The Eleventh Tiger

by David A. McIntee

  Fei-Hung wasn’t stupid enough to turn down a free drink.

  Or he wasn’t smart enough - he never could decide which. He took a swig from the bottle and immediately wished he could cough the fire out of his throat and chest. His eyes watered and he slumped into a chair.

  ‘What is that?’

  Cheng looked at a label. ‘Peppered vodka. No wonder the Russians are so bloody annoyed all the time.’

  Fei-Hung grabbed a jug of water and poured half of it down his throat. ‘Bloody hell.’ He coughed. ‘I came in to talk about the Black Flag -’

  ‘Yes, we were just talking about that, and what we’re going to do.’

  ‘With my lather in jail I have many extra duties at Po Chi Lam. I’m not sure I’ll be able to take both training sessions this week.’

  ‘Neither are we. Sure we can make it, that is.’ Cheng tried to look vaguely in the direction of Fei-Hung. ‘We’ve found a moral objectification to... to... to the new guy.’

  ‘New guy?’

  ‘Some sort of abbot. He ate Lei-Fang for dinner, I think, so I’m trying to decide what to do. Kill my brother or keep running.’

  Fei-Hung sighed and rose. ‘I’ll come back tomorrow when you’re not drunk. All things in moderation, you know.’ He grinned. ‘But not too much.’

  When Fei-Hung had gone Cheng looked at Pang. ‘I don’t feel drunk, do you?’ Pang shook his head and fell forward on to the table, snoring.

  ‘Oh, he meant you,’ Cheng said, understanding.

  Fei-Hung started towards the Law family’s house, but stopped after a few yards. Something about Cheng’s words triggered alarms in his head. He went back to the Hidden Panda, but Cheng and Pang were both in a drunken stupor, snores blowing bubbles from their lips.

  He tried to wake them, but it was like trying to wake the dead. After a few moments Fei-Hung decided to tell the Doctor about them, and returned to Po Chi Lam.

  The Doctor was experimenting with herbs and spices, con-sulting a notebook as he opened each jar or sachet.

  ‘Doctor-sifu,’ Fei-Hung whispered, careful not to disturb the patients in the surgery.

  ‘Oh, it’s you, young man.’ The Doctor put away his notebook. ‘Is anything wrong?’

  ‘I’m not sure,’ Fei-Hung admitted. ‘Cheng and Pang - the men who carried your friend here when he was attacked - are behaving most oddly.’

  ‘In what way odd?’

  ‘Something about someone eating his brother or something.’

  ‘Good grief! Do you mean to say cannibalism?’

  ‘Not literally - at least I don’t think so.’ Fei-Hung sat back on his heels. ‘I think it was something to do with the Black Flag militia. They’re both members -’

  ‘As are yourself and your father.’

  Fei-Hung gave a guilty start. ‘Well, yes. But I get the impression that something is happening. A coup in the ranks, perhaps.’

  ‘Life is a matter of shifting balances and changing alle-giances,’ the Doctor said. ‘Whether we like it or not doesn’t make a difference. In any case, it’s not my place to interfere in your local politics.’

  ‘I was just wondering if the politics were interfering with you.’ Fei-Hung lowered his voice. ‘Jiang is also a member, and he is ambitious.’

  ‘I see,’ the Doctor said wearily. He sat down with a sigh.

  ‘You know, I do so wish people would stop trying to involve me in other people’s affairs. Or their own.’

  Major Chesterton had finished writing out the report on the morning’s arrest, and a small snifter from the drinks cabinet in his office had helped relax him and ease him into the paperwork. He wished he knew just how reliable this Jiang was. Anderson and Logan seemed to trust him well enough -

  as much as either of them trusted any Chinaman - but Chesterton couldn’t help dwelling on the fact that the man was betraying his own superior.

  No officer and gentleman would do such a thing for his own advancement, but Jiang didn’t have the eyes of a gentleman.

  He had the eyes of a snake, and the tongue of its charmer.

  Chesterton wondered briefly if his opinion was merely instinct, or if he had had some experience of the man before.

  He read over the report and visualised Jiang’s waxed, droopy moustache, and hoped this would trigger a memory. It didn’t, so, tossing the report away with a snap of the wrist, he decided to try another tack. He would go and speak to the prisoner.

  He went over to the glasshouse at the western end of the garrison, and ordered the private on duty to open the door to Kei-Ying’s cell. The middle-aged Chinaman was sitting on the floor in the lotus position. Probably asleep, Chesterton thought, though no doubt the man would call it meditation.

  ‘Good evening, Major,’ Kei-Ying said without opening his eyes. ‘How can I help you?’

  Chesterton wasn’t sure what to ask. ‘Did we know each other before?’

  ‘I believe so, but only briefly,’ Kei-Ying said.

  ‘You say you treated me once.’

  ‘Yes. Last night.’

  ‘You know I can’t accept that. But I can believe you’re simply mistaken about when it was.’

  Kei-Ying opened one eye. It was calm and clear, and, in a way, relaxing. It put Chesterton at ease. ‘Can you?’

  ‘Yes.’ Chesterton stepped into the cell and sat on the cot against one of the walls. He knew Kei-Ying could probably take him with that strange type of boxing the Chinese did, but he didn’t see any sign of hostility in the man’s eyes. ‘If you know me, what do you think of me? What sort of man am I?’

  ‘You have always seemed a fair man. Open-minded, chivalrous, brave and caring. Loyal to your friends.’

  ‘Sounds like a proper chivalrous knight,’ Chesterton said wistfully. He held up his glass to the light, examining the liquor. But it doesn’t sound much like the man I hear talk about. The one whom half of Kwantung wants to punch in the face.’

  ‘Perhaps something happened to you, changed you.’

  ‘Maybe. People do change, don’t they? And not always for the better. My old dad used to say that.’

  ‘He sounds like a wise man.’

  ‘You only say that because you don’t know him. He was a drunkard and a gambler, and couldn’t tell the difference between his marriage bed and a whorehouse.’ Chesterton’s mood had changed now and he sighed. ‘Is there a reason for the hatred I get when I show my face in your streets? Or is it just because I’m the symbol of a foreign law?’

  Kei-Ying closed his eyes for a moment. ‘I hear tell of villages being burnt, ships attacked by pirates, caravans falling prey to banditry... but not of raiders being arrested or murderers and bandits caught. We don’t hate you because of what you do. We despair at what you fail to do. We know a Han government could keep the order you fail to deliver. And we know we would avenge the sons and daughters whose deaths don’t seem to divert you from your plunder.’

  Chesterton stood up. ‘We’ll talk again in the morning.’

  He didn’t look back as the private re-locked the cell door.

  He walked more slowly on the return journey to his office.

  There must be a reason why he was so weak, so powerless.

  He slumped into his chair. Perhaps if he dozed off his troubles would disappear in the night. Trying to solve them just seemed to breed more and more problems.

  He took out the frame that contained the pictures of himself and the striking woman, and touched her face. It didn’t connect him to her any more than just looking did, but he pretended it did. He pretended his fingertips were brushing over soft skin, and that he was rewarded with the breath of a kiss. He pretended he knew who she was, in the hope that his pretence would come true and his life would make sense again.

  She didn’t speak, or blink, or blow a kiss. His fingertips hissed over paper until he snapped the frame shut. Where was this woman now, he wondered? The inscription made it clear that she and he were lovers, so why was she not with him? Was she looking after their childre
n, back in England?

  Did she leave him for a man who would be there at night, and not travelling the globe? Was she pining over an identical picture of him, her heart soon to break because he had forgotten to write this week?

  Any other explanation was too painful to think about. If he had lost her, a loss repeated or, worse, relived, would be a loss more than just doubled.

  It was almost sunset when Cheng woke. Pang was still snoring, and perhaps this was the noise that had woken him.

  He groaned and found a pitcher of water to drain. Beyond Pang, a few more crates of the vodka were stacked near the door ready for delivery to the Scottish sergeant major.

  Cheng found he had no enthusiasm for completing the job, but then he remembered the way Anderson had talked about his daughter. Maybe he wasn’t a bad man for a gwailo. It occurred to him that perhaps the sergeant major could be of use to him in his dilemma, especially if he could talk the Scotsman into helping him.

  Cheng opened the door and started lugging the crates outside. He had the wagon loaded in record time, and was soon clattering off to Sa Meen island, which the Wongs, who were not Cantonese, called Xamian. He had no trouble getting across the pontoon bridge that linked the island garrison to the riverside. By now the guards were used to his wagon with its legitimate deliveries and its special cargoes for Sergeant Major Anderson.

  He stopped the wagon at the wash house and waited for Anderson to appear. Every part of his brain was rebelling, telling him he was drunk and should run like hell. Cheng ignored this, and soon saw Anderson emerging from the cookhouse on the corner. He hissed to him and Anderson turned. The sergeant major’s eyes widened and he marched over to Cheng at double time, his eyes flicking left and right.

  He pushed Cheng into the shadows between two barrack blocks. ‘What are ye doing here?’

  ‘Delivering the rest of your order.’

  ‘And d’ye expect me just to hand boxes of ammunition over to a Chinee in front of everyone? Jesus Christ!’

  ‘No, I don’t want it any more. Here it is, the remainder of your crates. Don’t drink it all at once.’

  Anderson snorted. ‘I wouldn’t let a drop of this devil’s brew past my lips to save my life. But it’ll bring a good profit.’

  Cheng laughed. ‘Buy yourself a ticket home, my friend.

  You’ve told me enough about Megan that I know you are a good father. You should go home and be one.’

  ‘Are ye threatening me, trying to get rid of me? Or trying to warn me about something?’

  Cheng hesitated. ‘I’m not sure,’ he admitted.

  ‘I suppose it depends whose side you’re on.’

  Cheng shook his head. ‘I don’t know who’s on what side any more.’

  Anderson frowned.

  ‘There’s something else I want instead,’ Cheng said.

  ‘And that would be?’

  ‘To talk to Wong Kei-Ying.’

  2

  Barbara couldn’t get enough of seeing Ian up on his feet, behaving normally. Normalcy wasn’t something people usually considered wonderful, but today she felt that Ian being normal was wonderful. It was wonderful because normalcy meant he wasn’t ill, he wasn’t in pain and his life wasn’t fading before her eyes.

  ‘You look like you’ve won the pools,’ he had said earlier.

  ‘I did. The jackpot.’ His face had softened then, and she had held him for a long minute. ‘I thought -’

  ‘I know. I’ve been there. There and back again.’

  Barbara chuckled. ‘That’s a thought, actually. We saw that house last night, but I wonder if -’

  ‘- if it’s still there in the cold light of day?’ Ian nodded to himself, rubbing a sore spot on his chin. ‘I think some fresh air might do me good, actually. And it looks like being a nice day. I’ll just go and tell...’ He fell silent with a grimace.

  ‘Trouble?’ Barbara asked, seeing the darkness in Ian’s expression. She felt a sudden weakness at the thought that the Doctor’s medicine might be wearing off. What if Ian’s injuries were causing a relapse?

  ‘Are you hurt? Is the Doctor’s medicine wearing off?’

  ‘No,’ he said with a sigh. ‘It’s this duel of the Doctor’s. He must be mad.’

  ‘I expect he knows what he’s doing, and has some kind of plan,’ she lied. Ian had had enough to worry about since they arrived here without this as well.

  ‘I hope you’re right.’

  ‘You know I am. It’s not the first time he’s got into a scrap.’

  ‘With an expert?’

  ‘Ian Chesterton,’ she said in her best classroom voice, ‘I do believe you just like to look for things to worry about. It’s as if you’re addicted to it.’

  ‘Believe me,’ Ian said with a smile, ‘I’d be only too happy never to find a problem again. It’s not my fault if worries keep finding me.’

  ‘Then I’m taking you to somewhere that they won’t find you. Or if they do, at least they might help settle the questions I’ve been asking myself since last night.’

  ‘As my lady commands,’ Ian quipped, with a faintly ridiculous courtly bow that belonged in one of Coal Hill School’s drama group productions. ‘Actually, maybe we should ask the Doctor to come with us. He seemed to have more ideas about this house of yours than I might have.’

  Barbara grinned. ‘He’s on teaching duty, and it’s an extended midterm break for us.’

  ‘There is that,’ he had agreed, and so they had gone.

  Ian borrowed a hat to shade his eyes and partly cover his face, so that no-one would recognise him as they passed through Canton.

  Barbara had been half-afraid - more than half, if truth be told - that the house would be gone. After all, none of them had noticed it on their original journey into Canton the previous morning, and she had an unreasoning suspicion that it had appeared just for last night’s performance.

  Her fears were unfounded. The house was still there, its colours muted and dusty, all the paintwork it had ever had faded by long years under the sun.

  Ian had been half-expecting something Charles Addams might have drawn, then, remembering where he was, had amended his mental image to a sprawling pagoda with lots of dark windows and bats in the rafters.

  What Barbara led him to was just a little bungalow, built in a typical Chinese plaster-and-tile fashion. In the daylight the house was rather grimy and run-down, but it didn’t look at all threatening or spooky to him.

  ‘Are you sure this is the place?’ he asked.

  Barbara nodded. ‘It looked quite different last night.’

  ‘It must have done, from what you and Vicki told us.’

  There were roses growing around an old bench and table outside. The door was still solid, but it was ajar and Ian pushed experimentally against it. It was stiff, but opened under relatively little pressure and he went into the house.

  Although it had rained overnight, the interior didn’t smell damp. Rather, it smelt of warm clay, with the scent of flowers keeping it fresh. It made the air a little thicker than Ian would have liked, but certainly not unpleasant.

  The large room was dark even in the morning sunshine.

  Moss had taken hold in the walls and there was no sign of furniture. The only footprints in the dust on the bare floorboards were his own. A couple of other smaller rooms were separated from the big one by wooden partitions. Ian went through to the one on the left and found a large, wooden table and empty shelves. It was clearly a kitchen. The other room was as empty as the first, but Ian was fairly sure it must have been a bedroom.

  ‘It doesn’t look like anybody’s lived here for years,’ Barbara said.

  She was standing in the larger, main room, looking around.

  Perhaps it was Ian’s imagination, but it seemed unusually quiet in the house. It wasn’t just that the walls blocked the sounds outside, of birds and rustling leaves, but their voices seemed muted in some way.

  ‘No.’ Ian looked around. It was a nice enough house, but seeme
d forgotten in its corner of the roadside. He didn’t believe in ghosts, but shivered nonetheless. ‘Still, it’s a handy place to shelter from some rain.’

  ‘And not leave any footprints?’

  Ian could only shrug. ‘You came in last night, didn’t you?

  Yet you didn’t leave any footprints either and we both know you’re not a ghost. This must be a different house. The one you sheltered in must be somewhere else along the road.

  Either we’ve missed it already or we haven’t reached it yet.’

  ‘And this one?’

  ‘This one would be easy to miss in the dark.’

  ‘Ian, it is this house. I recognise it. That little table outside, the rose bush, the well.’

  ‘It’s probably the typical layout for a house in this time and place. And even if it was this house, I can guarantee you there’s a more rational explanation than ghosts and ghouls and things that go bump in the night.’

  ‘Such as?’

  Ian hesitated, trying to think of a single rational explanation. ‘I dunno... Perhaps some more dust shook loose from the ceiling after you left and covered up the prints.’

  ‘That’s even more far-fetched and you know it, Ian! For one thing it would need the dust to be lying on the ceiling while Vicki and Fei-Hung and I were here. You might be the scientist, Ian, but I think that if anyone had repealed the law of gravity it would have been mentioned in a lot of very important history books.’

  ‘I suppose you’re right. Actually, I’m beginning to wonder a little more about this “stone tape” theory of the Doctor’s.’

  Barbara laughed. ‘That was rather outlandish, wasn’t it? It was all Greek to me. I don’t suppose you have a better idea of how believable it is?’

  Ian had been thinking about it. Earlier he would have said the theory was pure science fiction, but now he wasn’t so sure. He knelt beside a wall and used a penknife to scrape some plaster away from the bricks.

  ‘The Doctor could have a point. Tapes do record and read signals by magnetically affecting particles of iron oxide and the like.’ He tapped the wall. ‘And there are iron oxides in bricks like these...’ He stood up. ‘I think I’d like to keep an open mind about it, at least.’