‘You learn respect,’ the boy translated.
‘Release me,’ she hissed, tasting blood inside her cheek.
‘You answer questions.’
‘I am the daughter of an important British newspaper tycoon. Release me immediately or the British Army will come with their rifles to…’
‘Bao chi!’
‘Silence,’ the boy echoed.
The man’s hand seized a hank of her hair and twisted her head back. He shouted in her face, his breath sour with alcohol, and his dark gaze roamed over her breasts and throat, down to her thighs and… She shut her eyes to block him out.
That was when he released her hair, reached down, and yanked out a piece of her pubic hair. The pain was sharp but brief and she didn’t cry out. He held up the copper curl as a trophy for all to see, and the men around the walls cheered. Instead she thought of how Chang An Lo had twirled those same hairs around his good fingers and called them her fox flames. But what disturbed her more was the glimpse she got of her forearm when she struggled to free her hands. The skin was covered in bite marks. They were the marks of her own teeth where in the dark inside Box she’d been gnawing at a limb. Like a fox in a trap. That frightened her.
She made herself stand straight. ‘Sir Edward Carlisle will skin you all alive for this.’
The boy translated. Po Chu laughed. ‘Zai na? Where Chang An Lo?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘Yes. You know. You say.’
‘No. I don’t know. He ran away when the Kuomintang troops came.’
‘You lie.’
‘No. Bu.’
‘Yes.’
Each time the words came from Po Chu, with the boy echoing softly in English.
‘Tell truth.’
This time the question came with a slap.
‘Tell truth.’ Another slap. ‘Tell truth.’ Slap. Slap. Slap. Again. Again. She lost count.
Her lip split. The space inside her head turned red. Her ears hummed.
Slap. Slap.
Harder. A knife point nicked the corner of her left eyelid and started to slide along the bottom of her eye as if to pop it out.
‘He’s dead.’ She screamed it.
The knife froze. The slaps ceased. She breathed. Small panicky gasps.
‘When dead?’ Po Chu demanded. In English. But she barely noticed. Her mind was struggling.
‘How dead?’ He ran the knife blade in a circle around one breast, and she felt the sting and the trickle of blood.
‘From sickness.’
‘Shen meshi hou? When?’
‘On Saturday. I took him to the docks. Nursed him… In an old shack… he died.’ Tears started to pour down her cheeks. It wasn’t hard.
The boy translated, but it was the tears that seemed to convince Po Chu. He stepped back with a shrewd smile, flicked the knife spinning up into the air, and as it fell caught its ivory handle with an easy sweep of his fist. He stared at her.
‘Guo lai.’
‘Come,’ the boy said.
Po Chu seized the rope attached to her neck and dragged her across the room toward a screen that closed off one corner. Her eyes fixed on its panels inlaid with lapis and coral, ivory and mother-of-pearl, and she burned them into her memory. If this bastard was going to blind her, she had to make her last moment of sight go a long way.
‘See, gi nu.’ Po Chu thrust the screen aside.
She saw. And wished she’d drowned inside Box.
On a table, neatly laid out like precision instruments of surgery in an operating theatre, were two rows of tools. Heavy tongs and blades, some serrated and some with needle-sharp points, and beside them lay small blunt hammers, chains and leather collars and cuffs. Her eye was drawn to a piece of iron with a long narrow shovel end and stout wooden handle. Not in her wildest dreams could she begin to guess its purpose.
Her inner organs turned to liquid. Nothing worked anymore. Her breathing stopped. She felt warm fluid dribble down the backs of her thighs and she knew her body was trying to flush out the fear. She felt no shame. She’d left that behind long ago.
‘See, gi nu,’ Po Chu repeated. ‘Putrid whore. See.’
Her ears still worked. They heard the anticipation in his voice.
‘Tell truth.’
She nodded.
‘Where Chang An Lo?’
‘Dead.’
He picked up a pair of heavy iron-teethed tweezers, casually weighed them in his hand, lowered his thick black eyebrows in a frown of concentration, and clamped the metal teeth round her nipple. He squeezed.
She screamed.
Blood, bright red like paint. A burning pain in her breast. She screamed her anger and her hatred at him, bellowed it in his face, and would have hurled herself at him and bitten his eyes out if the rope around her neck had not been pulled tight from behind.
‘Good.’ Po Chu smiled coldly, a spatter of her blood on his chin. ‘Now tell truth.’
57
They handled him roughly. Grey uniforms all over him like dung flies. A blow to the ribs, a boot in the groin, but Chang An Lo did not retaliate. Only when they thudded a rifle butt down on his damaged hand did he spit, but that was all. The headquarters was in a new concrete blockhouse on the edge of old Junchow, tucked into the shadow of the great stone walls, its entrance guarded by two fresh-faced young Chinese officers eager to impress their superiors. When Chang suddenly appeared before them out of the morning mist, their eyes widened in surprise. They stamped their boots and raised their rifles, expecting trouble, but when none came they led him quickly into their captain’s office.
‘You are the Communist dog we have been hunting,’ the Kuomintang officer said with relish. ‘I am Captain Wah.’
He removed his cap, tossed it to one side, and rummaged through the chaotic piles of paper on his desk. After a moment’s confusion, he pounced on a sheet that he held up at arm’s length to inspect. It was an indistinct portrait of Chang’s face, skilfully sketched, obviously sent out to all Chinese troop centres and police stations. Chang wondered bitterly which of his friends had obliged and for how much.
Captain Wah stared at Chang with cool, sad eyes and lit himself a thin cigar. ‘You will be interrogated first, gutter rat, and then a magistrate will order your execution. All you Communists are cowards who slither on your bellies, like worms under our feet. Your execution is certain, so do not add to the pain of China by worthless loyalty to a cause that is doomed. By great Buddha, we shall rid our country of you vermin.’
Even with wrists handcuffed and the fever in his blood, Chang knew he could kick this man’s teeth down his throat before the soldier at the door could draw his gun. It was tempting. But what good would he be to Lydia with a bullet in his brain?
‘Honourable Captain,’ he said with a humble bow, ‘I have information to give, as you so wisely suspect, but I will give it only to one man.’
Captain Wah’s mouth narrowed with annoyance. ‘You would be wise to give it to me,’ he said in a sharp tone. He rose to his feet, tall and rangy in his dusty grey uniform, and leaned forward threateningly over his desk. ‘Do as I order, or you will die slowly.’
‘One man,’ Chang said quietly. ‘The Russian. The one whose words the Kuomintang listen to.’
A change came over the officer. His cheeks sucked in, he rubbed a hand across his pockmarked chin, and his eyes grew more thoughtful. He bit the end off his cigar and spat it at the floor.
‘I think,’ he said, ‘I will execute you right now.’
‘If you do, I promise you the Russian will have you whipped to the bone,’ Chang murmured with a bow.
58
Theo stepped inside the Rolls-Royce as it purred to a halt at the kerb, and he inhaled the rich odour of leather and money.