Wind in the East

by Steve Turnbull

  He did not count. All he could think about was the cane, her back and each of her screams that cut him to the quick. He felt tears on his cheeks. He watched as the red lines multiplied and criss-crossed her back. A trickle of blood seeped from one wound, and her skin grew darker where it bruised.

  If he hesitated too long she would hiss “Again”. He struck and he struck. And she screamed.

  When she finally uttered the words “Oh god, stop, please stop now” it was a reprieve from the gallows. He dropped the cane as if it were red hot and threw himself in front of her. He put his arms around her waist, careful to avoid the injuries. He lifted her to reduce the strain on her arms. She was so light. Amita untied the chains holding the manacles and Maliha fell limp across his shoulder, the chains rattled down beside them. He collapsed into a sitting position on the naked stone and cradled her.

  She sobbed as Amita unlocked the manacles. Amita brought out some oils and lotions that she gently applied to Maliha’s back and then her wrists. If Valentine had not known Maliha so well he would have been shocked at how well she had prepared.

  Shadows moved beyond the cage. Valentine realised there was someone else there and looked round. It was the Greaux woman, her face streaked from weeping.

  He was surprised at how he felt none of the usual embarrassment holding Maliha, naked, in his arms.

  Amita touched his arm, and he looked up. She nodded and gestured to the door. With the maid’s strong arms for assistance, he struggled to his feet still holding Maliha. She was not asleep, just looking into his face without a word.

  The maid adjusted the cloth to ensure her body was covered and they made their way out. The French woman pulled back the door and he stepped through into the cool air.

  They returned to the steam carriage.

  * * *

  The French woman drove carefully through the dark streets and they arrived at a house with a wide gravel driveway.

  Valentine followed Miss Greaux to a room with covered furniture. She pulled the sheets off the double bed and Valentine laid Maliha down. She had gone to sleep on the journey and, though she now slept in a bed, he found himself unwilling to leave her.

  There was a chaise longue under a sheet. He pulled the cloth back, lay down so that he could see Maliha, and pulled the sheet over himself. Amita bustled about for a short while and Valentine fell asleep.

  v

  A child cried somewhere nearby. It penetrated Valentine’s sleep and brought him awake in a bright room with sunlight diffused by drawn curtains. Valentine was no expert but he thought it was quite a young baby. After a few moments the crying stopped.

  He rubbed his eyes and sat up stretching his stiff limbs. He looked across at the woman lying in the double bed. Maliha. The night’s events flooded back and he felt nothing but contempt for himself.

  The door opened and Amita came in carrying a tray. She deposited a cup of tea and a plate of toast beside him without even acknowledging his presence. There was a second cup and plate on the tray, and a small pot of ointment.

  Valentine stood up. He felt sweaty and the grime of being unwashed since before the battle last night. “Amita.”

  She turned back to him, her gaze downcast like a good Indian woman.

  “Let me.”

  At which Amita looked into his eyes, almost as if she might defy him. She turned away, moved to the bed and placed the tray on the side table away from Maliha and stalked from the room.

  Valentine went to the bed. He knelt on it and pulled back the counterpane. She was naked beneath it but all he could see were the red lines across her back. In places the skin was broken and had bled. There were dried streaks and scabs. The welts were red but her dark skin turned even darker and blue with bruising.

  “Admiring your handiwork?” she said.

  “I am so sorry.”

  “I did not give you a choice.”

  He hesitated. “There’s always a choice.”

  “So why did you choose to do it?”

  This time the words came easily but he held them back for a long time, until they would not be denied. “I didn’t want to lose you again.”

  That seemed to satisfy her and she fell silent.

  Valentine reached back, took the jar of ointment and unscrewed it. A refreshing scent of herbs emanated from it and it had a smooth consistency, even if it did look a dirty shade of green. He took some on his fingers and gingerly pasted it on one of the less inflamed marks. She shivered.

  “That feels good,” she said.

  He continued to lave the mixture onto her skin, though she jumped when he covered the broken skin. They said nothing. He found that now he took the opportunity to look at her skin, the undamaged skin, it was a very attractive colour. She lay on her left side, her right leg forward so she was lying almost face down. He could see part of the old scar on her left thigh.

  After a while she said. “Aren’t you going to ask me why I made you do it?”

  “No.”

  That answer satisfied her too and she fell silent again. He finished and screwed the lid on the pot.

  “Thank you,” she said. Moving with extreme care, she sat up in the bed with her back to him, making no attempt to cover herself. “Would you mind opening the curtains?”

  He climbed off the bed. His legs were stiff from kneeling so long. He made his way across to the window and let in the sunlight. He turned to see Maliha walking towards him. She had wrapped some material around her waist but her entire upper body was exposed. He turned away quickly and looked out the window. It was all very well treating her lying down when she was unwell but to see her walking around unclothed was a different matter altogether.

  She came up beside him. He glanced sidelong at her, surprised at how small she was. There was something about her presence that always made her seem taller. She took hold of his hand and lifted his arm. She ducked under it and laid it across her shoulders. She pressed herself against him, her arm around his waist.

  “You’re embarrassed,” she said. “Don’t be.”

  The baby cried again, the sound muffled by the closed door.

  “I will try not to be.” Although having Maliha so close this way was...difficult. He looked out of the window. Beyond a garden area there was a beach, and the sea.

  “Where are we?”

  “Françoise’s cousin’s house, apparently. Though I’m not entirely sure how much I can believe anything she says,” she said. “But there’s no one here that will cause us any problems. At least for the time being.”

  “Is the baby hers then?”

  Maliha laughed. Valentine liked it when she laughed, it was so rare. “No, not hers. Definitely not hers.” Her humour seemed to last as something went through her mind. “I suppose the baby’s mine.”

  “Yours, but...?” he trailed off, this was getting into a dangerous subject area.

  “No, there has not been quite enough time for me to have conceived and birthed a daughter.” He frowned. That was the Maliha he knew, the one that took pleasure in making him feel awkward. He could almost forget the fact that if he glanced down he could see the beautiful curves of her body. “No, but I am the closest thing to a mother she has. And I haven’t been a very good one. I shall have to do better.”

  He heard the door open and panicked. He seriously considered tearing down the curtain to cover Maliha’s body.

  “Oh, am I interrupting?” said Françoise. Valentine felt as if he was going to die of shame.

  “No, Françoise, we’re just talking.” Maliha said, as if they were discussing the weather on the promenade.

  “You have no clothes on,” hissed Valentine.

  “I am not entirely naked,” she said. “And, seriously, I could not wear anything above the waist at present. You were quite thorough. I need time to heal. Besides,” she continued, “it’s nothing Françoise hasn’t already seen.”

  “I think I should not stay,” said Françoise. “I do not think Monsieur Valentine is ready for a
ménage à trois.” There was a throaty laugh followed by the door closing.

  Valentine felt as if the world had collapsed on him. Too many thoughts; too many ideas; too much of everything.

  Maliha extricated herself from his arm. “Do you want to sit down?” She pulled a sheet off a hard-backed chair next to the window and almost pushed him into it which put his gaze on the same level as her breasts. Thankfully she moved away and sat on the chaise longue, perched on the edge, with her legs crossed. She stretched then winced at the pain.

  “What do you want to know?” she said.

  “This Françoise...”

  “What about her?”

  Damn woman. She was deliberately making this as hard as possible. “You and her?”

  Maliha sighed. “Yes. Just once. She seduced me—but I allowed it; I could have said no.”

  “But you didn’t.”

  “I was upset. I needed someone,” she paused and looked at him. “And you weren’t here.”

  “You drove me away.”

  “I was wrong,” she said.

  Words he never expected to hear from her mouth. “Last night you said you loved me.”

  “Yes, I did.”

  “Was that just to make me do that—” he waved his hand at her, “—to you?”

  “No.”

  He felt his heart crash. It must have been written on his face.

  “I mean,” she said. “I didn’t say it just to make you do it.”

  “Which means what?”

  She shook her head. “Are you completely lacking in any comprehension of logic? It means I love you, William Albert Valentine Crier. I love you.”

  There was a muffled cheer from just outside the room. It had a French accent.

  She glanced at the door and smiled, then looked back at him. “Do you love me?”

  The words fell from him without a moment’s thought. “I think I’ve loved you from the first moment I saw you.”

  The smile that grew on her face was the most beautiful he had ever seen. “Will you forgive me?” she asked.

  He stood up and crossed the room to where she sat. His stride so purposeful that a flicker of worry crossed her face. He took her hands and drew her to her feet.

  He leaned down to her upturned face and kissed her.

  She pressed her body against him. He placed a hand on her waist and the other on her shoulder to avoid her injuries. Her tongue pressed between his lips. He opened his mouth to her and closed his eyes.

  vi

  It had been a week since the attack on the base of operations of the slavers. Maliha’s back had healed to the point where she could wear a sari blouse that Amita had modified to reduce the material at the back. But it still chafed and made her back itch. If she wore it too long the worst cuts became inflamed again.

  She rested her hands on the stone balcony wall, where she had first seen Riette, and looked down into the courtyard. The guests were assembling below. One group consisted of her grandparents, whom she had not spoken to in nearly ten days, with Renuka.

  The commissioner stood with Françoise and Valentine. She had offered to call him Bill, as an olive branch for all the pain she had caused him, but he said he preferred Valentine. He was lying, of course. But it was a way that he showed his forgiveness. There had been other ways too, and she smiled.

  There was a commotion below and Aunt Savitha was brought in flanked by two policemen. Police always overreacted, she thought. Her grandparents turned away but Renuka wept at her mother’s condition.

  Maliha looked at her watch; she would like to start soon but there were still two guests expected. Still, she should get down so that she was ready. There was a full length mirror in the zenana. She looked at herself. Amita waited in the background and would have corrected anything about her that was not perfect.

  She knew some of the marks on her back were visible and there would be some permanent scars, but she was not ashamed of them. Valentine tended them every morning and evening. She smiled again at his gallantry. He slept on the chaise longue every night, and though he had become accustomed to her semi-nakedness he had not taken advantage. It was something she looked forward to.

  With Amita in tow, Maliha headed out and downstairs. As she descended the final flight the front door opened to admit Father Christophe and Naimh O’Donnell. She was dressed in the same threadbare sari as before. But Maliha already knew what she was going to do about that.

  She allowed the latecomers to go first, escorted by one of the staff, and paused for a suitably dramatic amount of time before heading through and out into the sun where the groups were now seated in a rough semi-circle.

  They had decided that Maliha would speak in French while Françoise translated into English for Valentine and Naimh. That had been another revelation for Maliha; it seemed Françoise’s concept of truth was very loose—it was whatever suited her at the time. And it had been convenient for her to pretend that she did not speak good English. Yet somehow Maliha could not bring herself to dislike the woman. Despite her many—very many—faults, she had a sense of justice, even if it was quite self-centred.

  Her grandmother noticed Maliha enter. “I might have died of shame for all you care,” she said in Hindi.

  Amita leaned towards Françoise and Valentine, translating the Hindi into English. A momentary smile crossed the commissioner’s face, then he composed himself.

  “We are speaking French, Grandmother.”

  “I do not even know why you have dragged your grandfather and me to this cursed place.”

  “French.”

  Her grandmother crossed her arms and ceased speaking.

  Maliha took a deep breath. “Commissioner Abelard has been kind enough to allow me to bring you all together so that we can resolve the mystery of four deaths.”

  There was a stir. “Four?” asked the commissioner.

  “Yes, sir, there are four deaths. The first was a tragedy that began this whole affair, two are murder and one, well, that is up to your discretion.” She paused; she had their attention.

  “The biggest difficulty in this case has been the question of why.”

  “Why the girl was killed?” asked the commissioner. “She was poisoned, was she not?”

  “She drank poison, yes, but no, monsieur. Why did she do it during the wedding?”

  “The girl, Riette, had been purchased to provide a body so that Uncle Pratap could satisfy his desires. His wife, Aunt Savitha, had suffered a permanent injury from his years of abuse and if she was beaten again she might die.”

  Grandmother got to her feet and made to leave. “I will not hear this.” With all eyes on her she got as far as the door but the two officers did not let her pass. No one said anything. She returned to her seat. “I will stay for the moment.”

  “Because a replacement needed to be found Aunt Savitha bought a slave girl so that Pratap would not beat his daughters.”

  She glanced at Renuka who was staring at her mother. “It would have been all right mother, I am strong; you should have let him beat me.”

  “How could I? You knew nothing.”

  “Of course I knew, mother.”

  Maliha glanced at her grandmother who held her gaze for a moment then looked away. They all knew. Maliha turned to Savitha.

  “But there was something else, wasn’t there?”

  Savitha looked down at the ground. One shackled hand gripped the other squeezing it tight, digging the nails in.

  “You wanted it. Needed it.”

  “No!” shouted Grandmother. She was on her feet. “Tell them you did not want it, Savitha. Tell them!”

  “But I did, mother. It was the only attention he ever gave to me. Those times alone together became precious to me.”

  Grandmother stood with her mouth open until her husband gently pulled her back into her seat.

  Maliha stalked over to where her grandmother sat. The old woman deserved one more slap in the face. “How did Savitha know where to get a slave, Grand
mother?”

  Grandmother looked flustered. “How would I know?”

  “You told her,” said Maliha. “It was you that went to the devadasi and found out. Then, when the girl killed herself, you went back to bribe her to keep her mouth shut. Are you aware, Grandmother,” said Maliha with a certain relish, “that suppressing evidence is a crime?”

  Her grandmother’s angry silence turned to fear and Maliha turned her back on the old woman.

  “But still this does not answer your question, Mam’selle Anderson.” The commissioner pointed out.

  “Not yet. Remind me, Commissioner, the poison that Riette drank. What was it?”

  “Cyanide.”

  “And in what form?”

  “Green paint.”

  “Scheele’s green. Renuka?”

  The girl looked up in horror. “My green paint? I knew I had not used so much.”

  “You did not approve of the African slave, did you? You just said that you would have let your father beat you rather than have her there.”

  “I did not kill her.”

  Maliha faced her directly. “How long have you known what your father did in the secret room?”

  “She has never known,” shouted Savitha. “None of the children knew.”

  “Of course we knew, mother,” said Renuka. “Do you think we have not eyes or ears?”

  “And you knew about the girl?”

  Renuka nodded while Savitha wiped away fresh tears.

  “So,” said Maliha. “You could have given her the poison and arranged for her to get out during the ceremony?”

  “But why would I do that? Why would I stop my one way of escaping? I would go to my husband’s family. I would be safe from my father.”

  “Because you would be able to take your mother’s place and save her life. Would you not give up your life for your mother?”

  “Of course, but—” Renuka looked around at the others pleading with them “—I did not do this.”

  Maliha said nothing. The commissioner looked pleased and seemed about to get to his feet.

  “I did it,” came Savitha’s voice drifting quietly through the courtyard. “I gave Riette the poison to drink. I told you that.”

  Maliha looked at her. “Yes, you did. And you killed Mary O’Donnell the same way.”