistening black leather as if he had never seen a hand before.

“And von Mueller? What of him. The last I heard, he had been transferred to England.”

“I had not heard that. I thought he was still in some prison in Malta.”

“At least we are free, Lauterbach.”

They looked at each other again. They would never be friends – there could be no melty love – but they were forever shackled together by too much shared history, like family, not to feel something. Indeed, there was a proposal before the Kaiser that all crew members of the
Emden
and their loved ones should be allowed to hyphenate the word ‘-Emden' to their surnames and so become truly family. That ship would follow him around all his life, forming him, dominating him. Soon he would be Julius Lauterbach-Emden, hyphenated genteelly enough, but von Muecke would be hyphenated
and
still hang on to his aristocratic ‘von' so that the distance between them would be maintained. Free was it? No. He would never be free.

“We should send von Mueller a postcard,” suggested von Muecke. “A card in prison to cheer him up.”

Lauterbach paused. “No. I don't think one of my postcards would be quite the thing. But let's go somewhere and have a drink to him,” he offered grudgingly. It occurred to him how few real friends he had and how often he ducked behind a shared drink like a barricade.

Von Muecke nodded. “Yes. A good idea. And it will permit me to raise another matter of the greatest national importance that I want to discuss with you in strict confidence.” They picked their way carefully down from the grandstand, decorations tinkling like two Christmas trees in the wind, von Muecke swollen by the importance of his undisclosed mission.

“You were always a man of great resourcefulness, Lauterbach. I concede it. It was something I always admired in you and a quality of great service to the Reich, in its way. You are now in a position to perform another great deed for your country. With the British blockade, there are strategic shortages everywhere, things that simply cannot be had on the regular market and with your irregular contacts you may be able to lay hands on them when the rest of us cannot.”

What was this? Soap! Soap had completely disappeared from the shops six months ago. Everyone stank. Was it possible he was after Elysium-brand toilet soap?

Von Muecke was embarrassed, looking down like a blushing schoolboy at his iron crosses. “You are even close to the Emperor. You could speak to him on this matter. Personally.” There was reluctant awe in his voice and rage at the injustice of the fact. “At this stage of the war a pen may be as lethal as a ten-inch gun.”

Lauterbach paused and stared into the impossibly vivid blue eyes that still glowed with undiminished zeal. He felt suddenly immensely tired. “What exactly is it you want of me, Number One?”

Von Muecke, seized him passionately by the arm. “For a patriotic writer, such as myself, at this time of the year, one thing is quite indispensable. Gas mantles, Lauterbach. For God's sake, for Germany's sake, find me some gas mantles.”

Lauterbach opened his mouth to speak but was cut off by a tweaking at his coat. He thought of scuttling shipbound rats and shuddered but, looking down, saw the grubby hand of a child tugging at his fine worsted. It belonged to a waif, blue with cold, with symmetrical snot trails as if two snails lived up its nostrils.

“Mister,” it sniffed, holding out an envelope, already creased and seamed with grime. “A gent arsed me to give this to ya.”

“Gent? What gent?” Lauterbach took it cautiously from the chapped and slightly sticky fingers. Was this some trap? He looked around. Everyone was watching the ship. No one heeded their odd little group. The child scanned the crowd and shrugged. “Dunno. E's gorn. Said you'd give me summink.”

Lauterbach dispensed small change and the delighted child scuttled away. He tore the flap open with clumsy, gloved fingers, aware of von Muecke's curious gaze. Inside was a smooth, beige sheet of paper with writing in a scrawled, ugly hand. He held it away, at arm's length to focus and peered down his nose. Age was catching up with him. Perhaps, as he grew old, he would become metaphorically as well as literally farsighted. It was an IOU, signed “John Smith”, made out for one thousand American dollars. The notepaper bore the address of a London gentlemen's club, not – he thought – one of the best but the sort frequented by ambitious tradesmen who, like himself, were not
quite
gentlemen. Without thinking, he put it to his nose and laughed as he smelled fresh lavender and laughed again to see von Muecke's shocked face at his receiving a perfumed
billet doux
, in public, from what must be a female admirer. Wait, there was something else in there. He tipped the envelope and something rolled into his palm, a little jewel, shiny and patinated from much handling – a bullet.

The thing had been nicely done, with a judicious ambiguity. To von Mueller, who saw war as a sort of gentlemanly sport, it would be the punctilious payment of a patrician wager but implied a certain mercenary quality in the receiver who exchanged honour for cash. And Lauterbach could not actually attach the money since it lay in an enemy country and under a false name. Moreover, the mere fact of the IOU's smooth delivery carried a smug message of superiority. It was effectively worthless and downright condescending. And the bullet said “Bang! Bang! You're dead,” claiming a kill its owner had not quite been able to make. The challenge rankled at the back of his throat like the aftertaste of a good pickle. Never mind. He pocketed it up smiling. The smile would be observed somewhere in the crowd. He had an address. Now that
was
a project worth one of his postcards. Smirking, he began composing it in his head.

About the Author

Nigel Barley was born south of London in 1947. He originally trained as an anthropologist and worked in West Africa, spending time with the Dowayo people of North Cameroon. He survived to move to the Ethnography Department of the British Musem and it was in this connection that he first travelled to Southeast Asia. After forrays into Thailand, Malaysia, Singapore, Japan and Burma, Barley settled on Indonesia as his principal research interest and has worked on both the history and contemporary culture of that area.

After escaping from the museum, he is now a writer and broadcaster and divides his time between London and Indonesia.

Also by Nigel Barley

The Innocent Anthropologist

A Plague of Caterpillars

Not a Hazardous Sport

Foreheads of the Dead

The Coast

In the Footsteps of Stamford Raffles

Smashing Pots

Dancing on the Grave

The Golden Sword

White Rajah

Island of Demons

Island of Demons

Many men dream of running away to a tropical island and living surrounded by beauty and exotic exuberance. Walter Spies did more than dream. He actually did it.

In the 1920s and 30s, Walter Spies — ethnographer, choreographer, film maker, natural historian and painter — transformed the perception of Bali from that of a remote island to become the site for Western fantasies about Paradise and it underwent an influx of foreign visitors. The rich and famous flocked to Spies' house in Ubud and his life and work forged a link between serious academics and the visionaries from the Golden Age of Hollywood. Charlie Chaplin, Noel Coward, Miguel Covarrubias, Vicki Baum, Barbara Hutton and many others sought to experience the vision Spies offered while Margaret Mead and Gregory Bateson, the foremost anthropologists of their day, attempted to capture the secret of this tantalizing and enigmatic culture.

Island of Demons
is a fascinating historical novel, mixing anthropology, the history of ideas and humour. It offers a unique insight into that complex and multi-hued world that was so soon to be swept away, exploring both its ideas and the larger than life characters that inhabited it.

First published in print in 2006 by Monsoon Books

This electronic edition published in 2011 by Monsoon Books

ISBN (epub): 978-981-4358-26-2
ISBN (paperback): 978-981-05-5949-6

Copyright©Nigel Barley, 2006

The moral right of the author has been asserted.

Cover design by Sin E Design (
www.sinedesign.net
)

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