No matter that she was a whore, she was a person too, with needs and the desire for love. If he took her from here . . .
He drew back, trying to see it clear, to think it through the way Sampsa would have thought it through.
Why now? he called to him across the emptiness. Why did you have to go away from me now?
Yet if he hadn't, if Sampsa had been in his head throughout, seeing it all, sharing it, would he ever have fallen? Would he have even taken the first step?
No. He knew that for a fact. Sampsa's absence from his head may have made him vulnerable, yet it had also made him free.
Nothing will ever be the same again, he thought, letting a sigh escape him. Nothing.
There was a noise; the creaking of a board. Tom turned sharply. It was Yun. The young Han smiled apologetically then came across, crouching beside Tom.
"So, Tom, how did it go? You fuck her good, eh? You give her what for?"
Tom reached out and took Yun's arm, then pulled at it sharply. There was a startled yelp, a splash. A moment later a slick head broke the surface of the water, gasping.
"What the fuck?"
Tom stood and turned. It was time to go.
Chuang Kuan Ts'ai stood in the Oven Man's garden, beyond the shadow of the high brick walls, her round, hazel eyes wide as she watched the flickering patch of crimson dancing in the sunlight. So red it was - so vividly, startlingly red.
"Hu t'ieh," she murmured beneath her breath, the habit of silence strong in her. "Hu fieh ..."
She took a slow, careful step, like a cat dosing on its prey. Yet she had no thought of capturing the tiny, dancing creature. No. Let it go free. Let it fly to another garden and delight some other child the way it had delighted her.
Slowly, like a flower opening, her seven-year-old face budded in a smile. Hu t'ieh . . . like in the story Uncle Cho had told her, about the old man who had dreamed he was a butterfly - hu t'ieh - and when he woke could not say whether he had been a man dreaming he was a butterfly, or was now a butterfly dreaming he was a man.
She watched it settle on a leaf, red against green, resting in the midday heat, seeming to soak in the brilliant sunlight, as if recharging itself.
Another step, and another; then, crouching, her eyes on a level with the leaf, she stretched out a finger, slowly, careful not to startle it. Surprisingly it did not fly off, but alighted on her finger, soft, light, ticklingly light.
A tiny shiver of delight passed up her spine as it slowly dosed and opened its wings. She drew her hand back until the tiny creature rested only inches from her face, its compound eyes staring back at her as if understanding the sudden awe in her eyes.
"Hu t'ieh/' she whispered, naming it again, her breath making its gossamer wings shimmer. "Hu t'ieh."
Slowly she turned it, trying to make out the mirrored design on its wings, then caught her breath in surprise, recognising the logo from the trivee adverts she had seen. A capital G with a smaller S inside.
GenSyn. The butterfly was GenSyn.
For a moment longer it rested there, barely moving, its wings stretched open, the tiny solar panels soaking up the sunlight, then, with a lifting, fluttering movement that perfectly mimicked the flight of a butterfly, it launched itself into the sunlight, dimbing up out of the Oven Man's garden, its camera eyes sending back a constant stream of images.
Young Chuang watched, feeling a sudden, overpowering sense of disappointment. Then, conscious that Uncle Cho would soon be home, she went back inside to set the table and begin to make the tea.
Josef had seen it there two days ago; had seen the lao jen take the heavy plastic container and set it down beside another at the back of the shop, the distinctive marking - the bright yellow casing with its skull and crossed-bones warning sign in black - catching his eye. Even then he had known he would be back. It was just a question of time. Of time and careful planning.
For a whole afternoon he had sat on the bank opposite the quayside shop, watching the comings and goings, his feet dangling idly in the water while he thought it through. Now, as his head broke the water's surface and his hands sought the slick stone steps that led up into the back of the shop, he knew exactly what to do.
The front of the shop was dosed, the security shutters pulled down, the lao jen at his lunch. For an hour the coast was dear. He had only to avoid being seen.
He crouched low in the water, keeping to the deep shadow by the watt. Out on the river the heat beat down. It was the hottest part of the day and the whole world seemed to doze. On passing boats the sailors lounged or listlessly went about their duties. No one had eyes for the boy crouched in the water by the wall.
The back door was locked, of course, but that was no problem. Josef was good at picking locks. He had been doing it since he was four. Besides, there was always the ventilation hatch above. He was small enough and lithe enough to climb through there if need be.
It proved unnecessary. The lock gave easily and he was in, the door dosed to a tiny crack behind him. Inside it was dark, the scent of herbal preparations strong. All around him he could sense the shadowy shapes of the great cupboards, their tiny drawers - row after row of them - reaching up right to the ceiling.
Feeling his way along, he found the counter and dimbed up, perching himself beside the till. For a moment he rested, getting his breath, looking about him as his eyes grew accustomed to the dark. He had no interest in the money - at least, not in this money - yet it was necessary to take it. To make it seem that there had been a proper robbery.
Smiling, he took a sealed plastic packet from inside his sodden shirt and popped the neck, spilling its contents onto the counter. It held four things: two gloves, a small clear plastic storage jar with a screw-on top, and a badge - a school-badge from the Seventh District School.
Quickly he slipped on the gloves and, ringing up a sale, opened the ancient till, taking out all of the high-value notes and chips.
These he placed inside the packet. He fondly patted the box-like note-tracer beside the till, then dimbed down, going over to where the two containers sat side by side against the watt. He tried the right-hand one first. It was heavy, dearly futt, the seal unbroken. He set it down and lifted the other. It was much lighter. He put it down, then reached in his pocket and set the storage jar down beside it, unscrewing the top. Taking great care, he lifted the container once again and tilted it slowly, pouring the smallest amount into the jar.
Satisfied, he sealed the top again and put it back beside its fellow. No one would know. They would think money the motive for this burglary. He popped the top back on the jar, making sure it was secure, then went across and slipped it into the packet, along with the money.
And now the badge. He looked about him, seeing it as the investigating officer would see it, and dropped it on the floor beside the till.
Four minutes had passed, no more, as he removed his shirt and, holding the re-sealed packet in one hand, mopped behind him with the sodden rag, removing the print of his feet on the erwood floor.