Troppo (24 page)

‘You want your money?' says Shane. ‘Here's your money, mate. You want it that fucken bad, then you can bend down and pick it up.'

The officer's motionless. His eyes, level with Shane's armpit, are flat and motionless.

A fan whisks the air above us.

There's the rasp of rupiah on wood.

‘Ambil itu,' says the police officer.

His men drop to their knees and sweep up the money, quick as they can.

When they're standing again, the police officer steps closer to Shane. ‘I kill you,' he says calmly.

‘Yeah, good luck with that, mate. You'll have to beat the fucken mosquitoes to it. Righto. Chop chop. Fuck off now, you've got your cash. No whisky. Tidak ada whisky. Sudah diminum by you, bencong!' Shane swings his arm in the direction of the door.

‘I kill you,' the police officer repeats. ‘Malam ini, I kill you.'

And this time, he trims it with a wicked smile.

My bags are packed and ready. I'm just going to boost. Early. Pre-dawnie. Leave a note. I'll head to Ibu Ayu's first, drop back the motorbike, pick up my things. I didn't leave much in Josh's apartment. Some books, clothes, perfumes, photos. It probably all fits in a single box. Ibu Ayu should be able to tee me up a lift with her driver. If not, then the morning bus at five. Then Lampung, then Bali. Then what? Then whatever.

It is as if the night has been gagged. Instead of chooks, geckos, coughs, growls, motorbikes that won't start, the tick-tick-tick of a fan, water flushing – there's nothing. Just the pale humid calm before rain.

At first I think it's the mosquitoes that have woken me. Despite the net, bites sequin my belly and I've drawn blood in my sleep, scratching. Then I hear thumping. I slide out of bed and pull on jeans and a t-shirt. The key jams in the door lock and it takes a moment for it to open. More thumping and sobs. It sounds like Shane's belting Kristi. I go quietly along the balcony, the wooden boards cool under my feet. There are no lights on, there's no moon, or phosphorescent water, or fireflies, just the sweating shadows of wood.

Turning the corner, I almost trip over a dark parcel on the ground, all nude folded legs and mussed hair. It's Kristi.

‘Kristi. Hey Kristi. Kamu oke?'

There's a glistening arc of moisture curving from her lower lip to chin. Her hands bunch at her crotch and her eyelids are gummed shut with blood.

‘Where's Shane?' I snarl.

‘Penny, bukan Shane. Bukan Shane.' It wasn't Shane.

‘Jadi siapa?'

‘Six of them.'

‘Six of siapa?'

She just shakes her head.

‘Oh fuck.'

The thumping continues.

‘Come on then.' My voice cracks with fear. ‘Come back to my room. I'll give you the key. You can lock yourself in. I'll stay with you if you like.'

She shakes her head vehemently. ‘They tell me, no moving. If I move … very very bad.'

Thumpthumpthump. My heart's quickening to match it.

‘Come on Kristi, you'll be safe with me. You're not safe here.'

My fear's splintering into hysteria.

‘No,' she says, firmly and finally.

I'm torn. I don't want to leave her, but feel sick with the thought of the six men and what they might do to me, feel sick with the memory of Dennis' warning.

‘Okay, look. I've gotta get some stuff. But I'll be back in less than a minute.'

She doesn't answer.

I sprint to my room, grab the shoulder bag packed with my motorbike key, my passport, my money and cards. Then I race back out to where I left Kristi, but she's gone. In her place, there are a dozen coin-sized smudges of blood. Where did she go? Was she dragged over the balcony? Did she pick herself up and
run? Do I get out of here, or do I go and find her?

The thumping gets louder. It's coming from the front door. Maybe Kristi went there, in search of Shane. I'll have a quick look and if there's no Kristi, then I'm out of here. At the end of the corridor, at the front door, there's a lump against the wall, an area of concentrated darkness. At first I think it's Kristi, but as my eyes adjust I see that it's Shane and that he's holding a gun. He swings it at me and, against the shadows, I can make out the two blown fuses of his eyes.

‘Shut ya face,' he hisses, even though I haven't said a word, then to the door, loud and manic, ‘Open the door! Bukalah pintu ini, you fucken anjing! You dogs!'

‘What's goin' on?'

‘They've nailed shut the fucken door.'

I'm already moving, I'm talking fast and frightened. ‘Well what about the verandah? The track down to the beach? Come on, Shane, let's get out of here!'

There's no-one on the verandah but I hear soft voices somewhere beneath my feet. I creep to the handrail by the stairs, peer through the leaves. The track down to the beach seems clear. Maybe I misplaced the voices, maybe they've been misshaped by night, maybe they're actually coming from the front door. Shane hasn't followed.

There's an eruption of bats. A shout from below.

I forget about Shane. If they catch me … A rusty fear strips my throat. Fuck, fuck, fuck. The front door is nailed shut and they've blocked the track to the beach. Where else can I go? I'll head back toward my bedroom. As I turn the corner, I'll roll off the balcony into the jungle. It's thick. It's tied in knots around the resort. There's no way they'll find me. I drop to a crouch and inch away from the edge, move low and quiet toward my room.

My legs are leaden – it's an effort to lift my feet.

And then I freeze.

There's the slap of rubber on wood. Coming from the direction of my bedroom. Coming toward me.

There's only one way left to go. The surf-check tower. I turn and launch up the rungs of the ladder two, three, four at a time, scramble across the platform into the darkest pool of shadow. And shake. Lace my hands together but still they shake. Fix my teeth together but still they make a porcelain chatter that the men will surely hear. It's over. They've seen me. They've heard me.

They're below me now, talking.

It doesn't sound like they've found Shane yet. I wonder if Shane is still at the front door. Or if he's hiding behind something, waiting to shoot. I wriggle to the edge of the platform on my belly and see four fishermen. None are looking up. The lights are on; the coiled bulbs gloss two of the men's hair. The other two wear skullcaps. There's the menace of murder taut in their spines, in the fingers that hold machetes. One circles the pool table, the rest are a little further back, closer to me.

Moments later I know why.

An explosion rocks the front of the resort.

I scream.

The four men have assembled in a line. Shane stumbles into view muttering incoherently. His hair is smeared across his face in wet, white-yellow streaks, except at his scalp line, where it's charred.

‘Bajingan,' he jeers. ‘You fucken Muslim bastards. Is that the worst you can do?' He cocks his gun.

The men look as if they're waiting for something, some kind of command. The two without skullcaps wear singlets. Their arms have the tight rubbery sinew of squid. The other two wear shirts. The backs of their shirts are starred with salty-shadows of sweat. It's four on one. Shane's hands wobble as he swings the
gun from side to side. He knows if he shoots, the other three will be on to him.

There's a moment of waiting, when all is excruciatingly still, except for the low purr of a gecko preparing to sound. Ge-cko! Its voice pops. Ge-cko! And before its third call, two shadows move up behind Shane. The first holds a noosed fishing rope. The second holds a machete. With a swift measured throw, the first man looses the rope and it lands around Shane's neck. He gives the rope a jerk but Shane holds his ground. His monstrous arms fly out behind, in anger, in panic, in madness.

Ge-cko!

But Shane doesn't stand a chance. There's movement now, fast and wordless. These are men who know each other, who work together day in and day out on fishing boats, who no doubt face death in the black roll of the dry season swells. One of the men crushes his foot into Shane's balls. Another helps the man with the noose pull Shane to his back. A third leans down, certain and deadly, and lifts Shane's chin with the tip of his machete. He regards Shane dispassionately, as if he's about to fillet a fish.

I should stop watching. Should slide back from the edge of the platform. If Shane or any of the men look up, they'll see me. But I can't move. Not even a finger. It's like the dreams you have of being chased, and you can't run, the dreams of being buried, and you can't breathe. Fear has me locked to the wood, locked to the edge of the platform, locked to fate.

Shane looks up.

His face deforms with something malicious and coherent. His lips are starting to form words: he'll give me away to poach a few extra moments of life for himself.

As I recoil, he shouts hoarsely, ‘Di atas! Ada perempuan di atas!'

Up there. There's a woman up there.

My heart thrashes. I slide to the furthest corner of the
platform, try to narrow myself into shadow, bite hard on the heel of my palm to stop from crying out, from crying. Maybe they won't believe Shane. Maybe no-one will come to check. There's nowhere for me to go. The ladder's the only way up and down. To my right, a palm tree curves its neck within leaping distance but if I miss it, I'll break my legs.

There's a wooden groan and the platform shifts ever so slightly. There's someone on the ladder. The rungs creak. One, two, three … Three heartbeats to a rung.

Suddenly, something small and furred cartwheels across the platform.

It's a monkey, wearing a red jacket.

A monkey, wearing the chilling half-moon mask of a doll's face.

Moments later, a young man's head appears. He has a set of those handsome cheekbones that distinguish the people here; those dark, stainless steel eyes. He must have been the one at the markets the other day, the one who followed me home after Dennis'. I wonder if he was also the one who saw me naked in the shower. I can't breathe. He's weighing me up. His eyes crawl from my sleep-tousled hair, to my breasts, to my pelvis, then back to my breasts. At last he meets my eyes. I plead with him through a look. Then whisper, ‘Jangan.' Don't. He hesitates, undecided.

Below, the men are getting impatient, the fire is inching closer, they can feel it on their skin. It moves with languor, slowed by the moisture in the air, the sopping gutters, the vaporous palm fronds.

‘Ada?' they call. ‘Ada perempuan di sana? Ayo, cepat!'

He looks behind and below him.

For a moment the fire flashes against his cheekbone.

He looks back at me.

‘Ada,' he says. There is. And he grabs my ankle.

I try to writhe away but he lifts his machete and nicks it against my leg. A quick bite of peroxide-white pain. A warning. I stop writhing. Scramble to my feet. Follow him down, not crying, not yet, but almost. The posters in the hallway are crimping and blackening. The men are arguing. Should they cut him up, cut off his balls, sever his head? Or should they leave him here, leave him to burn? The young man lets go of my wrist and steps forward to give Shane a passionate kick to the jaw.

‘Cut off his head,' he says.

Blood appears at the corner of Shane's mouth.

The young man turns to me. ‘Cut off both their heads.'

I start crying.

The young man slaps my face.

I barely feel it.

I'm thinking of Shane's head rolling yellow off the balcony; Shane's skin, spitting and bubbling like a white pig's.

Through my tears, I watch Shane, watch something snap – not Shane's sanity, that probably went years ago – but something else, perhaps the twin strangleholds of malaria and magic. For a big man on his back, he moves quick. He rams out his left leg and his foot connects with one of the men's shins. There's a sickening crunch and the fisherman falls backwards with a howl. Then Shane's on his feet, going hand over hand down the rope that's noosed his neck, hauling his captor toward him. His captor drops the rope and backs away, machete lifted uncertainly. Shane loosens the rope from his neck and starts swinging it, like a whip. It cracks across his captor's machete wrist; it cracks across his captor's crotch. The man nosedives, letting go of the machete and Shane pounces on it – burying the machete into the back of the man's thigh
with a sound like ruptured watermelon – and then jumps up again, grinning madly.

The other four have forgotten me and they're warily, hatefully, shifting their weight from foot to foot. Shane's facing them, legs apart and steady, a fishing rope in one hand, a machete in the other. Smoke turns through the air, gin and oranges, alternately clear and opaque. In minutes, it will be impossible to see anything. This is my chance. This might be my only chance. I squeeze my eyes shut for a split second. Then I spin and launch myself over the balcony rail.