Dead in the Dog

‘Seems to be! Couple of dozen shots fired, then they melted away into the ulu.’ Tom had already gathered that this was the common name for the dense secondary vegetation around the edge of the jungle.

‘James Robertson and Douglas Mackay rolled out of their beds and grabbed their guns, but it was all over by then.’

‘The state James was in, in The Dog last night, it’s a wonder he even woke up at a mere few dozen gunshots!’ observed Peter Bright, sarcastically.

‘Where were you in the early hours, Pete?’ asked Percy provocatively, but no one laughed.

‘Did our lot find the bandits?’ asked David Meredith, his dark eyes brooding over the rim of his tankard.

‘Not a sign of anyone by the time the police got there, just ahead of a squad from the garrison. Douglas rang them and they were there within twenty minutes.’

‘Odd, that!’ ruminated Percy Loosemore. ‘The CTs usually cut the phone wires before they go on the rampage. They did last time they hit Gunong Besar, about six months ago.’

Peter Bright looked desperately worried. ‘Alf, are you sure no one was hurt?’

‘The lovely Diane must be OK, or we’ve had heard,’ said Percy, with a look of innocence, as he slipped in what all the others were thinking. With her husband at home, poor Peter would be unable to ring up the estate to see how his beloved was bearing up. The way Diane had reacted after the last attack, when she had been miles away in Singapore, suggested that she would be frantic now that she had actually been on the wrong end of gunfire.

The Admin Officer slumped into the last vacant chair and signalled to Number One for a beer, as the others settled back to listen and debate.

‘We’ll hear all about it endlessly tonight at The Dog,’ he said. ‘No doubt James Robertson will be there, playing the hero.’

In spite of the heat, the atmosphere in the Robertsons’ lounge that afternoon was decidedly frosty. The ice was provided in full measure by the two women present, the wives of the owner and his manager.

Rosa Mackay sat stiffly on the edge of one of the rattan easy chairs, with Diane slumped on the settee as far away as possible on the other side of the room. Douglas Mackay hovered uneasily in front of one of the verandah doors, while James stood with his back to the rear wall, his hands clasped behind him. The third man in the room thought whimsically that if the climate had allowed for a large fireplace, James Robertson would have stood like this in front of it, to emphasize his dominance as squire of the household.

Steven Blackwell was the Superintendent of Police, based at Tanah Timah, but responsible for a huge tract of country, much of it uninhabited. He was a burly, short-necked man of forty-five, almost completely bald above a rim of iron-grey hair running horizontally around the back of his head. Steven suffered severely from the sun, his face, head and neck always bright pink above his crisply starched khaki uniform. He wore shirt and shorts, with long black socks, black shoes and black peaked cap, which now lay on the piano, along with his leather-covered stick. A black ‘Sam Brown’ belt and diagonal cross-strap supported a holstered revolver.

‘I don’t know what to make of this, James,’ he was saying with a worried frown. He had a deep, pleasant voice, still with a trace of a Midlands accent. ‘It’s not like the last time they had a go at you. That was a much more determined effort.’

‘Well, eight bullet holes in my wall is hardly a Christmas greeting, Steven!’ retorted Robertson. ‘We had two fellows killed six months ago. It only takes one bullet to kill me, determined or not!’

He sounded aggrieved that any doubt should be cast on his heroic role as the besieged planter. Blackwell held up a conciliatory hand.

‘Good God, James, I’m not trying to play down what happened! But it’s so out of character for the bastards to turn up, fire a few shots and then slope off! Last time, we were all very lucky that a patrol happened to catch them in the act. We even managed to shoot one of the sods that time.’

Douglas Mackay spoke for the first time. He was a thin, stringy man in his late forties, a widow’s peak on his forehead where his sparse fair hair had receded at the temples. Douglas seemed all arms and legs in his shorts and bush shirt, the exposed skin still showing a slightly yellowish tinge from his years as a prisoner of the Japanese. His soft Scottish voice was a contrast to Robertson’s usual bluster.

‘D’you not think it could have been one or two of Chin Peng’s boys doing a bit of freelance work – or even a couple of local guys with Commie sympathies, maybe from one of the kampongs?’

James made derogatory noises under his breath at this attempt to downgrade his ordeal, but Blackwell thoughtfully rubbed his pink jowls.

‘It’s a possibility, though I don’t know where anyone outside the CT organization would have got weapons. We’ve clamped down so hard on the villagers now.’