Kingdom Lock

by I. D. Roberts

  On Lock pushed, head low, the waters of the canal to his right, the low buildings of the telegraph office and GPO, with their roofs lined by the familiar telegraph poles, zipping by to his left.

  ‘Move, get out the way!’ Lock shouted at the Arab and British telegraph workers, who scattered in all directions, throwing fists and curses after him.

  The mule was beginning to grunt, its body soaked in the acrid sweat of exertion that now drenched the seat and legs of Lock’s breeches. The beast had probably done little more in its life than pull the milk cart he stole it from, Lock thought.

  The wharf and the buildings were rapidly coming to an end, with only the wide open waters of the Shatt up ahead. Then, to his left, a series of jetties and moored launches and other river craft came into view. Lock eased back on the reins and sat himself up tall. He pulled out his Webley and slowed the mule to a trot, eyes scanning the vessels bobbing against the wooden jetties. He listened to the water lapping and the gulls screeching overhead. There was a strong smell of rotting fish, garbage and diesel oil coming from the water. An engine was putt-putting a little way out, but he could see it was manned by a lone Arab.

  Lock stopped, gun raised. Three Arab fishermen were preparing their bellum just below him, two hauling up its mast to an upright position, the third loading nets into the bow. They hesitated on seeing Lock and the weapon pointing in their direction, but carried on when he clicked his tongue and urged his mule to trot on. Lock continued to search the boats for any sign of movement. A few yards further on he stopped again. There were raised voices. Two men and … a woman. Lock reined the mule in and slid off its bare back. He tied it to a jetty post and patted its neck.

  ‘Good boy. Whoever said mules were stubborn was an idiot,’ Lock whispered and edged forward.

  Masked by a couple of bellums and a dilapidated river craft, with a ripped and torn awning flapping in the warm breeze, Lock could make out a smart motor launch. It had a white hull and its deck and the deckhouses were in some natural wood. It had two masts either side of the funnel and a small dinghy suspended above midships. It must have been at least fifty feet long, maybe more. It was quite the gentleman’s vessel and Lock knew instinctively that it was Wassmuss’s. How typically arrogant of the man, he thought, and guessed that it had probably been berthed here for months.

  Lock crept forward using the torn awning of the river craft as a screen. He could only see two people on deck, Amy and Al-Souk. The girl was standing by the funnel, just outside the wheelhouse, and appeared to have her hands tied. She looked dishevelled, but otherwise unharmed. Al-Souk was busy with something on the forward deck. There was movement from the rear of the boat and a third figure appeared from the deckhouse. He adjusted his cap, pulled his jacket taut, and made his way forward, edging the gunwale, limping slightly. He barked an order to Al-Souk, who raised his hand in reply and began hurrying up his task.

  Lock adjusted his position to get a better view. The officer was Wassmuss, clean-shaven now, but unmistakably him, still dressed in Winslade’s uniform. Al-Souk moved to the gunwale and began to release the mooring rope. Lock jumped down onto the deck of the river craft and raised his Webley.

  Al-Souk froze momentarily, then threw the heavy rope into Lock’s face, making a dive for something behind him. Lock put his arm up to deflect the blow of the rope, but it still stung like hell, sending a numbing judder from his elbow to his wrist. Al-Souk sprang up, a Muscat rifle in his hands, but the weapon was awkward and Lock was quicker. He sent a bullet ripping through the Arab’s right eye. Al-Souk collapsed dead to the deck.

  Amy shouted a warning, then cried out in pain, and Lock swung round. Wassmuss was standing behind her, using her as a shield, his left hand wrenching her hair back, his right holding Winslade’s Webley to her temple.

  ‘So, Herr Lock, you have finally caught up with me, no? Yet you are once again too late,’ Wassmuss said.

  Lock stepped closer to the edge of the jetty, inching away from the cover of the river craft. He kept his gun raised, pointing directly at the German’s head, and tried to avoid catching Amy’s eye. He didn’t want to see the fear there, for the worry that it would cloud his judgement. He would wait, patiently, for the German to make one mistake, to take a step too far from the shelter of Amy’s body, and he would finish him.

  ‘You are the one who is too late, Herr Wassmuss,’ Lock said. ‘There’s no escape this time. Checkmate, I think!’

  ‘Nonsense, I have your queen, Herr Lock, check to me. Mate in …’ He shrugged. ‘Two?’ He pressed the barrel of his pistol harder into Amy’s head. She winced.

  Lock couldn’t help himself. His eyes met Amy’s. But she wasn’t scared. Far from it. She looked positively enraged, and Lock found himself wanting to laugh.

  ‘I’m glad you find this all so … amusing, Lieutenant.’ Wassmuss gave a shake of his head. ‘But I assure you, I am deadly serious. Move, move!’ he shouted at Amy, pushing her forward. Her hands were bound at the wrists, but her legs were free. ‘Lower your gun and step back,’ Wassmuss said.

  ‘I lower my gun, and you shoot me. No deal,’ Lock said.

  ‘There, the rope, unfasten it and toss it away,’ Wassmuss ordered the girl.

  ‘With my hands tied?’ Amy sneered.

  Wassmuss yanked her head back hard and she cried out in pain.

  ‘Bastard!’ Lock lunged forward, but stopped when Wassmuss cocked the hammer on his gun. Lock stepped back, but kept his own weapon level.

  ‘Tisk, Herr Lock. But the girl is quite right. And I cannot possibly untie her. It appears that the poor, dear departed Abdullah was rather a necessity in getting my little boat underway. Stalemate again, no?’ Wassmuss said, raising his eyebrows.

  Lock shook his head. ‘Checkmate. I already told you.’

  ‘I tell you what, Lieutenant. I’ll make you a deal,’ Wassmuss said. ‘I don’t doubt that you will try and shoot me if I so much as move out of the shelter of this pretty thing. But then again, you may hit her. A tragedy, no?’ Wassmuss pouted his lips mockingly. ‘Another poor Mei Ling for you to grieve. So, I offer this … My life for her life.’

  Lock didn’t say anything. He just held Wassmuss and Amy in his sights, willing the German to move.

  ‘I have one bullet left, Herr Lock. It is true. You let me go and I give you your precious nurse. But you have to trust me. Drop your weapon.’

  Lock could feel his mouth go dry. He didn’t trust the German an inch. Wassmuss could so easily have shot Amy already out of spite, and he hadn’t. So, perhaps he did just have the one bullet. If the German killed Amy, he was spent, and Lock would then kill him. But if he lowered his own weapon, Wassmuss could then shoot him. It would give Amy the vital seconds she needed, though, to get away … No, Kingdom, he told himself, shoot the bastard now, take the chance. But what if he did hit Amy? He would never forgive himself. He cursed, and reluctantly lowered his gun.

  ‘Good. See, Herr Lock. I am not shooting you. Now, I need you to uncouple the last tie rope for me.’

  Lock bent down to unknot the mooring rope, but was struggling with one hand.

  ‘Alas, Herr Lock, you will need both of your hands,’ Wassmuss said.

  Lock glared up at him.

  ‘As soon as you uncouple me, I shall let Miss Townshend go.’

  Lock hesitated, then dropped his Webley, and began to pull at the ropes. They were rough, stiff and heavy, but he soon had them free.

  ‘Good, Lieutenant. Now, toss the line to me,’ Wassmuss said.

  Already the launch had begun to drift away from the jetty. Lock gathered the line and threw it onto the forward deck. But just as Lock was at full stretch, arms flung forward, Wassmuss pulled himself away from Amy and turned his gun on Lock.

  Anticipating the betrayal, Lock was ready, and as soon as Wassmuss moved, he used his swinging momentum to throw himself to one side. He slammed heavily into the jetty just as Wassmuss pulled the trigger. There was a crash as the bullet smacked into the damp wooden f
loor inches from Lock’s head. Lock rolled over, blood pouring from a cut in his cheek where a thick splinter had embedded itself just above his jawline. He sprang up, eyes and shoulder smarting with pain, only to see the barrel of Wassmuss’s gun pointing right at him. Suddenly Amy smashed the German’s arm aside and a second bullet fizzed past Lock’s ear.

  Wassmuss swore in German and swung out at Amy. She tried to dodge the blow, but the German’s gun caught her temple and she staggered and tipped over the side of the boat and slammed into the water. Lock scrambled forward, snatching up his gun and let loose. One, two, three bullets smashed through the glass of the wheelhouse where Lock could see Wassmuss cowering in front of the boat’s controls. Then a thick plume of black smoke spat into the air as the launch’s engines coughed into life. The boat began to power forward leaving a foaming wake in its trail. Lock held his Webley level. His eyes flickered down to the water. Amy was floating face down, drifting. His eyes flicked back up to the wheelhouse. He licked his lips. His eyes flicked back to Amy again. She still hadn’t moved.

  Lock’s eyes went back to the launch. He saw Wassmuss peer out of the wheelhouse door, and he fired. The German’s head jerked back and he slumped out of sight. The launch motored on, out towards the middle of the Shatt. Lock ran forward to the very edge of the jetty, tearing off his Sam Browne belt. He threw the belt and hat aside, and dived in. He powered towards Amy, praying that he’d get to her in time. He grabbed her arm, pulled her towards him and, treading water, turned her over. He brushed her wet hair from her face, but she looked pale and lifeless. There was a deep cut in her hairline and blood was running down into her eye sockets. He cradled her head, and turned and swam back to the wharf.

  The three Arab fishermen Lock had seen earlier were there at the edge, waiting for him, and they helped to drag them both up out of the water.

  ‘Shokran jazeelan, shokran,’ Lock gasped. He felt Amy’s neck. Nothing. He pressed his head to her chest, and then quickly stuffed his fingers in her mouth to sweep out any foreign objects. He tilted her head up slightly then, pinching her nose, began to blow air into her mouth.

  ‘Come on, Amy!’

  Lock clamped his lips to hers once more and breathed again for her, pushing air deep into her lungs. He felt for a pulse. It was weak, but it was there. He breathed into her four more times, and suddenly felt her heave beneath him. He jumped back as she spewed up water and began to cough violently. Lock gently helped her sit upright and held her.

  The three fishermen began to laugh in relief and patted Lock on the shoulder, chattering away in Arabic. One of them removed his tunic and wrapped it over Amy’s shoulders.

  ‘Shokran,’ Lock smiled up at them. ‘Thank you.’ He held Amy tight and felt her body heave with deep sobs. ‘It’s all right, darling, you’re safe now. I’m sorry,’ Lock said. ‘Sorry about what I said. I love you.’

  But this made her body tremble even more.

  Lock lifted her face up to his and kissed her. She responded, and it felt as it was before. But then she pulled away, burying her head in his shoulders.

  ‘Oh, Kingdom. I’m …’ she moaned, but let the sentence hang.

  The rattle and hum of a motorised vehicle filled the air, and from around the corner Lock saw an AEC ‘YA’ Type three-ton truck come rumbling towards them. He helped Amy to get to her feet. The fishermen quickly dispersed as the vehicle juddered to a halt, throwing a cloud of dust into the air. The rear tailgate swung down and four armed provosts piled out and stood facing Lock and Amy, pistols pointing at them.

  ‘What is this?’ Lock demanded. He was met by stony silence.

  The front passenger door opened with a teeth-jarring creak, and Bingham-Smith stepped down from the cab. He adjusted his cap and glared at Lock for a moment without saying a word. He bore a nasty, fresh bruise below his right eye. Then he indicated for his men to move forward. They grabbed Lock away from Amy and marched him to the rear of the lorry. Lock struggled to turn and caught a glimpse of Bingham-Smith taking Amy in his arms. She was sobbing.

  Lock was roughly bundled into the back of the vehicle and thrown down onto the hard metal bench inside. The four provosts jumped in with him, and then the tailgate was slammed shut.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  There was a clang of metal and then a squealing grate as if a rusty blade was being dragged across an iron girder. Lock looked across from the rough wooden bench he was stretched out upon. Two eyes were staring in at him through the narrow observation hatch in the cell door. The eyes stayed there momentarily, then the grate slid shut again, and Lock was left alone with his thoughts and the distant, yet constant, drip-drip from some unseen tap.

  Lock had been confined to the 6ft-by-6ft room for nearly two hours now, judging by the way the shadow of the sun coming through the barred window, high up on the wall opposite the door, had moved across the floor. He had an urge to urinate, but had been given no slop bucket and refused to ask for one. If the feeling became unbearable he would piss up against the door and hope that his water would ooze underneath and out into the corridor, rather than back across the cell floor. That would teach them to be so uncivilised. He allowed himself a smile, then rested his head back on his folded arms and closed his eyes.

  The provost truck had driven him to the western edge of Basra, where he had been roughly bundled out and then across a deserted courtyard and into a faceless mud-brick building. He was passed over to two more provosts, both lance corporals, and they had uttered not a single word to him, and neither had he to them, as he was led first through a vast echoing hall, occupied by a lone provost sergeant sat at a sterile desk, writing in a ledger, and into an empty antechamber. This, in turn, led down a series of worn stone steps to a long corridor which was lined with metal doors all bearing faded tin numbers. At the one reading ‘7’, they came to an abrupt halt. One of the two provosts unlocked the door, stepped aside, and nodded for Lock to enter. He did so, and the door was slammed shut and secured behind him. Lock listened to their footsteps fade away, then turned to assess his new accommodation.

  The cell was damp, airless and sparsely furnished. A single wooden bench was set along one wall and a small semicircular shelf was screwed to the wall in the opposite corner. This was empty, bar a thick layer of dust. High up, near to the cut-stone ceiling, was a barred window. The sun was blazing through, but it was too far up for Lock to see out of.

  Pushing his hands through his hair, Lock fished a cigarette from his pocket. He lit it, tossed the match aside, and inhaled deeply. He exhaled and swore bitterly, then removed his jacket and went to sit on the bench. His Sam Browne belt, holster and pistol had been confiscated when he was in the truck.

  ‘Now what, Kingdom?’ he muttered.

  He hadn’t seen his men, but he presumed that they were being held under arrest somewhere within the same walls. That made him feel angry, for they had done nothing but obey his orders, and he had got them into serious trouble. Well, he’d stand by them, Ross would stand by them, if only the major would recover in time.

  Lock finished his cigarette, dropped the butt on the floor, and rolling his jacket up as a pillow, lay himself down on the bench. No point wasting the opportunity for forty winks, he thought, and closed his eyes.

  But sleep wouldn’t come. Wassmuss’s grinning face loomed up at him, peering around the door of the launch’s wheelhouse, and his laughter echoed in his ears. Then he saw Amy’s drowning face. He could taste her lips. Then he remembered her unfinished sentence. What was she trying to say to him? He had told Amy that he loved her, those dangerous words that can cause so much pain and sorrow. Did he? Did he really love her, though? He thought he did. He knew he had feelings for her that he hadn’t experienced since he was with Mei Ling in Tsingtao. But did she love him back? Could she love him? Christ, he needed to get out of here, to talk to her, to get her away from Bingham-Smith. And then he saw Bingham-Smith holding her, caressing her, protecting her. How he despised the odious little prick.

 
Had he failed? Lock wondered. Had he made the right choices? With Amy? With Wassmuss? Yes, he had, he had thwarted Wassmuss’s invasion plans. But at what cost? Ross would understand, wouldn’t he? If he ever saw the major again.

  Lock’s battling mind was distracted by the grate opening in the door. He waited until it closed again, then he heard a key in the lock. The door opened and someone stepped in.

  They stamped to attention. ‘If you’d be so kind as to follow me, sir,’ they said.

  Lock opened his eyes and sat up. It was a guard, a different one, but still a British provost lance corporal. He was standing, waiting at the open doorway, staring back at nothing in particular, and was holding Lock’s slouch hat in his hands.

  Lock swung his legs off the bench and got to his feet. He picked up his jacket, shook out the creases, and pulled it on.

  ‘I believe this is yours, sir,’ the guard said, handing Lock his hat. ‘It was picked up when you were arrested.’

  ‘Yes. Thank you,’ Lock said, brushing the hat down, adjusting its shape, and slapping it on his head. He walked out of the cell.

  Something had changed, Lock guessed, judging by the fact he’d been spoken to and called ‘sir’, and his spirits lifted slightly. Maybe Ross had recovered after all.