Her Master's Voice

Five in the morning and already Singapore was stirring to a new day. The black, starred velvet above could never shine clearly through the haze and lights of the busy city, and now it faded further as grey light crept up from the east. Moonbeam Walk dozed quietly but the rush of passing cars on nearby Holland Road was getting more frequent. By six o’clock the sound would be continuous and it would stay that way until very late at night.

Behind the open bedroom windows of No. 8, Sherry and Tim slept in twin beds. Tim had kicked his sheet off and lay nude on the rumpled bed. Sherry, tightly swathed in her sheet, lay rigidly on her back like a corpse awaiting burial. In her sleep she had pulled the sheet up about her ears and only the top of her short, blonde hair showed on the pillow.

On the point of five o’clock, the alarm screeched and Tim reached out to silence it. Not allowing a drift back into sleep, he dragged himself up to sit on the edge of the bed and looked unhappily across the room. Sherry did not stir. Moving automatically he made for the bathroom.

Still nude, he crept downstairs. His packed bag waited for him, along with his uniform and boots all ready to go. He slipped into his navy blue shirt and slacks, and sat to pull on his socks and Redwings. Patting his shirt pocket to check his ticket, passport and wallet, he quietly unlocked the door. He took his bag out into the dawn twilight to wait for his taxi.

The taxi hurried him north across the island, past lines of cluttered Chinese shop-houses and patches of near jungle, to Seletar and his Indopet plane. He supposed the big bosses in Indopet had managed to put together some sort of bent deal that allowed them to fly their charters into the military field at Seletar rather than the main airport at Paya Lebar. Tim regretted it. On mornings like these he would have liked to start the day with a cooked breakfast at the airport. Seletar could only offer coffee and Danish.

The check-in was basic, only old fashioned scales with a huge dial and a baggage trolley behind. An efficient but distant Chinese man checking tickets and issuing boarding passes. Two bored Immigration officers collecting visa slips and cursorily stamping passports. In the institutional lounge, passengers had begun to gather; all men in working clothes with little or no hand baggage. They sat silent and morose, preparing themselves for another stint in the oilfields of Kalimantan. Tim did not recognise anyone and made for the coffee table.

He sat and dozed until an Indonesian stewardess in severe uniform appeared at the exit doors and, without checking boarding passes, ushered them out to the tarmac and the waiting plane. He stayed awake long enough to eat the cold fried rice that Indopet substituted for breakfast and then slept his way across the Java Sea and the island of Borneo.

Balikpapan Airport always came as a shock to arriving passengers. Not so much the heat. That was similar to Singapore, but the total lack of concern from the Indonesian authorities for creature comforts. Tim shuffled across the tarmac to the corrugated iron shed called Arrivals. Inside, the air was stifling and the passengers stood sweating in line while immaculately uniformed Immigration officers carefully studied each passport. The harsh, spicy reek of kretek cigarettes filled the air and this more than anything else reminded Tim he had come back to his second home.

He pushed his way out of the Arrivals shed through a clamour of taxi drivers and looked for someone else in a Krumbein Oilfield Services uniform. At the back of the crowd stood Alfred, the office driver. He had a large envelope in his hand and a bottle of Pernod, and he smiled happily.

“Hello, Mr. Tim. Mr. Lefevre say you go taxi to Camp Dua, OK?”

Oh shit, Tim thought. Pierre strikes again. Now instead of a comfortable half hour in a chopper or the old Grumman Goose, he was stuck with three hot and tedious hours in a local taxi, winding around the potholes in the narrow strip of asphalt that passed for a highway in this part of Indonesia. He tore open the envelope in disgust and found, along with the job programs and invoices for signing, a hand-written note from Pierre. Sorry but I could not get a seat on the chopper today. You must go by taxi. The head is for CB4. Please give it to Max. See you, Pierre. Well, bless him. Pierre had known for at least the last two weeks that Tim was scheduled back today, and he could not get a seat? Tim did not believe it.

“What head is this, Alfred?”

“In taxi already,” said Alfred, leading him off to the car park. The taxi looked no older than Tim but in much worse shape. Two Indonesian rig hands waited next to it, along with the driver. In the boot the cylinder head of a GM Detroit diesel lay half hidden by small boxes of spares, all firmly sealed with blue Krumbein tape. Pierre obviously wanted an escort for the cargo and had volunteered Tim. Probably, the rig hands were just a little private enterprise by the taxi driver. Or by Alfred.

The taxi crawled slowly through the crowds on the road out of town, picking its way around pedestrians and animals and being passed continuously by suicidal riders on small Honda motorcycles. As the ramshackle shops turned into houses and then died away altogether, the traffic became lighter but the potholes that exposed the red-yellow clay of the road foundations dictated how fast traffic could move. Tim settled down to watch the passing villages and their rice paddies, clusters of small wooden huts shaded by coconut palms.

It was already late afternoon when the taxi lurched up to the gate of Camp Dua. Tim went to persuade the Indopet security guards to allow the taxi to deliver the cylinder head right to the jetty. Raymond waited for him in the shade by the river.

Raymond was his crew captain. Big for an Indonesian and fleshy, Raymond kept the crew working and the barge running. His straggly moustache was always ready to smile, but just as ready to stare with disapproval at any crewman who slacked. A stare would fix the problem and, following Indonesian culture, compliance with Raymond’s wishes brought the reward of respect. The crew recognised Raymond not only because of his position as captain, but more importantly because he had the disposal of all the empty plastic containers from Sea Sprite IV. After a substantial acid job he might have five hundred or more plastic jerry cans to sell.

Tim turned a blind eye to the enterprise and did not accept a cut of the proceeds. Under the unwritten rules of Indonesian black business, he should automatically receive half, the boss’s share. Raymond would then take half of the remainder and divide the balance equally amongst the crew. By foregoing his share, Tim had the undying support of all of them and they presented him with a carton of beer as a gesture after each big sale.

While Raymond got the rig hands to manhandle the cylinder head onto the Sea Sprite IV whaler, Tim went to the radio room to sign in with PetroFrance. That done, he took a seat in the bow of the boat, and Raymond guided them out into the muddy waters of the Mahakam Delta. Low in the water, the whaler found the current difficult. It took some time and skill to cross the wide stretch of river in front of Camp Dua and reach the nipa swamp that made up the delta itself. Raymond eased them into a narrow channel with branches hanging well over the water, a short cut the larger crew boats could not take.

Lurid dragonflies flitted in the dappled light and the dark water lay still as they wove slowly on into the swamp. The mangroves and nipa palms blanketed the view until they burst back into the sunshine of a main channel. The Siak swamp barge, the rig hands’ destination, had buried itself in the opposite bank, but Raymond swept on down the channel. He wanted extra muscle to help with the cylinder head. CB4 was a converted crane barge and now supported a light land rig instead of its crane. The quiet of the swamp shook with the noise of labouring Cats as the rig struggled to pull out of hole.

They nosed up to the muddy tyre fenders lining the barge. Tim left Raymond to get the head on board and went in search of Max. He found him working beside the Krumbein pump unit, surrounded by dismantled pipe work and tools. He looked hot, tired and greasy. Tim handed over the bottle of Pernod, intended as a sweetener for the toolpusher, and stopped to chat. Max was a Cajun from Louisiana and had plenty to say about the ‘real’ Frenchmen who worked for PetroFrance and Krumbein. Tim listened with sympathy but followed Raymond back to the whaler as soon as he could. He wanted to get back to his own barge. They dropped the Siak rig hands and headed off to the far side of the delta where Sea Sprite IV sat tied to a wellhead, waiting for its next operation.

The crew lined the railing, smiling as Tim clambered over the fenders and through the pipe work. It felt good to come back and shake their hands. He slung his bag over his shoulder and climbed the steps up to his portable building, perched in splendour across the stern of the barge. He stood for a moment on the verandah and looked around. The barge stretched in front of him. The generator shack with its noisy GM giving them electricity. The old twin pump unit, the heart of the barge. The storage and mixing tanks beyond. To one side he could look out over a branch of the Mahakam. On the other, he could see over the tops of the nipa palms lining the river’s edge to the tall swamp jungle a short way beyond. It all looked good.

Soon Raymond would run Tim and the others to Camp Dua to eat their evening meal in the mess. Then they would come back and he would turn in for an early night with one of the books he had brought from Singapore. Tomorrow Sea Sprite IV would still be on standby for the next acid job. After breakfast he would do a check of the pump unit and then he would leave Raymond to get on with the continual round of maintenance and painting. He would make an excuse and go ashore, leaving the wellhead platform by walking along the cable tray. Ashore, the swamp islands had a network of pipelines on trestles two or three metres above the swamp surface. Beside the pipes lay the cable tray, carrying power and telemetry cables and closed over by galvanized mesh. The cable trays served as pathways in the sky, above the mud of the swamp, and gave access into most of the islands. He would follow the swamp edge around, solitary, watching the birds and monkeys, raised comfortably above the jungle floor. On the other side of the island, perhaps only a kilometre away as the sea eagle flies but at least three along the cable tray, he would come to a primitive landing stage and a duck-walk of split logs leading into the jungle. This led to Darti’s house. He had not seen her for over a week, and he missed her.

ADULT EXCERPT

They stood in a long room. In front of them a strip of worn carpet ran under frosted windows, into the distance, diving into a corridor and away. On their right the large room was filled with rows of desks, all facing the windows. At each desk sat a Chinese girl, working on papers, like a university examination room. Rows of black heads and white blouses, all looking at them.

Ranji spoke to the nearest girl and she jumped up to lead them on. Sherry followed Ranji, aware of the whole room watching them. As they reached the corridor, she looked back. Expressionless Chinese faces stared at her. She hurried after Ranji. At the end of the corridor, the girl gestured for them to wait and went through the door marked ‘No Entry’, closing it behind her.

“Those girls,” whispered Sherry, “they looked at us like dirt.”

“Don’t worry about it. Most of them wish they could be like us. Which would you prefer, flute-playing or working in there?”

The door opened again and the girl waved them in. “Mr. Yhee will see you now.”

Inside a secretary sat in a small office, an older lady with curled hair. Beyond her an open door. Ranji led the way.

The Irishman’s office looked huge. It filled the whole width of the building. On one side, a long conference table of solid rosewood sat on heavy carved pillars. On the other, Mr. Yhee had made himself an alcove from packed bookshelves. His desk was black and modern, decorated with telephones and a computer. A carved name block announced him as ‘Yhee Lu Pat’ in Roman characters, and presumably the additional Chinese characters said the same. This touch added to the impression that an office, no matter how grand, was not Mr. Yhee’s natural environment.

Yhee was a small man seated in a big black chair behind his desk. At first sight he looked Chinese, but as Sherry looked closer his long nose and wavy hair made her uncertain. Mixed blood, perhaps. He watched them closely as they crossed the carpet and came to stand in front of his desk. He gestured them down into the armchairs facing each other in front of him. Sherry found herself sitting uncomfortably low, with Yhee’s desk above elbow level. She had to look up to talk to him.

“So,” he said in a sing-song voice, “Miss Ranji and Miss Sherry. Very good. Very pretty. Now, speak to Bombar first.” He picked up a phone and dialed.

“Mr. Bombar. Yes. The girls have arrived. Yes. Maybe, not bad in a cheap sort of way. Yes. I shall insist on it. Now I give you Ranji.” He thrust the phone at Ranji and Sherry listened to another half conversation.

“Yes, Papi. No, she’s dressed very well. I shall, Papi. Don’t worry, Papi, we shall be good. Yes, Papi. See you soon,” and she handed the phone back to Yhee who hung up.

He looked at them and chuckled. “Very beautiful. Now we shall have a very interesting time, no?” Sherry liked his smile and relaxed immediately.

“First, what will you drink? Beer, whisky? No, no tea. I shall give you my very best cognac.” He opened a compartment in the bookshelves behind the desk and Ranji grimaced behind his back. They listened to the sound of ice and glasses. There was a click and soft Chinese music filled the room. He brought them two tumblers of ice and cognac, and went back to sit behind his desk.

He raised his glass to them, and they sipped together. The cognac tasted strong and rich, almost making Sherry cough. “Now, ladies, what are you going to do for me?”

Ranji smiled at him and said, “We are here to do anything you want, Mr. Yhee.”

“Very good. Very, very good. In that case, I would like you to dance for me. Together. Just stand up and dance.”

Sherry found herself holding Ranji and trying to find a rhythm in the Chinese music. “Mmmmmh, sexy Sherry,” whispered Ranji and reached around her with both arms to pull her closer. Over her shoulder, Sherry could see Yhee watching them closely. Ranji felt live and exciting in her arms, and her exotic perfume filled Sherry’s senses. They continued swaying and Yhee came out from behind his desk, to lean against it and sip his cognac. Sherry felt Ranji’s hand slip upwards, drawing her dress up, exposing her bottom. Then Ranji turned her as they swayed, turning her back towards Yhee. A shiver ran through her and she fought to remain calm as they slowly rotated.

She heard Yhee clapping as Ranji exposed her. He came nearer, still clapping. “Bravo, bravo. Let’s take her dress off, Ranji.” Sherry held her arms up as the two of them bunched her dress up and lifted it over her head. Yhee took it and threw it onto his desk. “Dance some more!” he ordered.

Resigned but excited, Sherry danced slowly. Ranji held her away now and turned to allow Yhee to look between them. She felt his eyes on her nudity. Ranji lifted one hand above her head and spun her round, showing off everything she had to Yhee. She blushed and her ears burnt.

Perhaps Yhee sensed her embarrassment, or perhaps he had seen enough dancing. “Come over to the conference table,” he commanded. He took Sherry’s hand and led her over to the other side of the room. He pulled back one chair as a step and said, “Sit on the table.”

Sherry climbed up and sat down with her legs hanging down. “Move into the middle of the table,” he said, “and open your legs. So we can see you.”

Sherry shunted backwards and brought her feet up. She felt uncomfortable sitting on the flat surface wearing high heels. She let her legs fall open as he wanted. Yhee and Ranji stared at her centre.

Yhee pushed Ranji to a chair and sat down beside her. They looked at Sherry like an exceptionally succulent pig served at a banquet. “Now, play with it,” said Yhee. “I want to see you make yourself come.”

Sherry was horrified and looked at Ranji in alarm, but got no help from her. “Yes, Sherry, show us how you do it.”

“I—,” she started, but no more came. She tried to reach between her legs but her hand refused to move.

“Do it!” said Yhee sharply.

Ranji frowned at her and nodded. She forced herself to reach lower. She pressed her fingertips flat over her clit and started a circular motion. She rubbed automatically, hardly feeling what she was doing. Ranji and Yhee had leaned forward to watch her closely. Ranji had reached into Yhee’s lap, but Sherry could not see her hand below the table.

Incredibly, Sherry found she was wet. Her rubbing had done nothing for her, but she was wet. The discovery cheered her a little. At least Yhee would see she was trying to do her best. She rubbed unhappily, and searched in vain for the golden thread that would lead to her orgasm.

Yhee had become agitated. He moved restlessly in his seat, looking at her pussy and at Ranji beside him. He jumped to his feet and started to pull Ranji’s sari from her shoulder.

“Wait!” she called and fumbled with the safety pin at her shoulder. “Now, you can unwrap me.” Yhee pulled on the sari and Ranji turned to allow him to destroy the pleats and toss it onto the table. She unhooked her choli before he could reach it and let it fall loose. Yhee dived for her breasts and gripped them roughly. Ranji put her hands behind her and let the choli drop to the floor. Yhee forced her roughly back against the table and bent his head to take her nipple into his mouth.

Sherry watched in growing horror as Ranji’s head fell back and her black hair brushed the table. Her face looked distorted and she was biting her lip. Yhee lifted his head to look at Sherry. “Keep rubbing!” he ordered, and took Ranji’s other breast into his mouth. She restarted her pretence of self-pleasure and watched as Yhee thrust his hand under Ranji’s crotch and manhandled her sex. Ranji moaned at his onslaught. Yhee had turned into a violent, forceful animal.

Yhee suddenly stood up and spun Ranji around to face the table. He pushed her towards Sherry. “Suck her!” Yhee was out of control. Moving blindly, Ranji searched between Sherry’s legs and she leaned back on her hands to help. She did not want to disobey Yhee. It would be too dangerous.

Ranji’s hands went under Sherry’s thighs to grip her and she pulled herself into Sherry, nuzzling her pussy. Sherry looked over her friend’s back at Yhee. He was fumbling with his fly and Sherry caught a flash of white as he released himself.

Sherry had the detached feeling that she was watching herself star as an actress in a movie, a horror movie. Yhee hurried to pull on Ranji’s hips and sink his prong into her. He drove it home with a bump that pushed Ranji against her, and then settled to a slow thrusting that left him time to watch.

Sherry followed his eyes down to Ranji’s head working between her legs. She had never seen Ranji like this. She was wholly focused on licking Sherry’s pussy, apparently ignoring Yhee and his slow thrusting. Ranji’s tongue probed and searched around her clit, changing to long licks up and down her whole sex and then back again to frantically burrowing round and under her clit. The attack was too intense for Sherry and she knew that she would not come.

Yhee had a withdrawn expression on his face and his eyes looked heavy. With each thrust, he pushed Ranji against her pussy. The only sound was Ranji’s panting and licking.

Yhee opened his eyes and looked at her. “You come now,” he commanded.

Sherry was desperate. In another circumstance, another atmosphere, she might have enjoyed Ranji’s licking, but now it felt too strong, too mechanical, too impersonal. She could not come, and Yhee’s order made things worse. She would have to pretend. She closed her eyes, started to pant and to rock her hips against Ranji. Thinking her efforts were bringing pleasure, Ranji immediately accelerated her licking and burrowed her face deeper into Sherry’s crotch.