Thunder over the Grass

by Steve Turnbull

  She said nothing but simply waited expectantly, watching him.

  “You might be wrong,” he said.

  “You being wrong carries far more risk,” she replied. “If I take her the worst outcome is that he is angry with you, and has lost a daughter already disgraced.”

  “You put me in an impossible situation.”

  “No, Chief Detective. Only you do that.”

  He paused as if he were going to say something then, somehow deflated, he opened the door to the corridor and left without further word.

  The door closed with a firm click. Maliha waited a few moments then said loudly.

  “You can come out now, Ray.”

  The door to the bathroom opened and the little rat of a man emerged. He had not the slightest look of embarrassment on his face. He had a pen and his notepad in hand.

  “How did you know I was there?”

  “I could smell you.”

  He grunted then looked her in the eye. “Great story.”

  “Yes, it is.”

  He hesitated and frowned. “You haven’t told me to keep it quiet.”

  “No.”

  “You want me to run it?”

  “Yes.”

  His face lit up. “Really?”

  “Well it might be eclipsed by the story to come, but yes send it to your paper. Every paper.” Maliha stood up and yawned, placing her hand over her mouth but with no attempt to suppress it. “However,” she added.

  “I knew it.”

  “Leave out the chief detective,” she said. “After all, he did leave Ulrika behind.”

  vii

  Valentine went out into the pounding rain first. He pulled his hat further down over his eyes and his coat up round his neck. He shook out the umbrella and opened it. The porter held the door open as Maliha emerged and put her arm through his so she was sheltered from the rain. Amita followed with her own umbrella already opened.

  Ulrika, the baby and Barbara in her wheelchair—carefully covered with an oiled cape—were already aboard a puffing ambulance. He could see the ambulance staff had engaged the Faraday by the way the rain slowed and collected into broad drops above its roof.

  The vehicle he and Maliha would be using was parked in front of it. A German diesel vehicle by its appearance.

  “What are those?” Maliha demanded pointing at the three police vehicles, one in front and the other two behind the ambulance.

  “I understand that the chief detective insisted on giving us an escort,” he said as they headed down to their transport. “For our own safety after the disturbances last night.”

  “He just wants to make sure we are gone,” she replied.

  “Can you blame him?” said Valentine.

  She made a disapproving noise. “If he had done his job right in the first place, it wouldn’t be an issue.”

  Valentine opened the door to the vehicle and held the umbrella up as she climbed inside. He closed the umbrella, getting a further wetting as he did so, and shook it out a little before getting inside and pulling the door closed. He took off his coat so as not to make the seat wet and sat down beside her. He tapped on the glass between the front and back compartments with the handle of the umbrella.

  The seats vibrated as the engine started up. Beams from the headlights illuminated the police vehicle in front which then moved off and their limousine followed. He glanced behind to make sure the ambulance was moving.

  There was an awkward silence as he tried to think of a way to broach the subject uppermost in his mind, knowing only too well how she would react.

  “You could just tell the police where to find them.”

  “I could.”

  “This is insanity.”

  “Oh? And are you going to have your fiancée sent to Bedlam because she is not behaving the way you wish?”

  He sighed. It was going as badly as he had predicted. He tried again.

  “I love you,” he said. “I do not want to lose you.”

  “I have no intention of becoming lost.”

  “Then explain to me why you think this is a good idea.”

  “Because if I just tell the crushers,” she used the term Izak had for the police, “they will go in with their hobnail boots, and will learn nothing of any lasting value.”

  “Let me come with you.”

  “If anyone accompanies me I will lose my advantage.”

  “What advantage does a young unarmed woman all alone have against child murderers?”

  “Precisely the advantage you have just expressed, Valentine,” she replied. “They will underestimate me.”

  She fell silent for a moment as if reflecting on the past, then said almost inaudibly. “They always do.”

  Valentine reached out and took her hand. It was cold and he knew she was afraid. He felt so frustrated but he could do nothing. Even following her closely was more likely to put her at risk than help. She turned her hand in his palm so they were holding hands.

  He stared at the grey rain-drenched buildings drifting past like ghosts, with only the occasional light burning in a window. It took less than fifteen minutes to reach the gate of the air-dock.

  Above the police car ahead of them he saw the arch of the gate but they came to an abrupt stop some distance from it. He tapped on the dividing glass and shouted “Why have we stopped?”

  The driver half-turned and mimed his ignorance.

  Uniformed police piled out of the vehicle in front and into the rain. They had their truncheons in their hands. Maliha gasped and grabbed the door handle. She flung it wide and stepped out into the rain.

  “Hell’s bells,” said Valentine and followed her out.

  Without the police vehicle in the way the grey light revealed what at first glance were perhaps fifty black men and women blocking the gate of the air-dock.

  “Get you sorry black arses out of the way,” shouted one of the crushers. “Or we’ll beat you to Kingdom Come!”

  Eight more police rushed past them from the rear vehicles to reinforce the ones already standing there.

  Ignoring the rain that soaked her completely and turned her dress into a slick second skin, Maliha walked forwards. Valentine hurried after her. In the middle of the crowd there was an old woman supported by a younger one, with Izak and tiny Lilith in front of them.

  The police were advancing, truncheons at the ready. The crowd shuffled a little but did not retreat.

  “Disperse and go back to your homes. There is a curfew in force, no blacks allowed in the city. If you don’t go home you will be arrested.”

  He raised his truncheon above his head menacingly. At which point Maliha reached him and stood in front of him. “Put it down, Sergeant.”

  “Get back to the vehicle, miss. You might get hurt.” He grabbed her arm and the crowd surged towards them.

  Maliha turned to them and raised her free arm. “Stop!” They came to a halt ten yards away.

  Valentine reached them, pushing past the police who tried to block his approach. “Sergeant, kindly unhand my fiancée.”

  The man loosed his grip. “You should keep better control of her.”

  “In case you had not noticed, Sergeant. She has a better control of this situation than you do.”

  Maliha faced the crowd. “Please step back, the police will not hurt me.”

  The majority of the crowd shuffled backwards except for the old woman, her support and the children. Valentine stepped round further. “Sergeant, please move your men back. Miss Anderson will deal with this.”

  The policeman looked at Valentine, then Maliha and the crowd. Valentine could almost see his mind working.

  “All right men, move back to the car. Keep your sticks handy.”

  They did so with ill grace, keeping their eyes on the crowd. No doubt hoping they would not lose an opportunity to teach the blacks a lesson. Maliha turned to Valentine. Rain was running from her loose black hair in rivulets. And her face was covered in water droplets. He could feel a trickle of water
making its way down his back. He had his hat but his coat was back in the limousine.

  “If you would also step back?”

  “Really, Maliha?”

  “Please.”

  He sighed and did as she asked but only halfway to the police line.

  Maliha approached the old woman. They conferred for a few minutes. The rain lightened somewhat but as they were all wet through it made little difference.

  Finally the old woman turned to the crowd and made a dismissing gesture with her fingers. The people turned and headed away into the grey rain and shadows. The old woman and the others went too, leaving the gate to the air-dock free and open.

  Maliha turned and went back to the limousine. He followed and helped her inside where they dripped on to the leather seats.

  “What was that about?” he asked.

  “Mama Kosi thought the police were forcing us to leave,” she said.

  “And you disabused them of that idea.”

  “Yes, I explained we were leaving of our own free will.”

  “And they would not oppose the desires of the goddess.”

  “As you say.”

  The vehicle bumped forward and the convoy made its way through the gates and into the air-dock.

  Chapter 8

  i

  The RMS Morea was a sister ship to the Macedonia built at the same time and to the same specifications but constructed in Glasgow by Barclay, Curle & Co Ltd.

  The five vehicles drove up the ramp directly into the first class boarding area in the bottom of the vessel. Valentine climbed from the limousine and opened the door for Maliha while he scanned the cavernous room. Since boarding had been going on all day they were the only passengers embarking at this time.

  Amita appeared. She intercepted one of the deck officers who had been heading in their direction armed with a clipboard. She extricated what Valentine assumed must be their tickets and other documents from her bag and handed them to him.

  Once those formalities were complete the officer waved over the porters who began to unload their bags. He glanced in the direction of Maliha and Valentine. If he noticed they were dripping wet he gave no indication.

  Amita came over and handed them the keys to their staterooms.

  “We’ll need to change,” said Valentine. Maliha nodded. She did not meet his eye.

  Unlike the Macedonia this vessel possessed a Faraday lift to Deck ‘A’, one of the features that no doubt contributed to the rumour that this was the better vessel.

  Pity we won’t be travelling on it, Valentine thought as he unlocked his door. Maliha was doing the same in the next room down. Hers was adjacent to the hull and had portholes while his was inboard with only a window on to the companionway.

  The facilities were as he remembered them. Everything was of the finest quality from the rugs to the furniture. He found the drinks cabinet and poured himself a whiskey.

  The baggage arrived and he tipped the porter a half-crown. He opened the trunk and began to strip off his wet clothes.

  There was a knock on the partition door from Maliha’s cabin. He unlocked it and pulled it open. She had undressed, the electric light in her room shone through the sheer fabric of her dressing gown highlighting her shape. She threw herself at him and wrapped her arms around his chest as if she never intended to release him. He enclosed her in his arms.

  “I love you,” she said. He felt the warmth of her words on his chest.

  Feeling guilty he glanced at the clock. She must have noticed.

  “I know,” she said. “We cannot delay.”

  She gently tore herself from him and looked up at him. Holding her shoulders he bent down and crushed his lips against hers. She kissed him back for a few moments then pulled back.

  “Don’t,” she said. “Please don’t make this any harder than it is. I would rather stay aboard and simply go home.”

  “But we cannot,” he said.

  She shook her head and looked him directly in the eye. “I love you with all my heart, William Albert Valentine Crier. Bill.”

  He smiled. “I prefer it when you call me Valentine.”

  She kissed him then went back into her room. She shut the door without turning back.

  Valentine sighed and went back to his trunk. He pulled out his disguise and set about getting dressed. He heard Maliha’s door open and close. He listened as Maliha and Amita talked—he couldn’t make out the words but there was no strong emotion. He had thought Amita would put up more of an argument with Maliha leaving the ship without her.

  He glanced at the clock. It was getting on for eight. They needed to be going. He found his cheap overcoat and put it on, then picked up his hat. Finally he pulled his revolver from a pocket in the trunk and shoved it into an inside pocket along with spare ammunition

  Amita opened the door to his knock. There may not have been high emotions but he could see from her face that she was very unhappy, almost enough to slam the door in his face. But she did not. Instead she stepped aside and allowed him in.

  Maliha had her back to him and was adjusting her hat in the mirror. It was a lady’s hat unquestionably but sewn from leather that gleamed with oil. It had a wide brim that came down low over her neck at the back. Very practical in the rain. She wore a heavy dark dress but then she turned and he saw that it was split at the side and her legs were encased in trousers. She wore boots with almost no heel and laced up her calf. It would allow her to run if it was needed.

  “When did you get those?” Valentine asked.

  “In Pondicherry, before we left.”

  “How did you know you would need them?”

  Maliha shrugged. “I checked the almanac. It can rain a lot here; I wanted something practical.”

  “I’ve never see anything like it.”

  “Amita designed them,” she said. “Do you like them?”

  “Yes, I particularly like the...” he waved his hand to indicate her leg which was visible to an inch above the knee, though completely covered. “...skirt.”

  Amita came over with a coat, again shaped for a woman but of leather like the hat, and the same shade of dark brown. She held it for Maliha and she put her arms in, did up the buttons and belt. Her leg was no longer on show; it looked like she was wearing a dress.

  “We’re ready,” she said. Then turned to Amita. “The letters are in my document case.”

  Amita nodded. “Will you say goodbye to Barbara and the baby?”

  Maliha glanced over then concentrated on her gloves. “No. Everyone will get teary and that will upset the child. There’s a letter for Barbara.”

  Valentine felt a wave of cold. She believed she might not return from this journey.

  He had lived with that danger for years and he realised that in all that time he had never considered the effect it would have on others. Now, presented with the fact he might lose the one person in the world he loved, he felt dread running in his veins.

  But their path was set.

  “Valentine?”

  He realised she had spoken his name several times. He looked up and grinned. “Sorry, miles away,” he said. “You ready to go?”

  “I’m ready.”

  Amita strode to the door, her body moving as if she were made of wood. Maliha went to go through and then paused. She put her hand on Amita’s arm and squeezed it.

  “Thank you,” she said simply then went up on her tiptoe and kissed Amita on the cheek.

  Valentine followed her to the door. He felt awkward. Maliha had explained that she had promoted Amita to a senior position so that she could handle Maliha’s estate. As such she was certainly deserving of respect, besides they had been through an interesting time together, and Amita had saved his life on one occasion.

  But no matter how she dressed, and regardless of her apparent habits, Amita was still not a woman even if he had come to tolerate her presence in the bed chamber. He accepted that Maliha treated Amita as if she were completely female to the extent of being her persona
l maid. Yet Amita was not a woman and he had felt the bristles on her face on the occasion that he discovered the truth.

  He reached out to shake her by the hand. There was a hint of disappointment in Amita’s eyes as she placed her hand in his. Gently and delicately, just as a woman would, even if her hand was rather larger than most. Valentine clasped her hand and drew her in; he kissed her on the cheek.

  When she pulled back he could see the slight moisture of a tear in her eye.

  “Shubh Kaamnaayein,” Amita said. “Good luck.”

  Valentine heard the door close behind them as he and Maliha headed towards the main companionway.

  ii

  They descended through the ship using one of the staff stairwells and came out in the disembarkation lounge for the second and third class passengers. There was a steady trickle of people entering though the main hatch on the port side, and a few others heading out—those who had accompanied friends and family but were not taking the journey themselves.

  Valentine and Maliha joined that group and went out on to the airfield. It was still raining though not as heavily as before. Valentine pulled up his coat collar. Maliha was perfectly dressed for the weather and the water simply rolled off her hat and coat. It took five minutes to cross the muddy field by which time water had seeped into Valentine’s boots and soaked his socks. He might as well not have bothered changing at all.

  They rounded the main administration building and joined a whites-only queue waiting for a taxi. The rank where taxis waited for fares was empty.

  “Where are they all?” Valentine muttered.

  “They’re afraid,” said Maliha.

  Valentine looked at his watch. “I have to go.”

  “I’ll be fine.”

  A large man with an umbrella that was not doing a good job of keeping him dry joined the queue behind them.

  Valentine hesitated. She turned towards him. In the dark the contours of her face were only vague highlights and her eyes where bottomless. Her hat hid her face from the man behind and the others in the queue were facing away from them.