56
Lydia rested her head on Chang An Lo’s shoulder and concentrated on forcing her legs to function. He was tracking back and forth across the city, his arm tight around her waist, keeping her on her feet until he was certain no watchful shadows were padding behind them in the snow.
When finally he brought her to their secret hideaway, the one which had replaced the crucifix room, she stumbled through the door and released her grip on him for the first time. She took a slow, deep breath to keep the pain in her side at bay and pulled off her hat, but when she glanced in the mirror on the wall and saw her hair for the first time since the fire, she blushed lobster-red. It was appalling. One whole chunk was burned away and the rest was shrivelled and charred. With the blisters on her forehead, she looked like a badly made scarecrow.
‘Cut it.’
‘Rest first,’ Chang had urged. ‘You’re exhausted.’
‘Please, cut it. Short as a boy’s. Get rid of the… damage.’
His black eyes had looked at her reflection for no more than a moment, but she realised in that flicker of time that he’d seen all the damage right down into the heart of her. He’d seen the void and the guilt and the fear, and she felt ashamed. Lightly he kissed the side of her singed hair, pulled the sharp knife from his boot and sliced off the first handful.
‘Better?’ he asked.
She nodded. ‘It’s only hair. It’s not my limbs.’
But as he continued to cut and the locks of hair fluttered to the floor like dead leaves, Chang’s mouth curved down in a half moon of sorrow. He bent and gathered the charred copper curls and cradled them in his hands like a gift of flames for his gods. A memory of her mother hacking off her own long dark waves with a pair of blunt kitchen scissors stamped into Lydia ’s mind, and for the first time she understood. That terrible need to punish oneself. The sense of relief it brought, that same relief she’d seen on Antonina’s face the first day they met in the hotel bathroom.
‘Chang An Lo,’ she whispered as she swung round to face him, ‘tell me where you hurt.’
His pupils widened as thoughts seemed to ripple through him, creating purple flecks in his eyes. ‘My shoulders.’
That wasn’t what she meant and he knew it. ‘Show me.’
He settled the flock of curls carefully on a chair and removed his padded jacket. It had brown holes scorched into it and his tunic underneath was no better. He stripped it off and turned his naked back to her.
‘That’s colourful,’ she said. Her hand covered her mouth to seal in all other sounds that were battering to get out.
‘Are you any good with ointment?’ he asked.
‘I’m an expert. Fingers light as feathers. Don’t you remember? ’
He twisted round. ‘Yes, I remember. As if I could forget.’
‘In the garden shed in Junchow when you were wounded and-’
He swung her up in his arms and laid her on the bed. ‘Hush, my love, don’t hide back in the past again.’
With infinite gentleness he removed all her clothes, just leaving the bandage round her waist where the bullet had entered her side. But despite Elena’s stitches it was stained the colours of rotting fruit, reds and browns and oranges. He kissed the soft skin of her stomach, then wrapped her in the quilt.
‘Come here and talk to me,’ she murmured.
‘Sleep first and then we’ll talk.’ From the battered old leather satchel Lydia had given him long ago in China, he drew a tiny bottle of muddy liquid and poured a drop on to her tongue. ‘Sleep now.’
But she forced herself into a sitting position. ‘Ointment first.’ She held out her hand.
He didn’t resist. A ceramic pot appeared from the satchel and she sat him down on the bed, knelt behind him and smeared the creamy substance on to her fingers. With her touch as light as the promised feathers, she massaged it into the raw flesh of his shoulders. She didn’t ask what caused the wound. A burning timber crashing down? A blast of white-hot flames? It didn’t matter now. The ointment smelled strange, of herbs that made her eyes sting and she felt her lids growing heavy. She kissed the good clean healthy skin in the centre of his back, but when she opened her mouth to tell him that he was the bravest man on God’s earth, before the words could form on her tongue she was fast asleep.
When she woke it was dark. The night sky clung to the windowpane, rattling it, trying to get in. Lydia felt Chang’s warmth curled around her but knew instantly that he was awake. She felt stronger after the rest and allowed her lungs to breathe in a shallow steady rhythm, clinging to the pretence of sleep because she was not ready for what lay ahead. The loss of her father had buckled something inside her and she grieved for him, and for the dream that was gone. It came as a shock to find her cheeks were wet. Had she been crying in her sleep? She lay like that, nestled against him, for a long time. An hour, maybe more. Unwilling to give him up. She clutched each second to her and memorised the exact feel of his hand on her hip and his breath on her neck, the way it made the delicate nerves of her skin ripple with pleasure.
‘When do you leave?’ she asked at last in the darkness.
He didn’t respond, except to tighten his grip on her.
‘When?’ she asked again.
He sat up and lit the candle that stood on the table next to the bed. Shadows, black and twisted, leapt round the room, as ugly as her fears. He rested his head back against the greasy wall and focused on the door. Not on her.
‘You can’t stay here,’ he said. ‘Now that they’re searching for you, you must leave.’
‘I know. Though I suppose,’ she smiled up at his profile, ‘with my short hair I could become a street rat like Edik, and work for the vory. I’m good at stealing.’
She felt a shiver in his chest. He touched her cropped hair. ‘It looks like rats have already been at it.’
She laughed and saw it pleased him.
‘Is the pain bad? Do you need more-?’
‘Hush.’ She put a finger to his lips. ‘It’s not bad.’
He raised an eyebrow at her. ‘More herbs?’
‘No, I need a clear head. I want us to talk.’
Gently he drew her to him, cradling her against his naked chest, and for a while both let the moment linger, knowing that things were about to change.
‘You can’t stay here,’ Chang said again.
‘So let’s talk about what we do next. It’s what I’ve been thinking about and working for, a future for us together.’
A little snort escaped from his nostrils. ‘Yet you risked it all for your father.’
She said nothing, just stroked his chin.
‘Ask me,’ he said.
‘Ask you what?’ But she knew.
‘Ask me.’ He lifted her chin and made her look into his eyes. ‘Ask me again.’
‘No.’
‘Then I’ll ask it myself. Am I willing to go to America with you?’
She didn’t breathe.
‘Lydia, my sweetest love, the answer is no.’
She didn’t gasp or cry out or try to cram the words back into his mouth, all of which she wanted to do. She studied his face in silence before asking, ‘What did he say to you?’
‘Who?’
‘Alexei, of course. You and he were together in the courtyard and I can just imagine what-’
She stopped because she felt him tense, heard his quick intake of breath. He was halfway out of the bed with his knife suddenly in his hand when the door burst open and crashed against its hinges. Five men crowded into the small room. They were all Chinese and all carried guns.
‘Get out!’ Lydia yelled at them. She threw a quilt over her naked body.
The one in the front of the pack was young with a long face and dressed in a military padded jacket. The others looked to her like professional killers, all clothed in black with hard eyes. Lydia leapt from the bed but Chang stepped between her and the intruders, and she was terrified he was going to attack.