Beat Not the Bones (12 page)

Washington said, ‘Come in, sorry to keep you waiting.'

The room was dimly lit by a single lamp fixed into a large glass bottle that was almost quarter full of the dead bodies and fallen wings of flying ants. The lamp threw a soft, golden light on the thatch above. Small pink geckoes lay waiting on the rafters to pounce on the insects that scratched and scuttled there. The walls were festooned with various weapons: masks and ornaments, axes, spears, arrows, drums, bamboo pipes and long strips of coarse cloth decorated in bold brown and red designs. Against this decor Philip Washington presented an incongruously elegant figure.

He was sitting in a large cane chair with his feet on a wooden stool. He wore a yellow silk dressing-gown with a deep black collar and borders to the sleeves, and fanned his dripping face with a Chinese sandalwood fan. On the table beside him was a wooden Balinese head, a glass of rum and an untouched plate of bully beef and hot boiled potatoes. The tin that had contained the bully beef was on the floor at his feet.

She had accused Trevor Nyall of deliberately hiding him but decided now that she had been unjust. Washington did look ill. It was not exceptionally hot, though the climb up the garden steps had made her skin prickly and moist, but Washington's face ran with sweat. His eyes were pouched from lack of sleep and there were sharp, haggard folds around his lips that did not appear to belong to a face otherwise young.

As soon as she entered the room she knew he was hiding something. He lay, making no attempt to move, languid as a Yellow Book poet, but she felt that the body under the silk gown was tense and defensive. She felt that he knew who she was and why she had come, and was prepared for her.

‘You will excuse me for not getting up.' He spoke in rather high-pitched, drawling tones and waved a long, elegant hand at two cane chairs. ‘This damn fever leaves me weak as a chicken. Oh, hello there, Hitolo. Nice to see you again. Sit down over there.' He pointed to the corner and Hitolo came quietly in and squatted down on his haunches.

Stella, who had no idea that in Marapai it was a breach of etiquette to invite a Papuan to sit down in the same room as a white woman, took no notice of this. She sat down too, but Anthony remained standing. ‘I've brought Mrs Warwick to see you, Washington,' he said. ‘She's only recently learned that you went into the Bava valley with her husband.' He spoke quickly, almost casually, as if to get this visit over as soon as possible. His words subtly deprived the meeting of emphasis. Stella did not know whether to be angry or grateful.

Washington had turned his extraordinarily light eyes towards her, and in a manner as elegant as his dressing gown said, ‘Believe me, Mrs Warwick, you have my deepest sympathy. I knew you were here, of course, and I was going to get in touch with you. You probably think it unpardonable of me for not having done so. I should have written, but I am one of those poor wretches who go completely
under
in an attack of fever. It just prostrates me. I am useless. You will excuse my not getting up, won't you? Perhaps you'd like something to drink. Hitolo, fish around behind that curtain and you'll find a bottle of gin.' His eyes returned to Stella. ‘I have no ice, I'm afraid. The boys used to carry it up from the freezer for me, but, alas, I now have no boys. So you must excuse the mess.'

Stella said nothing. She was shocked to find him so charming. There was something light and brittle about the way he spoke that – against her inclinations – amused her, an inflection to his voice that made everything he said sound witty. She did not like being charmed, and she profoundly distrusted him.

‘What about Rei?' said Anthony.

He shrugged his shoulders. ‘Rei … That's right, Hitolo, and there are glasses there too and water in that jug. Put back the cover or the ants will fall into it.' His voice faded. His eyes had wandered and were fixed now on the darkening doorway. He leaned forward suddenly in his chair and peered outside. Both Stella and Anthony turned to follow the direction of his gaze. The leaves of the creeper formed a sharp, serrated edge around the doorway. Night had fallen quickly, and behind the frangipani trees, the sky was pricked with stars.

Washington's unblinking eyes probed the dark shapes of the bushes. His face was tense and a small pulse throbbed in his cheek. ‘Hitolo, be a good boy and have a look outside, won't you. I think somebody's waiting out there.'

Hitolo left the drinks and walked obediently outside. He stood for a moment on the verandah and came back in again. ‘Nobody there,' he said.

Washington leaned back in his chair. His face relaxed.

‘We're keeping you from your dinner,' Stella said, and struck at a mosquito on her leg.

‘Oh, that's nothing. It's inedible anyway. Are the mosquitoes troubling you? Hitolo, pass over that switch to Mrs Warwick.'

Hitolo unhooked a long, horsehair switch from the wall and Washington picked up his plate and prodded a potato with a fork. Stella switched impatiently at her legs. She opened her lips to speak, but Hitolo forestalled her. ‘Taubada!' He had moved forward into the centre of the room. He was staring at the empty meat tin by Washington's feet. ‘Mr Washington, don't eat that food. You die!'

Washington lifted his eyes and stared at Hitolo. His lips were half parted to receive the food. Then he glanced down at his feet. When he looked up again his eyes were bright and angry. ‘Don't talk such nonsense!' he said. ‘Go back and sit down this instant!' Digging his fork into the bully beef, he scooped up a large piece and thrust it into his mouth.

‘No eat 'im, taubada,' chanted Hitolo. He appeared not to have heard Washington's rebuke. He stood with his arms hanging at his sides, his eyes wide and glazed. There was a strange, whitish flush around his lips.

Stella looked down at the can. Its lid was rolled back round a key. It had a scarlet label with yellow lettering. Washington spoke again. His voice rose, a note of hysteria in it now. ‘Do as I tell you! Sit down and be quiet or you can get out!' He ate a little more and pushed his plate away, grimacing. ‘There!' he said defiantly to Hitolo, who had slunk back into the corner again. ‘Do I look as if I'm going to die? My God, you're a spoiled crowd. There used to be a time when a piece of smoked magami was good enough for you. Now you scream for tinned meat and fish. And if you strike an off tin that gives you a belly-ache you wail about that and want fresh beef from the freezer at five shillings a pound. That's where we've gone wrong with these people,' he said to Anthony. ‘All we've done is to create unnecessary needs without developing a sense of discrimination.'

‘Mr Washington!' said Stella desperately.

‘Yes, Mrs Warwick, you were wanting to ask me some questions. I'm sorry I was not more prepared for you. Oh, dear, that doesn't seem to be agreeing with me.' He ran his hand over his stomach. ‘I shouldn't eat with fever. I never feel I can touch a thing.'

As he spoke Stella became conscious that the room was becoming filled with more and more tiny flying insects. The circle fluttering about the lamp was slowly thickening. They seemed frenzied and pelted about like snow. The table all around the glass bottle was littered with fine, shining wings. They had settled on the ceiling, too, and scratched and whispered in the thatch. Two or three large cockroaches joined them and flopped about the room. In the confined space they looked as large as birds. The geckoes waiting on the rafters were darting to and fro, and a lean black cat that Stella had not noticed before was sitting on a rafter directly above her head cracking something between its jaws.

Desperation seized her. Somewhere here, she believed, hidden in this house, in the body and mind of this man, was the truth, the justice she sought, but the hut was equipped to distract and bewilder her. The masks, the string of dogs' teeth and the curved half moons of the boars' tusks caught and mesmerised her eyes; the amusing elegant manners of Washington trapped her; Hitolo with his talk of deadly meat had momentarily banished David Warwick from her mind, and now nature itself, the sky with its hordes of winged insects, had rallied to attack her. She felt that her sight, her senses, her passionate purpose was blurred in the flutter of myriad wings.

‘Mr Washington,' she said again, leaning tensely forward. ‘When you went to Eola …'

‘Just a moment, Mrs Warwick. I'm afraid we'll have to turn off the light or we'll have these things in hordes. They'll pass over in a moment.'

She lashed at her legs with the horse-hair switch in a sudden revulsion against the tiny pricking, tickling creatures. Along the arm of her chair they had settled in a thick, wriggling, greasy patch. She looked up and her eyes met Anthony Nyall's. He was staring a her with an expression of grave sadness. Washington put out a hand and snapped off the light.

There was a moment of silence, at least of human voices. In fact the little hut was filled with sound. The flying ants flopped and battered their wings against the lamp; through the open louvres they could be seen, a twirling, spinning multitude against the night sky. The thatch was alive with scraping, cracking, creeping insect life, and from the ceiling above Stella's head swayed a cluster of strange, bamboo objects – some sort of musical instruments, she guessed – that tinkled in the breeze like wind bells.

‘Who's that?' said Washington sharply, and they heard him move forward in his chair.

‘There's no one there,' said Anthony in a flat, tired voice. ‘It's only the flying foxes. There's nothing to be afraid of. Nothing can come in. You're well protected. You have magic hanging on your door'

Washington laughed. It was a strange high, dry sound. ‘Oh, so you noticed it. Now don't expect me to be ashamed of myself. I can't help it, you know. All the nicest things I have are pinched. My fingers itch and there's absolutely nothing I can do about it. You're not going to take it away, are you?'

‘Not if it gives you any comfort,' said Anthony. His voice was low, and it was difficult to tell whether it was menacing or gentle.

Stella struck a desperate blow at the mosquitoes that were attacking her legs. She was beginning to feel hysterical. The whole evening – this strange, elegant, unstable man, his fantastic house, Hitolo, the flying ants – seemed unreal, dreamlike.

‘There
is
someone there,' said Washington tensely.

Now Stella had heard the sound. It was a low, scuffling noise that seemed to come from under the house. Then there was a subdued yelp.

Washington leapt to his feet. She saw his tall body dart across the room to fill the doorway that looked out towards the boy house. ‘Koibari! Koibari! Where are you? You there! There's a dog under this house. Get it away, I tell you!
Get it out here.
I won't have dogs scratching around in this place!'

Her first thought was, There's somebody there. And he said there was no one. He's a liar too.

Washington's voice rose almost to a scream. ‘Get him out of here! Kick him! Stone him! Get him away! I won't have those damn Kerema dogs in this place!' The yelping and scuffling increased and Washington's voice screamed on. ‘Get him out of here! I won't have those damned dogs!'

He's mad! she thought. The scene had changed abruptly from dream to nightmare. The walls of experience shot back and she found herself glimpsing into regions of the human heart that she had never dreamed existed. The flying ants were still thick in the air, brushing her face as they passed. They had poured down the hillside in a united stream, using the house as a tunnel, sucked in through the louvres on one side and out through those on the other. Stella sat motionless in her chair, her hands clenched at her sides and her heart beating violently.

A voice spoke quietly in her ear. ‘Look at the glow-worms,' said Anthony Nyall. ‘Aren't they beautiful?'

She looked up. In the thatch above her head pale, soft lights were breathing on and off. They were not sparkling, hard, metallic like the firefly, but bright, soft and tender. She felt an immediate sense of relief. She smiled and moved instinctively to hold out her hand, then collected herself and drew it back.

‘You must excuse me, Mrs Warwick,' said Washington in a more normal voice. He was feeling his way back to his chair. He flopped into it and fanned himself. She could smell the faint sour odour of sandalwood. He was breathing deeply, and though she could only see the outline of his head and one rapidly moving hand beating the fan, there came from him a suggestion of almost desperate exhaustion. ‘I'm not at all well,' he said. ‘Fever always puts my nerves on edge and those damn Kerema dogs come over and root up all my vegetables.'

‘Mr Washington, when you went to Eola …'

‘Yes, Mrs Warwick. What were you wanting to ask me? I'm sorry about the interruptions.'

‘Please can you tell me what happened?'

Anthony Nyall spoke now. ‘Mrs Warwick believes that the trip to Eola might have had some sort of bearing on her husband's suicide.'

Stella's lips tightened at the word ‘suicide', but she said nothing.

‘Nothing,' said Washington quickly. ‘Nothing at all.'

‘What happened?' said Stella patiently. Nothing would come from this man, she knew. He was not attending to what he said. She had a strong impression of his thoughts flitting about the room like the flying ants, and only returning now and again to give the briefest check over the words he was speaking, which sounded forced and mechanical, perhaps rehearsed. But she was not discouraged. She felt she might learn what she wanted to know, not from what he said, but from what he did not say.

‘Well, we went by flying boat to the station at Kairipi. It's on the coast, at the mouth of the Bava River. The district officer took us up the river in the station boat to Maiola, which is the end of his patrol. Here we picked up a couple of guides and we had eight carriers with us from the station and Hitolo, and …'