The Russian Concubine (51 page)

59

Lydia held on to the pain in her breast. She sat huddled over her knees, one hand pressed hard against the wound to stem the bleeding. She never expected to be glad to be back inside Box, but she was. She had cried with relief when they locked her up again in the dark.

She’d stuck to her story. Chang An Lo was dead. If she could make Po Chu believe it, maybe she would survive this.
No. Don’t think that. That’s too far ahead. Think only as far as the next moment. Think of now.

He hit her a few more times, but that was all. It was as if the sight and smell of her blood, the taste of it as he licked his chin, satisfied some inner urge. For the moment. But like any addict, he would be back for more. Her nipple throbbed, but somehow the pain had flicked a switch in her head and woken her out of the torpor she had been slowly sliding into, where Death stood waiting with a smile and open arms. Life was more complicated. Harder to do. And pain meant life, so she kept telling herself pain was good.

Chang An Lo.

Mama.

Sun Yat-sen.

Even Alfred.

Her slender army of faces to fend off fear.

And Polly’s. Her friend’s face came reluctantly, but it did come at last.

I can do this. I can. Survival. That’s what I’m good at.

The sound of the bolt at the top of the stairs.

She started to breathe deeply, ready for the water. But the footsteps were different, heavier, stumbling, and she felt her throat close with panic. The dim light grew brighter in the holes, the feet came closer. She stared upward. What this time? Water? Hot oil? Acid? Anything?

The roof flew off. She blinked. A hand grabbed her hair. Her knees felt like they were set in concrete but when the pull dragged at her scalp, she pushed against the walls with her hands and got herself to her feet. Instantly she was yanked over the edge and collapsed in a heap of flailing limbs on the cellar’s dirt floor. A man laughed. She tried to stand, but fell. Another laugh. Loose and malicious. A booted kick on her bare buttocks urged her to her feet and this time she made it. She knew who her tormentor was even before she saw his face.

Po Chu. Back for more.

But this time was different. He was drunk. And he was alone.

She could smell the alcohol on him,
maotai
on his breath and in the sweat on his smooth skin, quivering in his muscles. He released his grip on her hair but seized her arm and thrust her back against the damp earth wall. She knew what was coming. His lips found her mouth, chewing on her flesh, and she let his big soft tongue enter her mouth and slide down inside her throat. She couldn’t breathe. Choked.

He laughed, the high whinny of a horse. One strong hand gripped her wrist as his body crushed hers against the wall, grinding his hips into hers, his other hand forcing its way between her legs. Her flesh crawled at his touch. But she didn’t resist. Instead she stroked his broad back with her free hand. He breathed hard as his mouth lowered to her breasts and he sucked on the wound, sending pain shooting up into her brain, but she kept stroking, mewing, arching against him, hands roving. Down to his hips. Into his trousers.

His groan of pleasure as her hand encircled his engorged penis disgusted her but at last he released her other wrist and wrapped his arm around her naked waist. Pulling her against him and dragging down his trousers, making it easy for her. She kept one hand busy on his penis to distract him while she slid the other up under his jacket to where she could feel the hard bulge of a gun holster under his left arm.

She opened her legs.

Instantly he thrust at her. In one quick movement she slid the gun out, pushed its muzzle against his ribs and pulled the trigger.

Nothing happened.

Po Chu screamed something at her, his spittle spraying into her face, and grabbed for the gun, but she snatched it away and slammed the heavy metal into the side of his head. He went down. Dropped to his knees. But his hands still clung to her and he started to rise, clawing his way up her, fingers digging into her hips.

Her breath had stopped. But her mind was clear. If she didn’t end it now she was dead.

You would kill a man. If you had to.
Chang’s words in her ears.

She sought out the safety catch. Pointed the barrel right in his face. Fired.

The explosion set her head ringing and sent Po Chu hurtling back down to the floor. By the uncertain light of the oil lamp on the stairs she could see that his face had become an oozing black crater with shards of glistening white bone. She gaped at it. The gun was shaking in her hand. But in place of the horror she expected to feel, there was only a deep visceral satisfaction that came out of her mouth as a ringing war cry.

She started to run.

Corridors confused her. She twisted and turned, seeking a door that would take her outside, but each time she threw one open it led only into yet another room. Voices behind her. She fired at their shadows. Again and again. A bullet grazed her shoulder. She hurled herself into a room where two frightened young Chinese children cowered under a tiger skin, picked up a stool, and slammed it into the window. Glass and shutters exploded. Cold air rushed in.

She leaped through the opening, dimly aware of pain in her feet, and found herself in a garden where winter vegetables were growing in neatly tended rows. It surprised her that it wasn’t dark outside, the light a thin misty grey, but she had no idea whether it was dawn or dusk. Another bullet tore past her hair. She swung around, fired, aiming at nothing. Run. She ran. Over loose earth. Through a stableyard. Horses. Dogs barking. Run. Out. Into the open. Fields, a path, trees. More shots and men behind her, closer. Then suddenly in front of her a solid row of Chinese faces. A pair of hands seized her. No, not now.

Not now that she was free.

‘No,’ she screamed and raised her gun to the man’s face.

‘Lydia. It’s me.’

She stopped screaming. Lowered the gun. Squinted at the blur that was a face. Grey uniforms all around her.

‘Here.’ A greatcoat was flung around her shivering naked body. ‘It’s all right. You’re safe now.’

She blinked hard. The man’s features settled into a familiar image. ‘Alexei Serov,’ she gasped and retched all down his chest.

60

‘Mama.’

‘What is it, my darling?’

‘You don’t need to sit here all night.’

‘Shh, sleep now.’

‘I’m okay, you know.’

‘Of course you are. So shut your eyes and dream sweet dreams.’

Valentina was seated on a low chair beside Lydia’s bed, her elbows on the quilt and her chin propped on her hands, gaze fixed on her daughter’s face. She looked tired, grey lines in a fine web around her eyes and mouth. For the first time Lydia could see what she’d look like when she was old and white-haired. She gave her mother a fleeting smile. They both knew the dreams were anything but sweet. In the hospital the doctors had kept her drugged with something that numbed the pain and the brain but let in the nightmares, so now that she was home she refused all tablets and instead remained awake.

Three nights her mother had stayed at her bedside, three nights of being there each time Lydia opened her eyes. When she heard Valentina softly humming the overture from
Romeo and Juliet
in the early hours of one morning, it made her cry.

‘Where is he, Mama?’

‘Who?’

Lydia put out a hand and cupped it around her mother’s. ‘You know who.’

The green lamp was on in the corner of the room, but Valentina had draped a ruby scarf over it, so that the light was muted to the colours of a winter’s sunset. Enough to see her mother’s eyes.

Valentina turned Lydia’s hand over in her own and with one slender finger slowly traced the lifeline on her palm right down to her wrist. ‘He’s a prisoner.’

‘Where?’

‘How should I know,
dochenka
?’

‘Who has him?’

‘The Chinese, of course. You know what they’re like, always at each other’s throats.’

‘Do you mean the Kuomintang?’

‘Yes, I suppose so, the ones in those dreadful peasant uniforms. ’

‘Is he alive?’

Valentina sighed elaborately and her mouth softened. ‘Yes. Your wretched Communist is still alive.’

‘How do you know?’

‘I made Alfred make inquiries. Don’t look so happy, Lydia. He’s not for you. You must forget him.’

‘I will forget him the day I forget to breathe.’

‘
Dochenka!
You’ve been through enough. Stop this madness.’

‘I love him, Mama.’

‘So you must unlove him.’

‘I can’t. More than ever now.’

Valentina sat up straight, placed Lydia’s hand gently down on the quilt, pulled her kimono tightly around herself, and folded her arms.

‘Very well, darling. So. Tell me. What is it that your stubborn little soul wants? What plans have you hatched in that convoluted head of yours?’

There was a long silence. Downstairs the grandfather clock chimed three. Lydia could hear her mother’s breathing.

‘Mama, I nearly died in that Box.’ She spoke softly.

‘Don’t, sweetheart. Don’t.’

‘I’d always thought survival was enough. But it’s not.’

It was seven-thirty and the sky was just growing light when Lydia went downstairs. Valentina was in the bathroom and likely to remain there for some time judging by the scent of bath oil wafting under the door, so Lydia knew Alfred would be alone and unprotected.

‘Hello.’

‘Good heavens, Lydia, you startled me.’ He was sitting at the breakfast table engrossed in the newspaper, a bowl of steaming porridge oats in front of him. ‘Shouldn’t you be in bed, my dear?’

She slipped into the chair opposite him. ‘I need your advice.’

Alfred put down his paper and gave her his full attention. ‘Anything I can do to help, just say the word.’

‘Mama said you made inquiries about Chang An Lo.’

‘I did.’

‘I have to go to him. So . . .’

‘No, Lydia.’

‘Alfred, if it hadn’t been for him, I’d be dead.’

‘Well, really I think it’s that young Russian gentleman who . . .’

‘No. It was Chang An Lo. He was the one who got the Chinese troops searching for me. That’s what Alexei Serov himself told me in the woods. So you see, I do need to speak with him.’

Alfred looked uncomfortable. He picked up his spoon and stirred his porridge, added a sprinkling of sugar to it, then shook his head sadly. ‘I’m so sorry, Lydia, I can’t help you. Chang An Lo is not allowed visitors.’

‘Where is he?’

‘In Chou Dong Prison. It’s down by the river. But listen to me.’ He pushed a rack of toast toward her and she took a piece because she knew he was trying to help. ‘This whole business of your kidnapping has caused a bit of a stink, what with the police looking into Feng Po Chu’s death and everything.’

Her head jerked up. ‘I thought they said I was in the clear. It was self-defence.’

‘That’s true.’ He reached out and patted her hand, but she could tell his sense of order was dislocated. ‘You see, Sir Edward Carlisle feels that the sooner it all dies down the better because, to be honest, it has created a lot of tension between the Chinese and ourselves. If you go around complaining and making a fuss about this Communist down at the prison, well, it’ll just stir things up even worse. So if you want my advice, I suggest you keep well clear. Get back to bed and stay there until this is all done with. I’m very sorry, Lydia, I know it’s hard, but it’s for the best, my dear.’

Lydia spread butter on her toast. Drizzled honey on it. Snapped it in two.

‘Best for who?’ she asked.

‘Best for you.’

She looked at him. Behind his spectacles his eyes were full of concern.

‘Will you drive me to the Serov villa on your way to the office today, please?’

‘There’s no need.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Alexei Serov calls here every morning. Nine-thirty sharp he’s been arriving on our doorstep to ask after your health.’

‘
Chyort!
Why did no one tell me?’

‘Come on, Lydia, you know what your mother thinks of him. She’ll probably give me hell just for telling you.’

Lydia allowed herself a little bright window of hope.

‘Alexei, tell me what happened. Please. I need to know.’

The tall Russian looked relieved, and Lydia realised he’d been expecting a more difficult question. He was seated on the leather sofa, legs crossed, his gloves placed tidily beside him, his body as relaxed as ever in a dark well-cut suit, but his expression was tense.

‘You’re looking much better, Miss Ivanova,’ he’d said.

It was a lie but a nice one, so she let it pass. Their exchanges so far had been peppered with awkward silences. The usual words of polite conversation did not seem to be enough between them. Not anymore.

‘Tell me,’ she repeated, ‘how you found me.’

‘It wasn’t hard. But,’ he gave an easy laugh, ‘don’t tell Sir Edward that. He thinks I’m a hero.’

She smiled. ‘So do I.’

‘No. I just used my contacts. No heroics.’

‘But why did Chang come to you of all people?’

He leaned forward, green eyes suddenly very hard, and she could see the military man in him. ‘He learned of the split between Feng and Po Chu, heard a whisper that Po Chu was siding with the Kuomintang against his father. That meant their spies would know exactly where he was hiding out. So your Communist used his brains. Who was the one person who knew you but also had influence over the Chinese?’ He shrugged and spread his hands. ‘Myself. And the only way he knew of finding me quickly was through the Kuomintang.’

‘But now Chang An Lo is in prison.’

His long face studied hers intently. ‘Yes.’

‘Can’t you do something? Please. To get him out.’

‘Lydia, don’t be foolish, this isn’t a game. Chiang Kai-shek and the Kuomintang army are at war with the Communists. They slaughter each other every day, sometimes hundreds at a time. Chang knew that when he walked into Captain Wah’s arms. So no, I can’t get him out.’

‘But Alexei, he stuck up a few posters, that’s all. Surely not enough to . . .’

He barked out a scornful laugh. ‘Don’t be absurd. He’s a trained code breaker. One of their best. That’s why the Kuomintang are interrogating him now before . . .’ He stopped.

There was a silence in the room so crystal clear that Valentina’s soft footsteps could be heard pacing up and down outside the door. It had taken a lot of ‘discussion’ to convince Valentina that Lydia owed the Russian this courtesy.

‘Alexei.’

‘Whatever it is you want, Miss Ivanova, the answer is no.’

‘You are in a powerful position, Alexei.’

He stood up quickly and gathered his gloves to him. ‘Time for me to leave.’

The walls of Alexei Serov’s office were painted bright yellow on the top half and a drab olive green on the bottom half. His desk was gunmetal grey and the floor just bare boards. Lydia regarded it with distaste as she sat silently on a bentwood chair in a corner and watched Alexei plough through a pile of paperwork. She noticed the way his brown hair, though still short, was starting to curl again behind his ear and the speed with which he scanned each document in front of him. But she was irritated by him. How could he sit there so calmly when elsewhere in the building Chang An Lo was . . . ? Was what?

In pain? On a rack? In chains?

Dead?

Twice she interrupted him. ‘Is he coming?’

Twice Alexei had sighed, lifted his head, and looked at her with disapproval.

‘I’ve given the order for him to be brought to my office. That’s overstepping my mark as it is. I can do no more. This is China. Be patient.’

She sat there for two hours and forty minutes. Then the door opened.

Lydia’s face made Chang An Lo’s heart burst into life again inside his chest. Her smile filled the drab little room. Her hair. It set the air itself on fire. He ought to have known she’d come, that somehow she’d reach him. He should have believed.

She leaped to her feet, but the Russian at the desk gave her a warning look. So she stood quietly in the corner, her tawny eyes focused on Chang’s face, her fingers tugging at her coat buttons as if she would tear off her clothes if she could. Behind him two Chinese soldiers stood at attention and he knew that if he gave the yellow-bellied worms the slightest excuse, they would delight in joining the imprints of their rifle butts to the marks already on his back. But he was certain their farm brains would know no English.

‘Chang An Lo,’ the Russian said formally, ‘I have summoned you here to answer some questions.’

Chang kept his gaze firmly on the Russian. In English he said, ‘The sight of you brings joy to my heart and makes my blood thunder in my veins.’

The Russian blinked. A small sound escaped from Lydia but the guards behind him stood silent.

‘I know not how long I will be allowed to stand here. So there are words I must say. That you are the moon and the stars to me, and the air I breathe. To love you is to live. So if I die . . . ,’ another raw sound from Lydia, ‘ . . . I will still live in you.’

The Russian could take no more. ‘For God’s sake, that’s enough,’ he snapped.

But Chang was barely aware of anyone other than Lydia in the room. He let his eyes move to the corner. Her gaze met his and he felt such a surge of desire for her that he knew he was not ready to die yet.

Abruptly the Russian was ordering the guards out of the room and following them through the door himself.

‘You have two minutes, no more,’ he said briskly.

Chang An Lo moved toward Lydia. He opened his arms and she stepped into them.