16
On the fourth day they took Archie’s body out of the pit. Tom watched, his mouth dry with horror, as four guards surrounded the hole, threw aside the corrugated iron and the bamboo, and leaned in to pull Archie out. The boy’s face had almost turned blue and was covered in wounds from his beatings. His body was stiff and unwieldy, and it took the guards a lot of pulling and heaving to remove him.
Tom’s anger and grief spilled over. ‘You bastards! You murdering bastards. He could have lived. You’ve murdered him in cold blood.’
He screamed and shouted until his voice was hoarse. ‘Let me out! Let me out! Or I’ll die too!’
One of the guards came over and pulled the metal aside. He shoved his steel-capped boot into Tom’s head. The guard kicked him again and again. Tom tried to put up his hands against the blows, but the pit restricted the movement of his arms. He stopped shouting.
The lid was clamped back down. His head was pounding. He watched as four prisoners arrived with a bamboo stretcher and loaded Archie’s body onto it. They had brought a large but battered Union Jack with them, which they draped over the body. Then they picked up the stretcher and carried it away towards the cemetery. They did not stagger under its weight. Archie was so emaciated that he must have weighed no more than a child.
Tom closed his eyes and imagined the scene in the cemetery. He had been to many funerals during his time in the camp. The padre would recite the words of the funeral service as men stood round in mournful little groups, watching and praying, their heads bowed. The body would be lowered into the shallow grave, and earth would be shovelled on to his body. They would be careful to remove the flag and fold it, and keep it ready for the next dead prisoner. Then the men would wander back to camp with heavy hearts.
‘Goodbye, Archie, old mate,’ Tom said quietly, breaking into sobs.
Tom’s misery turned to despair. He was beginning to suspect they would never let him out. He was sure he would die a humiliating and pointless death in this filthy hole in the ground. He tried to think of Joy, but her memory failed to bring him any comfort. There was no point even hoping that he might see her again. He found himself weeping at this thought. He couldn’t bear to think he wouldn’t see her again. That would be the death of all hope for him. He would give up and surrender to his inevitable end. He slid his palm over the photograph and pressed it against his sweating chest. Closing his eyes, he tried to conjure up her face once again.
He screwed up his face with the effort, but it was not Joy’s face that swam before his eyes, but Millicent Atherton’s. That very English face, with the pampered pale skin and carefully applied makeup. He felt she was watching him, even here in this god-forsaken pit, with that knowing, sardonic smile.
He was back on that first Tuesday evening at the Penang Club. Millicent and Tom had met at six o’clock as arranged and played tennis as the sun set over the harbour. Millicent played competently, but Tom, who was unfit and nervous, made many mistakes, and she won the match easily. As he went inside to change she said casually, ‘When you’re done, come upstairs to Room 201. It’s my private suite. We can have a quiet drink.’
Tom spent a long time showering and changing. He was agonising over what was inevitably about to happen between him and Millicent. He was reluctant to encourage her, but for some reason he could not explain to himself, either then or now, he felt drawn into the situation. As he walked slowly across the entrance hall and mounted the marble staircase to the private rooms, he sensed a sudden hush in the club and the eyes of every single member and servant upon him, following him, assessing him, judging him.
Room 201 was a palatial suite overlooking the harbour, furnished with soft white sofas and low Chinese tables bearing bowls of lotus blossoms. Millicent was wearing a flimsy silk bathrobe.
‘Lighten up. I’m not going to eat you,’ she giggled as she opened the door for him. She was smoking a slim cigarette from a tortoiseshell holder. ‘Come on in and sit down. Would you like a ciggie?’
She passed him a cigarette. As she leaned forward to light it for him, she watched his face intently.
‘Are you normally so nervous?’ she asked.
‘Normally?’
‘Yes. When you are with a woman. You look like a lamb to the slaughter.’
‘Well, perhaps I’m not used to being alone with a married woman, who is wearing only a bathrobe.’
‘Oh, don’t be so prim. And I wouldn’t worry about the married bit. James doesn’t mind.’
‘Really? I find that hard to believe.’
‘Well, you wouldn’t if you knew the full story. Perhaps I’ll tell you one day.’
She had a bottle of champagne standing ready in an ice bucket. It had already been opened, and she poured them each a generous glass. Then she sat down next to him. As she leaned over to pass him his glass, she allowed her robe to fall open a little at the front. Tom looked away quickly.
‘Now, why don’t you tell me all about your life in London, Tom?’ she purred, watching him closely.
‘Well, there isn’t that much to tell. It was all rather dull, I’m afraid,’ he said, trying not to meet her eyes.
‘Oh, come on. You must have had lots of girlfriends.’
‘Not really. Nothing serious, anyway.’
‘Now I find that extremely hard to believe,’ she said, edging a little closer, so that her thigh touched his momentarily. He felt a surge of desire, but inched away from her.
She ran her hand slowly along the inside
