A Shipwreck in Fiji

Chapter 1

“What did I miss?” Dr. Robert Holmes asked, sounding out of breath.

Sergeant Akal Singh raised a hand to his forehead to shield his eyes against the brilliant sunshine. Even so, he had to squint as he looked up at the doctor, who had arrived at the cricket ground twenty minutes later than he had promised. Akal looked with envy at the hats of the men around him. Not an option with his turban in place.

“Nothing much,” Constable Taviti Tukana replied. Taviti had questioned Akal about this game they called cricket many times, but still didn’t understand why the British and the Indians in Suva were all so mad for it. As far as Akal could tell, Taviti came along to these Sunday matches to flirt with the ladies in attendance. “Sergeant Singh hasn’t had his turn hitting the ball yet.”

“Batting,” the doctor and Akal corrected in concert. Taviti shrugged indifferently.

“We are waiting for the inspector-general before we can start. And half of the other team are missing,” Akal explained to the doctor. The match today was ostensibly to raise money for the Fiji Contingent Fund, which would pay for a small group of British subjects to make their way to Europe so they could enlist to fight in the war. It was also a grudge match, the Suva Constabulary versus the civil service—the officers of the Fijian colonial administration.

“Ah, well, they were all with me, stuck in a last-minute meeting with the governor. Some war updates came in over the telegraph,” Robert informed them gravely as he sat down on the bench next to Akal. “That disastrous battle in Turkey last week. There were a lot of Australians killed. The names have started coming through, and the Australians here are worried about their people.”

Akal had heard that there were Indians in that battle as well, but it seemed the governor didn’t think they warranted a mention. He wondered if any of his friends had lost their lives. While he worked within the British Empire by going to Hong Kong and joining the police service, some of the boys in his village in the Punjab had joined the British Indian Army. Could they have been part of this battle? Akal quickly dismissed the thought, pushing away the lurking sense of dread. He would likely never know.

“I think they might be a while. I don’t have the stomach to dwell on it all, but a lot of the others stayed back to talk about it,” the doctor continued. “You’ve probably got a bit of time before your famous bowling arm is required, Akal.”

“Batting,” said Taviti cheekily.

“No. Bowling,” said Akal, rotating his arm through the bowling motion. Taviti shrugged indifferently again, while Akal turned to Dr. Holmes. “What other information did we receive on the war?”

Dr. Holmes grimaced, clearly reluctant to revisit the topic, but filled them in on what he had learnt of the battle. The Australian and New Zealand Army Corps had landed on a beach, somewhere called Gallipoli, and had met strong resistance from the Turkish troops. Despite heavy losses, they had dug in and were at a stalemate with the Turks.

“It all feels very far away from here,” the doctor concluded, gesturing towards the crowd who had gathered for the long-awaited game of cricket.

Everyone was in their Sunday best. The well-heeled Europeans, sitting on chairs in the shade of a cluster of trees, had trickled over from their post-church lunch at the adjacent Grand Pacific Hotel. Dominated by British, Australians, and New Zealanders, these were the elite of the backwater colony of Fiji, one of the last acquisitions of the British Empire. Many were part of the colonial administration, and a few were plantation owners who had come to Suva for a break in the nearest thing they had to a cosmopolitan metropolis.

The ladies sat gossiping under parasols and hats, protecting themselves from the sun as best they could, drinking lemonade brought across on trays from the hotel by uniformed waitstaff. The men stood plucking gin and tonics from the same trays. The planters were easy to identify, sporting the leathery, tanned faces of men who couldn’t avoid the sun.

Across the field from the Europeans, the Indians, sitting cross-legged on woven mats, were largely the shop owners in Suva, the more prosperous of the Indians in the colony. Most of them had paid their own way from India to seek business opportunities. There were one or two who had made it through their five years of indenture and had scrambled their way to the top of the food chain in their own community.

Akal, Taviti, and Dr. Holmes were an anomaly in the crowd, which was segregated along racial lines. Taviti was the only Fijian present, and Akal the only Sikh. Add an older, dignified British doctor to their little trio, sitting apart from everyone else, and the incongruity was complete. They ignored the occasional curious glances cast their way. This friendship was Akal’s lifeline in an otherwise unfriendly environment, so he was beyond grateful that the other two had thrown their lot in with him.

“Who are they?” asked Taviti, nudging Akal and nodding in the direction of two women who had just arrived, one who looked to be in her early twenties and the other perhaps approaching fifty. They were clearly related, both sporting the same red hair, though the young woman’s shone fiercely in the sun and the older lady’s was more muted with grey.

Akal shook his head with a small frown. He didn’t recognise them, which was unusual; with so few Europeans in Suva, he recognised everyone, even if he didn’t know them by name. They could have come in from a plantation, but he thought he would have heard if there was a beautiful young woman living on a plantation. It seemed more likely that they were new arrivals. Akal and Taviti both looked questioningly towards the doctor.

“No, no idea. Though that is Hugh Clancy they are joining. Looks like he may have some family visiting.”

Hugh Clancy was the editor of the Fiji Times, the best source of news and a powerful institution in the colony. Clancy was not afraid to criticise the administration and report on things the governor would prefer to remain quiet. Last year, the Fiji Times had published claims made by a Catholic priest, Father Hughes, that an Indian coolie woman had been kidnapped from a plantation. The inspector-general had reluctantly sent Akal out to investigate, instructing him to close the case quickly and quietly. Akal’s failure to follow these instructions had cemented his commanding officer’s already poor opinion of him.

The two unfamiliar ladies had settled into some seats and were looking around, the younger woman more animated as she pointed at various objects. The older lady seemed content to nod indulgently, occasionally adding a comment of her own. Akal followed the young woman’s gestures, seeing the scene with fresh eyes.

This was the very image of a British colony. The cricket stumps set up and waiting for the match to begin. The natural environment of the tropical island ruthlessly tamed to allow for a game which was transplanted from half the world away. The fair-skinned Britishers who were not meant for the Fijian sun wilting in the humidity. Behind, the graceful edifice of the Grand Pacific Hotel. And beyond all of that, the endless ocean.

“Here they come. Time to shine, young man,” declared the doctor. Akal turned to look over his right shoulder towards the road. The missing cricket players were passing through the palm trees, arriving en masse in their crisp white uniforms.

Akal rose to join his team, while the doctor and Taviti went their separate ways to greet various other European spectators. Both of them had far warmer greetings from their friends than Akal did from his teammates, Europeans and Indians alike, most of whom had thawed enough to give him a curt nod. The inspector-general ignored him. Akal imagined that if he wasn’t such a superb bowler, something the team otherwise lacked, the inspector-general would have barred him from the team. Still, the curt nods represented a vast improvement to his reception even six months ago.

The coin was tossed; the Suva Constabulary would field first. Akal was first to bowl. He loped his long-limbed stride towards the pitch. On his way there, he glanced towards where the flame-haired woman had been seated. His eyes snagged on hers for a long moment. A small, secret smile lit up her face.

“Play!” the umpire called.

Akal looked down at the pitch, rubbed the seam of the ball, and prepared for the run up. He pushed away the warm buzz that smile had given him and focused on the task at hand, making another bid for acceptance in this exile home of his.

*

On Monday morning, Akal was sitting in a cramped room at the Totogo station, Suva’s central police station, removed from the celebratory backslapping still going on from the previous day. Despite his own contributions to the police team win, Akal hadn’t even tried to tell his own stories in the face of the ongoing antipathy towards him from his fellow officers. Instead, he was once more reviewing his notes from the Night Prowler case, the bane of his existence.

He had inherited the unsolvable case upon his arrival in Fiji a year ago, a way for the inspector-general to sideline the disgraced officer who had been foisted on him against his wishes. Akal had been sent to Fiji as a deal done between the governors of Fiji and Hong Kong to distance him from the mistakes he had made in Hong Kong and to bolster the struggling, fledgling Fijian police force. Unfortunately, Inspector-General Thurstrom, who had had no say in this transfer, wasn’t interested in an officer who had already made a serious lapse in judgement; as soon as Akal arrived, Thurstrom had handed Akal the Night Prowler case and washed his hands of him. The rest of the Suva Constabulary had followed their inspector-general’s example and ignored Akal unless there was some cricket to be played.

The Night Prowler—what the Fiji Times called him, and, to Akal’s chagrin, the name that had stuck with his colleagues on the force—was a Fijian man who, naked as the day he was born, peeped in the windows of the European children in Suva. He had done nothing more than look so far, but Akal thought that this couldn’t last long. Eventually he would do something more than peep. No two descriptions of the man were the same, other than to concur that he was Fijian. Traumatised children did not make the best witnesses. Even granted Akal’s brief reprieve from the Night Prowler in the previous year, as he worked the case of the missing coolie woman, he was resigned to chasing the elusive Night Prowler for the rest of his career.

Akal abandoned his futile review of the case notes. Seeking comfort, he pulled the latest letter from his father out of its usual place in his pocket and smoothed it out on the table in front of him. Even without reading the words, the familiar neat script on the rough, cheap paper brought a tumble of emotions. An aching longing for home, a feeling of gratitude, tinged with shame, for his father’s support during Akal’s fall from grace. The enduring feeling, which lasted when the intensity of all the others faded, was a sense of peace and belonging.

Akal’s eyes tracked directly to the sentences that he treasured the most.

Beta, I feel that you have honoured Vaheguru with your work on your last case. Finding justice for this poor Indian woman, when nobody else would represent her, is one of the finest actions you have ever done. I know you do not want to be in Fiji, yet if you were not there, who would have helped her daughter to know the truth?

His father’s words echoing in his mind, Akal resumed his review of the case notes. His good intentions lasted for about a minute before the sense of listlessness settled back in. He decided it was definitely time for a break. Standing, Akal stretched his arms overhead to his full impressive height, hitting the ceiling. He scratched a spot in his beard at the edge of his turban, and wandered into the main reception of the station to slouch against the front counter.

Taviti was in his usual place, manning the front desk, his nose buried in a book. No matter how capable he was, Taviti was likely permanently confined to this position; his uncle was a prominent Fijian chief who had sent Taviti to Suva to represent the village socially and politically. He did not approve of Taviti’s interest in policing. Akal looked at his friend and wondered, not for the first time, why he preferred the frustrations of policing over the glamor and influence of the political career his uncle had lined up for him.

“What are you reading?” Akal asked Taviti.

Taviti held up a manual on police procedure, one Akal had read years ago when he was starting as a police officer in Hong Kong.

“Learning anything?”

Taviti snorted and threw the book down on the desk. “There is not much point, is there, if I’m just going to be stuck here.”

“I really thought your uncle would agree to you being more active after the case last year. But I suppose he is worried about your safety?”

Last year, Taviti had saved Akal’s life in a dramatic scene as they were wrapping up the missing persons investigation, resulting in a minor arm injury, which he had worn like a war hero. Taviti had hoped that his showing on the case would prove to his uncle that he could do more than administrative duties. He had been wrong.

“No. The opposite. He’s now more convinced that I am wasting my time. I don’t even think it is about keeping me safe. I think it’s that he doesn’t see the value in police work.”

His complaint was cut short by the entry of a young man.

“Bula,” the man greeted Taviti.

“Bula vinaka,” Taviti responded casually, taking the bundle of envelopes and flipping through them as the mailman made his exit. Grinning, Taviti pulled one of the larger envelopes out of the stack. “Hmm . . . a report from the Levuka station. It’s the first one we’ve gotten from that young Indian constable, Kumar. The one who got left on his own when the sub-inspector there retired. This should be interesting.”

Akal chuckled, remembering how long he had agonized over his first report. Taviti opened the envelope and scanned through the report, then frowned.

“Oh. It’s fine. Usual stuff. He has requested some supplies. Reports some small disputes over yams, a stolen chicken.” His face brightened as he came to the end of the report. “Oh, here we are. Apparently, a shopkeeper just outside of Levuka reports that some Germans have been coming at night to buy supplies from him.”

Akal raised one eyebrow. “Germans?” he said incredulously.

“Germans!” Taviti guffawed. “Can’t wait to tell the fellows about this one. Maybe Kumar thinks it’s all part of their strategy. The Germans thought if they take out Fiji first, the rest of the British Empire will crumble.”

“Yes, you should put it that way when you let the inspector-general know about it,” Akal responded wryly.

Taviti groaned. “Why do you want to ruin it for me, Akal? Let me have a little fun first before you mention Thurstrom.”

“Sorry. No fun for either of us.”

“Fine. I better get through the rest of the mail and then go give him the report. Thanks for nothing.”

Akal laughed and returned to his own frustrating exercise of looking for a new angle on a case that was going nowhere.