It's not Christmas

124 heard the rat fart. Didn’t know that a rat could fart. But the sound was unmistakable, a tiny blurt that could have only come out of the rat. Sitting proud on a pillow, the rodent raised its head and sniffed the air.

“Puk gai!” 124 cursed flinging a rickety fist at the beast. His back cricked. “Ai yah!” he moaned as spine demons stabbed him with sharpened sticks.

The rat didn’t move, stared at him with cold intelligent eyes, whiskers twitching. Seemed to be thinking “Soon old man, soon.”

Jungle stink wafted in. A wisp of wind nudged the mosquito net hanging limp around his bed. Hot, humid and hard to breathe, he had to get out of bed.

Little pink feet cooled his thigh. Hairless tail switching a rhythm as the rat sniffed 124’s balls.

“Diu lei!” 124 rolled and jerked his knees up. The rat disappeared through a hole in the netting. Wiggling his legs over the side of the bed 124 sat with a grunt. The room swirled, squares on the mosquito netting a giddy kaleidescope of yellow and white.

When the rush subsided he pushed up and out of bed, shuffled to the kitchen table. Peering around for the rat before plopping down on the only chair

The fridge in the corner stood open, empty except for three cans of Tiger beer. Dirty dishes piled high on the sink and bench. Shorts and singlets were strewn across the floor. The room seemed smaller in semi-darkness, mold grew on damp walls. No rat.

124 hacked with disgust as if seeing the room for the first time. Eighty years ago he lived like royalty, within spitting distance of the Forbidden City. Heir to a fortune, he inherited a hovel.

Something brushed his foot and his ancient bowel loosened. Raised his foot ready to stomp the rat but saw it was only a red crab. Heard the rustle of a thousand more outside. The jungle waking. An over-eager frigate bird called its mate. 124 shook his head, too early for fishing, wouldn’t be light for an hour or so. No clock in the room, but he knew the time. 5 am had an aura all its own.

A bamboo water pipe sat empty on the table. 124 remembered having a smoke at midnight to help him nod off. Worked too, sleeping until the devil rat farted in his face. Time for another smoke but he couldn’t see the opium bowl, it must be outside. Stooped to a near right angle, he shuffled to the front door. The rat watched his progress with interest from the bench beside last night’s food bowl.

A full moon hovered close and heavy. Lighting the landscape like firecrackers at Lunar New Year. 124 spotted the opium bowl on a small cane table.

“M goi” he thanked God with relief at finding it so quick.

The front porch, the steps, the yard, his fence and the road beyond were covered in crabs. They had trekked down from the jungle for millennia. Eons before any human set foot on the Island. Red shells glinting, marching by the million to ocean spawn.

Cars and trucks would soon begin crushing them into the bitumen. More crabs would emerge to eat their cousins and they too would get smashed. History repeating while the road turned red, inches deep in squashed crab. By midday, the smell would be unbearable. A well-positioned claw might puncture a passing tyre, giving some small revenge.

124 edged crabs from the top step, making room to perch. In a well-practiced manoeuvre, he eased down onto his haunches.

The ritual began. Placing the water pipe between his legs, 124 struck a match and lit the mix. Sucked the sweet smoke deep into frail lungs. Held it in as long as possible. The effect was immediate. An urgent glow spread, quelling pain and bringing his stomach close to orgasm.

He grinned, at ease with the world and his place in it. Glazed eyes observed the slow, sideways shuffling crabs crossing the road. They seemed to be moving in unison, to a beat he couldn’t hear. Timing and purpose controlled by a greater force.

The first car of the day crunched its way past his house. The driver raised a hand in greeting, 124 pretended not to see. White people were waving at him now! He could remember when they ignored him. Or if they did acknowledge his existence, it was only to yell.

Coughing up a thick wad of phlegm, 124 spat it out forcefully, proud of how far it flew. The sputum landed on top of a crab climbing the fence and 124 laughed so hard, he fell back and rolled onto his side.

Legs hanging over the step he started to sit, then relaxed. There was no pain, he was calm and comfortable lying on concrete. The drug worked on him stronger. Zoomed focus on a crab inches in front of his face. The crab stopped, swivelled its eye stalks around and whispered through the bubbles frothing out of its mouth.

“Sleep,” the crab burbled. “Sleep.” And he did.

124 was dreaming. He knew he was dreaming because it was snowing. He knew he was dreaming because he saw Alice Jardine. He knew he was dreaming because he had an erection. He knew he was dreaming because Alice mouthed his name. Not 124 but a real name. It was one of those delicious dreams where you knew you were dreaming but could control what happened next.

Young again, rich again and in Peking. The first year of a new and exciting century. His father worked for Alice’s father and they lived in the same compound, within the foreign legation district. Alice was beautiful. A green-eyed, red-haired rose amongst a million black-haired, brown-eyed thorns.

His dream brain wanted to seduce Alice. Young brain, old brain and dream brain all knew she liked him, liked him a lot. The old brain was happy to watch but the young brain was unsure. It was Alice they were talking about, his Alice not some prostitute.

Leaning forward they kissed Alice on her sweet red lips, she put her arms around all three, pulling them in for an orgy.

“You alright mate?” someone shook his shoulder.

“Hey! are you ok?”

Terror gripped 124. Alice’s father had caught him wet-handed. He whimpered and rolled over, shielding his face from the coming blows.

“It’s alright mate, you’re alright there.”

124 realised his assailant was speaking Australian not Glaswegian like Mr. Jardine. He groaned as he felt the sweat run down his face, the sun hot and the snow gone, the dream broken. He swore under his breath and forced a toothless smile to his face.

“Ok boss, ok.”

“You sure mate, you look a bit crook.”

124 waved him away. The Aussie glanced disapprovingly at the water pipe. Everyone on Christmas Island knew that 124 smoked opium. It was legal. When hired in 1930, a large portion of his monthly pay was paid in opium. Addicted to the drug for 50 years, it was smoke or die.

The man shook his head and left reluctantly after helping 124 to sit. The old fella looked so frail, a decent gust of wind might carry him away. He hopped in his company landrover and drove off, crunching crabs with every turn of the wheels.

124 cursed his unwanted Samaritan and reached for the pipe, sucked a mix down hard and fast.

A fat gwailo boy watched from across the street. Carrying fishing gear with a beach towel draped over his shoulder.

“Hard work today?” 124 called then hawked and spat did not notice the rat scuttle between his legs and fly under the house. The boy saw it, he felt sorry for the old man but took the hint and walked on by.

124 closed his eyes and dreamed. It was snowing again but he couldn’t see Alice. His mother stood at the kitchen door, waving frantically. She looked frightened. A huge plume of black smoke rose over the compound wall, he ran to the alcove and looked onto the street.

A large group of boxers (that is what the white devils called them) was throwing missiles and lighting fires. Fear gripped him, he tried to run to his mother, couldn’t make headway in the snow. This dream was crap, he knew how it ended and didn’t want to see that again.

“Diu Lei!”

Unwelcome images of his parents lying dead on the church floor flashed into his mind. Boxers searched the church for more traitorous Chinese Christians to slaughter. 124 trying to make himself smaller, crawled under a pew.

“Go back to before.”

He rewound the dream. Managed to conjure a faint outline of Alice. Could see the long red hair, falling down her back but something was wrong, the hair was literally falling and dropping to the snow. She turned to look at him but before she came all the way round he knew that she had no face. Or if there was a face it was going to be a demon’s head or some other horror. He turned to run but again the snow wouldn’t let him move, glued to the ground. Claws started cutting down his calf.

“No...”

He forced himself out of the nightmare, returning to the safety of his tropical porch. Shook his head, groggy from little sleep, and a double dose of drugs. 124 batted away a crab that was sitting close by his calf.

The sun well over the horizon now and the real heat of the day about to hit. Felt it radiating up the shaded steps toward him. Saw it shimmering on road kill. He looked at the bowl, only two smokes left.

“Must walk to the hospital later.” He said out loud reaching for the pipe. The opium didn’t work as well this time. Warm blood sloshed through his veins, combined with the rising sun it made him hot and edgy. Time for a bath in the small CI Club pool.

The pool was members only but 124 didn’t care for such niceties, he bathed there often. The rat watched him leave from the shade under the house, then scuttled back inside to the kitchen.

It was 400 meters to the pool, 124 shuffled there in a tick under half an hour. Grabbed the shampoo bottle hidden behind loose wall stones and trod carefully down to the two pools. With relief, he saw he was alone.

Wading into the toddler's pool he took off his singlet and shorts, lathering shampoo under his arms and crotch, the only hairs left on his body. He splashed through the cool chlorinated water to the deeper end and slid down. It was only a couple of feet deep.

Floating on his back he looked over the roof of the post office and company offices to the blue, cloud puffed sky beyond. The view triggered a dream of standing in this exact spot 30 years ago before the pool was built. Talking with Hardeep Singh, the young Punjabi police constable.

“We had a fight and killed the soldiers,” said Hardeep. “Threw the bodies to the sharks.”

124 didn’t doubt the soldiers were dead and bodies in the sea but he knew the way Indians fought. Seen first hand the Indian mutiny of Singapore during the first world war. Ambushing a sleeping enemy more their style.

“Why did you fight them?”

“The Japanese have freed India from the British. We heard it on the radio.”

“Japanese radio?”

“It is short-wave from Singapore, the BBC.”

“The Japs have taken Singapore, so they have the radio station, I don’t believe they took India.”

“You will see,” said Hardeep. “Their army and navy are….”

Heavy engine noise cut him short. 124 looked up, saw planes swooping down, black things falling towards him, getting bigger and bigger, fear gripped him tight, tried to run but the bombs were falling too fast, going to hit him. A white woman screamed hysterically, bombs hit the water around him. Water….?

He opened his eyes. A fat woman in a shaking bikini loomed above, screaming loud and throwing mangoes. A young child peeked through pale elephantine legs. 124 stood, the screaming increased dramatically.

“You dirty old chink bastard!”

White people were yelling at him again. A mango hit bare skin next to his crotch, he winced then grinned, realising why the woman was so upset. Wading to the shallow end he picked up his shorts and sat to put them on. Acres of wobbling white skin disappeared up the steps, bemused child in tow.

124 couldn’t see his shirt, probably left it at home. Home sounded good. The water pipe called to him and he needed it badly. Started the long hike home. Sun directly overhead when he finally squatted in the shade of his dusty verandah. He lit his fourth pipe of the day.

Fifteen years ago he would have paid dearly for today's indiscretion. Probably banished from the Island in disgrace. Nowadays he wasn’t worried about consequences at all. The chubby nurse at the hospital who doled out his opium would speak to him about it, he would feign ignorance. Problem solved. He was part of the scenery on this Island, belonged more than the fat wife of an 18-month contractor from Australia. Her child was pretty though with red hair like Alice.

He nodded off. Dreamed pure dreams about Alice. Cold dreams about his parents. Scary dreams about rebellions and war. Lost dreams of the long march from Peking to Singapore. Wet dreams of Singaporean brothels and wobbly white elephants. Short dreams of back-breaking work in the tropical sun. Confusing dreams about gambling at fan tan (never bet on number 3!) and his work number 124. Tension-filled dreams of hiding in the jungle for more than 6 months during the Japanese occupation. Coming down from the jungle to surrender when he couldn’t find any more food.

A loud crash smashed his dreams away. 124 jerked round to see the rat running into the house. The opium bowl lay broken on the porch, his last smoke scattered over the concrete. He shook his head. Well, there was nothing for it, he had to go to the hospital now.

The sun was fast disappearing, the sky glowed red, orange, green and purple. Beautiful. A magnificent sunset but he would have to walk in the dark. Shuffling through the gate he turned the opposite way to his morning walk and headed for the hospital. Might stop for Fan Tan on the way back.

Halfway across the road, he heard the squeal of tyres and the roar of a car engine accelerating fast. Towards him. The driver flicked on his headlights a second too late. 124 became truly part of the Island, like a red crab.

The rat jumped as brakes squealed loud, followed by a heavy thump and then the grinding of metal on metal. It paused for a few seconds, decided there was no danger to itself, went back to the half-empty food bowl.