The journey to the garrison town of Tanah Merah feels like traveling backwards in time. The oppressive, supernatural chill of the jungle is replaced by the mundane heat of dusty streets and the smell of engine oil. The garrison itself is a bastion of ordered, colonial life—whitewashed walls, a neatly trimmed lawn, and the sound of marching boots.
You find Major Briggs exactly where you expected: behind a large teak desk, surrounded by piles of paperwork and the faint scent of polish and brandy. He is a man built for memos, not mysteries. He doesn’t look up as you finish your account of shadows, ancient relics, and Rahim’s wound.
“Bandits, Finch,” he says finally, stamping a document with a definitive thud. “Always are in these parts. Or communists. Natives get spooked, stories get exaggerated.” He leans back, his chair creaking, and finally meets your eyes. His are the colour of a dull sky, devoid of the fearful spark you’ve seen elsewhere.
He gestures dismissively. “Superstition. But…” he pauses, a calculating look replacing the boredom, “if there’s a genuinely valuable artifact out there that these ‘bandits’ are after, then it becomes a matter of crown security. Can’t have priceless historical pieces falling into the wrong hands.”
He leans forward, his voice taking on the tone of a man giving a clear, non-negotiable order. “I can give you a truck and two men. Corporal Davies and Private Miller. Good lads. But understand this, Captain: their mission is to assist you in recovering the artifact. It will be brought directly back here for cataloguing and secure transport. Crown custody. Is that perfectly clear?”
The offer of help is there, but it comes shackled to a complete denial of the truth you’ve witnessed.