Free Beat Not the Bones by Charlotte Jay

sure about the native at all. Had it been a man? Or just a patch of moonlight? It was only thinking that made it grow more solid. And the smell was something he had not made up. He had smelt it then, as he had smelt it out in the passage half an hour ago. It never left him. He carried that odour round with him. He felt he would never lose it as long as he lived.
    â€˜What could they be up to?’ Sylvia said calmly.
    He laughed wildly. ‘Getting their own back because I threw them out. Probably trying a bit of purri purri or something.’
    â€˜Sorcery!’ She lifted her eyebrows and smiled. ‘Nonsense, I expect you imagined the whole thing.’ Anticipating another outburst, she reached for the only cure she knew and poured him another glass of gin.
    â€˜Here, drink this, darling. You’re nervy. You don’t get enough sleep.’
    â€˜How can I get enough sleep,’ he complained, ‘if damn natives wander round my house all night.’
    But the gin was having its effect, and he was beginning to feel happier. He began to stroke Sylvia’s thighs. She loved him, dear silly, stupid Sylvia. And his sister loved him. And Rei at least was loyal to him, even though he was a bad cook and couldn’t be relied upon to keep the dogs away. Soon he would buy land and build his house, and they could all go to the devil. He would snap his fingers at the lot of them. He would snap his fingers at Trevor Nyall, because he would have his house, and people would respect him and come to his dinner parties and be astonished by the magnificence of his hospitality. He knew a particular way of serving pawpaw. He would import a Chinese cook – the immigration authorities, having been lavishly entertained, would not raise objections. He began to work out the menu for his first dinner party and drew up a list of guests. Trevor Nyall, he decided, would not be invited.
    It was 11.30 when he left Sylvia. The jeep was waiting pulled up by the side of the road, but Rei was nowhere to be seen. Washington, a little unsteady on his feet, but fairly clear-headed, looked up and down the road and whistled. The houses farther up the hill were still lit up, and from somewhere above him came the sound of Papuan voices, but the road was empty.
    The wind had dropped and only a light breeze soughed through the fringes of the casuarina trees. He could smell the scent of frangipani. He paused, enjoying the cool night air. Then he remembered Rei and tooted the horn furiously.
    The darkness ahead broke and a vague form appeared, moving hesitantly towards him. It was a police boy. Washington could see his belt shining in the darkness. ‘Oh, go away!’ he said impatiently.
    He tooted again, sat down in the front seat and lit a cigarette. Down the side of the opposite hill a loose white blob was moving towards him. It was all that could be first be seen of Rei, his white rami flapping. He arrived breathless. He had evidently been making a night of it. He was chewing betelnut, wore a hibiscus flower in his hair and had knotted round his neck one of Washington’s new dishcloths. Under his arm he carried a guitar decorated with strips of coloured paper.
    â€˜Where have you been?’
    â€˜Boyhouse,’ Rei said, smiling broadly.
    â€˜Whose boyhouse?’
    Rei pointed with a vague, sweeping gesture that took in most of the hill.
    â€˜What taubada’s boyhouse?’ said Washington. The feeling of well-being that Sylvia’s body had imparted was already drifting away. He felt suddenly suspicious of Rei, though he did not know why. What had he been doing? Who had he been talking to? He feared … he did not know what …
    Rei did not answer. His smile had died. His face had become stupid and still, but his eyes seemed to grow larger and brighter. Washington, who could read these signs, knew he was nervous and might now say anything.
    â€˜Have you been with any strange boys, any bad