Amitav Ghosh - Flood of Fire

Reassured, Zachary said: ‘All right then, Mr Lee. I don’t mind taking a look around.’

Falling into step beside his guide, Zachary followed him down one street and then another, taking in the sights as they were pointed out to him: this building here was the London Hotel, established just a year ago, by Monsieur Gaston Dutronquoy; that over there was the portico of St Andrew’s Church; and there in the distance was the governor’s mansion.

‘Look around you, Mr Reid,’ said Freddie. ‘Look at this town, lah, Singapore, and all fine new buildings. Look at ships in the harbour. You know why they come? Because this is “free port” — they pay no duties or taxes. So where does the city get money?’

‘Can’t tell you, Mr Lee.’

‘Opium of course — is a monopoly of British government. Opium pays for everything — hotel, church, governor’s mansion, all are built on opium.’

In a while the streets became narrower and dustier and Zachary had the sense that they had left the European part of the city behind. Then they came to a road that was little more than a dirt path, winding up a hillside; it was rutted with cart tracks and lined on both sides with shacks and huts. There were plenty of people around, but they were all Indian or Chinese, and none too reputable by the looks of them.

A twinge of apprehension shot through Zachary now, slowing his steps. ‘Thank you, Mr Lee — but it’s getting late. I think I’d better get back to my ship.’

Instead of answering Freddie nodded, as if to signal to someone behind them. Glancing over his shoulder, Zachary saw that they were being followed by two burly men. They too had slowed down.

It dawned on Zachary now that he had allowed himself to be led into some kind of trap. He came to an abrupt halt. ‘Look, Mr Lee,’ he said, ‘I don’t know what your game is, but you should know that I’ve got nothing of value on me.’

Freddie smiled. ‘Why you insulting me, eh? Don’t want your money, Mr Reid.’

‘What do you want then?’

‘Want you visit my friend, lah.’ He pointed to a door that was only a few yards away.

‘Why?’

‘My friend want to meet you, that’s all,’ said Freddie laconically.

They had reached the door now; Freddie held it open and ushered Zachary in. ‘Please, Mr Reid — step in.’

The room that Zachary stepped into was so dimly lit that he was momentarily unsighted. As he stood on the threshold, blinking his eyes, he became aware of a strong, cloying smell — the sweet, oily odour of opium smoke. When his eyes grew accustomed to the murky light he saw that he was in a large, cave-like chamber, with several couches arranged along the walls. The windows were shuttered and what little light there was came from gaps between the tiles on the roof.

In one corner a pot of raw opium was bubbling upon a ring of glowing coal. Two boys were tending the stove, one stirring and the other fanning the flames. When Zachary and Freddie stepped inside, one of the boys came over to remove their shoes. The floor was made of beaten earth; it felt cool beneath Zachary’s bare feet.

‘Come na, Mr Reid.’ Freddie ushered him towards the far end of the room, where two waist-high couches were arranged around an octagonal, marble-topped table.

Stretching himself out on one of the couches, Freddie gestured to Zachary to recline on the other. ‘Please be comfortable, Mr Reid.’

Zachary seated himself on the edge of the couch, in a stiffly upright posture.

‘Tea, eh Mr Reid?’

A boy appeared, with a tray, but Zachary was now so ill at ease that he ignored it.

Freddie reached over, picked up a cup and handed it to him: ‘Please, Mr Reid, is just tea, lah. You must allow me to welcome you properly. Two years back did not think we would meet again like this.’

It took a moment for this to sink in and when it did Zachary almost dropped his teacup. ‘What the hell do you mean, “two years ago”?’

‘Mr Reid, still you do not know who I am?’

The light was so dim that Zachary heard rather than saw him smile.

‘I don’t know what you’re getting at, Mr Lee,’ he said quietly. ‘As far as I know we met yesterday, on the deck of the Hind .’

‘No, no, Mr Reid. On another ship we met, long ago, lah. Maybe will help you remember, eh, if I call you “Malum Zikri”?’

Zachary sat bolt upright and strained to look through the dimness. ‘I don’t know what in hell you’re talkin about, Mr Lee.’

‘If you would try you would remember Malum Zikri.’ Freddie laughed. ‘It was on Ibis , ne? Remember Mr Crowle, lah? First mate’s cabin? Remember his knife? He try do something — maybe stab you, maybe worse? But something happens — you remember? Someone comes in, ne?’

Suddenly, with the vividness of a nightmare, the memories came flooding back to Zachary: he was back on the Ibis , in the first mate’s cabin, trying to steady himself against the pitching bulkheads. Mr Crowle was looming above him, holding a page torn from the crew manifest: ‘Lookit, Reid, don’t give a damn, I don’t, if ye’re a m’latter or not … y’are what y’are and it don’t make no difference to me … we could be a team the two of us … all ye’d have to do is cross the cuddy from time to time …’ Then the flash of a knife-blade, and a snarl: ‘I tell yer, Mannikin, ye’re not nigger enough to leave Jack Crowle hangin a-cock-bill …’

‘Remember, eh, Malum Zikri?’

Freddie rose to light a lamp and held it to his face. ‘See now who I am, lah?’

It was not so much his face as the manner of his movement — quick, economical, precise — that confirmed to Zachary that Freddie was indeed the convict from the Ibis . Exactly so had he appeared in the hatchway that night, armed with a marlinspike, intent on settling his own scores with Mr Crowle. And no sooner was that done, than he had vanished, like a shadow — Zachary’s last glimpse of him was on the Ibis ’s longboat, with the other four fugitives, pulling away as the storm howled around them.

Zachary dug his knuckles into his eyes, in an effort to erase these images, trying all the while to hold on to everything he knew to be true: which was that the fugitives had died soon after his last glimpse of them. It was impossible for a craft like the longboat to survive a storm of such violence, he was sure of that — and besides, had he not seen proof of their drowning? The boat itself, upended, with its bottom stove in?

It struck him that the fumes from the boiling opium might have disordered his mind: everything around him seemed uncanny, hallucinatory, alien. He extended a hand towards his host, as if to make sure that he was real and not a shadow.

The figure on the couch did not flinch. ‘Yes, Mr Reid. Is me — not a ghost.’

Zachary turned away and leant back against the headrest. What did this escaped quoddie want with him? Why had he revealed his identity unasked? Surely he knew that Zachary would have to report him to the authorities? And if he did know that then there was no way, surely, that he would allow Zachary to leave that den alive? He was a practised killer after all.

Zachary’s eyes strayed towards the door. He saw nothing reassuring there: the two men who had followed them were standing guard in front of it.

Freddie seemed to guess what was going through his mind.

‘Look, Mr Reid — you must not think to leave this place just now, eh? Need time to think, or bad mistake you may make. Supposing now you will go to police and say, “Lookee here, have found prisoner who escaped from Ibis ” — what you think happen next, eh? How you will prove it? There is nothing to tie me to Ibis , lah. Cannot prove anything — and even if can, what will happen then, eh? I tell them it was you helped us escape. I will tell that you yourself killed Crowle. Because he try do something to you, lah.’