Kingdom Lock

by I. D. Roberts

  ‘Where did you say you got this, Elsworth?’ Lock was rather horrified.

  ‘Er … there was a pile near the operating theatre. The owner won’t be needing it any more … sir …’ He trailed off and lowered his eyes, embarrassed.

  Lock didn’t say anything and pulled the jacket on. It was a near-perfect fit. He tugged the cross belt from the foul-smelling sheepskin and looked back at Elsworth.

  ‘You and Ram Lal eat some food. I’m going on a little errand. If I’m not back in half an hour, make your way to the Southern Gate and report to Lance Naik Singh. And save me and the others some of that cheese!’ He fastened the belt about his waist and up over his right shoulder, and stepped out into the corridor.

  Ram Lal, who was sitting on the floor with his eyes closed, scrambled to his feet.

  ‘Wait in there with Private Elsworth. I’ll be back later,’ Lock said.

  ‘Sahib.’ Ram Lal saluted and went to join Elsworth.

  As Lock walked down the quiet corridor he spotted Nurse Owen at the far end. Her back was to him and she was bending over a soldier who was sat in a wheelchair. She turned on hearing his approaching footsteps. Their eyes met and she blushed.

  ‘Nurse Owen …’

  She smiled. ‘Mary, please.’

  ‘Mary, can you tell me where Nurse Amy Townshend will be?’ Lock said.

  ‘Yes. Not very far, in the Street of Allah’s Tears. We share rooms there.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Well, it helps to be friends with a girl from the aristocracy,’ she smiled. ‘It’s a small place, cosy. We have to share a bed but we’re rarely there at the same time. Her father arranged them, I believe.’

  ‘And she’ll be there?’

  ‘It’s her rest period. She’ll be sleeping, I guess. We’ve had an exhausting time of late.’

  Lock nodded and was about to turn away when Mary took hold of his arm.

  ‘You’re Kingdom, aren’t you?’ she asked, looking from one eye to the other.

  ‘Yes.’

  She suddenly grabbed his face, kissed him passionately on the mouth, before breaking away again. Then she turned and quickly pushed the soldier sat in the wheelchair away back down the corridor.

  Lock stood and watched her go as he rubbed his lips. ‘What is it about nurses?’ he said, smiling.

  Lock made his way out of the hospital and, following Mary’s instructions, soon found the Street of Allah’s Tears. It was conveniently labelled in English as well as Arabic. It didn’t look like much, another claustrophobic, enclosed alleyway, barely wide enough for a cart to pass through, but it was quiet. Dirty brown water was running down the open gutter in the middle of the hard mud road, but it lacked the pungent odour of some of the streets Lock had passed through when he’d first entered the city. He moved swiftly along, conscious that he didn’t have a lot of time to be away from the city wall, from Singh and the others. Just half an hour, he told himself. Time enough. Enough for what? To make love to her? To Amy? Is that what this was? He didn’t know, wouldn’t know, until he saw her again.

  He moved on down the street, counting the doorways softly under his breath. ‘One … two … Here we are, third door along on the left.’

  Lock paused at the entrance, his hand instinctively going to his Webley, remembering his encounter with Abdullah Al-Souk. There was a bell pull and three nameplates, two in Arabic, the third, the top one, in English. He could just make out the words in the dim dawn light. Written in pencil, already fading, were the names Owen and Townshend. His hand hesitated at the bell pull, then he tried the door instead. It opened with a soft creak.

  There was a sudden flash of movement and Lock stepped back as something small brushed past his leg. It was a cat.

  Lock cursed at his own nervousness and stepped inside. There was a long, dark corridor with a door to the left and a staircase going up. Lock’s nostrils twitched at the acrid smell of cat piss. He pressed the electric light switch on the greasy wall and a dim bulb flickered into life on the landing ceiling. He swiftly made his way up the stairs, taking two at a time.

  The first floor had a door with an Arabic nameplate and six pairs of shoes neatly parked outside. They were well worn and looked to belong to a family: two adults and four children. There was a smell of cooking coming from the other side, but no voices Lock could make out. He climbed the final flight and came to the door marked with Amy and Mary’s surnames, once again in pencil, but clear and bold this time.

  The stairwell light went out. Lock tried the door. It was unlocked. He moved inside and closed the door softly behind him.

  ‘Amy?’ he whispered, and waited, letting his eyes adjust to the gloom. He was standing in a cramped square hallway. It was lined with coats, hats and jackets on one side, and some shelving overflowing with books and pot plants on the other. There was a small tiled room opposite in which Lock could just see part of a tin bath. Off to the right, at the end of the corridor, was a second door. A strip of light was showing underneath.

  Lock made his way forward and pushed it open.

  The room he entered was like the hallway, cramped and over-furnished. There was a small dressing table over in the far corner, and a pot belly stove to his left with an iron kettle on top, and a table and two chairs in front. A line was strung across this part of the room, with a number of undergarments hanging from it. Lock could smell the damp. An elaborate carved screen partitioned the room down the middle, at the end of which was a pair of large French windows, open, showing a lattice-shuttered balcony overlooking the street. To the left of the screen was an old leather armchair, horsehair stuffing spilling out in a number of places in its torn and worn upholstery. But on the right of the screen, illuminated by a standing lamp with a yellow frilled shade, was a large wooden bed, pushed up against the wall.

  And here was Amy, sleeping, as Nurse Owen said she would be. She was lying fully clothed in her uniform, even with her shoes still on her feet. Her face was angled towards him. Her auburn hair was loose and tumbling over the pillow and she was breathing softly, every few seconds making a small whimpering sound, like a puppy dreaming. Her eyes flickered open and stared at him unfocused for a moment. She frowned, and sat up.

  ‘How long have you been standing there?’ she whispered, voice half asleep.

  Lock flung his hat aside and moved forward, taking her in his arms and kissing her breathless. She pushed him away and slapped his face hard. It stung, but Lock didn’t react and just stared back at her. She hesitated, then pulled his head to hers and kissed him passionately.

  They didn’t speak as they began to strip each other of their clothes, kissing, biting, nibbling at each other. Lock eased Amy back on the bed. Her skin felt good against his, and she pulled him to her hungrily until they both collapsed, spent, exhausted and drenched in each other’s sweat.

  Lock rested his head on Amy’s naked breast, and she held him tight, combing her hand through his hair. He began to feel aroused again and moved up to press his lips against hers once more. Her mouth opened and his tongue brushed against her teeth. She began to moan, at first in pleasure, but then he felt her begin to struggle and twist away from him.

  ‘Stop!’ she gasped, pulling her face away from his. ‘You left without a word. Again. And after what you did. Is that how you treat your women, Mr Lock?’

  He gently turned her face back to his and stared into her emerald eyes. They were no longer dreamy, but alert and angry. They were the eyes he last saw her with, when he had fought with Bingham-Smith.

  ‘Amy …’ Lock said.

  ‘Get off me!’ She thumped his bare chest hard and he rolled away from her. She then snatched the blanket up over her nakedness, and jumped off the bed.

  Lock stared up at her, momentarily bewildered. Why the sudden change of mood? ‘What have I done?’ he asked.

  She scowled back at him, then abruptly turned and padded over to the hallway, depositing the blanket over the armchair on her way. Lock heard her go into the bathroom
. There was silence and then he could hear her urinating. He sighed. He should be getting back.

  ‘Amy,’ Lock said. ‘I need to tell you something.’

  She didn’t reply and he continued to listen to the sounds of her moving about, to water splashing. She began to brush her teeth.

  ‘I have to get ready,’ she called. ‘I’m on duty again at six.’

  ‘Come back here,’ Lock said. ‘So we can talk.’

  Amy emerged with only a towel around her head. Lock drank her in, his eyes moving up and down her body. She seemed to suddenly realise she was naked and made a lame attempt at covering herself with her arms and hands.

  ‘Don’t look at me like that,’ Amy said, snatching up the blanket again and wrapping herself in its rough veil. ‘You took advantage of me,’ she said. ‘Why are you here?’

  Lock pulled himself up off the bed and began to gather up his discarded uniform. He didn’t hide his nakedness and, as he started to dress, he could tell that she was watching him.

  ‘I came to find you. To say “I’m sorry if I hurt you.” To say …’ But he couldn’t say it, those words he wanted to say, those words that could offer so much joy, yet so much pain.

  ‘To say what?’ Amy said.

  Lock looked at her. She was very beautiful, he thought. ‘Nothing. It doesn’t matter.’ He pulled on his jacket and was arrested by Amy’s sudden expression of horror. Then he remembered. He glanced down at his left breast where the bullet hole was, and smiled ruefully. ‘Not my jacket. A young Persian girl has mine.’

  ‘A young girl?’

  Lock noted the tinge of jealousy in her voice and laughed. ‘Another time. I must go. I’ve spent too long away from the wall as it is.’ He buckled his Sam Browne belt and picked up his slouch hat. As he stepped towards the door, he turned back.

  ‘Amy, listen to me. Please be careful.’

  ‘I can look after myself, Kingdom,’ she said.

  ‘That I don’t doubt. But I worry about you, and there’s a man—’

  Amy scoffed. ‘Another suitor? Are you jealous?’ It was spiteful, but her face didn’t match the words. Lock knew she was trying to be deliberately aggressive.

  ‘Stop, will you, and listen. There’s a German agent, he’s—’

  ‘Kingdom,’ Amy interrupted, stepping forward, ‘I don’t care about that. I have something I need you to hear, something about Casper.’

  Lock sighed impatiently. ‘I don’t want to talk about Casper Bingham-Smith. He deserved what he got. But if it means so much to you, then I’m sorry – sorry that you saw it.’

  Amy shook her head. ‘No, it’s something else. I have to tell you that—’ But she didn’t finish, as someone was coming rapidly up the stairs outside.

  The footsteps paused, then there came a hammering at the door.

  ‘Lieutenant! Lieutenant! Are you in there? Amy? It’s me, Mary …’

  Lock walked out into the hallway and pulled open the front door. Nurse Owen was standing there looking flustered.

  ‘I’m sorry, but I’ve located your major!’ Mary said.

  ‘What? Where?’

  ‘At the hospital,’ she said, catching her breath. ‘And not in the Officers’ Hospital, but the British one. He’s in one of the operating theatres. Come, I’ll take you.’ She glanced at Amy and shrugged as if to apologise for interrupting.

  But when Lock looked back at Amy, she had turned her face away.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ he said, ‘I have to go.’ He waited for Amy to say something, but she seemed determined to make herself not catch his eye again.

  ‘Goddamn you, Amy,’ Lock said. ‘Just be careful.’ And he walked out after Mary, slamming the door behind him.

  Lock paced the corridor outside an operating theatre, smoking cigarette after cigarette, waiting for news of Ross’s condition. He kept glancing through the observation window, seeing the doctor leaning over the still body of the major, surrounded by nurses. Lock wanted desperately to go back to Amy, but he couldn’t leave, not until he had news of the major’s chances. What if he died? Then what? He’d be on his own with no ally to keep him away from fools like Captain Winslade. Without Ross’s word he would have trouble convincing Command that Basra was under threat from the east. Not that Command would listen to him. In fact, he needed Ross to talk to Command for him. They would listen to the major.

  Lock stopped pacing and ran his hand through his hair, shaking his head. ‘Stop being a bloody fool!’ he told himself. ‘You’re on your own, like always. So do what you do best, act for yourself!’

  Eventually the door opened. Lock tossed his cigarette aside and grabbed the doctor’s arm as he emerged with the nurses from the operating room. The medical man’s unshaven face was drawn and he looked exhausted, with heavy black circles under both eyes.

  ‘How is he?’

  The doctor stared blankly back at Lock, then down at his arm. Lock let go and the doctor forced a tired smile.

  ‘Touch and go, Lieutenant. He’s lost a lot of blood. But we managed to remove the bullet. Saved the arm. Just have to wait.’

  ‘Can he talk?’ Lock said.

  ‘Still unconscious. Will be for a while. Then he’ll be moved over to the Officers’ Hospital. Quieter there. Now, you’ll have to excuse me.’

  The doctor walked off, and Lock smacked his bandaged fist against his thigh. ‘Bugger!’

  Lock peered through the observation glass. Ross was still lying on a table in the middle of the room. If it weren’t for the slight rise and fall of his chest, Lock would have said that the major was dead, such was the pallor of his skin. Lock cursed again. There was nothing for it. He would have to convince Command himself. Somehow. Even if he had orders to report to the Western Gate. That would have to wait. And if Winslade got in his way … Well, it would be the last time that he did.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  Lock left the hospital, moving south. He passed the now silent presence of the Syrian church, and quickly made his way to the outskirts of the city, back to the Southern Gate at Ashar where he hoped Singh and the others were keeping an eye out for Wassmuss’s army. But as he moved on, it became all too clear that Captain Winslade had done nothing with regard to Lock’s report. The area was still deathly quiet and worryingly devoid of soldiers. When eventually the city wall loomed up ahead of him, he spotted Sepoy Indar crouched down beside the open gateway. Well, that was something. Good old Singh, he thought.

  ‘Where’s the lance naik?’ Lock said.

  ‘In the tower, sahib.’ Indar pointed to the Babylonian watchtower a little further along the wall.

  ‘Any sign of the enemy?’

  ‘None, sahib. As quiet as the graveyards.’

  ‘Good, keep alert.’ Lock moved over to the watchtower and began to climb up the damp, cool stone stairway inside. It was claustrophobic and silent, with no sound other than the breath in his throat and his boots scuffing on the worn steps. When he came to an open doorway at the top, he stepped out onto the roof and paused, momentarily taken aback by the view. The sun hadn’t appeared above the horizon yet, but it promised to be a glorious day as the sky was already an artist’s palette of blues, rose and gold.

  Lock pulled out his field glasses and crossed to the ramparts where Singh and Elsworth were standing. Singh was squinting into the fading gloom, while Elsworth knelt, the scope of his rifle pressed to his eye as he scanned the opposite bank. Down beside the water’s edge, the mist had thickened and was now enshrouding the entire length of the Shatt al-Arab. Every now and then there was a break in its low blanket, and it was in these patches that Lock could make out the plain beyond and the cluster of date palms along the bank. And beyond them, like a sinister shadow, lay the darker mass of Wassmuss’s troops.

  ‘How many?’ Lock said.

  ‘About six, maybe seven hundred men, sahib. There are cavalry, too.’ Singh indicated to the south where a large group of horses were corralled together.

  ‘Have they discovered where their bellums we
nt?’ Lock said, studying the bank, trying to find the lagoon where they had earlier destroyed the boats.

  ‘Oh, yes, sahib. There have been riders going up and down the riverside for the past quarter of an hour. I am guessing that they are searching for any vessel that will carry them across the water.’

  ‘Did you have any luck with rounding up some more help?’ Lock said.

  Singh shook his head. ‘None, sahib. Ram Lal and the rest of the boys are positioned near to the Southern Gate, but we are a thin line, sahib.’

  Lock grunted. He’d had a feeling that it would be futile sending Singh to rouse any men, and he’d been proved right. He inwardly cursed the attitude of the white man to their Indian brothers, and cursed his own naivety at thinking a white soldier would take orders from an Indian in the first place.

  ‘Where the hell is Underhill when you need him?’ Lock said, continuing to watch the Turks for a moment. He moved his glasses to the bank on his side of the river and stopped at a group of moored boats. ‘They will try to get across to those fishing boats down there; send over a couple of swimmers, I guess. Best put a few of our boys down near the bank. We could do with a machine gun there actual—’

  ‘Sir,’ Elsworth said, ‘I can get you a Vickers.’ Lock lowered his field glasses and raised his eyebrows. ‘A Vickers gun placement was knocked out by the saboteurs,’ Elsworth said, ‘but I think the machine gun itself is undamaged … It’s down near to the Syrian church.’

  ‘Right, Elsworth, go and bring it back! Take Indar with you.’ The private jumped up and made his way back down the tower. ‘And don’t forget the ammo!’ Lock shouted after him. He removed his hat and sat down against the ramparts. ‘Christ, I could really use a drink right now.’