The White Pearl (50 page)

‘Come here, my Kitty,’ he’d said.

He tried to draw her to him, but she gave him a look that told him that if he came any closer she’d put a knee where it hurt.
Kitty was quick with that knee. It was how in their jungle bar she had kept all customer hands off her ample assets.The row
was about timing. It would be crucial. Madoc lit himself a cigarette, and leaned over the stern to watch a sea otter bob its
head above the wave for a split second and vanish. The boat was well hidden in the mouth of a narrow muddy river, tucked into
the bank beneath a stand of overhanging areca palms. On the opposite bank lay a fringe of sand, where their three companions
were digging for bait.

He had to admit that the damn pirates knew these islands the way he had once known the streets of London, every twist and
turn and secret back alley.

He spat down into the water. To hell with them. When his path had
crossed Fitzpayne’s before in Shanghai, Madoc had come off worse in a difference of opinion over shipping Russian girls to
brothels in the Philippines. Madoc had had to leave Shanghai after that, in a hurry. This time he was being more careful.
He’d taken to playing cards with Farid, the pirate from Batavia, the one with the nose like a camel and the simple mind. Bit
by bit he was gleaning snippets of useful information from him, and next session he was planning to gamble his wedding ring,
but he didn’t tell Kitty that. Madoc was willing to be patient. Oddly, it was Kitty who was in a God Almighty rush to take
the boat and skedaddle as soon as her hull was patched up a bit more.

‘No, Kitty. Let’s get her properly repaired in that bastard’s island workshop, and then …’

‘Then they’ll be too many for us. We’ll never get
The White Pearl
away. Can’t you see that, you pea-brain?’

He’d sighed. ‘No, Kitty. When she’s in good trim we can make a run in her, east to Australia or, if you want, west to Ceylon
and India. New territory for us, a new life, where …’

She had slapped him, a round-armed flat of the hand. ‘Don’t push your luck, Madoc. We can handle these three pirates, the
odds are in our favour, even though the boss man, Nurul, watches you like a hawk. Even now, while he’s working on the beach,
he has one eye fixed on you and I’m bloody certain he will want to know what this row is about. I bet you he’ll sidle over
the minute my back is turned, offer you a beer and get you talking. Just make sure you think before you speak.’

Now Madoc scanned the edge of the forest for any rustle of branches, any sign of her return, a flicker of her white cotton
blouse, but the black mass of trunks had swallowed her. He worried about snakes and poisonous spiders, but she would have
slapped him a bloody sight harder if he had dared forbid her to go off on her own. He looked down at the bottle of Tiger beer
in his hand. Damn her, she’d been right about Nurul. Nevertheless, he smiled to himself and lit another of Hadley’s Dunhill
cigarettes from the butt of the old one. There was something Madoc didn’t intend to tell his wife. After a few beers the gold-toothed
pirate had confessed a weakness for blondes, and for one blonde in particular – the one who had given him her Cartier timepiece.

Watch your step, Fitzpayne, or you may find the blade of a Malayan
kris
so deep in your back you’ll be eating your own fucking heart.

*

‘Mr Fitzpayne, I’d like to see over this island of yours … if you have time.’

‘I wondered when you’d ask.’

Fitzpayne finished sharpening the tip of a wooden stake and placed it on top of a pile of them. Other men who were working
beside him had melted into the forest at Connie’s approach, glancing back at her with distrust, their faces dark-skinned and
suspicious.

‘They don’t like my being here,’ she commented.

‘Of course not.’

‘Why?’

‘Because you are a foreigner and therefore an enemy.’

‘But so are you. A foreigner, I mean.’

He nodded and reached for his shirt on the ground. The muscles of his stomach gleamed flat and hard. ‘Out here in East Asia
we are all foreigners,’ he said, ‘and we have to give them reason to want us here. Reasons to trust us.’

He slipped his shirt over his head, and Connie noticed it had blood on the sleeve. At that moment there was a sudden roar
of aircraft engines, and without comment or even glancing up, Fitzpayne pulled her deeper into the shelter of the forest.
Her mind seemed to flatten, skidding away from her.

‘It’s all right to be frightened,’ Fitzpayne said gently. ‘It’s wartime. Everyone is frightened.’

Her back was jammed against the bark of a tree that was crawling with ants. One hand was shaking.

‘Where’s Teddy?’ she whispered.

‘He’s safe.’

‘Where?’

‘I’ll show you.’

It was like walking into hell. The smoke, the heat, the resounding noise that made her lungs vibrate and the stench of hot
metal. All rushed at Connie the moment she stepped into the massive underground chamber.

‘Our workshops,’ Fitzpayne announced.

There was an arrogance in his words. Connie studied his face by the uncertain light of the kerosene lamps, and saw pride in
it. This place may be communal but it was his doing, she had no doubt of that. It was a long, arched cavern with earthen walls.
Three blacksmiths’ furnaces lined
one wall, where men with glistening backs bent over anvils and hammered molten metal into shape with blows that exploded in
Connie’s ears. Flames sent twisted shadows crawling up the wall like tortured souls.

‘Doesn’t the smoke from these fumes give you away?’ she asked.

‘No. It is vented into a side chamber and released only at night. That’s when the cooking fires are lit too – in the Kennel
after dark.’

‘I’m impressed,’ she shouted above the noise. ‘No wonder you want to bring
The White Pearl
here.’

‘Come with me.’

He took her hand and led her towards a heavy hardwood door in the side wall. It swung open into another cavern, not as wide
as the first one but just as long, clearly an additional workshop, but this one was stacked with timber. Fitzpayne shut the
door firmly behind him to keep out the smoke and even though a few grey wisps sneaked in, they could not smother the wonderful
scent of freshly cut timber that drenched the chamber. Two tapering masts ran along the centre on trestles with men sanding
them down to a smooth finish. Elsewhere saws rasped teeth against seasoned wood, and Connie noticed the ribs of a rowing boat
held into curves by metal clamps.

‘This is where we are making the repairs to send out to Nurul for your yacht, enough to bring her here for a proper overhaul.’
He frowned at her. ‘Don’t look so worried! She’ll soon be …’

‘She doesn’t feel like
my
yacht any more. The connection has gone.’

He straightened his shoulders, and she had a sense of him shifting a weight on them, one that sat uneasily. ‘Perhaps it will
come back. When all this is over.’

‘When all this is over we will no longer be the people we were.’

He nodded, a quick decisive gesture before he turned away. ‘Take a look at your son.’

‘Teddy?’

She followed the line of his hand. Buzzing around the workmen like industrious bees were four young boys, each with a broom
made of twigs in his hand. They wore cloths tied around their heads to combat the sawdust in the air, no shirt but short trousers
chopped at the knee and rope sandals on their feet. Three of the boys were brown-skinned, but one was white and had his back
to her.

‘Teddy?’ Connie said softly.

Her son was sweeping up a pile of wood chippings and heaping them
into a burlap sack. He moved eagerly, and she could tell he was enjoying himself, rummaging in the dirt and the mess. From
a woven rattan basket that hung on his chest poked the black head of Pippin, his tongue licking sweat from Teddy’s salty skin.

‘Good heavens!’ She turned to Fitzpayne. ‘How did that happen?’

‘A boy needs to work for his supper here,’ he smiled.

‘So young?’

‘Younger the better.’ He glanced to one side, where the tall skinny boy from the fight in the Kennel was extracting nails
from old timber with a pair of pliers. ‘It’s the only way he’ll be accepted here.’

Connie felt a warmth of gratitude to this man, who seemed to understand more about bringing up her son than she did herself.

‘And Johnnie?’ she asked. ‘Have you got him and Henry digging pits for their supper?’

He laughed, relaxing, and she realised that he had feared she would snatch Teddy out of there. Didn’t he know her better than
that?

‘Near enough,’ he chuckled. ‘They’re both in the Kennel, stripping fibres from climbers to plait ropes. Blake’s arm is up
to that.’

‘And Maya?’

‘That little wildcat took one look at the box of fish that needed gutting and vanished.’

Connie nodded. ‘That sounds like her. So what about me? What work are you setting me to do to earn my supper?’

He observed her, arms folded across his chest and one thick eyebrow raised, his wide jaw glistening with black stubble in
the lamplight. He shrugged. ‘You can sew, so you said.’

‘Damn you, I can do more than sew.’

‘What?’

‘Something more useful.’

‘Can you cook?’

‘No.’

‘Can you chop down a tree?’

‘No.’

‘Can you repair a net?’

‘No.’

He seized her elbow and steered her down a small dark tunnel and out into the fresh air. It was pouring with rain. In less
than five seconds they were soaked.

‘You will sew,’ he told her. ‘I will tell the men to bring you what needs doing.’

‘What about the other women on this island?’

He gave her a slow unamused smile. ‘They cook. And certainly there are no honey-haired beauties with a throat the colour of
her pearls and legs as long as a lemur’s.’

He walked away into the forest, leaving Connie standing alone on the trail in the rain, and she wondered how on earth she
had managed to annoy him this time.

There were Rules on the island. Any infringement of them was punishable by death by hanging. No argument, no discussion. No
judge, no jury. A rope over a tree. Quick. Instant.

No swimming in the sea in daylight hours.

No boats in and out, except at night.

No guns to be discharged.

No telescopes.

No mirrors outside huts.

Fights to be conducted with fists, knives or boat hooks.
Boat hooks?

Cooking to be carried out only in the Kennel.

Blackout to be observed. Blinds and shutters closed after sunset.

No torches.

No chickens, no goats, no pigs, no cows, no cats and no dogs.

NO FIRES.

Connie looked at the list. How Fitzpayne had got around the dog Rule for Pippin she couldn’t imagine, but Teddy was keeping
his pet firmly in its bamboo basket strapped to his body during the day, and only allowed him a run at night. Connie had to
admit that all the Rules made sense – to prevent discovery by the outside world. But the severity of the retribution made
her nervous. These were men who possessed an iron in their souls that she had never encountered before among the soft-fleshed
colonials. It made her look at Fitzpayne more cautiously, knowing he was one of them.

The newcomers were marched into the Kennel as soon as it grew dark on the first evening, and made to stand against a wall
in front of a line of ten men, as grim-faced as a firing squad. The large room was smoky and hot from two cooking fires that
burned brightly at each end, hovered over by a group of older women in dark headscarves. Between them, the
intervening space was crowded with men, curious to inspect the Europeans.

The smell of fish stew hung thick in the air and made Pippin drool down Teddy’s naked chest. He was standing upright, his
head as high as a seven-year-old’s could be, and Connie was proud of her son’s courage. She didn’t take his hand, aware that
he had chosen to stand between Johnnie and Henry, to be one of the men.

‘No fire. No fire.’

It was the fourth time the man had said it. He was a lean and wiry Mawken, with dark skin and rimless spectacles perched on
his broad nose. He wore a brown shirt over a straight black skirt that came to his ankles, and he stood in front of his ten
men with his chest puffed out, as self-important as a general in front of his troops.

‘I am Badan,’ he thumped his chest. ‘I say no fire. His black eyes narrowed as he inspected each one of them at his leisure.
When satisfied, he pointed a finger at Connie. ‘You understand?’

‘Yes.’

‘You light fire, you die.’

‘It’s a bit harsh,’ Johnnie commented mildly.

‘That’s the Rule!’

Beside Connie, Maya squirmed and clutched Razak’s hand. He was regarding the line of men with keen interest. Connie glanced
around and spotted Fitzpayne through the smoke slouched against a wall, with a glass of something in one hand and a cigarette
in the other. He was watching her carefully. She inclined her head to him, and he responded by raising his glass to her.

The bespectacled man, Badan, suddenly stepped closer, too close. Connie’s heart bolted to her throat but he didn’t come for
her, he came for Maya. He took a handful of her long black hair in his fist, making the girl whimper. He yanked her forward,
and there was a murmur of approval in the room.

‘You,’ he spat at her. ‘You lit fire in hut.’

Maya’s eyes grew huge. ‘
Tidak
! No!’ Her small hands entwined around his arm, beseeching him. ‘Let me go.’ She tried to sink to her knees, but he held her
up on her feet.

‘You lit fire. You cook water in hut.’ He dragged her to the centre of the room and glanced up to where a thick, greasy rope
was looped around a roof beam overhead.

‘
Tidak
!’ she screamed. ‘No!’

‘No, stop it!’ Connie shouted and darted forward. She seized Maya’s wrist. ‘She did not light a fire. It was only a tiny oil
stove that we brought with us, a small single flame to heat water, no real cooking. She made a cup of tea, that’s all.’ The
tea had been for Johnnie. ‘Leave her alone.’