Free Black Water by Louise Doughty Page B

hoping for international flights as soon as possible, once it had defeated the Red Menace – and he had no doubt it would all flow, flow on the shiny new planes landing on the shiny new runways. First came the massacres, then the arms and the money and the economic advisers, then the runways – then, the tourists.
    ‘Congratulations,’ Abang said. ‘A good start. They should make it some kind of test.’ He meant the Institute.
    ‘Well,’ Harper said, ‘there’s a lot more people trying to get out than in.’ He had passed through a huge crowd of families on their way to Departures.
    They got into the car. He didn’t know much about Abang at that point but later found out he was an Indo like him, mixed-race, an older man who had picked the right side in the war and, unlike Harper and his mother, hadn’t had to flee back to Holland in ’46 – useful to the Institute in the same way he was, for being a bit brown. He was based in Sumatra but had been touring the Eastern Islands to do an advance report while Harper had been doing Jakarta. Although they had never met before, Harper felt an instant affection for him, reciprocated by the invitation to call him Abang: big brother.
    Abang nodded at Harper’s observation as they joined the queue of cars trying to get in or out or go round and round the airport – in the crowd of vehicles, it was hard to tell. The smell of aeroplane fuel mingled with exhaust and cigarette smoke. Everyone had their windows rolled down, their arms hanging out – occasionally, a driver would shout or gesture in a desultory fashion. It was a slow kind of chaos.
    As they sat looking straight ahead, Abang said, ‘It’s going to be just as bad here, you know, it’s on its way. Funny how people know and don’t know.’ He nudged the car forward a couple of feet. ‘You want to go and rest a bit? Do the briefing after?’
    ‘No, let’s get on with it.’
    ‘Okay, good, let’s go and do it with a beer.’
    They drove straight to Sanur. Abang wanted Harper to see the Bali Beach Hotel, under construction for two years now. They had a beer together in a bar opposite the site while he explained how the building of the hotel had caused trouble locally ever since it started. Suteja had given the best contracts to his friends in the PKI, which had led to a lot of resentment. Control of the tourist industry was going to be as hotly contested as control of the rice harvest. ‘The PKI have got it all wrong. They are putting all their effort into land reform for the peasants but the peasants aren’t even grateful and the foreign dollars aren’t going to come for rice, they’re going to come for sand.’ Abang indicated the beach in front of them with an open, palm-upwards gesture.
    Harper thought of the charred corpse he had seen hanging from a tree by the side of the road at a crossroads just before Jakarta airport. The sign around the neck read: Gerwani . ‘You really think anyone is going to want to come here, after what’s going on here hits the news in Europe and America?’
    Abang had given a humourless yelp. ‘ Hits the news? In any case, you’ll find blood sinks into sand really fast.’ He lifted a copy of Suara Indonesia from his bag, folded to the editorial. He tossed it onto the table between them and jabbed a finger.
    Harper looked at the paper and Abang translated the headline of the editorial out loud. ‘Now It Is Clear Who Is Friend and Who Is Foe.’
    He looked at Abang and raised his eyebrows. ‘How long do you think we have?’
    ‘You mean in general, or here?’
    ‘Here.’
    Abang wobbled his head from side to side, a small balancing movement. ‘Two weeks, three at most, maybe less, maybe a lot less.’
    ‘Really?’ Harper had been assuming he had a little more time. What was the point of him coming over from Java to do reports if it was almost underway?
    ‘Rumour has it the Brawijaya Units are due next month.’
    ‘Who’s in command?’ Harper asked.
    ‘Sarwo