City of Ghosts (28 page)

‘Yes. Your wounds are healed and there is no more chance of infection. But it will mean danger and sacrifice and it must happen this week. We can't take the chance that they might discharge you and send you away. And I won't be able to keep an eye on things when I move to the main hospital.'

Bissen smiled. ‘I am ready to do anything for you,' he promised.

Lillian frowned. ‘You'll have to stay locked away, as you are here . . .'

‘Very well.'

‘And you may have to shave . . .'

Bissen swallowed hard. His hand went involuntarily to his beard, then his turban.

‘I'm sorry,' said Lillian. ‘Truly, I am—'

‘No, no.' Bissen shook his head. ‘For you I will do.'

Lillian put her hands to his face. ‘Are you absolutely sure?'

‘Yes . . . Tell your uncle I will come . . .'

Bissen took her hands and squeezed them gently. The turban and beard, he told himself, were not what made him a Sikh. It was what he held in his heart that made him who he was. And besides, if God's laws would not allow him to fulfil his dreams, then he would have to find new laws that did. It was this thought that kept him awake well into the small hours, long after Lillian had left.

He
had
to leave the hospital. If there was no other way
to be with Lillian than to become a deserter, then he would do it.
Seize the day
, his inner voice demanded. He had been loyal to his emperor, prepared to lay down his life. But now his emperor would have to forgive him, as would his God. What did the firing squad or eternal damnation matter if he couldn't have his freedom? What was the point of breathing if he couldn't take in the aroma of Lillian's perfume or feel the heat from her breast? Whatever she and her uncle had planned, he was ready to do it.

LILLIAN'S UNCLE STRODE
confidently into Bissen's ward at just after seven in the evening. Bissen smiled to himself: Bertie was on time, just as she'd said he would be. A tremor of excitement ran through his heart; all being well, he would soon be a free man. The guard at the door asked Lillian's uncle what his business was. He snorted with contempt and produced a letter from his pocket before replying.

‘Government business!' he said, his voice reverberating around the room.

‘Oh,' replied the guard, looking slightly confused.

‘It appears that you have a person of interest on this ward.'

Lillian's uncle wore the uniform of a top ranking military officer and the guard deferred to it. He glanced at the letter for a moment, noted the government seal, then handed it back to his superior.

‘Is everything to your satisfaction, young man?' asked Uncle Bertie.

‘Yes, sir!' replied the guard. ‘Which of the men do you wish to see?'

Bertie coughed. ‘I don't wish to
see
him, you buffoon! The letter states that I must interrogate the man over an alleged incident in the trenches. This is a delicate matter, Private . . .'

‘Yes, sir.'

‘There may be a court-martial at the end of it.'

The guard frowned. This was a serious situation. ‘I see, sir,' he said.

‘It's the man at the end there,' added Bertie, nodding towards Bissen.

The guard walked quickly back to his desk and picked up a sheet of paper. On it was a bed plan with the name of each patient.

‘The man you want is Bissen Singh, sir,' he told Bertie.

‘Yes, yes. I know who he is – just get him out of bed and into a damned wheelchair. I don't have all night!'

The guard did as he was told, and within five minutes Bissen was being wheeled out of the ward by Bertie.

The guard followed behind. ‘I need to make a note of where you are taking the patient,' he said.

‘To London,' replied Bertie. ‘And he is no longer a
patient
, Private. The man is now a prisoner.'

The guard nodded. ‘Excuse me for asking, sir, but where exactly in London are you taking him? Only, my orders—'

‘Your orders are to
follow
orders, Private!' shouted Bertie. ‘And
my
orders supersede anything you have been told thus far. Is that
clear
?'

The guard nodded.

‘I'm with Military Intelligence and the man is being taken to the Defence Ministry.'

‘Thank you, sir,' said the guard.

‘An officer explaining himself to a private . . .' muttered Bertie. ‘The world's gone mad . . .'

The guard thought about replying but changed his mind. He'd pushed his luck as far as it would go. And he had no desire to upset anyone from Military Intelligence – not over an Indian. ‘Shall I see you out to your transport, sir?' he asked instead.

Bertie shook his head. ‘No thank you,' he replied curtly. ‘I have a man waiting for me. Back to your post, Private . . .'

The guard nodded as he watched the officer wheel his prisoner out of the building. He walked back to his desk and sat down. Picking up a pencil, he crossed out Bissen Singh's name and wrote:
Removed to MoD for interrogation by Colonel Smythe
.

The bored-looking guard at the gate let ‘Colonel Smythe' and his prisoner pass without any fuss. Bertie thanked him and wheeled Bissen towards a van parked by the kerb. It was black with white stencilled writing on the side. Bissen couldn't make out what the letters said. Another man, also dressed in uniform, jumped down from the driver's seat, walked round to the back of the van and opened the doors. His hair was black as night and his eyes a deep, dark brown. From the man's skin tone, Bissen realized that he wasn't English. He looked like he came from the East.

‘This is Hamadi,' Bertie explained. ‘He is from Egypt and he works for me.'

Hamadi smiled at Bissen, and then he and Bertie helped him into the back of the van. There were two wooden benches on either side. Bertie took the cushions from the wheelchair and gave them to Bissen.

‘The seating might be a little uncomfortable,' he told him. ‘Use the cushions.'

‘Thank you, sir,' replied Bissen.

‘No matter, dear fellow. Just hang on as we drive; the ride is rather bumpy, but we'll only be half an hour or so . . .'

Bissen nodded before Bertie closed the door and left him in darkness. Within a minute, Hamadi had started the engine and they were off. The wheelchair stayed where it was, waiting to be discovered.

The ride was as uncomfortable as Lillian's uncle had warned. By the time the van came to a stop, Bissen could feel his wounds biting. But the pain passed quickly, and once the door was opened and he had been helped outside, he was more than happy. In front of him stood an enormous stone house with a grand doorway framed by intricately carved pillars. The house seemed to be sitting in the middle of nowhere, surrounded by trees and open land.

‘Welcome to my home,' said Bertie with a smile. ‘No one will think to look for you here . . .'

Bissen nodded and wondered how rich he was to own such a wonderful home.

‘Do come in,' Bertie went on. ‘It's bloody freezing out here.'

He turned to Hamadi and said something in a language Bissen didn't recognize but guessed was Arabic. Hamadi
nodded, jumped back into the van and started the engine. As Bissen and Bertie entered the house, the van disappeared into the darkness.

Bissen was led up a grand stone staircase and into a large, well-lit bedroom. Over by the window was a bed much bigger than anything he had ever seen before. It had four corner posts; soft swathes of cream-coloured fabric were draped between them. On top of the bed were countless pillows, in white, cream and red, and on a bedside table sat a silver teapot, a cup full of steaming tea and a plate of bread and jam.

‘Get some rest,' Bertie told Bissen. ‘Lillian will be here in the morning and we have much to discuss.'

‘Thank you,' said Bissen. ‘You are very kind to me.'

Bertie smiled. ‘Nonsense. My Lillian is all I have left in the world. Nothing is too much . . . Now eat a little and try the tea – it's been spiced. Probably not authentically Indian but as close as I could get.'

‘Yes, sir.'

Bertie shook his head. ‘There are no superiors here, young man,' he told him. ‘Just human beings . . .'

The following morning Bissen sat in the drawing room and read the paper. Bertie had gone out after waking Bissen, showing him the amenities and telling him that there was breakfast waiting for him in the kitchen. It turned out that Hamadi was not the only person who worked for Lillian's uncle. In the kitchen Bissen found a plump, friendly white woman called Nora, who fed him boiled eggs and toast and gave him some more of Bertie's spiced tea. Bissen had eaten
well before exploring the house and finally settling in one of its many rooms – one with large French doors and views across a well-kept lawn that led down to a stream and, beyond it, dense woods. Bissen was reading about the war when Lillian came into the room.

‘Look at you!' She ran across and threw her arms around him. ‘You look like the lord of the manor . . .'

Bissen dropped the paper and embraced her, taking in her scent and the warmth of her body. ‘Thank you,' he told her.

Lillian let go and admired Bissen's grey eyes and his smile. ‘I can't believe we did it,' she said. ‘That you are actually here.'

Bissen nodded.

‘Uncle Bertie said it would be easy but I didn't for a moment believe him. I thought it would be far more difficult.'

‘He dressed like colonel,' Bissen told her. ‘He looked like real thing.'

Lillian laughed. ‘My uncle has many friends,' she explained. ‘Most of them in high places too. I don't know what tricks he pulled to get you out, and frankly, I don't care, just so long as you are here.'

She took his face in her hands and kissed him over and over. ‘Just think,' she said. ‘We'll be together for Christmas – your first!'

‘Yes . . .' Bissen's eyes glazed over.

‘Oh, this is like a dream! A wonderful, wonderful dream!'

They spent much of the day in each other's arms, no longer able to hold back what they felt. The first time they made love it was awkward, but as passion took hold they overcame their nerves. Lillian was careful not to aggravate
Bissen's wounds, but for his part, he forgot all about his leg. The sensations he felt – her touch, her taste, the heat that came from her skin – more than compensated for the pain. It was just as he had imagined it; no, it was better. When they were finished, Bissen lay with his head against Lillian's breasts and fell soundly asleep.

By the time Bertie returned that evening, they were sitting by a warm fire in the drawing room, holding hands and talking of their future.

‘It's been a long day,' Bertie told them. ‘I'm ready for a drop of Scotch . . . Anyone else?'

Lillian nodded and asked Bissen if he would like one too. He shrugged. He had only ever tried alcohol once, when he was fourteen. Back then it had made his stomach churn and his head ache. He had never touched it since, and as a Sikh, that was what was expected.

Bertie realized as much and grinned. ‘Lillian knows very little of your religion,' he told him. ‘Sikhs don't drink, do they?'

‘But one drink not hurt,' he replied, smiling broadly. ‘I have a little . . . please.'

Later, as Lillian squeezed Bissen's hand tight and whispered her love to him, he closed his eyes and prayed that he was not caught in some fantasy inside his own head; that Fate was not playing some awful trick. He realized that he couldn't recall the last time he had felt so happy.

THE TEMPERATURE HAD
fallen to below freezing and remained there. As Bissen sat in the drawing room, he shivered from the cold. A fire burned steadily in the grate but the window frames were old and let in a draught that ate at his bones. Lillian, who'd moved back into Bertie's house the previous evening, had gone to work, leaving Bissen to his own devices. There was little to do except read the newspaper or study one of the thousands of books that Bertie had accumulated over a lifetime. Not that Bissen minded. Books were such an amazing gift, allowing him access to new people and countries. He sat with a copy of
The Hound of the Baskervilles
by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle in his lap, intrigued by the plot and the descriptions of English life. The detective, Sherlock Holmes, was a popular character, according to Bertie, and Bissen was enjoying the novel immensely, despite his difficulty with some of the language.

Just as Holmes had decided to head back to London, leaving Dr Watson to hold the fort, there was a knock at the
door. Bissen, unsure what to do, did not answer. A second knock followed, this one louder. He stood up, laying the book face down on a side table so as not to lose his place. He walked slowly over to the door and opened it.

‘May I come in?' asked Bertie from across the threshold.

Bissen nodded, wondering why he needed to knock to enter a room in his own house.

‘Didn't want to disturb you, old chap,' explained Bertie, sensing Bissen's surprise.

‘Please come,' replied Bissen, walking back to his chair and sitting down.

Bertie followed him and perched on a window ledge. ‘How are you finding life outside the hospital?' he asked Bissen.

‘Very good,' Bissen replied. ‘I must thank you.'

Bertie dismissed his gratitude with a wave of the hand. ‘Nonsense,' he said. ‘You are more than welcome – there really is no need to thank me . . . What are you reading?'

Bissen held up the novel.

‘Ah!' Bertie exclaimed. ‘One of my absolute favourites.'

‘You tell me about this yesterday,' Bissen reminded him. ‘So I read.'

‘A very good choice . . . I was wondering if we might have a talk, you and I.'