The Devil's Circle, page 4
We positioned the Morris nose facing downhill. With Ahmad in the driver’s seat, we gave it a final shove. It rolled down the slope, slowly at first and then with increasing speed. I watched with alarm as it got away from us. Then suddenly, it coughed and spluttered and the engine burst into life with a cloud of smoke. Bringing the car to a gentle stop, Ahmad soon had the bonnet up and started tinkering with its innards. After half an hour the old Morris was purring, in a sort of wheezy, rheumatic way, like a cat with bronchitis.
Ahmad coaxed the car slowly back to town, driving at a stately pace. It felt rather grand being chauffeured through the town, though one might have wished for something a bit more impressive. The traffic was light, mostly consisting of army trucks and jeeps with the odd bus. Masses of cyclists wove in and out, but they parted like the Red Sea before Moses as we nosed our way to Battery Road.
After the initial happy reunion with his old friends in the office, Ahmad was sent off to procure more petrol for our expedition. George cast an approving eye over our acquisition. “Wait a sec,” he said and disappeared upstairs. He returned shortly with a screwdriver.
“What’s that for?” I asked.
“It’s for you to unscrew the number plates,” he answered.
It was only then that the import of what we had done struck me. I hesitated. “I’m not sure we should,” I said plaintively.
“Look,” said George, planting his hand firmly on my shoulder, “we can’t risk someone popping up out of the blue and claiming the old warhorse now. When we’re done, we’ll put the plates back, but not before. Until then, use Clarence’s old number plates.”
“We are giving it back, right?” I persisted. “After we’re done?”
“Let’s be realistic about this,” he replied. “If we just leave the car where it was, chances are that someone else will take it. Some of that Bahau lot are back already. You know they sold up everything when they left, so they don’t have any place to live now. What do they do? They move right into any vacant house they find. The sorting out will come later. It’s the same principle here. We borrow this nice little Morris, and when we’re done with it we’ll sort out who owns it. Or would you rather walk to Telok Paku?”
I knew he was right. The British had tried to round up all the cars that had been acquired informally during the Occupation. It was a hopeless task and they soon gave up. Whoever had a car held on to it, papers or no papers. The legalities would work their way out in due course. Reluctantly, I swopped the plates. D’Almeida used to have an antique Rolls. Like so many others, it was pressed into service for the good of the Greater Co-Prosperity Sphere. Co-prosperity of course meant that the Japanese took whatever they fancied, whenever they fancied. It was a lovely car. We never saw it again. At least the number would live on, in a more humble guise.
GEORGE insisted on coming along for the ride out to Telok Paku. Eng Tong the interpreter was in the front passenger seat, which left no place for June. She expressed her annoyance loudly, but could not gainsay the logic of the arrangement. “Besides,” said George soothingly, “Gim Huat missed you. He needs a bit of cuddling.”
Having mollified June somewhat, we set off. The road east was busier than the road west. We passed several gangs of Japanese POWs clearing rubble and filling in potholes. The guards were British rather than Indian, I noticed. There was a point to be made.
The road to Telok Paku took us past the mansions of the rich along Grove Road. Beyond the terrace houses of the Babas in Joo Chiat and Katong, signs of human habitation thinned out. The road was a quiet rural one, lined with coconut groves on either side. The sea was just visible to our right. We had just left the last houses behind us when Eng Tong spoke. “People are following us.”
“People? What people?” asked George.
“On motorcycles. They are following. I see when they come near to us.”
I turned to have a look. Two BSA motorcycles with sidecars were ten yards behind. They were faded green and had seen better times, ex-British Army I surmised. The four men in them were Chinese, not European or Indian. They didn’t look like soldiers.
“Are you sure they’re following us?” I queried. “They might just be going for a jaunt.”
“They are Ah Siew’s men,” replied Eng Tong. “I know two of them. Bad men, gangsters.”
I felt a frisson up my neck. “What do they want?”
“I don’t propose to hang around and find out,” said George. “Enchik Ahmad, full speed please.”
We had been cruising along at measured pace to spare the engine. Now Ahmad put his foot down and the little Morris responded. Responded is perhaps not the right word. The engine whined and growled and the car lurched forward. There was a backfire, and then another. The old Morris managed to chug along at a slightly sprightlier pace. “We’re not going to outrun them at this rate,” said George, cursing under his breath.
But we didn’t have to. The two motorcycles had pulled off the road suddenly and the occupants had thrown themselves down into the long grass at the side. “Funny sort of blokes,” I commented, “jumping into the lallang like that. Whatever can have possessed them?”
George let out a sudden laugh. “It’s the backfiring. They think we’re shooting at them!”
Whatever it was they might have thought, they were keeping their heads down. We turned a corner and they were lost to sight. I kept an anxious lookout for any further signs of pursuit, but there was none.
“What could they have wanted?” I wondered out loud.
“The same thing we want, I imagine,” responded George. “We weren’t exactly discreet asking about Chan Sew Neo in town. That was a bad mistake. I should have been more careful.”
“I thought you said that they wouldn’t try anything.”
“Well, they may not be as smart as I gave them credit for. Or perhaps they think we should be stopped from finding Gim Huat’s real mother. Good thing I brought this,” he said, producing a revolver from under the seat and giving it to me.
“Wherever did you get that?” I asked in alarm, pushing it away. The authorities had proscribed the carrying of weapons and demanded that all guns and ammunition be surrendered. I wasn’t eager to find out how seriously they were going to enforce the prohibition.
“It’s our insurance policy,” he said blandly, “you take it.” He lowered his voice, “You know I can’t shoot for toffee and I don’t trust Eng Tong. If there’s going to be trouble, we aren’t going to get out of it by threatening to serve a writ. Stick it in your waistband. No one will see.”
Reluctantly, I complied. Eng Tong remained impassive. I kept my eye fixed on his neck, not knowing whether he heard or understood what had just occurred. It may just have been my imagination, but I fancied I saw his eyes flicker away when I looked in the rearview mirror.
WE passed Changi Prison with its sinister watch-towers flanking the gate and turned towards Telok Paku. Several side paths led off from the main road. Ahmad stopped the car and considered which one to take. I was in a sweat lest our pursuers catch up with us. At length he made his decision and we plunged down a dusty laterite road barely wide enough for one car. The going wasn’t easy. The surface of the road was etched with eroded channels. At one time it seemed to have been metalled. Remains of the former surface showed here and there in broken chunks interspersed with weeds.
We drove slowly to spare the suspension. The road seemed to be leading towards the beach. There wasn’t any sign of life. Then without warning a gap appeared in the tall grass and we found ourselves looking at the sea. The road ended here. “There Tuan,” said Ahmad, pointing with his thumb at a cluster of wooden huts set among the coconut palms.
We got out and approached the buildings. Nothing stirred. There didn’t seem to be anyone about. Chinese kampongs, unlike Malay ones, usually have a pack of mangy mongrels running around the place. The only animal life we saw was a monitor lizard, which scampered off into the undergrowth at our coming.
We reached the cluster of huts. The roofs had fallen in and the windows stared blindly. Rusty cans lay around. Weeds were growing in the door frames. It seemed as if the air itself had become completely still and lifeless. “I don’t like this,” I said, half to myself. I fingered the revolver under my coat and forgave George for bringing his insurance policy.
Eng Tong plucked and my sleeve and pointed. There was a partially overgrown mound near the beach. I knew immediately what it was. It was a long grave.
“This must have been one of the places where the Japs shot people,” said George. “These houses don’t look like they’ve been lived in for years.”
I nodded mutely. Eng Tong was silent. I had escaped Sook Ching by the skin of my teeth. I presumed that Eng Tong must have had the same experience. We all knew that the Japanese had taken hundreds of men, young and old, to the beach that dark February after the Fall. Few had returned. The stories got around though; captives forced to dig their own graves then machine-gunned and buried. I turned away; I had no wish to see the evidence.
“Well, that’s it then,” said George. “The kampong folk are gone. I’d guess that the Japs cleared them out before the massacres — if they were that lucky.”
6
“SO the trail’s cold,” I said to George dispiritedly as we tramped up the stairs to the office. “Chan Sew Neo is gone and Gim Huat hasn’t a mother.”
“Surely you didn’t think it would be so easy?” he replied.
“No, I suppose not. But things were going so well. I thought at least we’d get a lead, not a complete dead end. Literally.”
“Yes,” he admitted. “I did think that we were on to something. So we still have our little problem to solve.”
“Problem, Singham?” said a familiar voice. “I trust that the problems are not intractable.” A silhouette appeared behind us at the foot of the stairs.
“Uncle Clarence!” exclaimed George. “I didn’t know that you were back.”
“I returned this morning,” he replied. “There is much to be done.”
“Where’s Cuthbert? We need to speak to him.”
D’Almeida raised an eyebrow interrogatively. “Cuthbert is still in Bahau, sorting out the various claims and counterclaims. It has been very trying. I have work for both of you.”
George bit his lip. “Bad luck about Cuthbert. We need him to tell us about Lao Leong Ann’s foster son.”
“Walk with me,” said d’Almeida shortly, indicating that we should follow him into his office. George gave a precis of the situation to date. D’Almeida listened intently but made no comment. He seemed to think it of no consequence.
There was already someone in the room when we entered. My heart sank when I saw who it was. “My dear Chiang,” said the man, grasping my hand with a firm and businesslike grip, “it’s good to see you. I’m glad to find you in one piece still.”
I winced. “Likewise, I’m sure, Colonel,” I replied unenthusiastically.
“You remember Singham,” said d’Almeida. “He was involved in the Gilbert affair along with Chiang.”
“How could I forget?”
George took the proffered hand. “Colonel Newman, isn’t it? You look well. And with an extra pip to go with what you had before.” D’Almeida inclined his head towards the door. George took the hint and excused himself.
I had made Newman’s acquaintance before the War when I had a spot of bother with the law. He was with Special Branch then, chasing Communists and Japanese spies. “I’ve got a job for you,” he said to me.
“I’m done working for you,” I replied decidedly. The last time he had a job for me I ended up with front-row seats for the Japanese invasion. I wasn’t about to make the same mistake again.
“Don’t be so quick to refuse,” he said. “Hear me out first. Mr d’Almeida thinks it’s a good idea.”
I looked at d’Almeida, who nodded.
Newman continued. “We’ve set up tribunals to try the renegades and war criminals. The trials will be starting soon. The evidence has been taken and the charges are ready. All we need is someone to defend. I thought of you.”
I was shaken. “You don’t want me to defend the whole lot surely?”
“No, not the whole lot, just one,” he said. “We need good men to act for the defence. There haven’t been many volunteers for the job, as you might imagine.”
“Why me? So you can have your little show trial and claim that justice has been done?”
“Not a show trial,” he rejoined. “We’re deadly serious about doing justice. There’ll be no kangaroo courts for the sake of vengence.” He proffered a manila envelope to me. “Take the brief,” he said, “it’ll do you good.” Reluctantly, I took it from him. He bade us good day and strode out.
“I can’t do this,” I said, looking again to d’Almeida. “We never act for the guilty party.”
“We do not help the guilty party to evade justice,” corrected d’Almeida, “but even the guilty may have some mitigating quality. It is our task to present this to the tribunal, if it exists.”
“If it exists,” I said bitterly. “People already think I’m a collaborator. And you want me to defend a Jap war criminal.”
“It is a mistake to draw conclusions without evidence,” replied d’Almeida evenly. “It might be dangerous for others to defend the Japanese at this time, given the strength of feeling against them. But you are known to the Communists as a friend. You run the least risk. It was for this reason that I recommended you to Colonel Newman.”
I subsided. It was true, my contacts with the MPAJA did give me some protection. But still I hesitated. “Why can’t George do it? The Commies know him too.”
“I need Singham to assist me in another matter,” said d’Almeida, peering at me over his horn-rimmed glasses. “I have every confidence in your abilities. As the Colonel said, it will be good for you.”
That was that then. I couldn’t refuse. Moodily, I opened the envelope and skimmed the file. “What became of the hand grenade?” asked d’Almeida suddenly.
Taken aback, I sputtered a little. “Grenade? What grenade?” He was always like that. He expected everyone to be as quick as he was to master a brief. I flipped through the file, hoping not seem a complete fool in front of my boss.
“The grenade that was thrown at the funeral,” said d’Almeida.
“Oh, that grenade,” I responded, breathing a sigh of relief. “I don’t think anyone did anything about it. For all we know, it’s still there in the lallang somewhere.”
“Is Smallwood still with Force 136? Ask him to come and see me, if you please.” He turned to the pile of files on his desk without further explanation. The interview was over.
THE next day I called on my client as instructed. He sat hunched over in a grimy cell in Pearl’s Hill Police Station. Serves you right, I thought, then shook myself firmly. This won’t do, I’m his defence counsel. Taking a deep breath, I tried to get into the proper frame of mind.
The charge was war crimes. Warrant Officer Nakamura Nagamasa of the Kempeitai stood accused of four counts of murder. He had tortured three civilians and one POW to death. The details were set out dispassionately in the particulars of the charges. In dry legalese the charge sheet chronicled the beatings, the electric shocks to the genitals, the bamboo slivers under the fingernails … It was as much as I could bear to read it.
He seemed rather small and frail. Unshaven and dishevelled, he didn’t fit the part of the beast that he was. “Let’s hear what he has to say,” I said to Eng Tong, who had come along as my interpreter. Nakamura had been in Formosa and spoke some Hokkien. Otherwise, we would have had to communicate in mime.
Eng Tong had no love for the Japanese, that was obvious. He was staring with unconcealed hostility at Nakamura. “What you want me to ask?”
“Name and rank, to start with. Where he’s from. What unit. That sort of thing.”
Eng Tong started questioning in a voice full of menace. His questions were fired in a tone more suited to an interrogator than an interviewer. Nakamura seemed to be pleading. Eng Tong raised his hand as if to strike him. Nakamura shrank back. I put my hand out to stop him. This won’t do at all, I thought, we’re treating him like the enemy. “Ask him nicely,” I said. “We need to hear his side of the story.”
“He is an evil animal,” said Eng Tong with feeling.
“That may be,” I replied, “but it’s my job to defend him.”
“What for? You defend him for what?”
“Because that’s how the system works. Everyone has a right to be defended, to have his side of the story told. Even a beast.”
Eng Tong calmed down a little. Still glaring at our client, he confirmed what we already knew of Nakamura. I read out the charge and particulars for Eng Tong to translate. It sickened me to do so. He had been one of the interrogators at the YMCA. His job was to obtain confessions from the poor unfortunates who came into his grasp. He was good at his job.
“Well, what’s he got to say for himself?” Nakamura looked uncomprehendingly at me and then at Eng Tong.
“He say nothing, only his name and rank.”
I was taken aback. “What do you mean nothing? He’s accused of torturing people to death. He could hang. Does he know that?”
There was a quick exchange. Eng Tong barked questions at Nakamura, who shook his head repeatedly.
“I tell him what you say. He say nothing.”
I shrugged my shoulders and packed my bag. There are easier ways to commit hara-kiri without wasting my time, I thought.
7
“HARD day?” asked George as I plopped down in the settee in his room.
“Hard case,” I responded tiredly. “The man’s suicidal. He’s been charged with four murders — four, mark you. And what does he say? Nothing. Not a blessed word out of him.”
