An Inch of Ashes (41 page)

‘Ah...’ His smile was wan; was merely the token of a smile.

‘What is it, Ben? Please. I’ve not seen you like this before. It must be something.’

For a moment he did nothing. Then he reached into the pocket of his gown and took something out, offering it to her.

It was a letter. She took it from him, handling it with care – with a feeling for its strangeness.

She sat on the floor beside his feet, handling the letter delicately, as if it were old and fragile like the book he had given her, taking the folded sheets and smoothing them out upon her lap.

For a moment she hesitated, a sudden sense of foreboding washing over her. What if it were another woman? Some past lover of his, writing to reclaim him – to take him back from her? Or was it something else? Something he had difficulty telling her?

She glanced at him, then looked back, beginning to read.

After only a few moments she looked up. ‘Your sister?’

He nodded. ‘She wants to come and visit me. To see what I’m up to.’

Ah...’ But, strangely, she felt no relief. There was something about the tone of the letter that troubled her. ‘And you don’t want that?’

Again he nodded, his lips pressed tightly together.

For a moment she looked past him at the books on the shelf beside his bed. Books she had never heard of before, with titles that were as strange as the leather binding of their covers; books like Polidori’s
Ernestus Berchtold
, Helme’s
The Farmer of Inglewood Forest
, Poe’s
Eleanora
, Brown’s The
Power Of Sympathy
and Byron’s
Manfred
. She stared at them a moment, as if to make sense of them, then looked back at him.

Folding the sheets, she slipped them back inside the envelope, then held it out to him.

‘I’ve come here to get away from all that,’ he said, taking the letter. He looked at it fiercely for a moment, as if it were a living thing, then put it back in his pocket. ‘This here...’ He gestured at the frame, the books and prints on the walls, the personal things that were scattered all about the room, then shrugged. ‘Well, it’s different, that’s all.’

She thought of Lotte and Wolf, beginning to understand. ‘It’s too close at home. Is that what you mean? And you feel stifled by that?’

He looked down at his hand – at the left hand where the wrist was ridged – then looked back at her.

‘Perhaps.’

She saw how he smiled, faintly, looking inward, as if to piece it all together in his head.

‘Your breakfast,’ she said, reminding him. ‘You should eat it. It’s getting cold.’

He looked back, suddenly focusing on her again. Then, as if he had made his mind up about something, he reached out and took her hand, drawing her up towards him.

‘Forget breakfast. Come. Let’s go to bed again.’

‘Well? Have you the file?’

Heng Chian-ye turned, snapping his fingers. At once his servant drew nearer and, bowing, handed him a silk-bound folder.

‘I think you’ll find everything you need in there,’ Heng said, handing it across. ‘But tell me, Novacek, why did you want to know about that one? Has he crossed you in some way?’

Sergey Novacek glanced at Heng, then looked back at the file. ‘It’s none of your business, but, no, he hasn’t crossed me. It’s just that our friend Shepherd is a bit of a mystery, and I hate mysteries.’

Heng Chian-ye stared at Novacek a moment, controlling the cold anger he felt merely at being in his presence. The
Hung Mao
had no idea what trouble he had got him into.

‘You’ve made your own investigations, I take it?’ he said, asking another of the questions his uncle had insisted he ask.

Novacek looked up, closing the file. ‘Is this all?’

Heng smiled. ‘You know how it is, the richer the man, the less there is on file. Those who can, buy their anonymity.’

‘And you think that’s what happened here?’

‘The boy’s father is very rich. Rich enough to buy his way into Oxford without any qualifications whatsoever.’

Novacek nodded, a hint of bitterness overspilling into his words. ‘I know. I’ve seen the college records.’

‘Ah...’ Heng gave the briefest nod, noting what he had said.

‘And the bronze?’

Heng Chian-ye turned slightly. Again the servant approached him, this time carrying a simple ice-cloth sack. Heng took the sack and turned, facing Novacek. His expression was suddenly much harder, his eyes coldly hostile.

‘This cost me dear. If there had been any way I could have borrowed a million
yuan
I would have done so, rather than meet my uncle’s terms. But before I hand it over, I want to know why you wanted it. Why you thought it worth a million
yuan
.’

Novacek stared at him a moment, meeting the Han’s hostility with his own. Then he looked down, smiling sourly. ‘You call us big-noses behind our backs, but you’ve quite a nose yourself, haven’t you, Heng?’

Heng’s eyes flared with anger, but he held back, remembering what his uncle had said. On no account was he to provoke Novacek.

‘And if I say you can’t have it?’

Novacek laughed. ‘That’s fine. You can pay me the million. In instalments, if you like. However, I’ll charge you interest on it. A hundred and fifty thousand a year.’ He looked up again, meeting Heng’s eyes. ‘But that’s rather more than what you get, so I hear. You might find it...
difficult
to make ends meet. It takes a fair bit to live as richly as you do.’

Heng swallowed, then, almost brutally, thrust the sack into the other man’s hands.

Sergey watched Heng a moment, noting how angry he was and wondering about it, then looked down at the plain white sack he held, feeling the shape of the bronze through the flesh-thin cloth, a clear, clean sense of satisfaction – of fulfilment – washing through him.

‘Good,’ he said. ‘Then we’re clear, Heng Chian-ye. I’d say your debt to me was settled, wouldn’t you?’

Heng Chian-ye turned, taking three angry steps away from him before turning back, his face almost black with anger, his finger pointing accusingly at his tormentor.

‘Take care, Novacek. Next time you might not be so lucky. Next time you could meet with someone who counts honour a lesser thing than I. And then you’ll find out what the world really thinks of scum like you.’

Sergey stared back at him, smiling insolently. ‘Go fuck yourself, Heng Chian-ye. You’ve no more honour than a Triad boss’s cock. The only reason you paid up was your fear of losing face in front of your friends. But that’s your problem. I’ve got what I want.’

Heng opened his mouth, as if to answer him in kind, then changed his mind. He laughed then shook his head, his voice suddenly colder, more controlled.

‘Have you, my friend? Have you now?’

They went to the Café Burgundy and took a table close to The Green, paying to keep the three chairs empty. Catherine sat to Ben’s right, the tiered cage of the central pagoda behind her, forming a frame to her pale, flame-like beauty. ‘My bird’ he called her now, and so it seemed fitting. He smiled, studying her profile, then turned and raised a hand to order wine.

He had been quiet all evening, pensive. A second letter had come. It lay inside his jacket pocket unopened. He could feel its gentle pressure against his chest; sense the hidden shape of it.

She too had been quiet, but for different reasons. Hers was a broody, jealous silence; the kind he had come to know only too well these last few days.

The waiter came and poured their wine, leaving the unfinished bottle in an ice bucket on the table between them. Ben leaned across and chinked his glass against hers.

She turned her head and looked at him. ‘What does she want?’

He almost smiled at that, knowing what she really thought. His unexplained absences. The letters. Even his moods. He knew she took these things as signs of his infidelity. But she wasn’t certain. Not yet, anyway. And so the brooding silence.

He sipped at his wine then set the glass down. ‘Here.’ He took the letter from his pocket and handed it to her.

She narrowed her eyes, suspicious of him, then took the letter. For a time she simply stared at it, not certain what he meant by giving it to her. Then she lifted it to her nose and sniffed.

‘Open it,’ he said, amused by her hesitation. ‘Or give it back and I’ll open it. It’s from my sister, Meg.’

She nodded, only half convinced, but gave the letter back, watching as he slit it open with his thumbnail and drew out the four slender sheets of paper. Without even glancing at them, he handed them to her.

‘Here...’

She lowered her eyes, beginning to read, reluctantly at first, but then with a growing interest. Finally, she looked up again, her face changed, more open to him.

‘But why didn’t you say? That was cruel of you, Ben, leaving me in the dark like that. I thought...’

She blushed and looked away. He reached across and took the letter from her.

‘Aren’t you pleased, Ben? I think it’s sweet of her to worry about you. She could stay with me, if you’d like. I’ve a spare pull-down in my room. She could use that.’

He glanced at her, then returned to the letter. Finished, he folded it neatly and slipped it back into his pocket.

‘Well?’ she said, exasperated. ‘It would be lovely to meet your sister. Really it would.’

He poured himself more wine, then drank deeply. She watched him, puzzled.

‘What aren’t you telling me?’

He shook his head.

‘Don’t you like her? Is that it?’

He laughed. ‘What, Meg? No, she’s...’ He smiled strangely, looking down into his empty glass. ‘She’s just perfect.’ He looked up at her, then reached across and, gently lifting her chin, leaned forward to brush his lips against hers.

She smiled. ‘That’s nice. But what about her?’

‘She’ll stay with me,’ he said, dismissing the subject. ‘Now... what shall we eat?’

She stared at him a moment, then let it go. ‘I don’t mind. Surprise me.’ He laughed, suddenly, inexplicably, his old self. ‘Oysters. Let’s have oysters.’

‘Just oysters?’

‘No. Not
just
oysters, but a whole platter of oysters. The very best oysters. More than we could possibly eat.’ He puffed out his cheeks and sat back in his chair, his hands tracing an exaggerated curve about his stomach, miming a grossly swollen gut. He laughed, then sat upright again and turned in his chair, snapping his fingers for a waiter.

The abruptness of the transformation both delighted and disturbed her. It hinted at a side of him she had not seen before, unless it was in that moment when he had mimicked her. She pushed her tongue between her teeth, watching him. Laughter at a nearby table distracted her momentarily, making her turn her head. When she looked back he was watching her again, a faint smile on his lips.

‘Sometimes you’re just plain strange,’ she said, laughing. ‘Like this business about your family. What’s wrong with talking about them? You never tell me anything.’

He shrugged. ‘It isn’t important. That’s home. This is here. I like to keep them separate.’

She looked down, wondering if he realized what he was saying. She felt hurt by his exclusion. Somehow lessened by it.

‘It’s too close there,’ he went on. ‘Too...’ he laughed; a short, almost painful laugh, ‘too intense. You’ll find that difficult to understand, I know. I don’t hate it, it’s just that I need distance from all that. Need something other than what I get there.’

He had set down his glass and was pushing at the skin of his left hand with the fingers of his right; looking down at it as he smoothed and stroked the ridged flesh.

‘And where, then, do I fit in? Am I real to you, Ben, or am I just something to be got?’

‘Maybe,’ he said, meeting her eyes candidly. ‘Maybe that’s all there is. Different kinds of getting.’

She was about to speak – about to say something she would have regretted later – when the laughter rang out again, louder this time. She felt herself go cold, realizing whose voice it was that led the cold, mocking laughter.

Sergey
...

She turned, seeing him at once. He was no more than twenty
ch’i
away from where they were sitting.

He turned in his chair, smiling at her. ‘Catherine! How
lovely
to see you!’

She could see that he was drunk. He pushed himself up unsteadily from his chair then came across, pulling out the empty chair beside her. Ignoring Ben, he sat, leaning towards her unpleasantly, almost threateningly, as he spoke.

‘How
are
you, Catherine, my dear? It’s quite a while since we saw
you
here, isn’t it?’

He belched, then turned, a sneering smile lighting his reddened face.

‘And who’s this?’ He feigned startled surprise. ‘My word, if it isn’t our friend, the genius!’ He made a mocking bow of politeness, but when he straightened up his face had hardened and his eyes were cold with malice. ‘I’ve been wanting to have a few words with you,
friend
.’

There was an ugliness in the emphatic way he said the last word. A hint of violence.

She watched, her irritation with Ben transformed into fear for him. She knew just how dangerous Sergey could be when he was in this kind of mood.

Ben smiled and turned to call the waiter over.
Yes
, she thought,
that’s best. End it now, before it gets out of hand
. But instead of asking the waiter to remove Sergey, Ben ordered a fresh bottle of the house wine and an extra glass. He turned back, facing his antagonist.

‘You’ll have a drink with us, I hope?’

Sergey gave a snort of surprise and annoyance. ‘I really can’t believe you, Shepherd. You’re such a smooth shit, aren’t you? You think you can buy the world.’

‘Sergey...’ she began, but he banged his fist down hard, glaring at her.

‘Shut up, Catherine! You might learn a few things about smiling boy here.’

She turned away, shutting her eyes, wishing it would stop.

Sergey leaned forward, his whole manner openly hostile now. ‘You’re not from here, are you, Shepherd?’

Ben was silent, musing.

‘You’re not, are you?’

Catherine opened her eyes and looked across. There was a faint smile on Ben’s lips: a wistful little smile.