Fuel for the Flame Read online

  ‘Four years ago, sir.’

  ‘What game do you play now?’

  ‘I play no game. I swim, I walk.’

  Not much of either, Basil thought. That was the worst of football. When you gave it up, you had to diet or you ran to fat.

  ‘Why did you leave India?’ Basil asked.

  ‘My mother died. My brother brought me here.’

  ‘What does your brother do?’

  ‘He work on Macartney estate.’

  ‘Where have you worked before you came here?’

  ‘Several places, sir. I like to change.’

  ‘Why do you want to work for us?’

  ‘I want to leave Kuala Prang, sir. I think better my children live in the country, sir.’

  ‘Very reasonable. Now let’s see what you know about filing. Suppose it’s your job to open the mail in the morning before I arrive. This letter is in my mail. What would you do with it?’

  It was a simple routine question of knowing which file to get and how to prepare it with the appropriate references marked by slips of paper. Ahmed seemed to know his work all right. There was no reason why he should not be employed.

  ‘Thank you very much,’ he said. ‘I’ll let you know.’

  He spent every bit as much time on the remaining thirteen applicants. He did not want the stenographer to think that he had already made up his mind. There did not seem much to choose between any out of six or seven of them. ‘I’ll take Ahmed Abrusak,’ he said when the last applicant had left the room ‘I liked his reasons for wanting to come out here, for his children’s health. The family man is what we need: the man with a stake in the country.’

  It was not, however, because of his children’s health that Ahmed Abrusak had applied for a job with Pearl. He had applied because his cousin Fadil had insisted. He himself would have been well satisfied to stay on in Kuala Prang. He enjoyed watching the cricket and the football. He enjoyed the cinemas; there were a number of pleasant little bars where he could drink with the kinds of person that he liked. But Fadil had been insistent.

  ‘You’ve got to think of your children. The air is bad for them in town, and it’s expensive. You spend all your money in cinemas and on rum. You’re a weak fellow, Ahmed. Look how heavy you are. If you don’t take care of yourself, you won’t be good for anything in a few years’ time. What will happen to your children then? You’ve been changing your job every year or so. One day you’ll find you can’t get a job. You come out here where we can keep a look out on you. If a man works with Pearl, he stays with Pearl. If you are once with them you’re safe for ever, with a pension at the end. You apply for that job and mind you make a good impression. Tell them that you want your children to be brought up in the country; that’ll fetch them.’

  Fadil was older than Ahmed. He was not strong physically, but he had an effective personality. He spoke slowly, in formal English. When Ahmed had first come from Calcutta as a boy of ten, Fadil, five years his senior, had been his guide and guardian. He had taught him football, he had taught him how to bowl. It was to Fadil that Ahmed had turned for advice, praise, criticism. Fadil had been a brother and a father to him. Later, Ahmed had been affected by his cousin’s views on politics and personalities. He had not altogether understood them, but he had listened, bemused and mesmerized by that steady and persuasive voice.

  ‘You see what I mean, don’t you, Ahmed? The day of the Imperialists is over; the people own the country: it is theirs. They have a right. You agree with me, don’t you, Ahmed?’

  Ahmed had nodded. ‘Of course, of course.’

  Under his cousin’s insistence, he had joined a political club where he had heard similar views expressed with angry passion and raised voices. He had not understood what it was all about, but under the influence of their oratory, he had agreed with them. If people spoke with such fervour, they must be right.

  When Fadil had returned to India after the war, Ahmed had ceased to attend the meetings of the Progressive Club. He preferred the small bars where the discussions were about cricket and football, and when voices and fists were raised it was because of an umpire’s decision. But his allegiance to his cousin’s opinions was unabated. It was just that he was bored by politics.

  After his interview with Basil, and the news had been brought to him that he had been chosen for the post, he returned to his cousin’s house with the same sense of triumph that he had felt as a small boy when he had returned at night to report the capture of six wickets. He was devoted to his wife and children, but his cousin’s opinion of him, high or low, was what really mattered to him.

  ‘Fadil, I’ve got that job.’

  Fadil seemed less impressed than he had hoped, or rather, less surprised. He was enthusiastic, certainly, but he accepted it as a matter of course.

  ‘Good, good. I thought you would. Now we’ve got to find out what use we can put this to. You remember how we used to talk at the Progressive Club. This is your opportunity to help those of us who are fighting the war of liberation. We must all do our share. Some do more, some do less. It is the old parable of the talents, one is given five, one is given ten. There are more privates than sergeants in the army, there are more captains than there are colonels; we must accept our place. You can be … I won’t say what you can be. But every soldier carries a marshal’s baton in his pack. The liberation war of humanity is all that matters.’

  Fadil’s face was lit, his eyes were gleaming. Ahmed looked at him with wondering admiration. He did not know what his cousin was saying, but he responded to his cousin’s fervour.

  ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘Yes, yes.’

  ‘You can be of immense value to us in Pearl,’ Fadil continued. ‘You can mix with the men, you can hear how they think, how they feel. You can tell which ones share our beliefs and our ideals. I don’t want you to argue with them. That is not your function. Others are trained for that. I want you to bring them here. I hope to form a new branch of the Progressive Party. If you find someone who is interested in our ideas— you will not find that difficult—invite them to your house; then invite me, and I will do the rest, if there is more to be done. I can size them up. Your job is to move among the staff. You shouldn’t find that difficult. You are too old to play football, but you could take up cricket again. You could bowl slow; be a good mixer, watch and listen. If you take someone to a bar, let me know and I will settle the account. The Progressive Party will take care of that. We have funds, within reason. Things are happening fast. We must be on our guard; we must know who is on our side and who is on the other. Who is not with me is against me.’

  Ahmed nodded. It was true, of course; the people had been subjugated and exploited. The rich were rich because the poor were poor. Everybody knew that now. Equal shares for all. That had been the slogan in the war. Everyone knew that, of course. But he felt drowsy, exhausted by the interview. He supposed he would like it out here: but he was not sure. He would miss the cricket and the cinemas. His thoughts trailed as his cousin talked. The familiar phrases were repeated—‘Imperialist aggressors’, ‘colonialism’, ‘exploitation of the poor’. He heard the slogans very much as in church he heard the liturgy. He never gave his full attention to the prayers, but he was aware of certain sonorous periods that had sunk uncomprehended into his consciousness.

  ‘You have a great chance,’ his cousin was continuing. ‘Pearl is the key to power in Karak. We want to know who are the men in Pearl who think as we do. You see that, don’t you?’

  ‘Of course, of course.’

  ‘And you’ll help, you promise?’

  ‘Of course.’

  Later a number of friends came in. Some were Indians, some Chinese. None of them seemed prosperous. None of them drank beer or spirits; they all asked for tea or Coca-Cola, so Ahmed did too. They talked about the future of the island and the need for an elected government. Once again Ahmed found his attention wander. There was only one man in whom he could take interest, a thin, wiry young fellow who was in training for
the district athletic meeting. He asked Ahmed about the dives in Kuala Prang.

  ‘Do you know the Hidalgo?’

  No, Ahmed had never been there.

  ‘It’s a place, I’ll say it is. Tourists ask their hotel porters where they can see the real Karak and the boss of the Hidalgo gives the porters a rake-off. You know what tourists mean when they ask for the real anything.’

  With him Ahmed could feel at home, but even he in a short time changed the subject, got back to politics; shouted and waved his arms, trying to out-shout everyone. ‘Imperialist aggressors’, ‘colonial exploitation’ … there it all went again. He felt sleepy, bored, worn out.

  4

  Early next morning, Ahmed caught a bus to Kuala Prang. The bus was crowded. Every passenger was laden beneath a package: chickens, vegetables, fruit, flowers, clothes. Everyone was laughing and shouting. You could hardly hear the sound of the engine above the noise. At the first stop he bought a bottle of rum. He needed some rum after all that talk last night. He handed it to the man next him, and the man across stretched over and took his share. ‘I’ll get a bottle next time we stop,’ he said. Very soon it was a party. He hoped he would have as good times with Pearl as he was having in this bus.

  It was just short of twelve when the bus reached town. He did not feel like going home. What was there to go home for? The children took their food to school. Susan would be out or gossiping with friends. It was a grey, humid day. It had rained during the morning. The streets were puddled. More rain was due. The rum he had taken in the bus had warmed his veins. He had been sorry when the journey was at an end. He would have liked to go on drinking, talking, laughing, arguing. Why not continue the atmosphere of the bus elsewhere, in one of those cosy bars with a juke-box, where he would find the kind of talk he could enjoy? There was such a one only two blocks distant from the bus stop. Only for half an hour, he assured himself.

  Half an hour later, he was the happier for two rums. He was standing at the bar. He did not sip his rum. It was handed him in a small glass and he shot it down his throat in a single swallow. He would feel it soaking along his nerves. He would shake his head, savour the deep peace it brought him and join in the noisy talk, till the need came for that warm kick again.

  He leant on his elbow against the bar, his eyes half-closed, a little drowsy, waiting till the drowsiness had passed. How good he felt. And the talk was his kind of talk—cricket and girls and football. So different from the talk last night, so different from the atmosphere last night— politics and Coca-Cola. Would he have any fun at Kassaya the way he had it here? Why had Fadil insisted on his going down there? Did Fadil really care about the kids? He never gave them presents at Christmas. He didn’t believe that it was because of the children that Fadil wanted him at Kassaya, but because in some way it would help the Progressive Party. Damn the Progressive Party. Damn Fadil. He didn’t want to leave Kuala Prang. He didn’t want to live in the country. He didn’t want the kind of job which you never changed. A pension indeed! By the time he needed a pension it would be time for him to pack up. No, he wanted to stay here and watch the cricket, and argue in bars, like this; and damn it, yes, he’d like to try that place the Hidalgo which that chap had talked about. That might be the goods. He needed a change from Susan sometimes. Susan was a good girl but you needed change. Why couldn’t he stay in Kuala Prang? This was where he belonged.

  He shoved his glass across the bar. It was a very short interval since the last, but he needed it. He was angry and resentful. The warm sweet spirit sang along his veins, strengthening his anger, firing his resentment. If only Fadil were here now, he’d show him. Because he’d been a kid when Fadil was half a man, Fadil thought he could still order him about. But he was thirty-two now and strong enough to knock Fadil off a stool with one push of his hand. He clenched his fist. If only Fadil were here. He looked round him, belligerently. Someone at the bar was arguing that Hutton had been a better bat than Bradman. He could not stand that kind of nonsense. ‘Never heard such rubbish in my life,’ he shouted.

  The man who had made the statement swung round, surprised. Ahmed had never seen him before. He was about Ahmed’s height and weight and age, a man worth scrapping with. ‘What the hell you mean, what nonsense?’ His eyes were ablaze. Ahmed gloated. A man whose temper rose at a flash was a man worth fighting with. The man was wearing a flashy beach shirt, decorated with palms and beaches; Ahmed put out his left hand and took him below the collar, bunching the shirt together. ‘Now listen you …’

  The man swung himself loose and dug his elbow into Ahmed’s ribs.

  ‘The hell I do.’

  ‘Now boys, now boys,’ the barman shouted.

  Rows of this type were frequent enough in this kind of bar, but they did not usually go beyond the exchange of a couple of misdirected blows; friends intervened and argument took the place of fighting. But Ahmed had no friends in the bar. There was no one to lead him to the far end of it, no one to pacify him. They were all against him; everyone was against him everywhere. Fadil, Susan: Fadil particularly. He’d get even with Fadil. He was seeing red. He swung his fist into the crowd. He hit what felt like a shoulder. ‘Come outside, anyone who’s not a coward. Come out and fight.’

  ‘Take him out,’ the barman shouted. ‘Get that bastard out.’

  Ahmed scarcely knew what was happening. He had been drinking steadily for three hours, and fast for half an hour. He had eaten nothing since breakfast. Resentment against his fate was high within him. Half a dozen men were pushing him, banging at him with their fists. He did not feel their blows, but their weight carried him through the door; the pavement was slippery beneath his feet. A light rain was cool against his cheek.

  ‘Come on, you cowards,’ he yelled. A dark face with the jaw exposed was a foot away from him. He jabbed with a fast uppercut and felt the pain upon his knuckles. A blow on the side of his head, delivered from behind, shook him but he swung around fiercely. ‘I’ll get you. I’ll get you all.’

  For thirty seconds, a single man can take on six opponents. Everyone is his foe, and the six are confused by their own superiority. They get in each other’s way. Ahmed was scarcely aware of the blows that fell about him, but he was acutely, blissfully conscious of the blows that he himself delivered. One after another he felt them on his knuckles. ‘I’ll show you,’ he shouted. He’d show everyone. Then suddenly the assailants fell away. There was a cry, ‘Police! Get lively.’ He was swinging at the void. A hand fell on his shoulder.

  ‘Steady there, man, steady.’

  He flung round quickly. He was faced by a man in uniform, but he did not assimilate the fact. He was out against the world today. He swung his fist; it half-landed, against hard buttons that tore his skin.

  ‘So that’s your little game?’ The blue arm went up. Its fingers were clasped round a short white truncheon. There was a crack behind his head and that was the last thing he knew for quite a while.

  5

  Colonel Forrester usually studied the police reports first thing in the morning, but the report of Ahmed Abrusak’s arrest happened to reach his desk late that afternoon. Forrester was working upon a chess problem and he was anxious to divert his attention for a minute or two so that he could return with a fresh eye. He glanced at the slip. Ahmed Abrusak. The name rang a bell. He walked over to his filing cabinet. As he had thought, there was a file on him. He took it out.

  Abrusak, Ahmed, born in Calcutta 1926, entered Karak with his brother Fred 1936: was befriended by his cousin Fadil Banjee. Joined Progressive Party. Prominent in local football and cricket. Educated Warner College, passed fourth grade. Married Susan Mitchell, Portuguese Indian, 1947.

  Fadil Banjee. That name also rang a bell. Forrester returned to the filing cabinet.

  Banjee, Fadil, born Karak 1920. Educated Warner College; member Progressive Party. Visited Calcutta 1947; returned Karak 1956; on his return assistant overseer Macartney estate. Believed to have Communistic affiliations.

  Well,
thought Forrester. It would be worth having a look at Ahmed. He pressed the bell button on his desk.

  Ahmed was in poor shape. His face was swollen, his lip cut and his forehead bandaged. He smelt of rum.

  ‘Come along,’ Forrester said. ‘Sit down. You’ve certainly got yourself into trouble this time.’ He looked at the prisoner benignly and then smiled. ‘What happened today? Tell me.’

  It was a rambling recital. Forrester nodded encouragingly but he did not listen. He wanted to put Ahmed at his ease. He wanted to watch his face. You could learn more about a certain kind of man by watching his face than by paying attention to what he said. ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘Yes. I see. Now why did you go to Kassaya in the first place?’

  Ahmed explained. It had been Fadil’s idea. Fadil had thought it would be good for the children to live in the country.

  ‘Fadil is your cousin, isn’t he? He was a very good friend to you when you first arrived here; then he went to India. Have you been so close to him since his return? Do your families visit each other?’

  Ahmed shook his head. No, there had been no very close family connexions in that respect. But between himself and Fadil there had always been a genuine friendship.

  ‘And it was at your cousin’s suggestion that you applied for this post with Pearl? Yes, I see. But why did he suggest that? Because it would be better for the children? But you have told me that he took no particular interest in the children. What? You wouldn’t quite say that? Yes, I see, I see. There is always a family link. Fadil thought it would be better for you all. At the same time, the moving of a family into the country is a big uprooting. You have yourself come all the way here from Calcutta and since you have been in Karak, you have changed your occupation several times—many times, I would say. You are used to change. But the change to Kassaya is considerable. You have your roots in town. You enjoy the football and the cricket and the small bars where you can sit and discuss the match. Now tell me one thing. When you were at college you were a member of the Progressive Party?’