Tom Bradby - The Master Of Rain

He followed her, skirting the edge of the dance floor. A drunken woman lost her balance and crashed into him. Field picked her up and took her arms from around his neck. He lifted his head and froze.

They were standing at the top of the staircase.

Lu had the same bodyguards in tow. Charlie Lewis and Hayek were part of the group that surrounded them. So was Natasha, though she managed to remain remote, staring into the middle distance.

Field took a pace toward them as she turned. Her eyes locked on his for a split second. Her face was frightened and hostile and her eyes flashed a warning. Charlie Lewis raised his head and gazed idly in Field’s direction. Field thought he was laughing at him, and had been all along.

Lu gesticulated slowly with his hand. Hayek listened intently. Lewis straightened, put his hands in his pockets, and turned to talk to Natasha, almost obscuring Field’s view of her.

Field knew he had to move. The Chinese had not acknowledged him, but Field sensed that was deliberate.

Lu edged forward, and the group moved with him. Natasha was now directly in front of Field. She wore a long silver dress, and as he watched, she raised her arm and pulled her hair back from her neck, gathering it to one side and letting it fall again. She shifted her weight from one foot to the other and then back again. Her shoes were thin and elegant, a single strap above the ankle.

Lu shook his head curtly, as if dismissing something that Hayek had said, and broke away. Natasha stayed by his side. Field watched as Lu raised his arm to allow her to place her own within it. She was so much taller than him that the effect was both ridiculous and grotesque.

Field fought back a wave of revulsion. He wiped his forehead and forced himself to walk slowly down the stairs.

Penelope waited at the bottom, fumbling in her purse for some cigarettes. She took one out and offered him the lighter. “You want one?” she asked as he lit it for her.

“No thanks.”

She was drunk now, but so was he. Drunk and disoriented and angry.

A car pulled up and she led the way out to it. As he climbed in after her, Field could not help looking up toward the Happy Times block. There was still a light on in Natasha’s apartment. Would Lu go up there later?

Penelope placed a hand on his leg. “Be a dear and open your window.”

Field sat up straighter, trying to prompt her to take away her hand, before leaning forward to do as she had asked.

She slipped off her shoes, swept her feet around and placed them on his lap. She smiled at him. “Be a love. They get so sore dancing.”

Field found himself taking two of her toes between his fingers and massaging them gently before moving down to the base of her foot. The skin was soft, her nails neatly painted. She leaned back and groaned. “Dancing in those shoes is bloody agony.”

Penelope’s head was on the armrest beneath the window, her eyes shut, as she slid her other foot against his groin. Field tried to push himself farther back into the seat.

As they pulled up outside the house in Crane Road, Penelope picked up her shoes. “Come on.”

“I’m bushed. I think I’ll-”

“Don’t be silly. Geoffrey will be very disappointed not to see you.”

Field hesitated for a second before stepping out after her. The number one boy opened the door as they climbed the steps of the veranda.

“Let me take your jacket,” she said.

“No, I’m…”

“Come on, Richard. You’ve been boiling all night.”

Field handed it to Penelope, who gave it to the servant. “Is the master in?” she asked, but he shook his head.

Penelope was already walking through to the sitting room, but Field hesitated again, looking first at the front door, which had been shut, and then at his jacket, which was being taken through to the cloakroom.

“Penelope.”

She didn’t answer. He followed her obediently through to the living room. He stood between a grandfather clock and an antique teak desk, beneath thick oil paintings of the English countryside, not dissimilar to those at the country club.

She had poured him a drink.

“You know, I don’t want to be a bore…”

“You are being a bore.”

“I have a very early start.”

“But you’re young and fit and Geoffrey will be furious with me if you are not here when he gets back.”

Field looked down at his glass. She drank, but he couldn’t face any more whiskey. Through the haze of his own inebriation, he had the feeling that she was nervous.

“Come.” She took his glass and placed it with her own on a low Chinese table before grabbing his hand and leading him toward the door to the hallway. “You’ve got to see our greatest treasure.” He resisted at first, then once again found himself following her, this time out into the hall and up the stairs. “It’s a giant gold Buddha,” she said, and as soon as he entered the room, he saw it beside the bed.

She turned to him. “What do you think?”

“It’s magnificent,” he said without enthusiasm.

“Would you hold on a minute?”

She stepped into the bathroom, slipped her dress from her shoulders, and stepped out of it as it fell to the floor.

She was wearing a white garter belt and stockings, but no underwear, the patch of dark hair at the base of her belly smaller and neater than he’d imagined, her breasts rounder and more upright than they’d seemed when she’d leaned toward him at the club.

She reached behind the door for a long silk dressing gown. She wrapped it around herself and looked up, catching his eye. He realized she had known he was watching.

“Richard…”

“I’m going to go now.”

“Of course.”

“Thank you for a pleasant evening.”

“Richard, you can kiss me good night.”

He didn’t move.

“I’m not that unappealing, am I?”

She walked over to him, flicking his lapel with one long finger, as Natasha had done two nights before. She leaned forward and kissed him on the cheek.

“Are you in love, Richard?”

He didn’t answer, his face burning.

“I sense a man in love, Richard. Isn’t that so?”

He stepped back. “I don’t know,” he said, turning to go.

“Richard?”

“Yes.”

“Do I disgust you?”

“Of course not.”

“Then your haste does you a disservice.”

“You are my uncle’s wife.”

“And you’re ashamed of me?”

Field sighed deeply.

“Your uncle hasn’t fucked me for years. Did you know that?”

Field turned away again and walked down the stairs.

“Good night, Richard.”

The car pulled up in front of the station in Little Russia. Field watched through the window for a moment as three priests, with long black beards and metal crucifixes, crossed Avenue Joffre and walked slowly in the direction of the Russian church. They passed a small group of Chinese children begging, without a glance.

He asked the driver to wait and got out of the car. He stretched, every muscle in his body aching after his exertions on the rugby pitch the previous afternoon.

The police station stood between, but twenty yards back from, two rows of shops. On one side was a tailor’s, on the other another fur shop. Sergei’s apartment was not more than a hundred yards away.

Inside, the station felt almost like a gentleman’s club. A wide hallway was filled with tropical plants, their leaves swaying gently under the ceiling fans. A Vietnamese constable in a clean, freshly pressed uniform stood behind the front desk. Field introduced himself, produced his identification, and waited while the constable went to find the officer in charge.

He tried to control his impatience.