The ‘greys’ were the undecided ones, more or less good, more or less happy in their environment. But the ‘whites’, ah, the ‘whites’ … Hinchcliffe straightened. His eyes sparkled with happiness. ‘Those fellows,’ he said, ‘are the real nice chaps. They’ll soon leave here and go to Taiping Camp to be rehabilitated.’ In order to keep tabs on the prisoners, police informers were planted among them. ‘But on the whole this is a good camp, gentlemen. Detainees, as you know, are not criminals. Many are in preventive detention … erh …’ He caught Clerkwell’s furious eye and desisted. ‘We really do try to help them.’ Suddenly enthusiastic, his blue eyes moistened, as he launched into his favourite story, the story of the detainee who came back:

‘Poor old chap, we used to call him Grandpa … he was brought in a swoop last year … I don’t think he’d hurt a fly … in rags too, just picked up. I was pretty sure, when his case came up to the Committee of Review after his two years, that he’d get off. We used to let him knock about the garden, doing a spot of weeding … the mem[2] was so sorry for him. Well, he got ill one day, awfully bad he was, groaning and moaning, carrying on with a bellyache.

So we packed him off to the Hospital; and they took out his appendix, in no time. Well, Grandpa wasn’t able to move for a week or so after that The mata-mata sent to watch him got recalled here, and as we were short of staff, we never got round to sending another one. The Hospital forgot he was a prisoner and discharged Grandpa one fine morning, without first phoning us up. So there was Grandpa, a free man, on the road. We didn’t know he was out, and it might have been weeks before we’d get round to asking the Hospital what they were doing to him.’

Hinchcliffe looked round, enjoying the suspense he had managed.