But happy with her.
‘Come back to me, my fox girl.’ His words floated down to her, yet they were sharp as needles under her skin and wouldn’t let her rest.
No, my precious one, it’s too late. She felt herself tumbling deeper into the hole, head over heels down into the void, its blackness swallowing her, sucking all the brightness out of her, her fingers uncurling and letting go. No pain. Not even the image of Chang any more. Just the emptiness of the void now. It’s over.
‘Come back, Lydia, or I’ll come down there after you and drag you back with my bare hands.’
No, let me rest.
Something was grabbing her, physically shaking her until she felt her teeth rattle.
Teeth? How could she have teeth if she was dead? When you’re dead, you’re just spirit, damn it. Teeth! That meant a tiny part of her was alive. Damn it! With a gigantic effort of will she dug her fingernails into the wall of blackness and felt her body jerk as the falling came to an abrupt halt. It made everything hurt. It would be so much easier to let go.
Chyort! Inch by inch, hand over hand, she started to haul herself up.
The bullet, that’s what she saw first when she opened her eyes. It was sitting on the windowsill, proud of itself in the sunlight, shining as if it had been polished. Second came Elena’s broad face. She was leaning over Lydia, the lines round her eyes rigid, her fingers stained scarlet. Red paint? Why was Elena messing with paint?
‘So you’re awake.’
‘Yes.’ Lydia ’s throat felt as though it had been skinned. The air inside her tasted black and rotten.
‘I’ve just changed your dressing.’ The colourless eyes studied her intently. ‘Sore?’
‘A bit.’
‘You shouldn’t be. Your friend has been dripping God knows what filthy Chinese muck on to your tongue and telling me you’ll feel no pain.’
‘Chang? Where is he?’
Elena’s sombre face broke into a smile. ‘You’ll live.’
‘She’d better.’
‘Chang An Lo?’ Lydia turned her head and found him there at her side, sitting on the bed. His expression was one she’d never seen before.
‘Was I dying?’ she whispered.
He lifted her hand to his lips, kissed her palm and then each finger, and held it to his cheek. ‘No, my Lydia.’ He gave her a smile. It was so full of a heat she could feel on her skin, it melted something cold and frightened within her. ‘You weren’t dying. You are indestructible. You were just testing me.’
His voice filled her head. He bent forward, still holding her hand as if it were part of himself, and rested his forehead in the curve of her neck. He remained like that for a long time, without moving, without speaking. His black hair grew warm under her cheek and she felt the thread that bound them together tighten as it spun a silken strand through their flesh and blood and bone.
‘Chang An Lo,’ she murmured and saw a glossy lock of his hair ripple with her breath, ‘if ever you die, I promise I’ll come and find you.’
The room was too full of people. White hot sparks seemed to flicker in the air, stirring it into constant motion. Lydia was sitting up in bed when all she wanted to do was slide back into that black hole. They had told her about Jens.
She’d screamed ‘No!’ Then silenced herself. Crushed the pain into a hard ball.
She pictured him among the ruins of his grand dreams, his proud white head smashed to the ground by his own hand in the ultimate sacrifice. No, Papa. The tears escaped down her cheeks and wouldn’t stop. When she tried to wipe them away she saw her hand for the first time and it was burned an ugly red and covered in slimy ointment.
‘It’s disgusting,’ she murmured as she stared at it.
Someone laughed and she knew it was with relief because a burned hand was so much better than a burned life. But Lydia wasn’t talking about her hand. It was her failure. That was disgusting. Papa, I’m sorry. Forgive me. Black dots fluttered on the edge of her vision and she had the sick feeling they were pieces of the black hole that had followed her, biding their time. She struggled to see straight. There were words she had to say.
‘I want to thank you, all of you,’ she said. ‘For your help.’ Her voice was raspy, scarcely recognisable as her own.
‘We almost did it.’ It was Alexei.
‘Jens was grateful,’ she whispered. ‘He told me so.’ Jens’ words surfaced from the black pool of memory, and Lydia knew in that instant that Alexei wasn’t – and never had been – her brother.
Popkov was looking wretched, playing cards with Edik on the other bed while Misty lay on the pillow and chewed one of Popkov’s stinking socks.
‘You found each other,’ the Cossack growled. ‘At the end you and Jens were together.’ He threw down his hand of cards in defeat and shrugged his huge shoulders. ‘That’s what matters.’ He shuffled the cards.
Lydia nodded. Couldn’t speak.
Alexei stopped at the end of her bed. ‘He’s right, Lydia. To have you there would have meant everything to him.’
‘And to me,’ she murmured. ‘But I was too late to stop him. He chose to destroy what he’d started, at whatever cost, to save other prisoners.’
Alexei shifted uneasily and she could feel his frustration and the depth of his need. She had to give him something. ‘Alexei, he loved you,’ she said simply. ‘Jens told me. When he was on my back, he was worried for you.’
Alexei’s green eyes, so like her father’s, stared directly at her and she could see he didn’t know whether to believe her or not. But she was too exhausted to fight him and closed her eyes.
‘I want to speak to Elena,’ she said in a whisper. ‘Alone.’
There was an awkward silence. But when she opened her eyes again the air in the room had settled like dust, empty except for the imprint of Chang’s lips on her forehead and the big woman seated on the end of her bed.
Chang was uneasy in the courtyard. It was too public, too visible. Anyone behind the windows would report the presence of a stranger, particularly a Chinese stranger. He was meant to be viewing a bicycle factory, but had sent Edik with a message to Biao to tell the Russians he was unwell. It was the truth. He was sick. His heart was so sick he could vomit it up on to the courtyard cobblestones beneath his feet.
‘Chang,’ Alexei said, ‘I’m glad to have this moment to speak with you.’
Till now they hadn’t spoken. He turned and inspected Alexei. Lydia ’s brother was a tall man in his long coat, proud like his father but as complex as his sister. There was no doubt that he was a man of courage and decision, for Chang had seen both in abundance at the fire amidst all the terror and confusion. Yet at the same time… he could sense in him the kind of sorrow that could take several lifetimes to heal.
‘Each of us,’ Chang said quietly, ‘has our own history.’
Alexei frowned. ‘I’m not here to discuss history.’
‘So what shall we discuss instead?’
‘ Lydia, of course. What else would you and I have to speak about?’
Chang smiled and felt the snow soft on his face. ‘We could speak about life. About death. Or about the future.’ He placed his hands together and bowed formally over them. ‘I wish to thank you, Alexei Serov, for saving my life at the fire. I am in your debt.’
‘No debt. No debt at all. You saved my sister’s life. That is enough.’
Chang inclined his head in the faintest of bows. That is enough. The words were true. If Lydia had not been on Chang’s back, this Russian would have left him to burn. They both knew that.
A young woman hurried out of the building into the courtyard, a bucket in each hand, and glanced at the two strangers with open curiosity as she crossed towards the water pump. The only sound was the laughter of Lydia ’s stray pale-haired boy on the other side of the yard with the Cossack. Chang and Alexei listened for a moment to the laughter, both willing it to last longer in the cold, echoing air.