The Devil's Garden Read Online Free

course, Indians came in two varieties that crosscut all other regional and caste labels—the loyal and the Indian National Army who had thrown their lot in with the Japanese in return for freedom and a vague promise of Indian independence. The former might be smiled at, the latter’s stare must be avoided at all costs since they had adopted an almost hysterical brutality as the mark of their bond with Japan. And they specialised not just in beatings but rapes, the sort not done in the hot lubricity of lust but the cold, congealed determination to humiliate and completed by urinating all over the victim.
    They had caught Manson alone in his cell in Changi proper and he had been slow to get to his feet. That had been excuse enough. One stood outside in the doorway, smacking a thick bamboo pole in the palm of his hand as the other two taught Manson to respect them. The screams electrified the very air. All other sound died as the prisoners listened but looked the other way. Then the shame, Manson’s and their own, as they were unable to meet anyone else’s eyes in case they saw themselves for what they were. The Indians had emerged, laughing and swaggering and all three had sauntered off, running their clubs along the stair rails like innocent, little boys playing on railings on the way to school. As the thrumming died away, the sound of Manson’s sobs became louder, the very heartbeat of the prison .
    â€˜Clang! Clang!’ There were half a dozen young men, crouching listlessly on the ground under the front of the shelter. Javanese. Asians felt the lack of furniture less than the Westerners. They should have been smoking but cigarettes were an impossible luxury in the camp so their hands rested limp and empty like their eyes. Since his time as resident medic on the Cocos-Keeling Islands, Pilchard had had a special fondness for the Javanese that lived there. In Changi, they were sited beside the Dutch, recalling the way that the Hunnish army had always advanced across the land as a living map of its provinces. Theirs was naturally the worst accommodation, an old workshop where generations of tinkering mechanics had left a miasma of engine grease and rust. As always, he drifted towards it.
    It was the privilege of East Indies colonial troops to be issued with high, leather boots that set them off from, and above, local inhabitants. Normally an object of pride, polished and cosseted, they had become a burden among the boot-admiring Japanese whose own feet, it was swiftly discovered, also fitted into them very nicely. The first few months had seen a terrifying series of confiscations, with beatings for thanks, and searches of their quarters that made impossible the normal illegal activities necessary for life. So now the prisoners were forced to roam barefoot, on feet now grown tender from footwear, while the treasured boots lay hidden away and slowly succumbed to rats and mildew. More military idiocy.
    At the centre, an older, very dark figure, wearing only a flowery sarong, was the sole moving element. He was hitting a piece of metal with a solid wooden hammer, timing the blows so that they fell rhythmically and humming as he worked, like some Wagnerian dwarf. Pilchard knew Sergeant Dewa was a gong-player as well as an engineer. He circled the men from the rear, greeted, shook hands. None of them bothered to stand, simply reaching up apathetically to limply touch his hand. Finally he moved to the centre.
    â€˜Mas Dewa. What are you making?’
    â€˜Dokter. Toko’s arm needs some work.’ He indicated one of the men and bashed anew. ‘One of the work parties found a crashed Kawasaki bomber. It didn’t need its wing but Toko needs an arm. He lost it in an air raid.’
    Toko smiled and held up his limb, now ending just below the elbow. ‘Maybe it’s the same machine that took my arm. Now it’s giving it back.’ He laughed. The artificial arm was a hollow aluminium tube,