‘We’d better get out of here.’ He wiped the blood from his face and picked up his M16.
Chapter Twenty-Five
The freshly watered grass was cool and crisp under her feet. She felt vulnerable barefoot, wrapped only in a flimsy silk dressing gown, but was comforted by the hand of the girl in the yellow dress who held her lightly just above the elbow, guiding her from the dark interior and into the glare of the garden. The air was velvety warm, cooled by the fine spray that filled the air and carried the scent of winter blossoms across the lawn. A gardener, dressed all in black, played a hose liberally over flower beds across a haze of green, while in the centre of the lawn a sprinkler sent millions of tiny droplets flickering through the morning sunlight, making perfect little rainbows.
Under the shade of a large tree Tuk sat at a white, circular table eating breakfast, a morning paper folded beside his plate. He looked up and smiled across at her and stood as she approached.
‘Good morning, my dear. And how are you feeling today?’
‘Confused,’ she said, and was suddenly aware that the girl in the yellow dress had gone, a glimpse of pale lemon melting into the cool darkness of the house. Tuk pulled out a chair for her and she sat down.
‘But of course,’ he said. ‘I understand. You must have many questions.’ He paused. ‘And perhaps a few answers.’ He regarded her speculatively for a moment, then he waved his hand dismissively. ‘But there will be plenty of time for both. First you must have a little breakfast. Juice?’ He sat down, about to pour her some freshly squeezed orange, but stopped, inclined his head a little and reached out to run his fingers lightly down one side of her face. She winced and drew back from his touch. ‘Such a nasty bruise,’ he said. ‘That man must have been an animal. Such beauty as yours should be treated with reverence.’
She had seen her own face earlier, when the girl in the yellow dress had come to wake her. An ugly purple bruise extending from her swollen upper lip across her cheekbone. One eye, too, was bruised and swollen and almost closed. Her whole body ached, and she was surprised not to find its creamy whiteness covered by bruises. The girl had not spoken to her, only smiling as she led her gently into a lilac-tiled shower room. There, to Lisa’s embarrassment, the girl had washed her down with a large soapy sponge under a stream of steaming hot water that relaxed her so that her legs felt weak and almost buckled. Then she rubbed her down with a big soft towel before holding the silk robe for her to slip into.
Lisa felt better now, seated in the soft drowsy shade, and only realized how hungry she was when the sharp sweetness of the orange juice nipped her tongue. Over his paper, Tuk watched with a half-smile as she tucked into slices of freshly toasted bread running with melted butter and honey. He sighed with satisfaction when the girl with the yellow dress brought a fresh pot of scented tea and poured them a cup. Lisa flicked uncertain darting glances at him when she thought he wasn’t watching her, building up a series of tiny snapshot impressions to sketch in the detail she had failed to take in at first sight. His freshly starched white shirt and trousers bore creases like razors. You could cut yourself just touching him, she thought. And she smiled to herself as it occurred to her that he brought new meaning to the phrase sharp dresser. And with that, she realized how much better she was feeling.
His short dark hair was oiled back. Dyed, she guessed. It was too uniformly black for a man of his age. He had a not unpleasant face, brown as a nut, smooth and unlined. But his eyes, she noticed, dark unyielding eyes, never reflected the smile that played constantly about his pale lips. She took in the manicured nails, the three gold rings, and the diamond on his little finger, and smiled up at him from the last of her tea.
‘Better?’ he asked.
She nodded vigorously. ‘Much.’
He folded his paper and put it aside, clasping his hands over his crossed knees. ‘So,’ he said. ‘Shall we exchange a few confidences?’
‘You do know my father?’ she asked.
‘Oh, yes, I know him well. In fact, he was seated here with me at this very table less than a week ago.’
Her heart leapt. ‘You know where he is, then?’
‘Yes, I do.’
She felt both excitement and relief in a single emotional response. She had found him, finally, after all these weeks. And, yet, now that he was within reach, she felt an involuntary drawing back. Fear. Perhaps, after all, he would not want to see her. ‘When will I be able to see him?’
Tuk smiled. ‘I’m sorry, my dear, I really don’t know.’
‘But you said you knew where he was.’
‘Oh, I know where he’s gone. But not when, or even if, he’ll be back.’
She frowned. ‘I don’t understand.’
He leaned on the table and put a hand over hers. ‘How well do you know your father?’
She hesitated, then drew her hand away, and felt herself withdrawing inside, suddenly aware that she knew nothing about this man, or how she came to be in his house.
‘Enough,’ she said, and felt clumsily defensive. ‘Where is he?’
‘Kampuchea.’
‘Kampuchea?’ She had heard of it, of course, but her grasp of south-east Asian geography and current affairs was sketchy.
‘You have heard of Cambodia?’ Tuk asked.
‘He’s gone there, too?’
Tuk grinned, genuinely amused. ‘They are one and the same, Miss Lisa.’ And he paused long enough for her to feel foolish. ‘Cambodia is bordered on the north by Laos, to the north and west by Thailand and the Gulf of Thailand, and to the east and south by Vietnam. She was a casualty of the war in Vietnam. A bystander caught in the crossfire between the Americans and the communists, and has now fallen prey to a kind of political cannibalism that we call the Khmer Rouge.’
Lisa knew little of the war in Vietnam, but she had heard of the Khmer Rouge, a vague memory of obscure reports on the evening television news bulletins. They had never seemed relevant and she had never got interested.
Tuk said, ‘Your father has been paid a great deal of money to go into Cambodia to try to rescue a woman and her children who, like everyone else in the country, are prisoners of the Khmer Rouge. He came to me for’ — he picked his words carefully — ‘equipment and supplies. But of course, you already knew that.’ He raised an eyebrow and she realized it was a question, not a statement.
She shook her head. ‘No. I had no idea who you were.’
‘Your father didn’t say?’
She avoided his eyes. ‘No. He doesn’t know I’m here.’
‘Then who gave you my name?’
Lisa ran her hands back through her hair. ‘I’m beginning to feel tired, Mr Tuk.’
‘Of course, Lisa,’ Tuk said, full of ersatz sincerity. ‘But it is important that we know certain things about each other, don’t you think?’
‘I suppose,’ she said reluctantly. She felt herself being inextricably drawn into a question-and-answer session in which she really did not want to participate. ‘But I’m not sure I should say.’
‘Oh, come now, my dear, it’s not a secret, is it?’ His patient amiability was very persuasive.
‘I suppose not.’ But still she hesitated.
‘Well?’ There was just the hint of an edge in his voice now.
She could see no polite way out. ‘It was Sam Blair.’
‘Ah,’ Tuk said, apparently satisfied by this. ‘Mr Blair. Of course.’ He thought for a moment. ‘So your father was not expecting you?’
She hesitated for a long time before she decided, finally, to tell him the truth. After all, she thought, there could be no harm in it, could there? ‘Mr Tuk, all my life, until just a few weeks ago, I thought my father was dead. As far as he knows, I still do.’