A Whisper of Southern Lights Read Online Free Page A

him truths. Maybe if I really put my mind to it, I could remember where Meloy was buried.
    We marched. There were two hundred of us to begin with, generally fit and able-bodied, but the closer we drew to Singapore, the larger our group became. We passed by more injured who had been massacred by the roadside, many of them lying on stretchers and wearing bandages bloodied by their fresh wounds. I could feel anger simmering all along this long road to defeat, but now was not the time.
    I glanced around now and then, sizing up the force guarding us. There were too many, and they all carried their rifles and submachine guns at the ready. They had also proved very quickly that they were not afraid of using their bayonets.
    Sergeant Snelling came alongside me and we walked silently for a while. When we were on the approach to the waterway separating Singapore from the mainland, the Japanese seemed content to allow us a bit of chatter.
    “I never thought it would be this bad,” I said.
    “Surrendering?” Snelling asked.
    I shook my head, nodded at the guards. “Them.”
    “It won’t be like this everywhere,” he said. “It’s anger. We’ve killed lots of them, and they’re getting their revenge.”
    “You really think that?” I asked. “They were slaughtering our injured. Where’s the revenge in that?”
    Snelling looked at me for a long time, his eyes boring into mine as though he could find the answer in me. It made me uncomfortable. I wanted to look away but did not, and when he finally answered, I realised he had been searching deep for some scrap of hope that could explain what was happening to us, and what would happen to us in the future. “Jack,” he said, “I just don’t know.”
    We walked into the city.

    Singapore was devastated. Bodies of all nationalities lay everywhere, soldiers and civilians alike, bloated and stinking and buzzing with flies. Hundreds of bicycles lay scattered across the road, and here and there, the owners were tangled with them, metal and flesh fused by heat. Many of the city’s surviving inhabitants lined the streets and jeered. I didn’t understand.
    The closer we came to Changi Prison, the more frequently the guards picked a few prisoners and took them to one side. At first I thought they were singling out people to kill, but when I was jabbed in the shoulder and pulled out of line, I learned the truth. They snatched my watch, made me pull off my wedding ring and took my last pack of cigarettes. Then they shoved me back into the endless flow of prisoners with the point of a bayonet.
    I tried to find Sergeant Snelling or my other mates, but it was hopeless.
    As we rounded a corner, I saw something that made me pause. Thirty steps ahead marched a tall, broad-shouldered Brit. His hair was sparse and blond, his face burnt by the sun. He was wearing a Japanese uniform at least three sizes too small. He was looking around, stepping this way and that, chatting to a soldier, then moving on to another. He was almost dancing.
    Looking for someone,
I thought.
I wonder why he hasn’t been
shot?
Perhaps I know who he’s after.
    He shifted left, pausing next to a man I instantly recognised as Sergeant Major Snelling. He asked his questions, Snelling shook his head, and the man moved on.
    As Changi Jail appeared in the distance, the man changed. It happened in the blink of an eye, and I blinked again to confuse myself more. He was no longer a tall, balding Brit but a shorter, squat Japanese soldier. His uniform now fit him perfectly.
    He left the column of prisoners and strode confidently away between a gaggle of Japanese guards.
    “What the fuck—”
    “What was that?”
    “Did you see—”
    The commotion spread like ripples in a pond and then calmed just as quickly as guards stepped in, threatening us with their bayonets. But the uncertainty was still there, and the nervousness.
    I could not speak.
    He’d changed.
    As we saw the concrete tower of Changi Prison and a mast bearing