Singapore Grip - J. G. Farrell [168]
One of the bundles was of pure white muslin and from it there issued such a lake of blood that Dupigny found himself marvelling that the human body could contain that quantity. He was obliged to make a considerable detour to avoid splashing through it, which, considering that he had lost one shoe, he believed he might find disagreeable. But even the sight of the blood nauseated him and he was obliged to shift his gaze to something more comforting: in the event this was the smoke pouring prettily out of the window of a burning building across the street.
He took a closer look. This time he noticed that the smoke did not have a long slender trunk and a canopy like an elm, as with the ships burning in the anchorage, but a short, fat stalk like a cauliflower. And also like a cauliflower this smoke seemed quite green below, billowing out into white flowerets above. Someone was shouting at him from the window.
No. There was someone at the window but she was dead, hanging out of it with gracefully trailing arms in the manner of someone in a rowing-boat idly trailing fingers in the water. At the same time there was someone shouting at him from the road: a short, fat man with no neck: his red, flustered face appeared to be set directly on his shoulders, his arms emerging from just below his ears.
‘Come on, now, I want you to take care of me,’ he was shouting. ‘You’ll have to shift things so that I can drive my car. Come on. Yes, you. You’re the only person here so you’ll have to do.’ He was standing beside a little Ford without a windscreen. As Dupigny made no move he added pleadingly: ‘There’s a good fellow. You aren’t going to leave me in the lurch, are you? Those bloody bombers may come back any minute.’
‘Very well,’ said Dupigny and having brushed the glass from the front seat he got in beside the fat man, who said: ‘No, no. You must crank!’ and produced a starting-handle which he handed to Dupigny. Dupigny got out again and with much difficulty found the hole in which to insert the end of the starting-handle. ‘Ready?’ But he could barely see the man in the driving-seat for the smoke which was drifting around them from the burning building nearby.
The motor fired immediately and Dupigny got back into the car. As he did so he noticed that a picture advertising a round tin of Capstan cigarettes had been painted on the side of the vehicle. ‘Do you have a cigarette, please?’ he asked, but there was no reply. They set off jerkily down the road following the tram-lines, weaving in and out between craters, bodies and rubble … in places, because of the drifting smoke, it was impossible to see what lay ahead. The fat man drove, muttering to himself and tears cascaded down his plump cheeks, but whether they were caused by grief, alarm or simply the smoke it was impossible to say. Now their way was blocked by a mess of twisted girders and high-tension wires. The fat man peered ahead uncertainly.
‘Drive up on the pavement.’
‘But that is against the law,’ said the fat man unhappily. ‘We must go back.’
‘Drive on the pavement,’ repeated Dupigny harshly, ‘or we’ll never get out of this place. Go forward. I see where you can cross the storm-drain.’
They drove on, managing with inches to spare to find a way through. Looking to his right Dupigny searched for some sign of life from the fire station in Chulia Street but all he could see was the unbroken curtain of smoke: perhaps the station itself had been hit. Turning inland to follow Maxwell Road they saw that a hysterical crowd had gathered around the dead and wounded in the market, which itself was a shambles in which carcasses of animals and humans had become indistinguishable.
‘We’ll never get through there,’ whimpered the fat man. ‘They’ll kill us like dogs.’
‘Don’t be stupid. Drive up Magazine Road instead. It looks more clear.’
At a junction