A Different Sky Read Free

rain. After much diligent thrusting and flailing, the assailants were prised off the vehicle.
    A siege mentality had now overtaken the trolley; passengers huddled together in the centre isle. Rose looked across at the Kreta Ayer policestation and saw that the Chief Inspector, a tall blustery-faced Englishman with a ginger moustache, straight-backed beneath a sun helmet, was coming down the steps and making his way towards the bus. Behind him Malay constables with raised rifles stood ready for trouble. Rose was dripping with sweat; outside the shouting grew louder. She marvelled how a day begun so blandly could sink abruptly into nightmare. At Belvedere now the cook, Ah Fong, would be dancing about in a pre-dinner ballet of anxiety, the lodgers would be pacing up and down near the dining room and complaining in low voices. Her mind filled with thoughts of her daughter. The amah would see to Cynthia’s dinner and put the child to bed, but what if she and Howard were stuck all night in the bus, what if the rioters turned upon them? No one knew where she was.
    â€˜I’m hot, Mummy. I’m thirsty. Will the policemen kill the communists?’ Howard asked. Rose drew him to her breast again but he pushed her away, fractious at the touch of her hot, damp flesh, avid to see what was happening.
    â€˜They will listen to the power of a gun,’ Mr Ho wheezed from across the aisle; he had loosened his necktie and taken off his jacket, revealing braces and an open waistcoat.
    â€˜Soon now the trolley will move,’ the young Indian, Raj Sherma, predicted with a red-lipped smile; his eyes were bright and his manner more ebullient than fearful.
    Howard kicked the seat in front of him again and the Chinese girl turned to frown at him. He stared at the birthmark on her jaw, at the delicate tracery of red lines and small blotches, and decided it resembled a gecko.
    â€˜Children thirsty,’ the amah worried, speaking anxiously to Rose in broken Malay.
    Rose suddenly remembered that in the bottom of her handbag there were a few boiled sweets a stallholder had given her in the Beach Road market the day before. She opened the bag and extracted the sweets, giving one to the girl and another to Howard. The children cheered up immediately.
    â€˜This is Howard. What is your name?’ Rose asked the girl.
    â€˜Name, Mei Lan,’ the amah answered for the child. Sucking silently on her sweet, Mei Lan stared at Howard while he crunched noisily upon the hard sugar. Although he returned her gaze, his eyes kept slipping tothe mottling on her jaw. Aware of his interest the girl obligingly stuck out her chin, moving her lips to make the mark dance for him. Impressed but disappointed he could not compete, Howard scowled thunderously.
    Outside, the Chief Inspector appeared to be making no progress. A new burst of shouting began and the bamboo poles were raised angrily once more. The demonstrators poked savagely at the inspector’s chest as if they were sticking a pig. Throwing up his hands in surrender, the Chief Inspector backed away in the careful manner of a man retreating from a snarling animal. To the sudden shout of pah pah the bamboo poles came down upon him in a rain of heavy blows. One thick staff smashed through the crown of his sun helmet; the hat fell off and rolled away, blood poured down his face. Two Malay constables ran forward. Supporting the injured man between them, they dragged him up the steps of the Kreta Ayer police station and into the building, pursued by the angry rioters. Then, the crack of rifles filled the air as policemen fired shots in quick succession over the heads of the demonstrators.
    â€˜Get down, son. Do you want to be shot?’ Rose tugged frantically at Howard as he leant out of the trolley to follow events, pulling him down on the floor beside her.
    Looking around, Howard saw that all the passengers were similarly positioned away from ill-directed shots. Mei Lan had begun to sob in