Lydia thumped her gloved hands together and let out a long breath. Watched it curl away from her as solid as cigarette smoke. She drew in another deep breath, but it was an effort. Her lungs hurt. They just wouldn’t work properly. It was her mother’s words. They lay like a lead burden on her, crushing her chest.
It wasn’t right.
‘Mr Mason.’
‘Good God, girl, you startled me.’
He looked so smart, so upright. A fedora and alpaca coat. A black lizard-skin briefcase snug under his arm, car keys in hand. The picture of respectability. Pillar of society. Lydia wanted to tear his eyes out and feed them to the crow.
‘What are you doing loitering around my garage?’
‘I’m not loitering. I’m waiting to speak to you.’
‘Oh, not now. I’m in a hurry to get to the office.’
‘Yes, now.’
Something in her voice made him pause and look at her. His grey eyes grew wary. ‘Can’t it wait?’
‘No.’
‘Very well.’ He unlocked the garage and swung open the doors. The Buick’s big chrome headlights stared out at her.
‘I have the photographs.’
His hand dropped the car keys. He bent, picked them up, tried to bluff it out. ‘What photographs?’
‘Don’t.’
He pulled himself up tall, pushed out his chest, came and stood too close. ‘Look, young lady, I’m a busy man and I have no idea what you’re talking…’
She slapped him. A long swing with her arm and then her palm full on his cheek. The crack of it sounded loud in the still air. She was shocked, but not as shocked as he was. His eyes glazed for a moment. The red imprint of her hand with fingers splayed was stamped on his cheek. His fists came up but she stepped back out of reach.
‘That’s what it feels like. To be knocked about, you wife-beating pervert. Taking nude pictures of your own daughter…’
He lunged for her. She dodged.
‘What would Sir Edward Carlisle have to say about that?’
‘Now you get this straight, girl, it’s not…’
‘Don’t. I don’t want to hear your lies, you piece of slime. Sir Edward will sack you on the spot.’
His face grew ashen. He was having trouble swallowing, but his eyes remained shrewd. He held up one neatly manicured hand in a gesture of peace.
‘All right, Lydia. Let’s get down to business. You’re no fool. I’ll give you ten thousand dollars for the photographs and negatives. ’
Ten thousand dollars.
A fortune. Her head swayed.
‘You can have it in cash. This afternoon.’ He was watching her closely and suddenly reached into his pocket and pulled out his wallet. He yanked out a thick wedge of notes and fanned them out like cards unsder her nose. ‘Here. Take this. As a starter.’
Ten thousand dollars.
Ten thousand dollars would buy anything. Everything. Passports. Visas. Pianos. First-class boat tickets. She could take her mother to England and flee. Oxford University, just as her mother wanted. It was all there, in Mason’s hand. All she had to do was say yes. And she could take Chang An Lo to safety with her.
But would he come? Leave China?
Mason’s lips pulled into a thin line. It was meant as a smile. ‘Agreed?’
She opened her mouth to say yes.
‘No.’
‘Don’t be a bloody stupid fool. This is your chance.’
‘But you’d have the photographs.’
‘I’d destroy them, I promise.’
‘No.’
‘Why?’
She opened her hands to the sky, letting the money go. ‘Because you are scum. I don’t trust you. As long as I hang on to those negatives, I can be certain you will never lay a finger on Polly again. Or your wife. Or my mother. Do you understand me?’
He scowled, turned away. She watched the money return to the wallet. Her throat hurt.
‘Don’t come near my mother anymore.’
‘Go to hell, bitch.’
He walked to the car, his head sunk on his chest, and lashed out at one of the tyres with a brutal kick.
‘Mr Mason.’
He didn’t look at her.
‘Mr Mason, leave Theo Willoughby alone too.’
Mason made a harsh sound that sent a shiver down her spine. ‘Don’t you worry about him,’ he retorted. ‘Feng and his son between them will look after Willoughby.’ His eyes crept back to hers, and the expression in them made her skin crawl. ‘Just like they’ll look after you.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Now they know who took care of the Communist.’
‘What Communist?’
‘Don’t play innocent. The one they’re after. The one you nursed.’
Lydia felt ice spike her veins. ‘That’s a lie.’
‘No. Polly told me.’
‘Polly?’
‘Oh yes. Your loyal little friend. Still want to protect her, do you? Yes, she told me and I told them. Right now they’re probably at your house.’ He laughed outright. ‘You didn’t really think I’d give a bitch like you ten thousand dollars, did you? You and your whoring mother can…’
But Lydia was already running.
She burst into her house.
‘Mama,’ she shouted. ‘Mama.’
No reply.
The houseboy – what was his name? Deng? – she called out for him. He came running.
‘Yes, Missy Leeja?’
‘My mother, where is she?’
‘I not know.’
She pounced on him and shook his bony shoulders. ‘Is she here?’
‘No, she out.’
‘So early?’
‘She go with Master. In car.’
‘Just the two of them?’
His bright eyes were nervous of her as he held up two fingers. ‘Master and Missy.’
She released him and he scuttled away, hunched like a beetle. Her tongue licked her dry lips. She’d panicked for nothing. But that didn’t mean the danger wasn’t there. It was. She walked into the drawing room and stared out the French windows. How the hell do you fight back when you can’t see your enemy? She leaned her forehead against the icy pane of glass and thought about that. Something broke loose inside her. Everything felt too heavy. Too big.
Her gaze was drawn to the shed, and because it was the nearest she could get to Chang An Lo right now, she opened the glass door and walked down toward it. The air was cold and crisp in her lungs and her head began to clear. She became aware of a crunching noise. A rat was gnawing at one of the wooden planks at the bottom of the shed. Her pulse picked up. What was it after?
‘Scoot,’ she shouted and the creature fled.
The padlock was still locked but the bolt attached to it hung uselessly on the door, the screws prised out. She gave a faint moan. Her hand reached out and touched the door. The wood was warm in the sun. Adrenaline hit her system. She pushed. The door swung open. She screamed.
Blood. So much of it. Red. Sticky. Everywhere. Walls. Ceiling. Floor. On the wire of the hutch and on the sacks. As if someone had painted with blood. The raw stench of it mixed with the stink of faeces but Lydia didn’t notice the smell.
‘Sun Yat-sen,’ she screamed.
The rabbit was lying in the middle of a pool of blood on the floor, his white fur caked with bright crimson. Even his big yellow teeth were red. Lydia knelt beside him, careless of her school uniform, and tears poured down her cheeks.
‘Sun Yat-sen,’ she whispered and lifted him into her arms.
He was still warm. Still alive. But barely. One leg twitched and a strange strangled screech whistled from his small pulsing body. His ears had been hacked off and rammed into his mouth, and his throat was cut. She pulled out the long, soft ears. Held him close. Rocked him and crooned to him. Until the final spasm stiffened his spine. His bloodshot eyes started to glaze.