For Kingdom and Country (9 page)

‘And Bingham-Smith?’

‘What about him?’ Ross said.

‘We should interrogate him, too, sir. He’s hiding something. I can feel it.’

Ross shook his head. ‘He’s been released. They all have, those delightful young officer chums of his. Seems somebody paid off Jalal Al-bin Bahar rather handsomely and he’s dropped all charges. Gracious of him, don’t you think, considering?’

‘Bugger,’ Lock said. He so wanted to see Bingham-Smith sweat some more. But perhaps the major was right. Perhaps it was Wassmuss behind the attempt on his life. ‘Do you think it was Grössburger?’ he said. ‘That organised the shooting?’

‘Maybe.’ Ross put his hand on Lock’s shoulder and guided him on through the hall. ‘However, if what Grössburger says is true, about a price being on your head, and I don’t doubt it, my boy, I don’t doubt it, then we need to get you out of the firing line. You were lucky, very lucky last time. But the next assassin’s bullet might be true, and we can’t have that now, can we?’

‘Meaning?’

‘Meaning that every Tom, Dick and Abdul with a bad debt or an insatiable greed will be looking to take a potshot at your golden goose of a bonnet. Therefore, I think it best we get you well away, and back to the front.’

‘Back to the front? Where every Johnny will be taking a potshot at me. How in the hell is that going to help?’ Lock said.

‘Aye, the enemy will do that,’ Ross said. ‘But we need to get you out of Basra, until things quieten down, until we can get a clearer picture of this murder accusation. I’ll get Betty onto it first thing.’

Lock grunted. A fat lot of good that was going to do, he thought.

‘Look, sir. I’m part of your White Tab network. You recruited me to catch Wassmuss, to help smash his network and put a stop to the threat to the oilfields. How is removing me from the picture going to help? It makes no sense.’

‘But, my dear Kingdom, it makes perfect sense. Who do you think the commanding officer at the Tigris front is? For the Ottoman Forces, I mean?’

Lock looked blankly back at the major.

‘Why, a certain Major Feyzi, that’s who.’ He paused and rubbed at his moustache. ‘That is, if our sources in the area are correct. Still, I can think of no one better than you to go and find out.’

Lock tried again, this time a little louder and a little harder.

He was on the landing outside Amy and Mary’s apartment on the top floor of the house on the Street of Allah’s Tears. He knew the girls still lived here as their surnames were staring back at him, written in pencil, from the card attached to the door. He was taking a risk coming here, but he had to see Amy before he headed off for Qurna, the new front about thirty miles north up the Tigris River. Singh and Lance Corporal Elsworth, the young sharpshooter Lock had adopted from the 104th shortly before the Battle of Barjisiyah Woods, and whom he had duly promoted for his sterling efforts and eagle eye, were waiting and keeping watch downstairs. Lock didn’t need the escort, but Singh had insisted. He hoped the big Indian was being overcautious, but a part of him said that the sooner he left Basra the better. And not just for him, but for Amy, too.

He knocked again, just to be sure, and held the back of his hand up for a moment longer contemplating the half-moon white scar that ran from the knuckle at the foot of his index finger to the base of his thumb. Yes, Elsworth was a damned good shot, he smiled to himself, remembering how he had got the scar.

A burst of staccato chatter broke out from the floor below. Lock peered over the banister to see the Arab mother who lived in the apartment
downstairs shouting at two children, boys of about seven or eight. Both, from what Lock could gather, had just returned from playing outside, and both were somehow soaked in muddy water. There was a waft of cooking meat as the woman ushered the children inside their home and slammed the door behind them. Lock could still hear her scolding voice as he smiled and turned back to Amy’s door. The electric light went out.

Lock pressed the push-button switch on the wall, and again he was bathed in the dim yellow light of the naked bulb hanging down from the flyblown ceiling. There was a buzz and a faint rustle as a large moth was disturbed once more by the sudden luminescence. Lock raised his fist, and as he went to knock for a third time, the door sprang open.

Amy stood at the threshold, emerald eyes ablaze with anger.

‘What?’ she snapped.

She looked dishevelled, auburn hair all tangled and loose down to her shoulders, a robe pulled tightly about her small frame.

‘Did I wake you?’ Lock said. ‘Sorry.’

They stood staring at one another for a moment listening to the muffled scolding of the woman downstairs.

The light in the hall clicked out again.

Amy opened the door to her apartment wider, and turned and walked back inside. Lock followed her, closing the door softly behind him.

The apartment hadn’t changed since he was last there. The square hallway was as cramped as before, with coats, hats and jackets hanging haphazardly on one side, whilst the other was wall-to-ceiling shelves crammed with books and neglected pot plants. In a tiled room opposite, through a door that was slightly ajar, Lock could see part of a tin bath. The second door off to the right led into the living quarters. The room was square like the hallway, crammed with furniture, more books and more choking pot plants. An elaborately carved screen separated the room in two, living quarters on one side with an old leather armchair and
a rickety wardrobe, and sleeping on the other. Here was a large, unkempt, wooden bed that Amy and Mary shared. Despite being dominated by a large pair of French windows, which opened up onto a latticed-shuttered balcony overhanging the street, the room was stuffy, musty and damp. Clothes, shoes and old newspapers covered just about every surface that Lock’s eye fell upon.

‘Still as tidy as ever, I see,’ Lock said, standing on the threshold.

His gaze moved left to the kitchen area. This was decorated with criss-crossed washing lines from which limp, drying clothes hung down over a table piled high with dirty dishes.

‘Hard to find help, what with the servants all away at the front,’ Lock added.

‘What do you want, Kingdom?’ Amy sighed. ‘I’ve only just finished a twelve-hour shift.’ She emerged from the bathroom behind him with a steaming kettle in her hand. ‘I was about to take a bath.’

‘Don’t let me stop you,’ Lock said, stepping aside to let her pass. ‘I could scrub your back.’

Amy ignored him and moved over to the pot-bellied stove at the end of the kitchen area, placing the kettle on the hotplate.

‘Would you like some tea? There’s enough water here.’

Lock removed his hat and tossed it onto the armchair. ‘No tea,’ he said.

‘Oh, yes, I forgot,’ Amy said, rubbing her eyes.

‘You look like you just got out of bed.’

‘I did. I was asleep when you knocked. Repeatedly.’

‘I thought you were having a bath?’

‘I …’ She glared back at him. ‘What time is it?’

‘Time we talked.’

‘I have nothing to say.’

‘Well, I have.’

Amy started to move away, but Lock reached out and grabbed her arm, pulling her close. He stared down into her eyes, captivated by the fire that burnt there defiantly.

‘Why, Amy? Why are you being like this?’

She tried to shrug him off, but Lock held firm.

‘Let me go you …
salaud!
’

Lock shook his head. ‘Not until you tell me just what the hell has gotten into you.’

Amy turned her gaze away. ‘
Rien
.’

Lock gently pulled her face back again. There were tears welling up in her eyes now.

‘Please, Amy. Talk to me.’

She looked back at him, eyes darting from one to the other. Her lips parted.

‘
Je
—’

Lock pressed his mouth to hers and kissed her hard. She didn’t struggle and as their tongues met she gave a little moan, but whether it was of pleasure or despair Lock neither knew nor cared. He pulled her body to him, holding her tighter, his desire rising. He could feel her body through the robe, knew she was naked underneath, could feel the crush of her breasts against his chest. His hands wandered down her back to the firm roundness of her behind.

Amy pulled sharply away and slapped Lock hard across the cheek, the crack of her palm stinging the air.

‘
Non!
’

Lock was momentarily stunned. He put his hand to his stinging cheek and glared back at her, anger and annoyance welling up in his chest.

‘We can’t,’ Amy said, voice husky, her breathing rapid. ‘I’m getting married.’

‘Bollocks.’ Lock made to grab her, and she took a step back, raising her fist.

‘
Arrêtez
!
’

‘Why? What the hell are you playing at now?’

‘I’m … pregnant.’

Lock froze.

His vision seemed to swim before his eyes as his mind exploded with a hundred thoughts. What did she say? Pregnant? How? Fool! What do you mean how? Christ, was this the reason? The reason why she avoided him? Why she was so cruel and hard? Why she was so determined to marry Bingham-Smith? Because she was carrying the odious prick’s child. No, it couldn’t be.

And then everything fell into place. He knew, knew the truth. He felt his jaw go slack.

‘It’s mine, isn’t it?’ Lock’s voice was very quiet, very calm.

Amy gave a little cry, her hands shooting up to her mouth, and turned away.

Lock pulled one of the hard wooden chairs out from under the table and slumped down heavily. He passed his hands over his tightly cropped hair and gave a mournful sigh.

Amy stood where she was not saying a word, just watching and waiting for Lock to speak. The sounds of the street wafted in on the light, hot breeze and along with it came the putrid smell of the stagnant creeks that flowed nearby. The woman below was still haranguing her children, but her voice was little more than a muffled drone now.

‘Why, Amy? Why didn’t you tell me?’ Lock looked up at her accusingly.

She couldn’t meet his gaze, keeping her eyes glued to the kettle steaming away on the stove top.

‘How long have you known?’

Amy remained silent.

‘Amy!’ Lock smashed his fist down on the table.

She started and her eyes snapped angrily round.

‘A month,’ she said, her voice little more than a whisper.

Lock slowly shook his head. ‘Does he know?’

‘Who?’

‘Who do you think? Bingham bloody Smith. Have you told him?’

Amy took a pace towards Lock. ‘No,’ she said. ‘He can’t, he mustn’t. Please, Kingdom.’

‘Please what?’

‘Don’t tell … anyone. You and
maman
…’

Lock smiled cruelly. ‘I see. Well, that explains it.’

‘Explains what?’

‘Your mother. Why she gave me the sudden cold shoulder.’

‘Try to understand, Kingdom. It is for the best.’

Lock shot to his feet, scraping the chair back noisily against the wooden floor. He marched over to the other side of the room to retrieve his hat. Amy followed and pulled at his sleeve.

‘Wait, Kingdom … I …’

‘What, what do you want, Amy?’ Lock said, rounding on her. ‘Really?’

Amy bit her lip, eyes searching his face. Then she stepped over to the bed, and reaching under the pillow, pulled out a small oblong package wrapped in brown paper and tied up with string.

‘To give you this,’ she said, holding out the gift.

Lock hesitated, then accepted the package, and glared back at her.

‘Aren’t you going to open it?’

‘Not now.’

‘It is a knife. I had it engraved.’

Lock stared back into her wide, emerald eyes. He so wanted to take her in his arms, to pull her over to the bed and to make love to her. He took a breath.

‘Why?’ he said.

‘I wanted to give you something.’

‘Why?’ Lock repeated.

She scowled. ‘To say thank you.’

‘Is that all? “Thank you”.’ Lock slowly shook his head.

‘What do
you
want from me, Kingdom?’ she said, throwing his earlier accusatory question back at him.

‘For you to be true to your heart, Amy. To be …’

Amy’s eyes had hardened again, and there was a flame of anger deep within the dark pools of her pupils. ‘
Merde
. Je ne peux pas être ce que je ne suis pas. Il suffit de laisser!
Leave!’ she screamed, turning her back on him.

Lock sighed heavily and made his way over to the door. He paused, tempted to throw the gift back at her, but in a flash of stubbornness he decided against that and pocketed it instead.

‘Did you ever love me?’ he said, without turning to face her.

Amy gave a sob, but didn’t say anything.

Lock’s shoulders dropped. He needed to get away from her as quickly as possible. He needed to think, to decide what to do. Bugger it, of all the times.

‘If you breathe a word to father, to Casper,’ she called out, ‘I shall deny it! I shall deny everything.’ There was real venom in her voice.

At the threshold Lock turned back to look at her. Tears were rolling down her cheeks. She seemed so vulnerable and small now and his heart ached for her. He shook his head sadly.

‘Why would you even ask that?’ he said.

Amy thrust her chin up defiantly. There was fire in her eyes once more.

‘If you do I shall never speak to you again.’

Lock pulled on his slouch hat, swore under his breath, and without another word, stormed out.

Slamming the door behind him, Lock stood still for a moment in the dark stairwell. The Arab woman downstairs was still chastising her
children and Lock wanted to scream at her to shut the hell up. He closed his eyes and cursed bitterly. That had all gone so terribly wrong. He hadn’t even told Amy about the price on his head, that he was leaving for Qurna, or that Wassmuss was probably still snooping around. He didn’t believe it himself, but he wanted her to be on her guard, just in case. He thought about going back inside, about taking her in his arms forcibly, about making her see reason, to abandon her stubborn idea of marrying Bingham-Smith, about keeping bloody secrets.

‘Bugger.’

The light flickered on and footsteps began to make their way up the stairs. Lock moved away from the door just as Mary turned the corner. Her smile was warm, her face slightly flushed with exertion.

‘Captain Lock! I … Hello,’ she said. ‘Is Amy not in?’

‘I was just leaving. Duty calls. Back to the front for me.’

Mary paused. ‘Are you fit enough?’ she scowled.

‘According to Major Ross I am,’ Lock said, then smiled. ‘No, I’m fine. On the mend.’

Mary smiled back. ‘I’m glad.’ She moistened her lips.

They both stood there in awkward silence and the light clicked off. Mary slapped it on again.

‘Keep an eye on her for me,’ Lock said. He touched the brim of his hat and started to make his way downstairs.

‘Be careful,’ Mary called after him.

‘Always,’ he said over his shoulder.