very much.
He parked the bike at the back of the bus, lit a cigarette and waited for her to join him. There was something supremely arrogant about the way he did that, she thought, and smiled to herself.
‘Tell me about that English lieutenant, the one who looks like a giraffe,’ he asked.
‘Oh, Lieutenant Peach.’ Moonshine bathed them in silvery-grey, eerie and surreal, ghouls poised to frighten a ghost train. Looking at him along her eyes, she said: ‘There is nothing to tell, Jem.’
‘My name is Ahmed.’
‘I prefer Jem. It is more proper.’
‘Proper?’
‘Proper.’
‘I think there is something between you and Lieutenant Peach, you know. You kissed him. I dared to steal a Generalissimo’s cake to impress you’ – Grace’s eyes widened – ‘but I would never have dreamt of holding up the demolition of the biggest bridge in Burma. Not with the Japanese Imperial Army a few miles off. He dared risk the whole of Upper Burma to impress you.’
‘I’m sure he didn’t.’
‘He loves you. If he didn’t love you, he would never have risked disobeying orders.’
‘I don’t know about that. I find Mr Peach rather plucky, sir, but my heart belongs to another.’
‘And who would that be?’ The Jem’s green eyes grew more tigerish.
‘That would be telling, Jem, that would be telling.’
‘That bee around your neck. How old is it?’
‘Fifty million years old.’
‘I would give my life to be that bee.’
She bade him goodnight, brushing against his arm, and began walking back towards the bus.
‘Stop.’
‘Jem, no… ’ The kiss was urgent and longed-for. This was no time to fall in love – but what can you do other than stop time itself?
Allu rose before sunrise, said his prayers, and sat behind the wheel. The engine wheezed into life, causing a pack of vultures to thwack the air as they wheeled off. Away from the rising sun, mile after dusty mile, through walls of morning mist still hanging in the river valleys, desperate to put as much distance between them and the invisible enemy. Twice, Allu began to nod off before she jabbed him in the back and the old driver shook his head, dabbed his eyes with water from a flask and drove on. The mist thickened, lifted, thinned and fell heavier than before, sometimes clear for half a mile, at others a thick grey treacle flowing against the windscreen. A jolt, the haze of sleep pierced by tyres squealing, Allu wrestling with the wheel, his right leg pumping the brakes, uselessly.
Brakes don’t work on thin air.
The bus lurched not forwards, but
down
. Through the open door at the front Grace gazed down at the rags of mist. They melted away revealing a dry river bed one hundred feetbelow. Molly, sitting next to her, squeezed her hand. ‘I’m scared, Miss.’ Grace wanted to say, ‘So am I, Molly,’ but instead she said: ‘I’m sure the Jemadar will sort it out.’ He was nowhere to be seen.
The bus creaked, its weight working loose a rock which fell with a clatter. The mist came back, and knowing the drop was there without being able to see it was all the more frightening.
‘Pop-pop-pop.’ The racket of the Jem’s exhaust was the most soothing sound in the entire world.
Across the chasm his face came into view. ‘Good morning, Miss Collins. Did you sleep well?’
‘Very well, Jemadar. Thank you.’
‘Have you had breakfast?’
‘Oh, for God’s sake, Jem, stop prattling on and get us out of here. Please!’
A dazzling smile. He picked up a big stone, the size of a brick, and went to the back of the bus. Warning the children not to worry, he smashed a window, removed the shards of glass with his gloved hands, and then helped the children squiggle out. As the bus emptied, the weight shifted forward and the bus tilted an inch down. Everyone froze.
Molly started to pray, out loud. ‘Our Father, Who Art in Heaven…’
They heard the singing first, a wonderful low bass, an unreal sound from another world.
He parked the bike at the back of the bus, lit a cigarette and waited for her to join him. There was something supremely arrogant about the way he did that, she thought, and smiled to herself.
‘Tell me about that English lieutenant, the one who looks like a giraffe,’ he asked.
‘Oh, Lieutenant Peach.’ Moonshine bathed them in silvery-grey, eerie and surreal, ghouls poised to frighten a ghost train. Looking at him along her eyes, she said: ‘There is nothing to tell, Jem.’
‘My name is Ahmed.’
‘I prefer Jem. It is more proper.’
‘Proper?’
‘Proper.’
‘I think there is something between you and Lieutenant Peach, you know. You kissed him. I dared to steal a Generalissimo’s cake to impress you’ – Grace’s eyes widened – ‘but I would never have dreamt of holding up the demolition of the biggest bridge in Burma. Not with the Japanese Imperial Army a few miles off. He dared risk the whole of Upper Burma to impress you.’
‘I’m sure he didn’t.’
‘He loves you. If he didn’t love you, he would never have risked disobeying orders.’
‘I don’t know about that. I find Mr Peach rather plucky, sir, but my heart belongs to another.’
‘And who would that be?’ The Jem’s green eyes grew more tigerish.
‘That would be telling, Jem, that would be telling.’
‘That bee around your neck. How old is it?’
‘Fifty million years old.’
‘I would give my life to be that bee.’
She bade him goodnight, brushing against his arm, and began walking back towards the bus.
‘Stop.’
‘Jem, no… ’ The kiss was urgent and longed-for. This was no time to fall in love – but what can you do other than stop time itself?
Allu rose before sunrise, said his prayers, and sat behind the wheel. The engine wheezed into life, causing a pack of vultures to thwack the air as they wheeled off. Away from the rising sun, mile after dusty mile, through walls of morning mist still hanging in the river valleys, desperate to put as much distance between them and the invisible enemy. Twice, Allu began to nod off before she jabbed him in the back and the old driver shook his head, dabbed his eyes with water from a flask and drove on. The mist thickened, lifted, thinned and fell heavier than before, sometimes clear for half a mile, at others a thick grey treacle flowing against the windscreen. A jolt, the haze of sleep pierced by tyres squealing, Allu wrestling with the wheel, his right leg pumping the brakes, uselessly.
Brakes don’t work on thin air.
The bus lurched not forwards, but
down
. Through the open door at the front Grace gazed down at the rags of mist. They melted away revealing a dry river bed one hundred feetbelow. Molly, sitting next to her, squeezed her hand. ‘I’m scared, Miss.’ Grace wanted to say, ‘So am I, Molly,’ but instead she said: ‘I’m sure the Jemadar will sort it out.’ He was nowhere to be seen.
The bus creaked, its weight working loose a rock which fell with a clatter. The mist came back, and knowing the drop was there without being able to see it was all the more frightening.
‘Pop-pop-pop.’ The racket of the Jem’s exhaust was the most soothing sound in the entire world.
Across the chasm his face came into view. ‘Good morning, Miss Collins. Did you sleep well?’
‘Very well, Jemadar. Thank you.’
‘Have you had breakfast?’
‘Oh, for God’s sake, Jem, stop prattling on and get us out of here. Please!’
A dazzling smile. He picked up a big stone, the size of a brick, and went to the back of the bus. Warning the children not to worry, he smashed a window, removed the shards of glass with his gloved hands, and then helped the children squiggle out. As the bus emptied, the weight shifted forward and the bus tilted an inch down. Everyone froze.
Molly started to pray, out loud. ‘Our Father, Who Art in Heaven…’
They heard the singing first, a wonderful low bass, an unreal sound from another world.
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