The White Pearl (52 page)

‘Teddy, why on earth have you acquired such a macabre menagerie?’

‘To dissect them, of course.’

‘Is this all you took from the boys?’

‘Yes.’

But she knew her son too well. ‘Don’t lie to me.’ She held out her hand. ‘What else?’

Slowly, miserably, he drew something from his back pocket and placed it on the flat of her hand. It was a shiny gold guinea.
They both stared at it. He was his father’s son when it came to business. Connie knew she couldn’t take it from him.

‘Teddy, do you like it here?’

‘Yes.’

‘Why?’

He scratched at his wet hair. ‘Because I can choose what I do.’

She examined his face intently, and felt a small but permanent crack open up between them. ‘So why the sad face?’

He lowered his eyes. ‘I feel bad.’

‘Why bad?’

‘It’s complicated.’

Another of his father’s phrases when he didn’t want to explain something.

‘Try me.’

‘I’m only free because Daddy’s not here.’ His voice grew small.

Gently she stroked the wet strands from his face. ‘There is always a price to pay for freedom, Teddy.’

He kicked at a log and dislodged a beetle, which he stared at with interest.

‘You may keep the coin,’ she said. ‘But in exchange, there’s something I want you to do for me.’

‘Good God Almighty! What kind of place is this?’

Madoc stood on the deck of
The White Pearl
and looked around him while the rattle of a chain sounded in the stern as Nurul dropped anchor. The busy walkways enclosed
under the tree canopy made him think of the inside of a beehive, but this one was a strong, dense green, humming with energy.
It was almost dark now. The sun had slid gracefully behind the island’s hunched back as they entered the shadowy inlet.

‘What do you think?’ Kitty asked at his side.

‘Interesting.’

‘See the rifles?’

Up in vantage points in the trees men stood watching their arrival, rifle barrels resting on their forearms. ‘Quite a welcoming
party.’

‘I warned you,’ she muttered under her breath. ‘We should have made a run for it when we could.’

He flicked a ragged moth from the tangle of her hair. ‘I admit I didn’t expect this place to be so … organised.’

‘Madoc,’ Kitty turned to face him, and her whisper felt warm on the damp skin of his cheek. ‘Let’s go tonight. Take the boat.
They won’t be expecting that.’

‘Smile nicely, Kitty. Our friend is here to greet us.’

She swore and glanced over to the riverbank, where Fitzpayne was standing, arms folded across his chest. He wore a knotted
scarf around his head, gnarled leather boots up to his knees and, though Madoc could see no gun, a heavy
parang
hung at his side.
The White Pearl
made the other boats look as dull as turtles, her elegance drawing envious eyes from among the trees.

Madoc slipped his arms tightly around Kitty’s ample waist and together they studied the shore, conscious of Fitzpayne’s gaze.
‘We won’t be here long, I promise you that. It occurs to me that there are people who would pay top dollar to know that this
hideout exists.’

She leaned her weight against him. ‘Take care, Madoc. Look at that bastard. Don’t imagine that he won’t have thought of that.’

‘That may be.’ Madoc could not resist a note of satisfaction in his voice. ‘But he doesn’t know that I’ve discovered from
Farid – Nurul’s poker-playing pirate – where Fitzpayne hides a secret short-wave radio on board the
Burung Camar
.’

The strength of her smile made Madoc decide that the loss of his wedding ring had been worthwhile.

‘So you’re still alive, I see.’ It was Fitzpayne.

‘Still alive and kicking,’ Madoc responded.

‘What about the Jap pilot? Killed him off yet?’

‘Your friend Nurul certainly had a good try a few times, but no, he’s still with us.’

‘More bloody mouths to feed! I’ll tell Nurul to throw him in the hold of the
Burung Camar
.’

‘Quite a set-up you have here in the trees,’ Madoc remarked.

But Fitzpayne turned on his heel and strode off into the gloom of the forest, leaving Madoc and Kitty to follow behind. The
evening air was thick with mosquitoes, and felt like soup in Madoc’s lungs after the clean breezes of the open seas, but he
was too intrigued by what he was seeing around him to care about the discomfort. His eyes darted everywhere. Someone had designed
a clever fortress here. Sentries loomed above him armed with rifles and sharp eyes. Kitty nudged him in the back from behind
as if to say
I warned you
. Fitzpayne was prepared for everything.

‘How long has all this been here?’ he called out to Fitzpayne as they fought for footing on the muddy trail.

‘Long enough.’

‘I’m surprised I haven’t heard whisper of it before. Such places are hard to keep secret.’

‘We have a way of keeping it secret,’ Fitzpayne said over his shoulder.

‘What’s that?’

‘Anyone who talks is killed.’

‘Jesus Christ! Simple but effective.’

‘I advise you to remember that.’

As he continued to walk behind Fitzpayne, Madoc let his fingers crawl over the Tokarev pistol tucked in his waistband, hidden
away under his shirt. Something else that was simple but effective.

‘I haven’t seen any workshops,’ he said, peering into the gloom. ‘To repair the boats in. Where are they?’

Fitzpayne stopped so abruptly that Madoc almost crashed into him. ‘The trouble with you, Madoc, is that you ask too many questions.’

‘No harm meant,’ Kitty intervened pleasantly. ‘We’re curious, that’s all.’

‘Haven’t you heard that curiosity killed the cat?’

With a sweep of his hand, Fitzpayne pushed aside the dense curtain of overhanging foliage that obscured the clearing beyond
and led them up a set of steps into a long meeting hall.

‘This is the Kennel,’ Fitzpayne announced. But as they ducked their heads to walk through the doorway he lowered his voice
and added, ‘Watch yourself here, Madoc. These are not men who take kindly to an intruder with a gun stuck down his trousers.’

Kitty grabbed a handful of Madoc’s backside and squeezed it so hard that it felt like a damn dog bite. ‘Stupid shit,’ she
growled at him, and pushed past into the dimly lit chamber.

The shutters were closed, and a handful of native women were tending a fire to cook the evening meal. There were huddles of
men seated on the floor, playing cards and mah-jong or whittling shapes out of drift-wood. But most of them just sat and smoked
rough cigarettes or strange-smelling clay pipes, and drank Tiger beer by the gutful. There was no welcome for him and Kitty;
just the usual hard-eyed stares and suspicious muttering. That was OK. He didn’t intend to hang around any longer than was
necessary.

Down the far end, a bunch of kids sat in rows, dirty knees akimbo, reciting in unison something they were being taught. He
spotted the
Hadley boy among the dark heads, and Razak as well, but his attention was taken by the way Fitzpayne slipped easily into the
inner life of the hall, greeting, laughing and offering smokes. He became a part of it all as effortlessly as chameleons ripple
up and down tree bark, almost invisible.

‘Madoc.’ It was Kitty.

She thrust a sheet of cardboard into his hand. He squinted at it in the poor light and saw that it was a list of rules. He
scanned them, came to the ban on use of guns and swore under his breath. He frowned at Kitty, but she wasn’t paying attention.
Instead she was staring open-mouthed at the children.

‘Just kids,’ he said.

‘Look at their teacher.’

He looked, indifferent at first, at the slight, graceful figure sitting so relaxed on the floor in front of the children.
She was leaning over one of them, listening with a solemn expression to what the urchin had to say. A length of soiled material
was wound around her head, and she wore clothing that was too big for her. It was only when she raised her head to attend
to another child that it dawned on him who she was.

‘Constance Hadley!’ He shook his head in disbelief. ‘She
has
changed.’

‘That’s an understatement,’ Kitty chuckled.

‘She’s cut her hair.’

‘She looks … not European. Her bones all flow together, not stiff boards, like the colonials. We’ve seen men go native
out here, losing their Western ways, but never a woman.’

Madoc’s gaze swung around the noisy chamber, and he noticed numerous men staring openly at their children’s white teacher,
as they fingered their beards and watched the wisps of golden hair escape her headcloth and dance in the lamplight.

‘She’d better be careful,’ he said under his breath to his wife, ‘or she will stir up trouble for herself.’

Kitty slipped her arm through his, letting the side of her breast bump against him, reminding him to whom he belonged. ‘No
fear of that,’ she said. ‘She has her protector.’

‘Who?’

She cast her eyes at the man standing in the shadows.

‘Fitzpayne?’ Madoc said, surprised. ‘Really?’

‘Oh, Madoc, how can men be so dense?’ She laughed, puffed out her cheeks and walked over to Fitzpayne. ‘What have you done
to her?’

Fitzpayne didn’t take his eyes from Constance Hadley, but his face seemed to loosen and he almost smiled. ‘What has she done
to herself?’ he asked softly.

Madoc cursed the moon. It was too bright. It shone like a torch down through the darkness onto the riverbanks, its slippery
light penetrating the netting and foliage overhead. He stood tight against a trunk and listened.

Nothing. Only the slap of the water and the usual wild clicks and cries and whirrs from the jungle’s night chorus. A wind
rattled the leaves and tugged at the rigging of the boats. At least half of them had weighed anchor and gone, presumably moving
on or maybe just out hunting for prey, but
The White Pearl
lay at anchor downriver from the
Burung Camar
. Beauty and the beast. For an hour he remained in the dark shadows of his tree and waited. Finally a sentry grew bored and
showed himself. Madoc smiled with satisfaction as the man lit a cigarette – which clearly had to be against camp rules – but
now that Madoc knew exactly where the watchful eyes were positioned, high up on one of the platforms, he moved upriver, forging
a path through a thick stand of bamboo. He chose a section of the bank that was overhung by branches and slid himself silently
into the water.

It was colder than he expected, and squeezed his lungs until he almost coughed. He set out with a strong stroke that carried
him quickly into midstream. He hated the water. It was muddy and foul in his mouth, but worse was his certainty that it was
packed with other creatures, and not ones he cared to meet. When the current hit, he went under. The river was tidal. Panic
seized him for a fleeting moment, as fear of being swept out to sea flared in his head, but he kicked strongly against the
rushing flow. He bobbed back up to the surface, the moonlight as white as ice on his face, and let himself be carried a few
yards before striking out once more and finding an anchor chain to grasp hold of.

He clung there in the shadow of the boat, drew breath and took his bearings.
The White Pearl
was directly ahead, the
Burung Camar
hiding just behind her like a shy bridesmaid, her mast as sharp and silver as a needle. He turned in the water to check the
platform back on shore. The cigarette had vanished in the darkness. Shit. He felt his heart kick at his ribs,
but convinced himself that he was invisible to any watching eyes, nothing more than a dark ripple in the river.

He spat filth from his mouth as a wave broke over his face, and he swam with a sudden surge of energy in his limbs. He could
taste greed along with the filth, and this time he was determined to make Fitzpayne pay. The thought of his short-wave radio
tucked away in its hiding place was too enticing to resist. When he reached the rope ladder that hung down the side of the
Burung Camar
’s timber hold, he hauled himself up out of the water.

Connie crouched in the shade of a crooked mangrove tree and poked a stick into a small pool of seawater trapped among its
roots.

‘Having fun?’

She looked up, startled, shielding her eyes from the early-morning sun. ‘Hello, Fitz.’ She smiled a welcome and then frowned
at the end of her stick. ‘It’s not working.’

‘What’s not working?’

‘My stick.’

He laughed and squatted down beside her to inspect her pool. ‘What have you got in there?’

‘A crab. A big one. He’s hiding under that tangle of roots at the side.’ She prodded the stick into the hole, stirring the
green water into life, forcing a sea snail to the surface but no crab.

‘I’ve been looking for you,’ he said.

‘Oh? What for?’

He removed the stick from her grasp, and she was conscious of his fingers on hers. ‘You’re not bold enough,’ he said.

Not bold enough.

‘With the crab?’ she asked.

Their eyes held for a moment. His irises appeared almost blue today, warm and interested. She was aware of his shoulder only
inches from her arm, a sliver of heat-laden air between them, and the way his legs folded up under him like a grasshopper’s
with long muscular thighs. His knuckles were thick and tanned by the sun as he held her stick.

‘You should do it like this,’ he said, and gave three hefty jabs at the crab’s hideout.

Instantly there was movement and a blur of scarlet shell as he yanked out the stick with the crab attached to the end. It
was holding on for grim death with its one huge, overdeveloped claw, too angry to let go.

‘A soldier crab,’ Fitzpayne declared. ‘They are fighters.’

Connie heard the respect in his voice. ‘Is that what you are, Fitz, under all the veneer of good manners? A fighter? Is that
why you’re here?’

He placed his hands on either side of the crab’s shell, cupping it delicately so that it couldn’t attack his unprotected
fingers with its massive claw. ‘You and I are both fighters at heart, Connie,’ he said, but he didn’t look at her. Instead,
he raised the soldier crab aloft for her to examine its underside. Behind him, between the trees, the sea was a dazzle of
peacock blue, and a stiff wind cast strings of white lace over the surface of the waves like fishermen’s nets. ‘We fight
for what we want, each in our own way.’