Butterfly's Shadow - Lee Langley [80]
Now Mr Takahashi locked the door of the house and got into his car. Unhurriedly he followed the old route until he came, not to the fishing spot but to a place where the road ran alongside a high cliff overhanging the river. He got out of the car, released the brake and pushed hard – a small man, he needed all his force to get the vehicle moving. At last it inched forward, gained momentum and sped towards the edge. He watched as it flew on, beyond the rim. It seemed to hover for a moment, as though airborne, then dropped. There was a splash, a gurgling, and the car vanished beneath the dark blue water. He turned and walked back towards the road. He knew there was a filling station not far away. Somehow he would get a ride back to town.
Mr Takahashi stumbled on towards the camp gates. His abdomen throbbed, sending flashes of pain to his groin. A young man with a scarred cheek offered a helping arm and he accepted, nodding politely. They walked on in silence, slower than the rest, so that gradually they fell behind, overtaken even by a tiny, white-haired old woman holding a toddler by the hand. One of the soldiers barked an order to ‘keep going!’ Neither of the men looked up or replied, the younger simply increasing his support so that he was half carrying his companion.
They arrived at the gates and moved on through to the compound where Mr Takahashi disengaged himself and bowed briefly to his helper.
Ichir bowed in return, carefully handing over the bag he had carried from the station.
‘You need a doctor, senpai.’
Mr Takahashi wandered away clutching his bag, his free hand pressed unobtrusively to his side. All around him voices filled the air – frightened children crying, parents calling out anxiously, soldiers shouting orders. Bemused by the noise and uncertain where to go, his glasses thick with dust, Mr Takahashi had unknowingly circled back towards the barbed-wire fence and the gate. Startled by a shout, he quickened pace.
From the other side of the compound Joey heard a soldier bellowing, one among many that made up the general pandemonium. When the shouts were repeated, louder and with increasing stridency, he glanced about to locate the source.
More yells. A gunshot. A cry. Two shots in quick succession, a metallic counterpoint to the hubbub. Mr Takahashi staggered and turned. As he collapsed into the mud his face expressed bewilderment.
People came running, shouting accusations. It was a misunderstanding, the soldier yelled, almost tearfully. He thought the prisoner was trying to escape.
‘He was heading for the wire, for the gate!’
He had ordered the prisoner to stop. The man carried on walking towards the fence.
‘He shoulda stopped! I hollered loud enough!’
He stared around at the now silent crowd.
‘He coulda been trying to escape!’
A voice from the crowd: ‘He was sick! He barely made it from the station.’
Sweating and scared, the soldier called for backup: these people had landed him in trouble.
He was reprimanded. A senior officer pointed out that the men should remember not all prisoners understood English. (‘Well they friggin’ should,’ one guard muttered. ‘Bin here long enough.’)
Mr Takahashi was carried to the hospital block. His registration details were noted; a number had become a statistic: the first camp ‘incident’.
35
Joey surveyed the barracks: absurdly insubstantial, set in straight lines like children’s building-block dwellings. No big bad wolf would have a problem here: a huff and a puff would blow them all down without difficulty.
The huts were pitifully empty, all home comforts left behind. Theoretically, significant household goods – iceboxes, washing machines, valued furniture – were accepted for storage at the assembly centers ‘if crated and plainly marked with the name and address of the owner’. Much later Joey caught up with the reality: pianos, family heirlooms, lamps, crystal glasses, all carefully packed, crated and marked – and never seen again.
Thin sheets of plywood