Under the Burning Clouds

by Steve Turnbull

Maliha pushed off from the wall and entered the room, flying over Izak’s head. The room was illuminated by a bedside lamp that cast a light as dim as the one in the corridors. The layout of the room was similar to her own, with identical furnishings, except it lacked a sofa. The bed lay to the left and the bottom end came into view first.

  There was a figure lying in the bed. No, not lying on it but floating above it: naked and tied spread-eagled.

  “Izak, get help,” she ordered quietly. “Find the doctor, don’t tell anyone else.” Her trajectory took her to the far side of the room and she impacted the wall almost directly above the figure. She turned. Izak was staring, his eyes wide in horror. “Go, now. And shut the door.”

  He focused on her and nodded. With a final glance at the body, he pulled himself from the room and closed the door. Maliha scanned the room more thoroughly and allowed herself to breathe a little more easily. She had not trapped herself in the room with the perpetrator.

  She drifted up to the ceiling and used it to push herself down beside the bed.

  Although the head was covered in a sack, the body of the woman in the bed was known to Maliha.

  Françoise.

  Her beautiful skin had been mutilated with bruises, cuts, cigarette burns and parallel lines sliced across her abdomen. Darkened marks between her legs suggested she had been raped violently. Maliha untied the sack and pulled it from Françoise’s face. Her hair was cropped short like a man’s and her face was barely recognisable beneath the bruising.

  Her skin was pale and cool to the touch.

  Grief overtook Maliha and she wept. She brought herself closer and reached out to touch the cheeks with her tear-dampened fingers. She ran the tips across the woman’s swollen lips.

  At her touch the lower lip moved. Maliha froze. She rubbed her eyes to see more clearly then brought the salty tears to Françoise’s mouth. At the touch of the liquid they moved again.

  Like sandpaper across metal, a word crawled from her throat. “Please.”

  Françoise’s chest moved in a sudden intake of breath.

  For a second all conscious thought was lost to Maliha—she had been so sure Françoise was dead—then she became action and threw herself across to the basin. She pumped out a globule of water and, carrying it in her hand, brought it back.

  She dipped her finger into the twisting bubble of water and brought it out with drops of liquid attached. These she applied to the girl’s lips; Françoise sucked them into her mouth like a baby, and Maliha saw her neck convulse in swallowing motions.

  Maliha repeated the manoeuvre again and again. When all the water was gone she applied herself to the knots. It took an age to get them free, but eventually she succeeded and Françoise curled in on herself. Maliha found a dressing gown and wrapped it about her. Françoise floated like an unborn child wrapped in its amniotic membrane.

  Maliha fetched more water and fed it to her.

  One of Françoise’s eyes was so bruised it could not even be seen, but the other was less damaged. It opened.

  “He said you would not come,” she whispered.

  iv

  “She needs to be moved,” said Maliha.

  “I agree. The Infirmary would be best.” The doctor had spent the last hour assessing the damage and tending to Françoise’s external injuries.

  “No,” said Maliha. “She needs to be reported as dead.”

  “I really don’t think I can do that.”

  Françoise lay in the bed. She was covered by a sheet, which had been tied to the bedposts at the corners. It provided a gentle but firm restraint against her drifting off into space. She had lapsed into unconsciousness again.

  Izak was no longer with them. After returning with the doctor, Maliha had sent him back to their cabin with orders to lock the door and not open it for anyone except her.

  Maliha turned back to the doctor. “I understand you have your usual protocols, Doctor, but this is a highly unusual situation.” And it has everything to do with me. “The person who committed this crime was the same one that killed the Spencers,” she said. “And if he knows that he has not succeeded in killing her, he may attack another passenger.”

  “I don’t see—”

  “Doctor, you are aware that I am undercover and investigating these deaths?”

  “So the captain said...”

  “Exactly. Your captain.” She stopped. She was fairly sure she had said enough now, and that he just needed a little time to absorb the new idea.

  “But if not the Infirmary, then where?”

  “The cabin of Mrs Mayberry,” said Maliha. “She will be able to tend her.” Which will serve the double purpose of occupying her mind and keeping her out of harm’s way.

  “Do you think she will agree?”

  “Oh, I am certain of it. She is a very sensitive woman.”

  “I will arrange it in the morning.”

  “Now.”

  “Oh, come now, Miss Ganapathy,” said the doctor. “You cannot expect me to be waking up staff to move her.”

  “I think you are missing the point completely,” she said. “The person who did this could return at any moment” —the man’s eyes flicked towards the door—“and she needs to be gone before he does.”

  He hesitated and she could almost perceive the machinery of his mind considering the possible consequences. “I see...”

  “In addition, the fewer people who know the better. So that means your good self alone and not the captain.”

  “You don’t expect me to lie to the captain?”

  She said nothing.

  “But surely you don’t suspect him?”

  Maliha crossed her arms.

  “I see. If I am the only one to know then, if the murderer attacks her again in the new location, you will know the information came from me.”

  Maliha doubted he had noticed the smudges of blood on the walls. The man who had done this had been entirely happy to slam his victim into the walls and ceiling like an angry child venting its anger on a doll or teddy bear.

  Was it rage or just work to him?

  He sighed and looked at his patient. “As she has lasted this long it is unlikely she is haemorrhaging internally. We can move her.”

  She hoped it was the former—rage. Dealing with cold rationality was harder.

  “Well then,” said the doctor. “We must be about it, time is getting on.”

  If they were on Earth or even Mars, moving Françoise, particularly in secret, would have presented some difficult obstacles. But in weightlessness the problem was far less serious and was unlikely to cause their patient any more harm.

  They released Françoise from the sheet and wrapped her in a yellow and black-spotted fur coat from the wardrobe. It made her appear dressed and kept her warm. It seemed almost callous to Maliha, the way they dressed her even though she remained unconscious. A scarf around her head hid the evidence of damage.

  Together they gently guided the limp body through the passages and up the shaft to Constance’s cabin. They encountered no one on the way. The dimly lit passenger corridors were completely deserted.

  “You had best go make your report, Doctor,” she said. “If you could leave my name out of it, that would be preferable.”

  The doctor nodded. “This is a worrying business, Miss Ganapathy,” he said. “Do you think there will be any more attacks?”

  With ten more days before landfall? thought Maliha. It is almost a certainty unless I can do something about it.

  “I hope not,” she said. “But we must be on our guard.”

  As the doctor disappeared around the corner, Maliha knocked on the door.

  “Who is it?”

  “Alice Ganapathy.”

  “Oh.”

  There was a long pause. Françoise’s body tended to drift towards the wall. Maliha puzzled over this until she realised it was due to the gentle rotation of the vessel.

  There was a click as the door unlocked and the flushed face of Constance appear
ed. She looked about to say something then saw the floating body. Not only was she unable to speak, she did not move. Maliha took the initiative and manoeuvred the body through the door, forcing Constance to back away.

  Maliha followed, shut the door and turned the key.

  She glanced around the cabin. One of the drawers of the dressing table was slightly open and Maliha could see part of a small device. Constance followed her gaze and pushed herself across to shut the drawer.

  Maliha did not want to spend time in discussions, so she simply stripped the hat and coat from around Françoise and watched as the horror of her beaten body shook Constance.

  “Is she dead?”

  “No,” said Maliha. “And Miss Greaux is keen to live.”

  Maliha brought the unconscious woman across the room, stripped back the bed’s top sheet and gently turned her until she was lying in the bed. Maliha tucked her in as before.

  “You’re leaving her here?”

  “Yes, this is the safest place.” Maliha turned round and faced Constance, whose flush had dissipated, making her paler than usual. “The doctor is going to report that she was found dead.”

  “But that means the murderer will move onto the next stage of the plan.”

  “It does.”

  “Me.”

  Maliha shook her head. “No, Selina and her mother were implicated as murderers, they did not themselves die.”

  “So he will try to frame me for murder?”

  “If you remain in here with Françoise, that will not happen.”

  “But—”

  “Constance, you need to remain safe and Miss Greaux must be tended back to health. It is a perfect situation.”

  “But—”

  “Please do not argue. I have enough to worry about. I need to know that I can rely on you.” It was difficult to strike a stern pose in weightlessness; Maliha had to make do with a look.

  “All right.”

  “Thank you,” said Maliha. “When she wakes she will want water; she is quite badly dehydrated. She won’t feel hunger for a while. The doctor says that, although the injuries look bad, they are, for the most part, superficial. He could find no broken bones.” Though several joints were dislocated. It is just as well she was unconscious when they were repositioned.

  “I understand.”

  Maliha pushed against the bed and floated over to where Constance stood, next to the dresser. Taking her hand, Maliha brought it up to chest height and clasped it tight. “I am counting on you, Constance.”

  She nodded.

  Maliha kissed her on the cheek and felt the woman tremble.

  The touch of Constance’s cheek was like a promise Maliha knew she would never fulfil and she felt the guilt of it.

  v

  Despite the risk, Maliha returned to Françoise’s cabin.

  The ropes that had bound her were still attached to the bedposts in neat loops, with stains of blood on the ends she had untied. She searched the obvious locations but found no weapons.

  Françoise’s wardrobe contained men’s off-the-peg suits. Their labels indicated that they were from the Army & Navy Stores, easy for a woman to walk into and pretend she was buying for her husband. There were also men’s undergarments, socks and shoes, all from the same shop. Pondicherry, being a French territory, did not possess an Army & Navy store, but all major British ports did and they sold everything a person might need for an expedition or just a journey.

  It seems she had fully equipped herself at the Fortress before boarding.

  There were no ladies’ accoutrements to be found at all, beyond a large cigar box containing cotton sanitary pads. Perhaps she had her usual clothes in her hold luggage. Or she had decided to dress as a man permanently. Still, that was not relevant.

  If Françoise was on this vessel, it meant that she had been persuaded to come by an agent of Maliha’s nemesis. Françoise seemed to have very little in the way of paperwork; there were her travel documents, in the name of Francis Gray, and a ticket. But no other correspondence. Then again, that was not unreasonable—who would have written to the newly created entity Francis Gray?

  Maliha had been through every drawer and every cupboard; there was no further information about Françoise and nothing about the murderer. He was as careful as he had been with the Spencers. Perhaps he might have left fingerprints, but Maliha had no way of collecting them or comparing them to everybody’s aboard the ship.

  Well, that was one thing, she thought. The man was unquestionably on the vessel and there was no way off. They were both trapped.

  Who was he?

  Passenger or crew? If he was crew then he would probably have duties and shifts during which he could not be here torturing his victim. He had access to the necessary information about who to kill, but, as this vessel belonged to Timmons, that was not a signifier.

  If he was crew he would also have access to more areas of the vessel and be able to use the crew passageways. A crew member would have better knowledge of the ship as a whole. Then there were the knots in the ropes that had been used to tie Françoise: they were neat bowlines, exactly the right knots to use in the circumstances, which again suggested someone in the crew. But it was not conclusive.

  Maliha rubbed her eyes; she was tired. A glance at her watch told her it was now after midnight. It was hopeless. There was no way she could determine who it was from the meagre facts at her disposal.

  But there was a way.

  Maliha turned the lights off and returned the room to its original lighting.

  She tied her hair back as tight and as close to her skull as she could. In the dim light it would probably look like no more than a shadow, at a distance.

  As long as she was able to lure him into the room, she would be able to discover something about him. She opened a wardrobe door, removed her shoes and placed them inside.

  She told herself that she was not a fool, but she acknowledged the pattern of behaviour she saw in herself. Each of her adventures reached the point at which she would sacrifice herself in order to achieve her goals.

  Was it hubris or humility?

  She disrobed, reaching behind herself for buttons as she turned slow somersaults in the air. If he were to come upon her now, she would be helpless. Wriggling from the cocoon of her dress, she placed them under a strap inside the wardrobe.

  It had always worked before, allowing the murderer to imagine she was the victim. But always, before, she had had help nearby. This time she could not call for assistance. She glanced at the button that would summon the concierge. It might not save her life, but it would bring the man to justice.

  The silk underwear was the last.

  She shut the wardrobe door on her clothes and turned to the bed. She stretched and felt the scarred skin on her back pulling. Absently she rubbed the ridge on her thigh and then, for completeness, the one under her left breast. War wounds. She thought of Valentine.

  There was the chance, of course, that the murderer would have heard that Françoise had been found and was dead. He would not return and this would be for nothing.

  Maliha looked at the ropes. She could contrive to hold the ones that should be around her wrist, but what about the ones for her ankles? There was nothing she could do except make her own loop and slip her feet into them.

  Floating above the bed, splayed out and naked, was the most vulnerable she had ever felt. It suited the importance of the situation.

  When he opened the door the first thing he would see would be her feet, just as they had been the first thing she had seen of Françoise. Though her skin tone was a little darker than a European woman, it was white for an Indian, and in the half-light he would not notice.

  Then he would come in and look further up her body. She was smaller and slimmer than Françoise, he would realise the difference quickly. She did not know what would happen then.

  It was not long before the joints of her arms and legs ached from holding them in the same position for so long. It was simila
r to what she had experienced when she had demanded Valentine whip her, though at the time the pain from the lashing had been uppermost in her mind.

  Valentine thought she had been punishing him and when she claimed she had done it for the experience she had thought she was telling the truth. But floating here she finally admitted the truth. She had explained to Françoise that being Indian was to feel shame. She had brought about the destruction of her own family what worse shame could there be? The scars she wore on her back were her shame.

  She had kept her watch on; by the time he noticed that, he would know for certain she was not his expected victim. It was half-past one. There had been a chart on the captain’s wall showing the various shift patterns for the crew. She brought it to mind and read it.

  The next shift change was in half an hour. If the murderer was a crew member, he would probably turn up a little after that time, and the same went for a passenger—he would make sure he knew when the crew was most likely to be wandering about the companionways.

  She sighed. She had to try to stay awake.

  vi

  Maliha came awake from a doze at the sound of a key in the lock and someone humming tunelessly on the other side of the door. She went cold. The key rattled again with the action someone makes when they expect a key to turn but the door is already unlocked. The humming stopped.

  He knew.

  Would he enter anyway? Perhaps he would think he had forgotten to lock it. Would he run? She held her breath.

  A patch of light grew across the ceiling above her as the door swung open.

  “I’m coming in and I have a gun.” The voice was that of a man, not young but not old either. Middle class and well-educated. A shadow moved into the path of light. “Oh goodness, you have nothing on. I’m going to shut the door and I won’t look. Why don’t you put a dressing gown on?”

  Maliha had not known what precisely to expect, but everything she had considered involved some sort of aggression, whether physical or just verbal. She had not expected polite consideration. The light on the ceiling closed down again and she heard the latch click.

  She lifted her head to see the dark form of a man. True to his word he was facing away from her, but he was holding out a gun so she could see it.