Dead in the Dog Read Free Page A

the outer fence, was a barrack block, then a series of smaller buildings before an open space appeared where a camouflaged Whirlwind helicopter was waiting. Some distance beyond this, standing lonely and isolated in the furthest corner of the compound, were two parallel asbestos-roofed huts, joined at the near end by a short open corridor, forming a ‘U’. Wide eaves projected from each building, supported on wooden pillars to form austere verandahs. A series of louvred doors down the sides of the huts had been painted green, now bleached by the sun. Some sparse grass formed a central lawn between the two buildings and, around the entrance, some scraggy flowering plants tried to survive amongst the gravel of the tin tailings. A short path led from the road to the concrete strip beneath the cross-corridor and alongside it was a faded wooden sign bearing the legend ‘RAMC OFFICERS’ MESS’ in the Corps colours of blue, yellow and cherry red.
    The Land Rover jerked to a stop.
    â€˜Here we are, sir. Home sweet home!’ sang out the driver.
    He hopped around to the back and took out the officer’s two bags which he dumped on the concrete. Tom Howden climbed out more slowly and looked with dismay at his new domicile. It looked more like a chicken farm set down in a desert, than the residence of holders of the Queen’s Commission. As the corporal passed him on the path, he gave a salute worthy of the Grenadier Guards.
    â€˜Best of luck, sir!’
    As the doctor hesitantly touched his cap in return, he was conscious of the sweat-blackened areas of fabric under his arms and over the whole of his back. He heard the vehicle roar away behind him, but kept his eyes fixed on the deserted huts, a feeling of almost desperate loneliness engulfing him.
    As Tom Howden was staring despondently at his new home, Diane Robertson sat alone in hers, the late afternoon sun striking through the open doors. The silence was broken only by her sniffs of petulant self-pity, until a small voice asked, ‘Mem want anything now?’
    The face of her
amah
, Lee Mei Mei, appeared timorously around the door to the dining room, half scared, half intrigued by the domestic dramas that were becoming more frequent in the Robertson household. Mei was a slight, fragile Chinese girl of twenty, with an elfin face that always looked slightly startled. Her glossy black hair was pulled back into a ponytail held with a rubber band, the end hanging down the back of her blue floral pyjama suit.
    â€˜Yes, May. Tell Siva to bring me a stinger, will you? A large one.’
    Diane sat alone in the wide, lofty room, the big brass fan whirling slowly over her head, trying to waft the cloying air into a draught. She thought of Norfolk now, at the beginning of December, cold and perhaps wet, but not with the all-pervading dampness they had here, where there was an electric light bulb in every wardrobe to keep the mould off the shoes and where the camera had to be kept in a sealed biscuit tin with a bag of silica gel.
    She wished to God she had stayed in England and not been seduced by both James’s body and his glowing descriptions of life on a Malayan rubber estate. Twenty-six years old, she was the third daughter of a minor squire from Norfolk, rejoicing in the name of Henry Blessington-Luke. After an expensive and largely wasted education at Cheltenham, she had done little but ride, party and hunt for both foxes and a husband. Three years earlier, at a Hunt Ball near Newmarket, she had met James Robertson, home on leave – and three months later, had married him in the cathedral in Singapore.
    The bastard! She gingerly touched her face again and wondered how well she could cover up any marks by tomorrow night, when there was the weekly dance at The Dog.
    A slim Tamil came in through the dining room, carrying a tray bearing a bottle of Johnnie Walker, a tumbler and a jug of iced water.
    â€˜A big one, Siva,’ she murmured,