Tom Bradby - The Master Of Rain

There was a hatch directly ahead of him, but before touching it, Field walked to each side of the building to get his bearings. The front of this building was directly opposite the racecourse, and he could see the truck and cars still parked in the street below.

A small group of uniformed officers stood behind a wall beyond the entrance to the Happy Times block, but Field couldn’t see any sign of them on the other side or at the back.

He returned to the hatch, lifted the edge with his foot, and then tipped it off. He ducked down.

He could hear a baby crying but couldn’t see anyone. He waited for a few moments, then climbed down a metal ladder bolted to the wall. The baby’s wails echoed around the circular stairwell.

Field stepped onto the stone landing and waited again, breathing deeply. A mother or nanny was trying to soothe the child, but it cried still louder.

He put his back against the wall and began to walk down the stairs, the revolver in his good hand, his eyes straining in the gloom. He saw a Chinese woman sitting with the baby, soothing it, caressing its forehead, rocking it from side to side. Field kept his revolver up, the sound of his footsteps echoing on the stone steps as he came down toward her.

The child’s crying lessened. The woman caught sight of him but did not move or recoil, her eyes steadily on his. Field saw something in her look, compassion perhaps, then realized it was a warning.

“Stay where you are, Field. Lower your gun.”

Prokopieff emerged from the shadows, the barrel of his revolver pointing at Field’s forehead.

“Lower your gun.”

Field hesitated. The Russian’s expression was hard and cold. Field imagined that this was the way he looked when he hurt the girls he brought back to the station house.

“Your gun.”

Field slowly lowered his arm. They stared at each other. He thought fleetingly about turning and trying to run.

Prokopieff shook his head. “Shot in the back while trying to escape.”

“I’m not escaping.”

“Not yet.” The Russian smiled.

“You’ve done this before.”

Prokopieff nodded. “I have done this before. Do you still believe an officer of the law can afford to be an idealist in this town?”

“Someone has to try.”

“Well, now is your chance.” The Russian looked down. “I’m the only one here.”

Field shook his head, not clear what the Russian meant. The adrenaline still pumped through him.

“You’re a fool, Richard Field.”

Field didn’t answer.

“But a fool is better than a liar.” Prokopieff gestured with his revolver. “Put the gun in your belt. You will need it.”

Field frowned.

“This city makes liars of us all, Field. Liars and cheats.” Prokopieff straightened, putting his gun back in its holster. His face was suddenly weary. “What good would it do me to kill you?” he said. “Perhaps you still have a chance to do something useful with your life. Just don’t throw it away making bad choices.” He turned and led Field down the steps. “Through here is a side entrance. All the buildings are being watched front and back, but I alone watch this alley, so go quickly.”

“So Granger was right,” Field said, almost to himself, “about everything.”

“Granger was a man to follow, but now he is gone. And all you can do is run while you have the chance.”

The Russian put a hand on Field’s shoulder and then pushed him out into the sunlight, the steel door banging shut behind him.

Field walked away in a daze, his eyes half-closed against the sudden glare. He expected to hear a volley of shots and feel the sudden, devastating pain of their impact, but the alley was silent.

The number one boy recoiled at the sight of him in the doorway at Crane Road. Field entered the house without further invitation and walked through to the living room at the back.

A record was playing. The mournful sound of a jazz band drifted through the open door to the veranda. Penelope was curled up in a ball in the corner of a wicker sofa, like a small child, staring at the lush green of her near-perfect lawn.

Field sat opposite her. He took out his cigarettes and put one in his mouth, his hand shaking violently as he tried to light it.

“I always know when he is going to meet one of his girls,” she said. “It’s the only time he allows himself to get excited.” She spoke slowly. “It doesn’t last, of course. They just remind him of everything he has lost.”

“He’s dead, Penelope.”

“I always told myself,” she went on, as if he had not spoken, “that it did not matter because they were Russian girls.”

He didn’t know if she was trying to provoke him, or if she didn’t even realize he was there.

He stood and moved to the Gramophone. He lifted the needle, then, in a fit of anger, swept the whole contraption onto the floor.

He turned, unsteady.

Penelope was sitting up. “Is it too late for me, Richard?”

“I’m not a priest.”

Her eyes pleaded with him. “Please?”

“For God’s sake…”

“He killed that girl, didn’t he?”

Field stared at her. “Which one?”

Penelope frowned, her confusion genuine. Then her face collapsed as the truth finally rose up to swamp her.

“Do you know how these women died?” Field asked, taking a step toward her. “He stabbed them so many times, bits of skin were left strung across craters in their bodies the size of a bloody fist.”

Penelope bowed her head.

“No one can give you absolution for that.”

Field sat back down. He watched her shaking with her grief, but made no move to comfort her.

When Penelope looked up, her eyes were dark hollows, her face streaked with makeup. “I used to tell him he was the bravest man I’d ever met,” she said. “But when he looked in the mirror, that wasn’t what he saw.”

“Everything changed at Delville Wood,” Field said.

She nodded.

“And he took his anger out first on you, then on the Russian girls.”

“He blamed me because I could not arouse him. At first it didn’t seem to matter.” She smiled sadly at him. “I thought love would provide the answer.” She started to cry. “I thought it would be temporary. The impotence and the anger.” She looked up. “His temper was so terrible, Richard. He would become furious with himself, with me. And then with the world.”

“We know about Irina, Natalya, Lena. Were there others?”

“When we came to Shanghai…” She sighed. “Oh, six years ago, it was to be a new start. For a time, I thought it had worked. At least he stopped hurting me. He didn’t touch me anymore.”

“But you knew he was hurting others?”

She looked down again. “I couldn’t face going back, Richard. Please understand. I couldn’t bear to go back.”

“You knew he’d killed Lena.”

A sad smile played at the corner of her lips. “Everything changed when you came, Richard.”

“What do you mean?”

She sighed again. “Everything suddenly seemed so obvious. I-I don’t know why I hadn’t seen it before, but sitting opposite you on that first night, talking about that poor girl. I knew. I knew it must have been him. And, of course, I realized I had known since the beginning.” She smiled again. “And he was always so on edge around you. He hated having you here.”

“Why?”

She looked at him, amazed. “You really don’t know?”

Field shook his head.

“You reminded him of who he was, Richard. You’re the man he was and the man he could have been.”

Field stared at her. “What are you talking about?”

Her expression grew more serious. “When the demons faded, you know, he could still be so kind and decent. He was the man you saw, the man you liked and admired. Once, he was like that all the time. He hated what he had become, hated the fact that he could not control himself. And he looked at you and saw the man he used to be and he hated you for it. For all that you have been through, you have kept your honesty. And he couldn’t forgive you for that.”