Master of Rain

by Tom Bradby

  Field’s mind was now so overrun by questions that he shut his eyes again.

  “Do you know who killed the Russian girl?” she asked him.

  “We’re getting close.”

  “Tell me. Who is it?”

  Field didn’t answer. He didn’t want to think about it and he knew she was only making small talk.

  Penelope released him. She took his glass and refilled it again. She placed a hand against his cheek. “Drink up, soldier.” She poured herself another, too, and they faced each other and drank. “Ooh . . . I feel quite drunk now. Geoffrey hates me drinking whiskey.”

  Penelope bent down, her breath warm against his ears. “Relax, Richard. Let it go.”

  Field closed his eyes.

  “Has she hurt you, Richard? Is that what it is? Has the Russian princess betrayed you? They always do, you know.” He felt the glass against his lips. “Drink, Richard.”

  Field stood. “I just need to excuse . . .”

  “Upstairs, I’ll show you.” She held his hand.

  “Actually, I should . . .”

  “Geoffrey will want to see you. You can talk to him about it.”

  She was still holding his hand, leading him up the stairs, and then they were in her room and she was turning, slipping the dress from her shoulders, so that she was naked from the waist up, wearing nothing but a garter belt and stockings below.

  Her mouth was warm and sweet, despite the whiskey, her skin soft. She reached down and took hold of him through his trousers, releasing her grip only to brush against him, moving her hips from side to side.

  He staggered, trying to pull away, but her grip was strong. “I know you came for this,” she hissed. She kissed him with sudden ferocity as she unbuttoned his fly.

  Penelope sank to her knees and took him into her mouth. He could feel her tugging at his trousers, taking her lips from him only long enough to free them, the wetness soothing as she took him to the base of her throat. She stood again, unbearably close as she took off his holster and unbuttoned his shirt.

  She led him back toward the bed and lay down, legs slightly apart, so that he could see the pink lips glistening beneath the dark hair. She took his head and guided it there, the smell of her filling his nostrils. He tried to pull away, but she grabbed his hair savagely and pulled his face toward her own, taking hold of him and forcing him into her.

  Penelope suddenly pushed him over again, onto his back. Her nipples were erect and she put a hand over his and pulled it to her breast. She pressed down against him, so that he found himself grunting, half in pain, half in anger.

  His remorse was instant. Field waited perhaps ten seconds, but as soon as she was off him, some of his semen dripping back onto his stomach, he stood up and wiped it away with his shirt.

  He put his shirt on, not caring how squalid that felt.

  Penelope sat up, clutching her knees, resting her head on them and looking at him, her hair across her face. “Everything is not as it seems.”

  “Isn’t it?” he said as he tried to pull his trousers on. “I suppose you’re going to tell me your husband doesn’t make you happy.”

  “The world isn’t always simple.”

  “Well, it is to me.”

  “You don’t have to blame yourself.”

  He stopped and looked at her. “One of the things my father—my lower-middle-class father, the disgrace to the family—one of the things he always said was that you should take responsibility for your own actions.”

  Field thought about the way Penelope had draped her arm affectionately over her husband’s shoulder on the first night they’d all met up.

  “You don’t have to be chippy, you know. I don’t care about all that.”

  “All what?”

  “The family.”

  “Great. Fine.” He did up the buttons on his shirt.

  “Don’t blame yourself, Richard,” she said, sitting up on her elbow and looking at him, the sheet falling away from her breasts. “No one will know.”

  “No one will know,” he repeated. “I will know.” He stood. “It was a mistake.”

  She glared at him. “A mistake?”

  “A mistake, yes.” He gave a hollow laugh. “Don’t tell me you think it wasn’t.”

  “Just a mistake, that’s it?”

  Field sighed.

  “This is why you came here, and don’t you deny it.”

  “Fine.”

  Her face was small and angry as she thrust it toward him. “You were intent on fucking me the moment you came through that door.”

  “It wasn’t a mistake, then.”

  “You were trying to get even, is that it?”

  “I’m going to go.”

  “Determined to get back at the family because—”

  “Oh please . . .”

  “Well, you’ve succeeded. Are you happy now?”

  “It has nothing to do with—”

  “Your girl. Is that it?”

  “Look . . .”

  “I can see it in your face: it’s the Russian princess. Another bloody Russian princess.”

  Field frowned.

  “Oh, don’t worry, Richard, she’ll find out. I’ll make sure of that and then your love will wither on the vine.” Her eyes flashed. “You’re all the same: you think you can get away with it, but you can’t.”

  Field raised his hand, suddenly tired and wanting to leave with the minimum possible rancor. “I’m sorry,” he said quietly.

  “What will she think when she knows?”

  “I’m sorry if I upset you.”

  Her anger disappeared in an instant. Her smile was sickly sweet. “Do you want me to get Chang for you?”

  “I’ll get a rickshaw.”

  “Will you give me a kiss, Richard?”

  “Penelope, please . . .”

  “You just fucked me, Richard. Be polite, if nothing else.”

  He walked forward and leaned over. She kissed him with an open mouth, briefly grasping the back of his neck. “I’m sorry if I’ve hurt you,” she said.

  Field hesitated. He looked at the gold Buddha beside her, then walked away.

  “Richard?”

  He didn’t stop.

  Field went to the Happy Times block and stood beneath the line of trees, but there were no lights on the top floor.

  He tried to walk away, but got only a few paces before he turned back.

  He moved quickly through the light and shadow, the heat of the night bringing sweat to his brow as he climbed the stairs again to the darkened hall. He knocked, quietly calling her name, but there was no answer.

  Forty-five

  The first glimmer of dawn awoke him and Field lay still, every muscle in his body screaming at the discomfort of the night. It took him a few seconds to remember where he was. He lifted his cheek from the cold marble floor and rubbed his eyes. His shoulder was cramped against her door.

  Natasha had not been home.

  He turned and paced from one side of the hall to the other.

  Field took the notepad from his pocket and his father’s fountain pen. For a moment, as he tried to think what to say, he wondered if this is what his father had felt for his mother. Was it love that ruined you?

  Field wrote: Please call. I will be in the office. Central 26522, extension 79. He almost added, I know about the boy, but thought better of it. He did not sign it.

  Slowly, he opened the door to the stairwell and began to descend to the street. It was still early, a hint of color on the rooftops, the air heavy and close. He felt the stubble on his chin. He thought he could still taste Penelope in his mouth and it disgusted him. His clothes were a mess.

  Field passed a line of bodies huddled against the wall of the race club and then stopped by its entrance and turned back one last time. As he swung around, a short Chinese in a pinstripe suit and black trilby stopped about twenty yards behind him.

  Field looked at him, but the man made no attempt to hide, or to pretend that he was doing anyt
hing other than following him.

  Field began walking again, listening to his own footsteps and the echo behind him. He felt for his revolver.

  He kept a steady pace, skirting the race club and waiting for a solitary tram to pass before crossing the road. His pursuer maintained his distance.

  In Carter Road, Field had thought to try and lose him, but as he walked past the church, the graveyard of which he would have used to shake off his pursuer, he saw another man reading a newspaper on the far side, and a third standing at the intersection ahead.

  He slipped his hand inside his jacket and took hold of his revolver, then stopped. The footsteps halted behind him, but neither of the men ahead moved. He was ten yards beyond the church. He could feel his heart thumping in his chest.

  His brain was clear. They would have shot him by now if that had been their intention.

  He started walking again. The man on the far side of the road continued to read his newspaper; the one at the intersection ambled away down the street.

  Field kept going until he reached his quarters, standing silently in the hallway beyond the porter. He took out his revolver and checked that all the chambers were full before turning into the common room and forcing himself to breathe more normally.

  He poured himself a cup of coffee from the jug on the sideboard, took the copy of the North China Daily News next to it, and sat at one end of the dining room table in the middle of the room.

  One of the boys came through the white swinging doors, but Field shook his head. “No cook.”

  “Bacon?”

  Field shook his head.

  “Eggs? Very good. Build you up.”

  “No thanks.”

  The boy wiped a corner of the table that had not looked dirty with his tea towel and withdrew. Field sipped his coffee, then picked the mug up and went and sat in one of the leather chairs at the far end of the room. Pulling open his newspaper, fighting to concentrate, his eyes strayed to a picture of Bebe Daniels advertising her latest picture, Miss Bluebeard. He thought her mouth and nose were like Natasha’s.

  He put the newspaper down and went upstairs to change. In the corridor Prokopieff was pulling up his suspenders.

  “Good morning, Field,” he said, his accent thick and sarcastic.

  “Good morning.”

  “Getting up early.”

  “Yes.”

  “And getting out of bed on the wrong side.”

  Field stopped. He looked at the Russian’s bald head and sallow eyes. “Been busy, Prokopieff?”

  He shrugged.

  “What are you working on?”

  “Working hard, my friend.”

  “Granger’s orders?”

  Prokopieff looked at him intently. “Not everything is Granger’s orders.”

  Field held the Russian’s stare, then unlocked his own room and slammed the door shut. He took his revolver out of its holster, placed it on the bed, within easy reach, then took some fresh clothes from the closet and put them on. His shirt had been neatly ironed by the hall steward, but was still musty and slightly damp.

  He sat down, smoked a cigarette, and wondered if he should stay put. He decided that Natasha would not know where he was. He stood again and told himself that, if their intention had been to kill him, they would have done so earlier, when fewer people were around.

  Field came out of the Carter Road quarters confidently, his hand tucked into the pocket of his jacket, gripping the butt of his revolver hard. He saw them immediately. Two were leaning against the iron railings opposite, a third waiting farther up toward the top of the road.

  Field walked briskly, ignoring them. The man ahead drifted forward and allowed him the space to do what he’d intended, which was to turn into the churchyard.

  He moved with less haste through the graveyard, as though he had come to visit a dead relative. He entered the front of the church.

  Field had only been to one service here, but it was enough for him to be familiar with the layout. He sprinted down the center aisle, past the pulpit, and out into the vestry. The door was locked, but he opened a narrow window next to it and squeezed through. He climbed the wall behind and dropped down into the street.

  He was about to run when he noticed another man standing on the opposite side of the road. He was wearing a white trilby and was not one of the three Field had seen before.

  An expatriate woman walking her dog shot Field a curious and concerned glance, surprised at his sudden emergence, perhaps sensing his unease. Field brushed down his suit and began to walk again. The man followed and Field turned back once to see two of the others swiftly rounding the corner, the third climbing over the wall behind him.

  Field waited for a black Buick to pass before he crossed the road. He thought there were four or five of them, if not more.

  Inside the lobby at Central, a group of uniformed Chinese officers was waiting by the stairs, their Thompson machine guns propped up against the wall. Field passed them and climbed up to the S.1 office.

  As he entered, he could see Granger standing by the window in his glass office, the telephone to his ear, almost hidden in a cloud of smoke. Prokopieff was at his desk, leaning back in his chair, the suspenders of his trousers hanging down beside his knees, his scuffed boots against one cubicle wall, his head against the other. He was reading a newspaper, a blue censorship pencil in his hand. He looked at Field steadily.

  Yang stood from behind her desk. She had a note in her hand, and Field’s spirits surged until he read, Penelope called. It was timed ten minutes ago.

  “Richard?” Field looked up. Granger was half out of his door. “Have you got a minute?”

  Field folded up the sheet of paper and slipped it into his pocket. He noticed Yang was avoiding his eyes.

  He shut the glass door behind him, banging the blind.

  “I’ll take you up in a minute,” Granger said as he sat behind his desk.

  “Take me up where?”

  “I don’t blame you, Richard, but I would have expected to be informed.”

  Field frowned.

  “This is not a cowboy operation. We are entirely reliant on the council for funding, and to go in riding shotgun, accusing someone like Charles Lewis . . .” Granger shook his head. “We’ll go up in a minute. I’ll come and find you.” Granger pointed Field toward his desk. “You’re still coming tonight?”

  “Dinner. Yes, of course.”

  “Are you all right, Richard?”

  “I’m fine, yes.”

  “You look distressed.”

  “No . . . I’m fine.”

  “We need to talk about this supplement.”

  There was a long silence. Granger looked at the smoke hanging in the air between them.

  “I’ve a meeting of the budgetary committee this afternoon. I was thinking of around two hundred a month?”

  Field realized he was expected to answer. He was about to say that he had already received two payments into his account, when he realized that this had nothing to do with what Granger was telling him. “That’s generous.”

  “It will be paid directly into your account at the same time as your salary.”

  “So this will be the first payment?”

  “Yes. To be honest, at the moment I don’t feel especially like rewarding you, but I’ve got to put it in front of the committee and I promised we would discuss it, so we are. You don’t seem terribly pleased.”

  “No . . . I mean yes.”

  “It is paid to all members of my department here and rises as you become more senior. It’s an insurance payment.”

  “An insurance payment?”

  “This is an expensive city and I want the members of my department to be immune from its temptations, do you see?”

  “Yes.”

  “Nothing extra is expected of you; it is designed to reflect the special nature of the work in this department and the sensitivity of it. I hope you appreciate it, Richard. Most others do and it was a bloody nightmare getting i
t past the budget committee.”

  “This is definitely the first payment?”

  “Richard, are you all right?”