The Pineapple Hut

With his head on the splintery floor like this, he could see pineapple bushes through gaps in the planked wall. Rude, leafy spikes blended into a seemingly brush-stroked, green back-drop that rolled to trees in the distance. He couldn’t see anyone.

Thirteen days of pointless wandering and hiding. What would his wife be doing now? He recalled her glistening eyes and smiled faintly. Strange that so many unimportant decisions had abandoned him here. Konfrontasi!

How many weary feet had trudged in this layer of dried mud to line the floor near his nose? It smelt musty. The floor was dry and warm, but felt wet and cold against his cheek. The hut was a resting place for plantation workers. There are no trees on a pineapple plantation, no shade. This was a solitary shelter; four walls, an empty floor, and a small pane-less window with a propped shutter. The sun was brilliant white outside. Must be mid-afternoon.

He had been dozing. Maybe he had imagined it. Nothing moved. The air hung heavily around the hut.

“Look, we want to be fair. I’ll give you five minutes.”

That was it. No dream. Five minutes. He believed them; they wouldn’t shoot before then. He looked carefully at the minute hand on his watch. Normally, we see only a snapshot of a watch or clock, and the hands appear frozen. Perfectly still, until we look away and they are free to resume a prosaic, steady journey to our death. But by focusing carefully on the tip of the longest hand, he could actually see time swept away. The hand had moved almost all the way between two of the short, black notches.

Malaysian soldiers would patrol in a platoon. Still, he needed to check. He had to see them. Maybe there was a chance of escape? Slowly, he rose to his knees and waddled closer to one of the cracks. About five metres from the door of the hut, half of a face peered back at him from behind the stub of a dead tree trunk. That was the voice. The others would be lying amongst the pineapple bushes, and every rifle would be pointed at him. He waddled to another corner of the hut and stared at a likely patch of leaves. Nothing moved. Then, to another corner. Were they there? Yes, they must be. The voice wouldn’t be alone. They would see him as a silhouette, pacing like an animal in a cage.

There was no point delaying this. He resolved to surrender. He saw the image in his mind. Throw out the rifle, put his hands on his head. Deep breath, and walk out the door. Of course, they would beat him, but that wouldn’t last long. Damn. Were they there? He looked one more time between the cracks.

“Fire!”

From three corners of the hut, Stenn gun bullets exploded the timber planks and ripped into his skin and flesh. In thunderous noise and confusion, he spun completely around and crashed onto his back. His chest rose and fell rapidly, and his mouth gaped. Slowly, he rolled his head to one side. His body responded distantly, as if it belonged to someone else. 

A young, excited Lieutenant advanced cautiously through the door. They looked directly at each other for an instant that one of them would remember vividly. Then, a final bullet opened his chest with such force that his lifeless body lifted momentarily from the floor.

Max Herriman

Another Day on the Wall

Their shoulders brushed together as they strolled across the courtyard lawn of 'old' Nanjing Hotel. An enormous, archaic floodlight threw a dim, yellow glow over a fountain in the centre of the garden. Of course, there was no water.

"It's buggered - compromised." Smouch spoke in a neutral, matter-of-fact tone. He looked tired. Did he appreciate the implications?

"Are you sure? I could have been wrong."

"Oh, Christ, Terry... just look at this place. You were right. They were watching. Have you noticed that we're the only 'guests'?"

Instinctively, Terry's gaze rested on shadows.

"And, I bet you that there's only one ve-ery friendly bloke at the bar and two, exactly two, beauties serving the beer."

No laugh.

"Well, am I on?"

"No way. You've done this before."

"Wimp. You can have the man."

Terry stopped and stared at the grass near his feet. It was short. He'd never seen a lawn mower in China and there was no tell-tale shit on the lawn. How do they do that? Scissors? "Where d'you think he is?"

Smouch scoffed, "Stuffed if I know. I know where he was but buggered if I can think of a way to get to him now. He'll have to find us."

Smouch had spoken to a friend on the phone when he was in Hong Kong. They hadn't seen each other for fifteen years, or was it longer? His friend sounded older but she said that he sounded mellow. "It's strange, you were always so wild as a kid. Now you're ... I don't know, softer. Gentle."

"Are you saying that I'm boring?"

"No. It's good. Sounds like you're at peace with yourself."

He wasn't. He knew what she could hear. He had been humbled. Not by anybody, nor by any incident. By everything. The world. All of those years. By mortality. He wasn't going to lead humanity out of darkness. No one was. He, they, everyone - condemned to stay here amongst the filth, the loneliness, the lies and cheating, the greed and the hate. Especially the hate. He hated more than he ever did as a young man. At night, in Sydney, he would walk the Cross hoping that some young idiot would pick a fight. They wouldn't. That isn't the way nature works. Smouch was solid. He looked mean. No, they would pick on a small guy or a woman. Probably a woman. Damn, he'd kick them and keep kicking until he'd kicked away forty years of pent up screaming.

She had never believed him. What was love anyway? She was right not to believe. He had sex with other women, or used to. Now, he couldn't see the point. Meaningless. Physical. Work. His vision blurred.

"Want another beer?"

"No." Where did this voice come from? So deep, so mature, adult, controlled. A man. "I've had enough. This place is giving me the shits."

"You ok?"

"No."

Terry looked around. They'd moved outside and were sitting on a low brick wall in front of the hotel. The street was poorly lit. People, so many people. Don't they sleep? Bicycles clanked past. Occasionally, a person would look at them.

"How long do we have to hang around?"

Smouch stared straight ahead. He was somewhere else.

"Smouch?"

"Until...", until when? Until wealth can sleep at night? Until he drove his car into a pole?

"Sorry?"

"Until the day after tomorrow. If he hasn't made contact by then, it's time to cover our arse. I'm goin' to bed. See ya."

Terry stayed on the wall. Smouch was a good bloke and the most experienced guy in the section, but man, he was moody. Sometimes it seemed that he just couldn't be bothered. Terry tasted the memory of good coffee and his thoughts drifted back to Carlton and Fitzroy, Wendy, happiness. He smiled. It's all still there. Won't be long.

Max Herriman

A Stitch in Time

(Most of the dialogue for this story was written on 17 January 1991, the morning [Australian time] that the Allies began bombing Iraq.)

Rain blew against the glass in vicious pelts - tiny, cool drops that smashed uselessly onto the panes and trickled to the ground like tears. Wind and rain reeled, then swept across the lawn. Inside, men scarcely noticed that a storm had begun.

"It's a God-send." A knowing smile escaped the immaculately-dressed, junior assistant standing to the right of Mr Baker. The Secretary of State continued, "You know that we have been concerned about this megalomaniac ever since they put a hole in USS Stark. Frankly, it would only be a matter of time before someone sold him the technology for nuclear weapons."

Bush looked through gold-rimmed spectacles at the briefing sheet in his left hand. He no longer noticed that, under artificial light, the lenses caused white paper to take on a pinkish hue. Three ridges of frown between his eye-brows flattened into a smooth curve that ran to a receding, gossamer hair-line. His cheeks and neck succumbed to gravity, sagging as a frame around determinedly drawn lips, and his tilted head over-emphasised the aquiline nature of his nose.

"Would have? What the hell are you talking about James?" He scanned the clever young men who always seemed to accompany the Secretary these days. Not long ago, he was like them. Their eager eyes betrayed a desire to smirk knowingly. He knew they didn't understand.

The two men settled into chairs either side of the President's imposing desk. The Secretary's assistants remained standing on a rug near the door. They were armed with dossiers and several nights' reading - ready to answer questions and impress those who have to be impressed.

"He's becoming too powerful. The last thing we want is a fanatical Arab to fill the vacuum left by the Soviets. Hell, we'd be better off with the Russians. But you know all this; we've talked about it at length." The leather chair creaked gently as he rested his weight on his elbow. "Well, what can we do about it? If we pick a fight with him or move in to neutralise the threat, they'd drag out Jane Fonda, and all the bleeding-hearts would bash down our door."

"The Israelis haven't done anything foolish, have they James?"

"Ha. I hope not! No. Nothing that we're aware of." Baker spoke softly and unhurriedly. His words flowed across the desk in a reassuring melody, "They know that the entire Arab community would unite behind Saddam Hussein if they made any move. Their 'non-attributable' operations are always so obvious, if only because they're so effective." The Secretary's advisers smiled, glanced at each other, then looked at the floor. "No, it's not that. We think Saddam is going to make a mistake that will provide us with a window of opportunity."

A dramatic pause. The Secretary had always been a skilled negotiator. He knew the importance of atmosphere. "Mr President, the Defence Intelligence Agency has advised that Iraq is massing forces for an invasion of Kuwait. The State Department agrees with that assessment."

The President showed no expression. "So, you believe he's looking at more than the border problem? This briefing sheet from Brent Scowcroft suggests that the Iraqis are really interested in," he flipped to the front page, "Bubiyan and Warba Islands and the Rumaila oil field."

"Brent wanted to join me here this morning, but he thought it best to finish his assessment. He's hoping to brief you fully early this afternoon. Events are unfolding pretty rapidly. He agrees that his earlier position is redundant. We believe that it's more than a border situation. Tanks, troop movements and diplomatic intelligence all indicate a full-blown invasion. This is not an exercise. We estimate that he plans to move in less than three weeks. A blatant breach of international law that will be condemned around the world. We'll have people begging us to kick him out."

"What's the latest on his nuclear capability? He has a whole pile of chemical weapons."

"We know that he doesn't have nuclear weapons, yet. Give him another year though... As for the other problem; well, the Chairman of the Joint Chiefs has assured me that he could destroy most of the chemical threat before it could be used. Apparently, the Iraqis have some problem with delivery. Their missiles are old."

The young men stood in awe. Secretary 'Velvet Hammer' was asking for permission to act out one of his greatest foreign policy strokes. He didn't have to say anything more. Indeed, to have done so might have spoiled everything.

When the President spoke, he chose his words carefully. "You're suggesting that we do nothing until he rolls over the border; we feign surprise and indignation, then move in - aaah, at the request of the Kuwaitis - to restore the legitimate government. In the process, we inflict sufficient damage to neutralise the growing Iraqi threat."

"That's about the size of it. Of course, we can't move in straight away. Better to make a lot of noise about human-rights abuses and violations of international law. We'll try 'every avenue' of diplomatic persuasion and sanctions. The Saudis will feel uncomfortable with Saddam on their doorstep. We could exaggerate the threat of Iraq's imminent wave of conquest but probably won't have to, the media will do that for us. Pressure will rise to the point where the world demands that he be removed. That will also allow us time to get our people on the ground and hopefully bring other Western nations into the operation. Good guys versus the bad guys, and we'll unquestioningly be on the right side."

"The alternative?"

"Play your cards too soon and you might frighten him away temporarily, but only until he's developed the necessary weaponry. Then, we would probably not be able to do much about it, or if we have to, it will be a lot more bloody. Personally, I think we'd still have to take him out. You know, with Kuwait in his possession he would control a large proportion of the world's oil supply. He would grow increasingly powerful. We'd have another stand-off. It'd be the Iron Curtain all over again. No, I don't think we have any real alternative."

Bush crossed his fingers on the table and studied his knuckles. The room suddenly felt warm, too warm. He inhaled deeply, as if to announce a decision, then noisily released the captive air. A wave of raindrops rushed against the window to fill the silence with suicide patter.

"I have to tell you James, I'm torn between the prospect of another Vietnam and the desire to do what's right. You know, in the small office off my bedroom there's a painting of Lincoln conferring with his generals. He proved his greatness under fire." The President rolled his head back and to the side. His gaze fell upon a vase of fresh flowers, but he didn't see them. "How much pain is this thing going to cause us?"

"Weeks, not months, and not a lot of casualties - if we act now."

"Okay. Have your department prepare a brief on the matter please James. Give me until this afternoon, say three o'clock, then bring Dick and Brent back here with you. I want a Defense perspective on this. Also, have a draft series of speeches made up. Let me get a feel for the flavour of it. They will have to be strong enough to offend Saddam but not so much that I look too eager for a fight. The last thing we'd want is for him to pull out while we're moving into position. Demand that he makes an unconditional withdrawal, no negotiation. You know the sort of thing. That way he would lose too much face to comply. The whole thing would be very delicate. If we get it wrong, it could really screw things up. Congress would be a pain in the butt. Are your people up to it?"

"Well, it's a fairly straight forward spin. We'll be ok. It would be a very popular victory for the West, and ... um, would take the heat off of this 'savings and loans' problem." No-one looked at the President.

Max Herriman

Fragrant Harbour

Like one, that on a lonesome road
Doth walk in fear and dread,
And having once turned around walks on,
And turns no more his head;
Because he knows, a frightful fiend
Doth close behind him tread.

Samuel Taylor Coleridge,
The Rime of the Ancient Mariner

His brother's course-cotton shirt felt like dry, bristled grass. Heat oozed through the loose weave. They shared their smell, grunts, curses; breathed the other's already used air. There were faces in every direction. Flushed, eager faces that turned on their side then rolled inverted before flipping suddenly upright with a thud. The faces laughed and pointed - at him.

Little Feng stood mechanically to accept the loop of his brother's arm. They turned their backs to each other and Feng wrenched him from the soiled, red mat that their father had arranged for the performance. Now the brother dived; Feng's turn to roll over the back, and the process began again.

By day, Temple Street is a narrow artery on Kowloon side. Red and silver taxis push each other along the grease-stained road. Tourists have heard that this is the place to buy imitation Rolex and Cartier watches. They crush against locals who never seem satisfied to leave anything where it is. Furniture, mattresses, wooden crates, babies, and bird-cages all bob along the footpath amidst a constant din of Cantonese. The crowd flows around stalls that sell dried mushrooms, rice and tea. Everything is for sale, but the tourists have made a mistake. The watches and trinkets come out only at night. As the sun hides behind concrete restaurants and one-room apartments, the night is banished by gas lanterns and bright neon lights that hang haphazardly over and in between blackened umbrellas. A tangled net of electricity wires traps all below. Only a few cars push slowly into the crowd that now fills the street. They will edge forward for several metres before discharging their occupants into the smoke and clicking rattle of a mah-jongg restaurant.

"Oh, look John! Those darling little children." Ruth pulled him towards a group circled like moths around two brilliant-white gas lanterns. John couldn't see the marvel but followed obediently. They had been in Hong Kong for five hours and already he could see that she had improved. This is the woman he had married. A good deal more overtime would be needed when he returned to Australia but he didn't mind. The change wrought by children and boredom had been proven temporary. He smiled as Ruth shoved assertively into the throng. She had never looked so beautiful. Auburn hair flowed in smooth lines that fanned across her shoulders.
Little Feng's father saw Ruth's beaming face and bony left arm shoved rudely between two Filipino amahs. He waddled from his corner of proprietorship and hit Feng's younger sister with the back of a cigarette-bearing, dirty brown hand. A lump of grey ash fell onto her lap. The girl pulled up loose fitting sleeves, collected her bowl and set off to smile at the oily-faced foreign devil with the big nose.

2.

Li Baiyun could not see the spectacle of the tumbling children but she was an important part of Feng's evening. Her voice haunted the boy. He wished he had magic. He would conjure a trick and make all the people, the endless din, the smells, the red mat, and his father disappear.
Feng's mother had a voice like Li's. But she never sang; she just yelled. Feng tried to keep his corner of their room tidy. He just had too many things. School books and piled clothes always look a mess. Li's singing and his mother's yelling swirled in his head as his foot slipped on the rug. His arms were still tangled from the last roll, and the hardness of the concrete beneath the rug struck him directly on the side of the face. Pain numbed his cheek; his brain bounced in its shell and immediately began to ache. Tears fell inwards, but only sweat moistened the stinging redness. He scrambled to his feet. His anxious brother quickly looped their bodies together and threw him into the air. They dared not glance at their father. Better to get back to the routine as rapidly as possible. Perhaps he hadn't noticed? Even if he had, it was still early, he would forget by the time they were finished.
Li's singing washed over her parents in soothing, warm waves. Each note delivered a renewed load of pride. Li had been coming to the opera in Temple Street Market for as long as she could remember. At first, she ignored the performance, preferring to search for treasures in the gutter, but her parents' dream became her own. Li learnt the ancient operas. She had been so nervous; she smiled to think of it now.
Li's beautiful, white-painted face and penetrating tones eventually lured Ruth from the "acrobatic children", to whom she had given two Hong Kong dollars and a genuinely friendly smile. Perhaps it wasn't Li's voice that caught Ruth's attention; it might have been all those gongs, and what was that strange sounding string instrument? Ruth forgot about Feng as she excitedly dragged John into a new crowd of spectators. She pushed to the front. It had to be the front. She didn't know these people. Who'd care if she was rude? Besides, they were all so small, frail. Shiny, black hair fell out of her way at first shove. She turned to see if John was enjoying himself. He was.
Ruth had been a blurred face in the ever-changing wall of Feng's cage. Heavy incense scent mingled with the odour of over-cooked oil and bodies that were pressed together too tightly in the crowd. Sound and smoke danced in the street, hot, heavy. He tried not to let his eyes stray from the red mat. People, always different people, did the same things. They bustled, laughed, talked, argued, and kissed. The two small boys repeated their primitive choreography without rest.
Li heard all the noise: the shouting, the cars, sirens, other opera singers, but she was in Peking. People had come only to hear her. Chinese newspapers mentioned her name in awe and no-one could remember another singer so fine. There was no plastic factory. No Mr Zhang who grabbed her backside as he passed. She was Li Baiyun and Ruth appreciated this fact with another two Hong Kong dollars. "It's only Monopoly money." She and John both laughed.

3.

Temple Street Market was indistinguishable from the lights of Kowloon for gentle old Mr Tang. He looked across the harbour from the twenty-sixth floor of the government building. Simpson's dulcet, melodious drone had nearly put him to sleep. Tired, cynical eyes turned once more towards Little Feng's corner of the world, his world.
"Your concerns were anticipated Mr Tang. As you know, the agreement specifically identifies the need for comprehensive discussion on the important issue of local government. There will be mainland recognition of a Basic Law for the colony. God knows, the Chinese wouldn't have wanted it any other way."
The blackness that lay to the west of sparkling Kowloon hid more than the horizon. Mr Tang remembered a winter's field; a younger man stood naked to bathe with a wooden bucket and ladle. The water was so cold. He saw Simpson's insipid smile reflected in the window.
"But we are Chinese, Mr Simpson. All Chinese are children of the old One Hundred Families. All Chinese."
Simpson was tired of this. The illogical pessimism of these Hong Kong-Chinese flowed to the same location as surely as a river follows a valley. He was glad his appointment to the Far East would soon end. Back to London as an 'East Asia Specialist'.

4.

Neither Pu Shaoqi, nor the khaki-clad policeman who spoke into a shoulder-clipped radio, knew the identity of the man at the end of the meat cleaver. Pu did not know who but he did know why. So did the policeman. Pu slipped in and out of consciousness as he brightened the alley with his blood. Li's singing rolled into the darkness and merged into a confused dream as he abandoned his nightmare. He had convinced himself that they would give him another warning. It was only one payment.

The butcher was young. Pu had seen the tattooed shoulders and arms, but caught only a glimpse of his sparkling, young eyes before steel sliced through flesh and scraped against bone. Later, adrenalin would drive the boy's rapid, excited chatter as he reported his success. Some other gang-members had watched. It was probably part of an initiation to the group. The policeman knew that nobody had seen anything and did not bother to ask.

John thought it best to go back to the hotel. They had three whole days to see the place, there was no need to rush. Ruth feigned reluctance but her feet ached. Her thoughts ricocheted from fortune tellers, clothing stalls, street dentists and barbers, to those "marvellous alfresco-cafes" with the procelain bowls set above open flames. "These people know how to live." She could stay there forever; never go home. No more nappies, ironing, cooking.
Little Feng now looked at his father after each roll. His legs were heavy and he panted. Sweat dripped from his ears; hair stuck in strands across his face. He did not remember falling but his cheek was swollen. The crowd had thinned and he knew that his father would want some sleep before collecting the taxi. It wouldn't be long. They would roll the red rug and begin to walk home.
Feng's father frowned as he pushed the coins into little piles on the concrete. He was not alone as he weighed the coins in the bowl against time.


Max Herriman