Telegram Home

by Kirsten McKenzie

  Meredith was dozing off with a third shot of rum in his glass when the glass door slammed open.

  ‘What a load of poppycock. It was a wild goose chase you sent us on. Do you have no morals? Has your conscious become so corrupt that you’re still hounding the poor man to an early grave?’

  ‘Kurdi is dead?’

  ‘What? No, but no thanks to you and your machinations. Get out before you’re thrown out. You’ve wasted precious time and resources. It’s no wonder you were let go. You are an embarrassment to the crown.’

  ‘I don’t understand—’

  ‘That’s obvious.’

  ‘But the guns?’

  ‘There were no guns.’

  ‘There must have been. Crates and crates of them.’

  ‘No guns. No conspiracy. Just a group of very confused men holding a religious meeting in an old warehouse. There were dozens of crates. So your information was correct there.’

  Incredulous, Meredith shook his head, fuzzy from the rum.

  ‘Did you open the boxes?’

  ‘We did.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘Books. Filled with books, not guns. Foreign bibles. And since we’re not living in Tudor England anymore, there’s nothing I can do about importing religious texts.’

  ‘Bibles?’

  The officer sighed. ‘Korans, the bible of the Muslims. The Holy War you accused them of planning doesn’t involve guns, but distributing their holy book to convert more followers. Hardly a cause for panic. You embarrassed us, and yourself. You’re free to go. Have a good day, sir.’

  Meredith stumbled from the building, his illusions of grandeur shattered and the beginnings of a migraine wrapping itself around his head. How could he have got it so wrong? How could the police ignore the threat at the end of their noses? Idiots. Everyone was an idiot except him. Now Kurdi, and by extension Williams, had got away with it again.

  With no real plan other than a pint and a bit of fun with one of the lesser girls on call, Meredith took the well-worn path back to his flat to change into something more suitable for the afternoon’s activities. A pile of furniture lay stacked against the side of the building, a new tenant moving in Meredith predicted. That might keep the old bat off his case for a few more weeks if she was getting more cash coming in. He tried to think which of the rooms were vacant, but his rum-addled brain wouldn’t cooperate.

  A fine gentleman’s cane poked out of a crate. It was criminal leaving that lying around for a vagrant to steal. It reminded him of his own cane, one he’d acquired on the job several years ago — a splendid piece of ivory ringed with a simple band of sterling silver. He’d had it engraved with his initials C.F.M., just like this…

  The penny dropped.

  These were his belongings. The landlady had emptied his flat of everything he owned, stacking it on the footpath for beggars and freeloaders to help themselves. Evicting him without notice.

  Meredith sank to the stoop. No job, no home, no revenge. His pistol sat heavily in his pocket, but he ignored it. A pistol was the weak man’s option, and he wasn’t feeble. He needed to regroup; figure out where to from here. The best place for that was from home.

  His elderly parents had a farm in Corbridge, a tiny town he couldn’t wait to escape from as a young teen, ill-equipped to become a stone-mason like his brothers. He could return home and plot his revenge from there. He still had friends within Customs and Excise who would keep him appraised as to the activities of Williams and Kurdi until he could destroy them. Yes, that was the plan. It would delight his parents to see him again given it was several years since he’d been home. He could dress it up as an early retirement and they’d believe him — their son — their golden boy.

  INDIA

  The Oriental

  After his long journey to Bombay from England, the trader Robert Williams thought only of the bed in the Great Western Hotel he’d arranged via telegram, weeks earlier. He was travelling alone, with only business on his mind. This wasn’t his first trip to India, but it never got easier. The scents, the sights, the abject poverty everywhere you looked. Such a preposterous kaleidoscope of colours. But now there was just one colour surrounding him, red — an oriental red. The rich maroon of an apple fallen from a tree, the crimson of fresh blood.

  The dhoti driver had delivered him to a Chinese enclave, and had all but thrown Robert’s luggage from the carriage, before vaulting back into his seat and urging his horse away as if his life depended upon it. And it may well have.

  Suspicious oriental eyes narrowed at the English gentleman standing in the middle of the road, his hat in one hand, and his other resting protectively on his watch chain.

  ‘Come, mister, come,’ beckoned a boy to Robert, the boy’s black hair snaking down his back in a simple plait, swinging as he turned and ran towards the nearest establishment.

  Robert nudged his trunk with his foot. Too heavy to lift, he was loath to leave it in the street, but the boy had disappeared inside, and the surrounding eyes had become no more welcoming.

  His indecision vanished as two men stepped from behind a cart hawking red bolts of cloth, and between them heaved his trunk onto their shoulders, ushering Robert towards the house which had swallowed the child.

  The awkward threesome crossed the road, and the men disappeared around the corner, leaving Robert at the base of the staircase, all rational thought disappearing with his trunk.

  ‘Come, please!’ the lad implored from the doorway. ‘Madame Ye waits.’

  Robert turned to survey the street before taking the stairs, his heart as heavy as his footfall.

  Once inside, the door shut behind him.

  ‘Why am I here?’ Robert asked, gazing at his surroundings. He was a well travelled and educated man, yet hadn’t been anywhere like this. It was as if they’d plucked him from this world, transporting him to the imaginary realm of a Chinese warrior battling contortionist dragons. Never in his life had he seen such intricate carvings on everything. On door frames and cornices, on every inch of the heavy furniture in the entrance way, and on the leather robes hanging on the walls.

  And the smell; unidentifiable but sickly sweet with tangy overtones. Not unpleasant, but nothing he recognised, and it set him on edge. It wasn’t comforting.

  A pair of carved wooden doors opened, the brass hinges silent.

  ‘Come,’ the boy said, gesturing to Robert.

  The peculiar scent enveloped them both as they stepped forward and the room beyond revealed itself.

  A piece of the orient had nestled itself into the heart of Bombay. Fierce dragons curled their way up the legs of the card tables and brass vases squatted on every surface, with leaping fish cast as handles on their pregnant sides. Enormous goldfish adorned the Ming dynasty urns which sat on either side of a hearth filled with a roaring fire, making the room lava hot.

  Opposite the doorway, seated behind a frail desk, was an equally frail oriental woman, her age indeterminate, her hair secured in a stylish bun. Each of her tiny wrists encircled with jade bangles and matching teardrop-shaped earrings fell from her earlobes.

  ‘Mr Williams, you honour us with your presence,’ said the woman.

  ‘I had no choice,’ Robert replied.

  ‘That is a matter of interpretation,’ she said, motioning towards a high-backed settle.

  Robert squared his shoulders and strode over to the couch, his English body seemed too robust for the delicate piece of furniture, but it held his weight as he lowered himself down.

  ‘Well, I’m here now, so why is it that you’ve drawn me into your web?’

  ‘Tea first, then we talk,’ Madam Ye replied.

  With an imperceptible flick of her wrist, the waiting boy vanished through another door, almost invisible in the patterned wall.

  Silence hung, allowing Robert a moment to acclimatise to his surroundings. The silence didn’t bother him, he understood using it as a weapon, as a means of manipulation, so left the woman to her game playing. He was war
y but not concerned, he was certain no harm would befall him here.

  The boy reappeared, unseen hands holding open the concealed door allowing him through whilst carrying a bronze tray laden with a steaming pot of tea and two almost translucent, handleless cups.

  ‘You pour, Mr Williams,’ Madam Ye directed. ‘I find even lifting a teapot too difficult these days.’

  Robert moved to the table and swirled the teapot in the English fashion, before pouring the contents into the cups. Another foreign odour replaced the sickly sweet scent, but one which was fresh. Mottled brown leaves settled to the bottom of each cup, marring the cream of their glaze. Robert’s hands dwarfed the cup of tea as he carried it over to the woman, the heat penetrating the delicate porcelain burning his hands. Placing it on Madam Ye’s desk, he glanced over the paperwork covering every inch, but the writing on the pages was indecipherable, written in a strange language, making no sense.

  ‘Can you read my papers, Mr Williams?’

  Robert flushed at the exposure and returned to the teapot to disguise his embarrassment.

  ‘I’ll explain them to you, and your involvement, after our refreshments,’ she said, closing her eyes to sip the fragrant liquid.

  Time stilled while she sipped her drink. Robert knew no one who took so long to sip their tea. Somewhere a clock chimed the hour, an incongruous sound in a house so oriental in its makeup. The green tea was a curious mix of fig and lemon and woody vanilla, if there were even such a thing. He left half in his cup, the peculiar freshness too foreign for his palate. And he waited.

  ‘I can hear your impatience, Mr Williams. You didn’t enjoy your tea?’

  ‘There’s nothing wrong with it, I’d just prefer to know the reason I’m not relaxing in my hotel with a whisky and a cigar, unpacked, and ready to conduct some real business.’.

  ‘But we are. Although ink doesn’t stain my fingers, this is the correct way of things. Time is always on our side, Mr Williams. No one prospers from hurrying through time.’

  Robert pulled his pocket-watch from his pocket. Frowning, he tapped at its frozen hands.

  ‘See? Time has no place here,’ said Madam Ye, leveraging herself up from her chair, her tiny frame almost doubled over giving her a hunched appearance. The boy sprung forward with an ivory cane, placing it into her hands, his own small hands strong under her elbows, supporting her to the opposite settle where he helped lower her down. She sank into the corner, a sigh escaping from her lips, the only sign of her discomfort. The boy spirited away the cane once he had settled her, and only then did she reopen her eyes, eyes which showed none of the pain coursing through her body.

  ‘It is time to discuss the black smoke you are buying,’ she said.

  Robert’s head jerked back.

  ‘I’m sorry?’

  ‘The black smoke, the opium. Secrets are my trade, Mr Williams. And I know yours.’

  Robert’s mind raced. Smuggling opium into England had been a business decision he and Samer had agreed. Despite its legality, not declaring it had been both a financial decision, and one of pride. The papers were full of reformists trying to have the drug outlawed because of some perceived harm, and his company was a reputable firm, with a long established import licence he didn’t want tainted when the bell finally tolled for opium being declared as illegal as slave labour.

  ‘My supplier is renowned, they also supply Ah Sing’s in London, a fine establishment, well regarded and run by a Chinaman.’

  Madam Ye’s nostrils flared.

  ‘One opium den in London is much like any other. I do not know Ah Sing, and his practices are of no concern. It is your business choices which we are here to discuss, Mr Williams.’

  ‘I’m not here to discuss my business, Madam Ye. I’m here because you have brought me here, to this place not of my choosing. You speak in riddles of time and of smoke, but my time is valuable and you are wasting it,’ Robert replied, pushing off the settle, his bulk towering over the diminutive woman.

  She laughed at him, the sound raspy, as if rough stones jumbled her voice as it rattled up through her throat.

  ‘Sit down, Mr Williams. Some food perhaps?’

  ‘No thank you, I want to go to my hotel. But before I go I want you to tell me how you know about my business.’

  ‘You want me to tell you? What if I told you the tea leaves foretold it, from the leaves in your cup?’

  ‘Then I’d say you’ve been on the pipe too long. That’s what’s in the air isn’t it? This is an opium den?’

  ‘How perceptible of you, Mr Williams. We cater for all desires here. But again, that is not why you are here. Think of our meeting as a warning; a premonition of what may be, to you or your children.’

  Robert stood open-mouthed, the mention of Grace and his young son chilling him to the core. His daughter, his beautiful, feisty daughter. No one threatened his family.

  ‘You dare threaten my family?’

  ‘As I said before, Mr Williams, that is a matter of interpretation. I’m not so hungry now, and so I will retire. I look forward to continuing this conversation when you are more congenial,’ Madam Ye said, and in a heartbeat the boy returned to her side with her cane.

  Before Robert could even react, another Chinaman was beside him, the larger man who’d carried his trunk. His body blocking any attempt by Robert to remonstrate with the woman, who’d disappeared through the hidden door, only the tap tap tap of her cane any indication that she’d ever been there.

  Robert shook him off and stormed over to the veiled door, but found no handle or latch or any depression. Only a fingernail width gap showed there was a door there at all. Defeated, Robert turned back. The surly Chinaman was waiting on the opposite side of the room and it felt to Robert like he was walking into the literal jaws of a dragon as he crossed the threshold.

  A dhoti stood outside, Robert’s trunk already strapped to the back, and lurched off as soon as Robert climbed in. He turned to check his surroundings, promising himself he’d remember the location, and that he’d be back. No one threatened his family.

  The Trader

  Robert Williams paced the floor of his hotel room, back and forth, counting his steps as a mechanism to stop himself losing control.

  His Grace, that woman had all but threatened his girl; his impulsive and inappropriate Grace. Which made it even more important to get her married and out of harm’s way. And as for his son? He barely knew him. A late addition to the family through an ill-timed dalliance. He’d reluctantly accepted him as his responsibility, allowing the boy to take his surname, but he had sent him away to boarding school, refusing any other communication until the boy was of a suitable age for conversation. How did the Chinese woman even know of his existence? It was a dark secret that even some of his closest friends had no knowledge of.

  And the opium? He couldn’t understand why their small enterprise shipping opium from India to England concerned anyone? No one was being hurt, the drug was legal. Admittedly, they were avoiding any Customs duties, but everyone did that, and the Excise men knew it.

  All he could do was wait. He had a months’ worth of meetings scheduled with manufacturers in town and out in the wild. You had to stretch yourself to get the quality their clients now expected from them. The easiest option wasn’t necessarily the best one. But should he make those appointments? What if he missed Madam Ye summoning him whilst he was gadding about the countryside and out of touch for days on end?

  Sweat beaded on his brow. He couldn’t erase the memory of the sickly sweet smell of Madam Ye’s rooms and fancied that it had somehow followed him back to his hotel. He needed a bath and would have to have his clothes laundered to wash the taint of the woman out of his life. Blast this country, Robert thought, for the hundredth time.

  A knock outside interrupted his inner monologue, but before he could open it, an envelope appeared underneath the door.

  The little white rectangle sat there, waiting for him to pick it up, to read it. Why was he being such
a victim? This mentality he’d adopted was tearing him apart, he should be on the hunt, knocking heads together, not wasting away waiting for the sky to fall.

  Robert ripped open the envelope. One of the hotel’s monogrammed telegrams fell out — a telegram from his business partner Samer Kurdi. The news was bad.

  “Damn it,” Robert yelled.

  A fire at the port had destroyed everything, including the smuggled opium. The enormity hit him like a sucker punch to the stomach. They’d pre-sold so much of that shipment through his fancy catalogues, both to retailers and to private customers. Insurance wouldn’t cover the goodwill they would lose by not delivering, as Samer pointed out in his telegram. Nothing would recover that. Some other hustler would step forward to fill the void and Robert imagined the ships in the port were being loaded with pallet after pallet of almost identical stock, going to exactly the same place, Liverpool.

  He had to do something fast to recoup the money and goodwill they’d lose. Thankfully they had insurance to support them in the short term, but it was his customers and their future goodwill he needed. And as much as it turned his stomach, there was only one solution - Madam Ye.

  Depending on how quickly she could supply what he needed, he could have a part shipment on the water to England within the week which might placate the opium dens he’d agreed to supply. He’d kept Samer in the dark about that side of things, for good reason. Samer hadn’t wanted to bring in opium at all, it being against his faith, but Robert had strong armed him, promising it was just the one shipment, to fund the initial costs of the catalogue business, expenses which had ballooned out of control. It wouldn’t be too long before he wouldn’t be able to hide their perilous financial position for too much longer, which was why they needed the opium money, to tide them over. It made sense to him and he prayed Samer would agree. Oh he had plenty of assets to sell if required, but those were assets he’d built up for Grace’s future, and she needed the legitimacy of those to bolster her chances of a decent marriage. This was the only way.