Then rough hands were on his arms, jolting him to his feet. They slapped and punched him. His face was already burning from the slapping he’d received inside the hut, and now the slaps came harder, again and again. Then they started to punch his body too. Tom put his fists up to try to ward them off. This seemed to make the guards even angrier, so they hit him harder. His eyelids were swelling, and blood was dribbling into his eyes, and then everything he saw was through a film of red. His eyes closed almost completely. He kept his teeth clamped together. He wasn’t going to give them the satisfaction of crying out. Would they ever stop?
Two more guards joined in, punching and kicking him. The blows came from all directions, winding him, making him stagger. They went on and on, jerking him this way and that. The force of one kick made him bite his tongue. A fist in the stomach made him double over with pain. Then a kick from behind buckled his knees, and he fell to the ground.
He was face down in the dirt, and they were all kicking him at once. He heard a voice screaming. It took him a few moments to realise it was his own. They kicked him harder. How long was this going on? He prised open his eyelids and caught sight of the Ripper standing at the top of the guardhouse steps, watching him, cold pleasure in his narrow eyes. Tom hoped that he would pass out.
When he could endure the pain no longer, the beating suddenly stopped. He looked up. The parade yard and surrounding trees were spinning round him. As they gradually slowed, he saw that the Ripper was holding his right hand up, motioning the guards to stop.
They jerked Tom to his feet. His legs were collapsing beneath him. Dizzy and swooning, every bone and muscle in his body cried out in pain. He tasted the nauseating sweet blood that filled his mouth, retched then spat it on the ground. Two of his teeth came out along with the blood. What the hell were they going to do next? He couldn’t take any more of this.
‘That enough. For now,’ said the Ripper. ‘We have something to show you,’ he looked at Tom. ‘Something that interest you very much.’
The rough bamboo gates that separated the camp from the road were dragged back by some guards, and a truck was driven through. It was one of the lorries used to collect supplies for the camp.
It stopped outside the guardhouse.
‘Get in!’ shouted the Ripper.
The guards pushed Tom up the rear ladder and onto the back of the truck. They shoved him down on a bench that ran along the side. The truck reeked of rotting vegetables, although it was empty except for a few shovels and some other tools lying on the floor.
Then, from behind the guardhouse, they brought Archie. Tom sat up. My God, what had the bastards done to him? Archie was unable to walk, and was being dragged by two guards, his feet and legs bending under him like those of a rubber doll. He was almost unconscious. His head was lolling on one side, his face and body a mass of cuts and grazes. His eyes were open, but his pupils were disappearing up under the lids.
They dragged Archie up to the lorry, and threw him bodily over the tailgate. He lay on the floor of the truck, motionless.
Tom crouched down beside him. He shook his arm.
‘Archie, Archie! It’s me, Tom. Are you OK mate? Talk to me, please.’
There was a flicker of recognition in Archie’s eyes. He raised his head a fraction and the ghost of a smile passed his lips. Then he let his head drop down on the floor again, and although Tom shook him again, he did not respond any more.
The lorry started up. It had a chugging, throaty engine. Four guards with rifles jumped on the back. The Ripper got up beside the driver. As they swept out of the gates and down the road towards the town, a group of prisoners gathered round to watch them go, consternation on their faces. As the truck rattled through the gates, Tom saw one man cross himself. A chill went through Tom. He looked away, trying to dismiss the image from his mind.
The truck drove slowly through the town of Kanchanaburi. Its progress was constantly interrupted by bicycles, rickshaws and pony carts. Tom had never seen the town before. They’d been brought to the camp by river, on flat-bottomed barges. The town seemed a poor and ragged place. They passed through narrow streets of ramshackle houses built of bamboo and rattan. Stalls selling fruit and vegetables lined the dirt road. Everywhere the frightened eyes of the locals stared back at him. They appeared cowed and afraid, but too curious not to look at them.
Where were they were being taken? Perhaps they were going to be executed. The man who had crossed himself had clearly thought that.
The truck soon left the town behind, and they were driving along an open road that ran alongside the river. On one side was thick undergrowth and the river bank was fringed with palm trees. Beyond the river jungle-clad hills stretched towards the blue horizon. Where the hell were they going? But it was useless to speculate, and he had to concentrate on keeping still. Each jolt and bounce of the lorry jarred his fractured bones.
A few miles along the valley, the truck turned off the road and bumped down a rutted track, which wound its way through dense undergrowth and past native huts with chickens and pigs rooting about. Villagers watched nervously from their dusty compounds.
The truck finally came to a halt beside a wooden hut at the foot of a small hill. The hill was
