Screams followed; her arms were released. She kicked as the young Oriental rolled away clutching his stomach; she crashed her knee up into the exposed organ above her waist, then clawed at the wild-eyed, sweating face of the taller man, now screaming herself – yelling, pleading, shouting as she had never shouted in her life before. Holding his testicles beneath his shorts, the infuriated boy threw himself down on her, but rape was no longer a consideration, only to keep her quiet. Suffocating, the darkness had begun to close in on Marie -and then she had heard other voices in the distance, excited voices closing that distance, and she knew she had to send up a final cry for help. In a desperate surge, she dug her nails into the contorted face above her, for an instant freeing her mouth from the grip.
'Here! Down here! Over here!"
Bodies were suddenly swarming around her; she could hear slaps and kicks and furious screams, but none of the madness was directed at her. Then the darkness had come, her last thoughts only partly about herself. David! David, for God's sake where are you? Stay alive, my dearest! Don't let them take your mind again. Above all, don't allow that! They want mine and I won't give it to them! Why are they doing this to us? Oh, my God, why?
She had awakened on a cot in a small room with no windows, a young Chinese woman, a girl really, wiping her forehead with a cool, perfumed cloth. ' Where...?' whispered Marie. 'Where is this? Where am I?'
The girl smiled sweetly and shrugged, nodding at a man on the other side of the cot, a Chinese Marie judged to be in his thirties, dressed in tropical clothes, a white guayabera instead of a shirt . 'Permit me to introduce myself,' said the man in accented but clear English. 'My name is Jitai, and I am with the Tuen Mun branch of the Hang Chow Bank. You are in the back room of a fabric shop belonging to a friend and client, Mr Chang. They brought you here and called for me. You were attacked by two hoodlums of the Di-di Jing Cha, which can be translated as the Young People's Auxiliary Police. It is one of those well-meant social programmes that has many benefits, but on occasion also has its very rotten apples, as you Americans say. '
'Why do you think I'm American?'
'Your speech. While you were unconscious you spoke about a man named David. A dear friend, no doubt. You wish to find him. '
'What else did I say?
'Nothing, really. You were not very coherent. '
'I don't know anyone named David,' said Marie firmly. 'Not in that way. It must have been one of those deliriums that go back to childhood. '
'It is immaterial. It is your well-being that matters. We are filled with shame and sorrow at what happened. '
'Where are those two punks, those bastards?
They are caught and will be punished. '
'I hope they spend ten years in jail. '
The Chinese had frowned. To bring that about will mean involving the police – a formal complaint, a hearing before a magistrate, so many legalities. ' Marie stared at the banker. 'Now, if you wish I will accompany you to the police and act as your interpreter, but it was our opinion that we should first hear your desires in this regard. You have been through so much – and you are alone here in Tuen Mun for reasons only you know. '
'No, Mr Jitai,' said Marie quietly. Td rather not press charges. I'm all right and vengeance isn't a high priority with me. '
'It is with us, madame. '
'What do you mean?'
'Your attackers will carry our shame to their wedding beds where their performances will be less than expected. '
'I see. They are young-'
This morning, as we have learned, is not their first offence. They are filth, and lessons must be taught. '
This morning? Oh, my God, what time is it? How long have I been here?
The banker looked at his watch. 'Nearly an hour. '
'I've got to get back to the apartment – the flat – right away. It's important. '
The ladies wish to mend your clothing. They're excellent seamstresses and it will not take long. However, they believed you should not wake up without your clothes. '
'I haven't time. I have to get back now. Oh, Christ! I don't know where it is and I don't have an address!'
'We know the building, madame. A tall, attractive white woman alone in Tuen Mun is noticed. Word spreads. Well take you there at once. ' The banker turned and spoke in rapid Chinese, addressing a half-opened door behind him as Marie sat up. She was suddenly aware of the crowd of people peering inside. She got to her feet – her painful feet – and stood for a moment, weaving but slowly finding her balance, holding the ripped folds of her blouse together.
The door was pulled back and two old women entered, each carrying an article of brightly coloured silk. The first was a kimono-like garment which was gently lowered over her head becoming a half-dress, covering her torn blouse and much of her soiled green slacks. The second was a long, wide sash which was wrapped around her waist and tied, also gently. Tense as she was Marie saw that each article was exquisite.
'Come, madame,' said the banker, touching her elbow. 'I will escort you. ' They walked out into the fabric shop, Marie nodding and trying to smile as the crowd of Chinese men and women bowed to her, their dark eyes filled with sadness.
She had returned to the small apartment, removed the beautiful sash and garment, and lay down on the bed trying to make sense where no reason was to be found. She buried her face in the pillow now, trying to push the horrible images of the morning out of her head, but the ugliness was beyond purging. Instead, it made the sweat pour out of her, and the tighter she closed her eyes, the more violent the images became, interweaving the terrible memories of Zurich on the Guisan Quai when a man named Jason Bourne had saved her life.
She stifled a scream and leaped off the bed, standing there, trembling. She walked into the tiny kitchen and turned on the tap, reaching for a glass. The stream of water was weak and thin and she watched vacantly as the glass filled, her mind elsewhere.
There are times when people should put their heads on hold – God knows I do it more than a reasonably respected psychiatrist should... Things overwhelm us... we have to get our acts together. Morris Panov, friend to Jason Bourne.
She shut off the tap, drank the lukewarm water and went back towards the confining room that served the triple functions of sleeping, sitting and pacing. She stood in the doorway and looked around, knowing what she found so grotesque about her sanctuary. It was a cell, as surely as if it were in some remote prison. Worse, it was a very real form of solitary confinement. She was again isolated with her thoughts, with her terrors. She walked to a window as a prisoner might, and peered at the world outside. What she saw was an extension of her cell; she was not free down in that teeming street below either. It was not a world she knew, and it did not welcome her. Quite apart from the obscene madness of the morning on the beach, she was an intruder who could neither understand nor be understood. She was alone, and that loneliness was driving her crazy.
Numbly Marie gazed at the street. The street? There she was! Catherine! She was standing with a man by a grey car, their heads turned, watching three other men ten yards behind them by a second car. All five were glaringly apparent, for they were like no other people in the street. They were Occidentals in a sea of Chinese, strangers in an unfamiliar place. They were obviously excited, concerned about something, as they kept nodding their heads and looking in all directions, especially across the street. At the apartment house. Heads? Hair! Three of the men had close-cropped hair – military cuts... marines. American marines!
Catherine's companion, a civilian to judge by his hair, was talking rapidly, his index finger jabbing the air... Marie knew him! It was the man from the State Department, the one who had come to see them in Maine! The undersecretary with the dead eyes who kept rubbing his temples and barely protested when David told him he did not trust him. It was