by Tom Bradby
“They have taken her to the Happy Times block?”
“Silence.” The man closest to the window stepped forward. He pointed the muzzle of his gun at Field’s head. “Tais toi.”
They continued speaking to each other in Russian. Field understood the word “Grigoriev,” but nothing else.
“They are talking about when Grigoriev will be back,” Alexei whispered, his head down.
Field’s throat was dry. Bright pinpricks of light swam before his eyes. A kaleidoscope of images: white sheets, red blood, the glint of light on handcuffs, the downward arc of a knife’s blade. He tried to sweep them from his mind. Natalya. Irina. Lena. Natasha.
Natasha. He would force her to dress in the underwear he liked. He would clamp her ankles and wrists to the brass bed. He would look at her. He would take his time. He would hurt her. She would be frightened. She would be wondering where Field was and would not know that he was unable to help her.
He thought of the deep gashes in Lena’s stomach.
He thought of Natalya’s body, twisted in a last, futile attempt to protect herself.
Natasha would be able to do nothing.
She had been a victim ever since leaving Kazan and would die like the others, abandoned and alone.
Geoffrey. How blind Field had been. Truly a fool, imagining as his investigation progressed that he was achieving some mastery of a city where each truth only hid a deeper deceit.
The Russian in the front of the car turned away, and without thinking, Field began to raise his revolver.
The bodyguard beside him took a step closer. “The girl—she was with you?”
Field shook his head. “Waiting for the boy’s mother. Always late!” Field forced himself to smile. The man did not respond.
“Is it a traffic problem?” Field asked.
“Not traffic.”
“Do you mind if I get out and smoke?”
The man shrugged. Field pushed the revolver beneath his seat, then forced himself to get out. He took the packet of cigarettes from his pocket and offered it to both men. The one closest accepted and Field struck a match.
“It’s a traffic problem?”
“Not traffic. You were with the girl?”
Field raised his hands, palms up. “Mon fils est à l’école. Tard. Toujours en retard.”
The man shook his head. His French was clearly little better than his English.
The minutes crawled by. A light wind had got up and was creating small circles of dust along the edge of the sidewalk. Field pictured the deep craters in Lena’s vagina and the thin strands of white skin strung across the top of them. He thought of the marks around her wrists and ankles where the handcuffs had rubbed as she’d struggled to break free.
In his mind’s eye, he could see Natasha writhing and turning away to protect herself. He could hear her screaming in his head.
The men spoke in Russian again. Field could see Alexei’s small, frightened face through the windshield.
He turned to face Lu’s door, squinting against the sunlight and watching the burning ash as he sucked deeply on the cigarette.
He closed his mouth and exhaled, pushing the smoke through his nostrils.
Geoffrey couldn’t kill Natasha.
Even as he tried to cling to the thought, he wondered at his own naiveté. He had placed Natasha’s fate in the hands of a man he thought he had grown to understand, and yet did not know at all.
He could see Geoffrey’s warm smile as he swept a hand calmly through his hair, the quiet confidence and authority he projected with every movement. He could feel the warmth of his handshake and the reassuring calmness and affection of his fatherly demeanor, the promise of a home away from home.
As the anger swelled within him, Field tried to conjure up an image of Natasha’s face, but suddenly could not. He could see the wound on her chest, blood welling and flowing across her skin, but not her face.
He turned.
The Russians had not moved.
Field took a pace toward them, then forced himself to adopt an air of studied indifference. A man in a long khaki raincoat emerged from the street behind them. It was a moment before Field realized that it was Chen.
When he came level with the Russians, the Chinese detective affected to notice Field for the first time. He crossed in front of the two bodyguards as though they were not there. “Richard.”
Field shook his hand and tried to smile.
“What are you doing here?” Chen asked, staring at him intently.
“Just taking my son to school. I’m . . . we’re late. I’m not quite sure what the problem is.”
Chen turned toward the Russians, speaking to them in their own language.
“They say you were with a woman.” Chen was frowning, as if not having any idea what the men were talking about.
“No, no. I’m just . . .” Field cleared his throat and pointed at the car. “Taking my son to his school.” He exhaled. “We’re very late.”
“Some woman, big trouble,” Chen said. “They are worried you have something to do with her.”
Field shook his head emphatically.
One of the men spoke directly to Field, in Russian. Chen translated. “He wants to know why you are taking your boy to school at lunchtime.”
“Doctor. Doctor’s appointment.”
This time the conversation took several minutes, the Chinese detective no longer bothering to relay what the Russians were saying. Eventually, he turned back to Field. “A big problem, they say.” Chen changed tack. “How was Allenby when you saw him last night?”
Field looked at him, confused, until he saw Chen’s mouth tighten. “Oh, he was fine. You know. Just fine.”
Chen’s tone with the bodyguards became more forceful. He pointed repeatedly to both Field and the boy in the exchange that followed. “I’ve said you’re a good friend of some very important people in the Settlement,” he explained without turning around.
The Russians seemed unsure. They could no longer talk to each other without being understood, so stood in sullen silence, glancing up from time to time at the bright sun, as if the solution to their problem might suddenly reveal itself.
At length, the one closest to Chen stepped aside and waved his gun to indicate they could continue.
Field walked forward.
“Where are you going?” Chen asked. His manner was calm, his words unhurried.
“To the school.”
“You’re going on to the office?”
Field hesitated. “Yes, probably.”
“I’ll ride with you.”
Field got behind the wheel and Chen moved around to the far side, nodding at the Russians as he passed. He slipped into the passenger seat, patting the boy on the head. He raised his hand at the men and smiled. Field moved off.
“They went towards Foochow Road,” Chen said.
“The boy says they took her to the Happy Times block.”
As he turned left, Field put his foot down on the accelerator.
“Not too fast.”
The blood was pounding through Field’s head.
“Slower,” Chen barked.
“For Christ’s sake.”
“Be careful.”
A tram had stopped ahead of them, a small group of people waiting to climb on board. Field began to pull out. “Wait,” Chen said. He turned around. As Field was about to explode, he gestured with his hand. “Go on.”
Chen looked back over his shoulder again. Field drove mechanically, the images around him disjointed and unreal, his gaze fixed on a yellow Chevrolet in front as they drove down toward the racecourse. “Slow,” Chen said, exhaling. “Pull up before Happy Times.”
Field drew up a hundred yards short, behind an old-model Ford that was disgorging a young family, the mother trying to prevent her two young children from running off down the street. Beyond them, Field could see Lu’s men standing by the entrance. Grigoriev was smoking.
Field took the revolver from under
his seat and put it back in its holster. “Stay here, Alexei. Don’t leave the car.” He got out and walked swiftly after Chen. He looked back once, but the men had not moved.
Chen led the way round to the back of the building and down a narrow alley. The service entrance was a black steel door, beyond a large bin overflowing with refuse. Chen took out his revolver and gestured to Field to pull the door toward him. They stepped inside.
The stairs led down to a basement and their footsteps echoed. Field fumbled for a light switch.
There were four or five buckets at the foot of the steps, a pile of paintbrushes, and a broom. Field could hear the low rumble of a boiler.
He held up the revolver, his palm slippery against the metal.
Chen raised his hand, his head tilted to one side. Field could feel the sweat gathering on his forehead.
They found the stairwell and emerged slowly into the light of the main hallway. As he opened the swinging door, Field could see Grigoriev standing outside with his back to him. They moved silently across the hall, Field’s eyes never leaving the Russian. The front desk was empty.
They reached the entrance to the staircase.
Once beyond it, they sprinted up the stairs. As he neared the top landing, Field heard her scream.
Fifty-four
Field braced himself and kicked her door, hard, just beneath the handle. “Natasha!” He took aim and kicked once more.
He kicked again and again, until the frame started to splinter.
“Natasha!”
There was silence within.
The door gave with a crack like a pistol shot. Field crashed through it, raising his gun, Chen behind him. The curtains had been partially drawn. He blinked, trying to adjust his eyes to the patchwork of daylight and shadow.
The flat was silent.
There was the flickering glow of a candle in the bedroom doorway, and Field walked slowly toward it.
He saw her arms first, handcuffed above her head. She was almost naked. Geoffrey half sat, half knelt above her, his knife at her throat.
“Don’t move, Richard.”
He stepped into the room.
“Do not move.” Geoffrey’s voice shook with barely controlled anger.
Field stopped. He raised his hands slowly in the air, transfixed by the fear in Natasha’s eyes.
“Put the gun down,” Geoffrey ordered.
Field took a pace toward them.
“Both of you.”
Field leaned over and placed his gun beside the bed. Chen, standing directly behind him, bent down slowly and slid his weapon along the floor.
Field’s heart was beating so hard he could hear it. He took another step forward.
Without a word, Geoffrey moved the knife from Natasha’s throat and cut swiftly across the top of her right breast. She recoiled, giving a strangled cry. Field watched, frozen, as a rivulet of blood ran down the side of her breast and blossomed where it touched her camisole.
Natasha closed her eyes and, very softly, began to cry, her mouth shut tight, her teeth grating against the pain.
Geoffrey pressed the blade against the soft skin of Natasha’s neck. “She is as good as dead, Richard,” he said.
“I saw you as a father,” Field said quietly. “I saw you as a hero.”
“There are no more heroes, Richard. Did your father’s suicide teach you nothing?”
“I don’t think he felt he had a choice.”
“His much-lauded integrity didn’t take him to the front, though, did it?”
“He wanted to go. He failed the medical.”
“Is that what he told you?”
Field didn’t answer.
“You and your father are so alike it makes my skin crawl. That same insufferably sanctimonious sense of moral probity that you seek to impose upon the world.”
“I grew up with the story of your sacrifice. It was your example that taught me there were things worth fighting for.” Field searched for some humanity in his uncle’s eyes but saw only the accumulated bitterness of the years.
“There’s nothing left worth fighting for,” Geoffrey said. “Open your eyes, Richard. Take a look around you.”
Field moved closer, and Geoffrey sliced the blade once more across Natasha’s chest. This time he did not even glance at her as she whimpered and writhed, the tears running down her cheeks.
“Don’t do that again,” Geoffrey said.
Field tried not to look at her, either. “This is because of what happened to you in the war?” he said.
Geoffrey went completely still. “Do you know how many men marched into Delville Wood that day?”
“Yes I do.”
“And how many of us came back?”
“I understand.”
“No you don’t. You can’t possibly understand. Nobody survived that day. We all died in Delville Wood.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Life goes on, of course. It goes on and on and bloody on. But people forget, Richard; they confuse meaningless sacrifice with nobility. The Great War? Oh yes. That was the war to end all wars. But Delville Wood? It’s just a place on the map.”
“I said I’m sorry.”
“Spare me your pity. I’ve seen the look in your eyes when you watch me dragging myself through another roomful of bloody beautiful people. It’s the same way Penelope looks when she’s just been with someone who can fuck her—”
“What harm have these girls done you?”
Geoffrey’s face twisted. “They despise me. They judge me. You all dare to judge me.”
Field shook his head. “You’ve got it wrong, Geoffrey. My father destroyed himself by trying to prove himself worthy of you, of your family. So did Mother. She couldn’t bear to incur your disapproval. They felt they couldn’t measure up. The fact that you came back a hero was just . . . It made my father even more haunted by the mess he thought he’d made of our lives. He hated me for admiring you.”
“So I’ve let you down as well?” The anger burned deep within Geoffrey’s eyes. “You’re disappointed, like your mother, that I’m not the man I was, that I am somehow diminished by my journey through seven versions of hell? Damn you, Richard. Your arrogance disgusts me. You’ve been in this city for little more than a heartbeat, and yet you believe you can lord it over us all.”
“I’ve never believed—”
“Get out of my sight. And just see how long you last. This is my city, Field. It dances to my tune.”
“Let me take the girl—”
A look of complete incredulity crossed Geoffrey’s face. “She’s a Russian.”
“She’s got a little boy to look after. Natalya’s son.”
“Get out, Field.”
“It’s not too late.”
“Don’t insult me further.”
“It’s not—”
“Get out. I’m damned if you’ll lecture me. You cannot save the girl.”
“Why?”
“Because of the look in her eyes,” Geoffrey exploded. “Because of the promises she makes but cannot keep.”
Natasha twisted suddenly, unbalancing Geoffrey, and Field lunged across the bed, grabbing hold of his knife arm. His momentum took them both crashing onto the floor.
Geoffrey managed to wrench himself round as they fell, forcing Field onto his back. The pain burned through Field’s shoulder as he tried to keep his grip; Geoffrey was astonishingly strong. He looked up at the long blade closing on his neck and felt Geoffrey’s free hand scrabbling at his face, fingers searching for his eyes.
Field let go with his right hand and hit him as hard as he could on the underside of the jaw. As Geoffrey’s head snapped back, Field grabbed and twisted the knife, watching the blade disappear into Geoffrey’s stomach as the bullet from Chen’s revolver thumped into his uncle’s chest.
Geoffrey’s body went slack, his eyes widening in surprise, the knowledge of his own imminent death creeping across his face.
Field pushed Geoffrey off him and got to his
feet. As he did so, Geoffrey began to convulse, at first violently, and then with diminishing force as the life drained out of him.
Field knelt and watched his uncle slip away, watched the cold anger disappear from his eyes, to be replaced by a sadness more profound than he had known.
The man who had sacrificed himself at Delville Wood searched Field’s face, then fumbled for his hand. “Don’t remember this,” he said.
He tightened his grip, his hand slippery with his own blood. It was as though the Geoffrey that Field had once known was trying to summon himself back from the past, before it was too late. He struggled to speak, his mouth opening and shutting, but could not enunciate the words.
Field leaned nearer. Geoffrey closed his eyes. Field felt the dying man’s breath on his cheek as he finally managed to whisper, “Don’t—remember—this.”
The pain ebbed from Geoffrey’s face and his grip on Field’s hand weakened. He did not open his eyes again. His breathing was now almost inaudible, the room suddenly quiet.
The silence was broken by the sound of footsteps pounding up the stairs. Chen was on one knee in the doorway. For a split second, Lu’s bodyguards did not see them. Chen fired twice at Grigoriev, who fell back into the man behind him.
Chen stood, firing at the second man as he was still trying to scramble clear. The first shot punched a hole in his forehead, the second buried itself in his neck, spinning him back into the corridor.
Chen moved forward to check that they were dead, his shoes scuffing the wooden floor.
Field looked for a moment more at his uncle’s face, then got slowly to his feet.
The keys to Natasha’s handcuffs were on the table, next to the candle. Field wiped the blood from his hands on her sheet, then picked them up and sat on the bed beside her. When he had released her, she clung to him, her head on his chest, her fingers digging deep into his back. She sobbed quietly as he held her, her blood seeping through the front of his shirt.
Field gently prized her away and bent to examine the gashes across her breasts. He stood and looked about him, then moved to the closet and pulled it open, ran his hands through the clothes that hung there, and pulled out a white cotton shirt and dress. He tore the material into strips and gently raised her chin. Her mouth was swollen and the skin around her right eye was already discolored.
