The Russian Concubine

by Kate Furnivall

  ‘Thank you, master,’ she said in a choked voice, tears flowing down her cheeks.

  ‘No,’ Theo said and started to push it back at her, but she was gone. He was alone in the hut with a bad-tempered creature called Yeewai. ‘Oh, Christ! Not now. I don’t need this now.’ He placed the bamboo box down on the planks next to the rope and gave it a kick. A growl like the sound of a blast furnace shot back at him and a claw raked his shoe.

  The wind blew stronger now and the deck swayed alarmingly under his feet, so that he felt the need to hold on to the wooden rail but would not allow himself that luxury. Beside him the master of the junk stood as solid and steady as one of the rocks that threatened to tear a hole in them if they dared to venture too close to shore. They were watching the mouth of the river, the waves etched in silver as the moon picked out a two-masted schooner with a long dark prow. It had tacked smoothly out of the bay and was gliding up toward them, its white sails spread wide like the wings of a black-necked crane against the night sky.

  ‘Now,’ Theo muttered under his breath. ‘Now you shall measure the weight of my word.’

  ‘My life is on your word, Englishman,’ the Chinese skipper snarled.

  ‘And my life depends on your seamanship.’

  The wind carried away his response. Suddenly the crew were readying a small craft to slide into the river, and fifty yards off Theo could see men on the schooner doing the same. Dark figures spoke in urgent whispers, and then the two scows pulled fast through the water toward each other until their port sides rubbed together like dogs greeting one another and a crate passed over their bows. It took no more than ten minutes for the boats to be back aboard the mother vessels and the crate to be hauled away from thieving hands into the rattan hut.

  Theo could not bring himself to look at it, so he stayed on deck, but he could hear the junk master slapping his broad thighs and laughing like a hyena. Theo stood in the bows as they skimmed back upriver and was tempted to light a cigarette but thought better of it. Now that they were carrying the contraband they were in real danger, and a glowing cigarette end might be all it took. He was aware that the oil lamp in the hut had been extinguished and they were travelling across the water like a dark shadow, with only the moon’s cold glare to betray them. He stuck a Turkish cheroot in his mouth and left it there, unlit.

  He was trusting Mason. And deep in his heart he knew that was a mistake. If that bastard hadn’t done his part, then the skipper was right. Neither of them would see the dawn. Damn him. With an uneasy growl he sucked on the cheroot, tasted its bitter dregs, and then tossed it down into the waves. Self-interest was Mason’s bible. On that Theo had to rely.

  But every breath of the way, he prayed for clouds.

  The patrol boat came from nowhere. Out of the night. Its engine roared into life and raced at them out of a narrow inlet, pinning the junk in its powerful searchlight and circling it with a fierce surge of bow wave. The junk rocked perilously. Two men leaped overboard. Theo didn’t see them but he heard the splash. In a moment’s madness it occurred to him to do the same, but already it was too late. A rifle in the patrol boat was fired into the air as a warning and the customs officers in their dark uniforms looked ready to back it up with more.

  Theo ducked into the hut and before his eyes grew accustomed to the deeper level of darkness, he felt a knife at his back. No words were said. They were not necessary. To hell with Mason and his sworn oath. ‘No patrols tonight, old boy. You’ll be safe, I swear it. They want you there on the boat.’

  ‘As a hostage to their own safety, I assume.’

  Mason had laughed as if Theo had made a joke. ‘Can you blame them?’

  No, Theo couldn’t blame them.

  A match was struck and the kerosene lamp hissed into life, drenching the air with the stink of it. To Theo’s surprise it was the junk master at the lamp. The knife was in the hand of the woman. Her man was growling something so rough and coarse that Theo couldn’t understand, but he had no need to. The long curved blade in the skipper’s right hand was not there to open the crate at his feet.

  ‘Sha!’ he shouted to the woman. Kill.

  ‘The cat,’ Theo said quickly over his shoulder. ‘Yeewai. I’ll take her.’

  The woman hesitated for only the beat of a wing but it was enough. Theo had his revolver out of his pocket and pointing straight at the junk master’s heart.

  ‘Put down the knives. Both of you.’

  The skipper froze for a moment, and Theo could see the black eyes calculating the distance across the hut to the Englishman’s throat. That was when he knew he would have to fire. One of them would die right now and it wasn’t going to be him.

  ‘Master, come quick.’ It was one of the deckhands. ‘Master, come see. The river spirits have driven away the patrol boat.’

  It was true. The sound of the engine was fading, the fierce searchlight gone. Blackness seeped back into the hut. Theo lowered the gun and the junk master instantly leaped out on deck.

  ‘They were bluffing,’ Theo muttered. ‘The patrol boat officers just wanted to let us know.’

  ‘Know what?’ the woman whispered.

  ‘That they are aware of what we’re doing.’

  ‘Is that good?’

  ‘Good or bad, it makes no difference. Tonight we win.’

  She smiled. Her front teeth were missing but for the first time she looked happy.

  The shack on the riverbank was foul and airless, but Theo barely noticed. The night was almost over. He was off the water and would soon be in his own bath with Li Mei’s sweet fingers washing the sweat off his back. Relief thundered into his brain and suddenly made him want to kick Feng Tu Hong in the balls. Instead he bowed.

  ‘It went well?’ Feng asked.

  ‘Like clockwork.’

  ‘So the moon did not steal your blood tonight.’

  ‘As you see, I am here. Your ship and crew are safe to run another night, another collection.’ He rested a foot on the crate that stood between them on the floor, as if it were his to give or take away at whim. It was an illusion. They both knew that. Outside, a cart stood ready.

  ‘Your government mandarin is indeed a great man,’ Feng bowed courteously.

  ‘So great that he talks to the gods themselves,’ Theo said and held out his hand.

  Feng let his lips spread in what was meant to be a smile, and from a leather satchel on his hip he drew two pouches. He handed them to Theo. Both clinked with coins, but one was heavier than the other.

  ‘Do not forget which is yours,’ Feng said softly.

  Theo nodded with satisfaction. ‘No, Feng Tu Hong, I will not forget what I owe this mandarin, you may be sure of that.’

  ‘Don’t be angry.’

  ‘I am not.’

  But she was standing stiff and silent by the window. Theo had not expected this.

  ‘Please, Mei.’

  ‘It is only fit for the stewing pot.’

  ‘Don’t be so brutal.’

  ‘Look at it, Tiyo, it’s a disgusting creature.’

  ‘It will catch mice.’

  ‘So will a trap, and a trap doesn’t stink like a camel’s backside.’

  ‘I’ll bathe it.’

  ‘But why?’

  ‘I promised the woman.’

  ‘You promised her you’d take it. That doesn’t mean you can’t eat it.’

  ‘For heaven’s sake, Mei, that’s barbaric.’

  ‘What good is it? It will do nothing but eat and sleep and sharpen its claws on you. It’s just ugly and nasty.’

  Theo looked at the grey cat hunched under a chair, its yellow eyes full of pus and hatred. It was certainly ugly, with half one ear missing and its face battered and scarred. Its fur was patchy and looked as if it had not been washed in months.

  Theo sighed, exhaustion taking over. ‘Maybe I’m hoping that when I’m old and ugly and crochety, someone will do the same for me.’

  He caught her smiling at him.

  ‘Oh, Tiy
o, you are so . . . English.’

  He lay in bed but he didn’t sleep. Li Mei’s breath was sweet and warm on his neck and he wondered what dreams made her eyelids flicker so fast, but his own anger at what he had done tonight was too cold and hard in his chest to allow sleep to come. Drug trafficking.

  He reminded himself of the reason why he’d risked his life out there on the river in a matchstick boat. His school. He would not give up his Willoughby Academy. Would not. Could not. What difference did it make?

  But they would be over soon, these night excursions. He promised himself that.

  19

  Lydia was at her schooldesk when the police came for her. She was in the middle of writing into her exercise book a list of the mineral wealth of Australia. There seemed to be a lot of gold down there. Miss Ainsley escorted the English officer into the classroom, and Lydia knew before he even opened his mouth that she was the one he’d come to arrest. They’d found out about the necklace. But how? The fear that, because of her, Chang might also be cornered by police made her feel ill.

  ‘How can I help you, Sergeant?’ Theo asked. He looked almost as shocked by the intrusion as she was herself.

  ‘I’d like a word with Miss Lydia Ivanova, if I may.’ The policeman in his dark uniform overpowered the classroom; his broad shoulders and big feet seemed to fill the space between the floor and the ceiling. His manner was polite but curt.

  Mr Theo walked over to Lydia and rested a hand on her shoulder. She was surprised by his support.

  ‘What is this about?’ he asked the sergeant.

  ‘I’m sorry, sir, I can’t discuss that. I just need to take her down to the police station for a few questions.’

  Lydia was so panicked by his words that she even thought of making a run for it, but she knew she didn’t stand a chance. Anyway her legs were trembling too much. She’d just have to lie, and lie well. She stood up and gave the sergeant a confident smile that made the muscles of her cheeks hurt.

  ‘Certainly, sir. I’m happy to help.’

  Mr Theo patted her back and Polly gave her a grin. Somehow Lydia made her legs move, one foot in front of the other, heel-toe, heel-toe, heel-toe, and wondered if anyone else could hear the banging in her chest.

  ‘Miss Ivanova, you were at the Ulysses Club the night the ruby necklace was stolen.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘You were searched.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Nothing was found.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘I’d like to apologise for the indignity.’

  Lydia remained silent. She watched warily. He was laying a trap for her, she was certain, but she couldn’t yet see how or where.

  It was Commissioner Lacock himself, so she knew she was in real trouble. Just being in the police station at all was bad enough, but to be escorted into the commissioner’s office and told to sit down in front of his big glossy desk made her hear the clang of the prison cell door in her head. Shut in. Four bare walls. Cockroaches and fleas and lice. No air. No life. She was frightened she would blurt it out, confess everything, just to get away from this man.

  ‘You gave me a statement that night.’

  She wished he’d sit down. He was standing behind his desk with a sheet of paper in his hand - what was on it? - and was studying her with grey eyes so sharp she could feel them piercing through each layer of her lies. The monocle just made it worse. His uniform was very dark, almost black, full of gold braid and bright silver bits that she felt were designed to intimidate. Oh yes, she was intimidated all right but had no intention of letting him know it. She concentrated on the tufts of hair poking out of his ears and the ugly liver spots on his hands. The weak bits.

  ‘Commissioner Lacock, has my mother been informed I’m here?’ She made it haughty. Like Countess Serova and her son Alexei.

  He frowned and rubbed an impatient hand across his thinning hair. ‘Is that necessary at the moment?’

  ‘Yes. I want her here.’

  ‘Then we shall fetch her.’ He gave a nod to a young policeman positioned by the door, who promptly disappeared. One down, one more to go.

  ‘And do I need a lawyer?’

  He placed the sheet of paper on top of a pile on his desk. She wanted to read it upside down but didn’t dare take her eyes from his. He was staring at her with what looked like an amused expression. Cat and mouse. Play before you pounce. Her hands were sweating.

  ‘I hardly think so, my dear. We’ve only asked you down here to pick a man out of a lineup.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Yes, the man you described in your statement. The prowler you saw through the library window of the Ulysses Club. Remember him?’

  He was waiting for a reply. Relief had robbed her of breath. She nodded.

  ‘Good, then let’s go and take a look at them, shall we?’

  He walked over to the door and to Lydia’s amazement her own legs followed as if it were easy.

  It was a plain room with green walls and brown linoleum on the floor. Six men stood in a row and each one of them turned hostile brown eyes on her as she entered, flanked by two policemen. The policemen were burly and big, but the men in the lineup were bigger, shoulders as wide as a shed and fists like slabs of meat at their sides. Where had they found them all?

  ‘Take your time, Miss Ivanova, and remember what I told you,’ Lacock said and led her to one end of the row. ‘Eyes front,’ he ordered sharply and it took her a moment to realise it was addressed to the six men.

  What had he told her? She tried to recall but the sight of the row of silent men had jammed her mind. She couldn’t take her eyes off them. All the same, yet all so different. Some were taller or broader or older. Some were mean and arrogant, others were bowed and broken. But all had black bushy beards and wild hair, and were dressed in rough tunics and long boots. Two had a dark leather patch over one eye and one had a gold tooth that glinted like an accusing eye at her.

  ‘Don’t be nervous,’ Lacock encouraged. ‘Just walk slowly down the line, looking at each face carefully.’

  Yes, that’s right, she was remembering his instructions now, walk along the row, say nothing, then walk the row a second time. Yes. She could do it. And then she’d say it was none of these men. Easy. She took a deep breath.

  The first face was cruel. Hard cold eyes, a twisted lip. The second and third were sad with gaunt faces and a hopeless air, as if they expected nothing except death. The fourth was proud. He wore an eye patch and held himself well, sticking out his barrel chest, his oily curls unable to hide the long scar on his forehead. This one looked her straight in the eye and she knew him at once, the big bear of a man she’d seen down in her street the day before the concert. The one with the howling wolf on his boots. He was the man she’d described to the police in the hope of distracting their attention from herself. She kept her own face blank and moved on to the last two, but she barely saw them. An impression of bulk and muscle and a crooked nose. Number Six wore an eye patch, she noticed that. Stiffly she walked back to the beginning and put herself through it once more.

  ‘Take your time,’ Lacock murmured again in her ear.

  She was going too fast, slowed her pace, made herself stare into each grim dark face. This time Number Four, the one with the wolf boots, raised an eyebrow at her, which made the commissioner rest his baton heavily on the man’s shoulder.

  ‘No liberties,’ he said in a voice accustomed to instant obedience, ‘or you’ll spend the night in jug.’

  Just when Lydia thought it was all over and she could escape this dismal green room, it got worse. The last man spoke. He was smaller than the rest but still big and wore the eye patch. ‘No say it’s me, miss. Please not. I got wife and . . .’

  A baton in the hand of the sergeant slammed into the side of his head. Blood spurted out of his nose and over Lydia’s arm. The sleeve of her white school blouse turned red. She was bundled out of the room before she could open her mouth, but the moment she was back in Commissio
ner Lacock’s office she started to complain.

  ‘That was brutal. Why did . . . ?’

  ‘Believe me, it was necessary,’ Lacock said smoothly. ‘Please leave the policing to us. If you give those Russkies - excuse the expression - an inch, they’ll take a mile. He was told to say nothing and he disobeyed.’

  ‘Were they all Russians?’

  ‘Yes, Russians and Hungarians.’

  ‘Would you have treated an Englishman like that?’

  Lacock frowned heavily and looked as if he were about to say something sharp to her, but instead asked, ‘Did you recognise any of them as the face of the prowler you saw at the Ulysses Club?’

  She shook her head. ‘No.’

  ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘Yes. Absolutely certain.’

  His shrewd eyes studied her carefully, and then he leaned back in his chair, removed his monocle, and spoke in a concerned voice. ‘Don’t be nervous of telling the truth, Lydia. We won’t let any of those men come anywhere near you, so you needn’t be afraid. Just speak out. It’s the Russki with the scar on his forehead, isn’t it? I can tell you’ve seen that one before.’

  Abruptly the room was spinning around her and the commissioner’s face was receding into a tunnel. There was a booming in her ears.

  ‘Burford,’ Lacock ordered, ‘bring the girl a glass of water. She’s as white as a sheet.’

  A hand touched her shoulder, steadied her swaying body; a voice was saying something in her ear but she couldn’t make it out. A cup was pressed to her lips. She took a sip, tasting hot sweet tea, and gradually something began to penetrate the mists that fogged her brain. It was a smell. A perfume. Her mother’s eau de toilette. She opened her eyes. She hadn’t even realised they were closed, but the first thing they saw was her mother’s face, so close she could have kissed it.