The Empire Trilogy - J. G. Farrell [662]
‘So you said before. But I want an exit permit for that young woman and I don’t mean to leave without one.’
‘Out of the question, old man. Here in Singapore we have the Communists isolated and under control. We can’t allow them to spread all over the place. The way I describe it, which many people have been kind enough to find illuminating, is that they’re like millions of seeds in a pod. If we allow that pod to burst in India, say, or even in Australia, why, they’ll be scattered all over the Empire in no time … Oh Lord!’ he added hurrying to the window and throwing it open. ‘It looks as if they’re coming this way. We’d better go down to the shelter.’
The Major joined him at the window. The office was on the top floor of the building and looked eastwards over the city towards the sea. At this hour the stretch of water between Anderson Bridge and the horizon was a delicate duck-egg blue, extraordinarily beautiful. The Major, however, was looking up at the minute formation of silver-black planes flying towards the city at a great height. As the bombers passed over Kallang little white puffs began to appear in the sky beneath them, as if dotted here and there with an invisible paint-brush. After a moment the thud of guns came to them at the window. ‘Yes, they do seem to be coming this way,’ he agreed.
‘Well, we’ll have to continue this chat another time.’ Smith picked up the file, snapped it shut and clamped it under his arm very firmly, as if he expected the Major to snatch it from him. He eyed the Major warily, his head on one side.
The Major was surprised to hear himself say: ‘I’m not leaving this office without that exit permit and neither are you.’ He advanced on Smith threateningly, sensing that despite his advantage of years Smith was afraid of him; perhaps Smith sensed how deeply angry and resentful the Major was after the days he had spent working in the chaotic streets. The Major gripped the back of a chair and Smith fell back a pace. Outside an alarm-bell jangled.
‘That’s the roof-spotter,’ cried Smith in alarm. ‘Look, be sensible. I don’t even have the proper forms here. You must come back later, come back some other time.’
‘Just write it out on official paper, sign it and stamp it!’ The Major advanced a step. ‘I’ve had about enough of this,’ he added, taking off his jacket. ‘Put up your fists.’
‘What d’you mean?’ asked Smith, staring at him in amazement.
‘I mean I’m going to give you a punch on the nose,’ replied the Major.
‘This is absurd,’ muttered Smith. He had turned very pale. Tufts of hair continued to flutter above his ears. A hideous whistling sound had begun from outside; it grew higher and higher in pitch, ending in an explosion that shook the building. ‘Don’t be ridiculous,’ said Smith, ringing the bell on his desk sharply. But nothing happened. Evidently the people in the next office had departed to the shelter by another exit.
‘Now look here …’ said Smith, making for the door and delivering the Major a paralysing hack on the shins as he passed. But the Major caught him by the arm and yanked him back into the room. ‘Just a minute,’ he said. ‘Put up your fists.’
‘At least let me take off my glasses,’ said Smith, giving the Major another mighty hack on the shins and punching him in the stomach for good measure.
‘I’m afraid you’ve gone too far,’ gasped the Major and, glasses or no glasses, drew back his first. But before he could strike, Smith was at his desk, writing busily.
‘Why didn’t you tell me straight away that she was your tart?’ he demanded in an aggrieved tone. ‘For chaps’ tarts we can make exceptions.’
Smith had finished writing. The Major picked up the paper, read it carefully and put it in his pocket. ‘One more thing. If I hear you