‘I’ll do it before I leave this evening, sir.’
‘Good, then you can accompany me to meet our Frenchman tomorrow morning.’
‘As long as we don’t have frog’s legs for breakfast, sir.’
‘Most certainly not, Stra-chan. It will be a strong coffee and a croissant in the French Concession. Frog’s legs would only be served for luncheon or dinner.’
‘It was a joke, sir.’
‘I see you have an English sense of humour.’
‘I picked it up at school, sir.’
‘Well, put it down when you are with me, Stra-chan, is that clear?’
Strachan looked out over the river. For the second time that day, he gave the same response. ‘As the Soochow Creek, sir.’
***
Her head ached. She shook it to try and clear the fuzziness.
Where was she? Another night drinking too much? She tried to remember what happened but nothing would come. She had got into a taxi but then…?
She tried to lift her arm to brush away the hair from her eyes, but it wouldn’t move. She tried again. It was like both her arms were gripped around the wrists by coarse, hairy fingers.
She shook her head once more and looked down. Both her arms were strapped to a wooden chair with lengths of thin rope. Twisting left and right, she leveraged her body against the back of the chair and twisted her arms. The ropes cut into her wrists, drops of fresh blood flowed down her hands and onto her leg.
Tears ran down face. Her head lolled forwards. Memories flashed into her head. Leaving the Astor, Getting into a cab. A bald head. Driving around Shanghai. Stopping. Bitten fingers. A red livid scar across the top of his head. Reaching for her. A cloth over her mouth. Darkness.
How did I get here? Why me? A great wracking sob seized hold of her chest. Her head lolled forward again, the tears dripping down onto her dress where their warmth and wetness seeped into the fabric.
She tried to rock the chair backwards and forwards, but it wouldn’t move. It was made from solid, thick wood, bolted to the floor. Like an electric chair without the current, she thought bitterly.
She lifted her head and peered into the gloom that surrounded her. Not much to see, just a drab brownness that seemed to be walls. From them, a dark, dank smell like the earth of a graveyard suffused with the stench of fish, drifted towards her.
She felt the wood of the chair arm beneath her fingers. There were marks there. Something hard buried in the wood. She picked at it, digging it out. There was a crescent moon of opaque whiteness on the tips of her fingers. What was it? She felt its sharp edges and realised straight away.
A fingernail.
She screamed and struggled against the ropes. Got to get free. Got to get out of here. The ropes clung to her wrists, tightening their grip.
Who’d taken her? Why was she a prisoner? She hadn’t done anything wrong in Shanghai. What were they going to do with her? Another sob wracked her chest and more tears flowed down her cheeks.
A shroud of self-pity enveloped her. All she wanted was her turn in the limelight. She shouldn’t have been here at all. Diane had been chosen for the part. But she had an accident on the Underground. Elsie had tried to save her but…it was too late. Everybody creates their own luck, don’t they? It just wasn’t Diane’s day or her part. She deserved what happened. And Elsie deserved her chance as an actress. One of them had to be disappointed. It just wasn’t going to be her.
She struggled again against the ropes. They seemed to become tighter. She stopped, exhausted.
Her head sank onto her chest. I wonder if they are white slavers? Like those people she’d read about in the Sunday papers. One of them had seen her on the stage and kidnapped her to sell into slavery as the mistress of a Chinese warlord. Or maybe the moll of a famous gangster? But why tie her up here? In the newspaper reports, the star had been kidnapped, imprisoned in the lap of luxury, waited on hand and foot by a charming manservant. But she was tied to an old chair in a dark, dank place which stank of rancid fish and putrid earth.
She twisted her head to one side. For some reason, she sensed a presence. ‘Who’s there?’ The words harsh against the darkness.
Nobody answered, but she knew somebody was there. Over to her left, in the midst of the blackness, there was something even darker. She stayed very still and controlled her breathing, taking a quick intake of air and holding it, listening for any noise.
Silence.
But there it was, on the left, the soft whisper of someone else breathing. Deep, controlled breathing.
She fought against the ropes. Once again, they seemed to get tighter the more she struggled to wrench herself free. ‘Who’s there? I know somebody is there.’
Still no answer.
Above her head, a single bulb hung from a black flex in the ceiling. The light didn’t penetrate to the gloom that enveloped the rest of the room. She realised the only thing it illuminated was her. Finally, my own spotlight, she thought bitterly.
She stopped struggling and listened again. She was sure she heard soft breathing from the depths of the darkness. ‘I know you’re out there,’ she shouted, using her theatrical voice to project more confidence than she actually felt.
There was movement. A chair being scraped back, someone standing. Then she caught the memory of a smell. The sweet, delicate aroma of a scent. Where had she smelt that before?
Footsteps coming towards her. No, the echoes of the room were playing with her hearing. They were moving off to her right. The creak of an old door opening, no light coming through the entrance though. The click of a switch. She was in darkness. Alone in the darkness.
She screamed and screamed and screamed, but nobody came.
‘Hello, George, what’s your poison?’
‘A large Scotch with a drop of the wet stuff. I hope you’re buying, Charlie?’
‘Wouldn’t want you to reach into your pocket, George, don’t know what you’d find there.’
‘A lovely little bit of stuff from Kiev, last time I looked.’
Meaker waved at the barman standing in the corner, staring into space. Reluctantly, he stirred himself and strolled over to them. It was like a thousand other joints in Shanghai: a long mahogany bar, a stack of bottles behind the counter, many covered in dust, sawdust on the floor and a gaggle of bored girls in the corner.
The barman poured their drinks from a bottle of Johnnie Walker, leaving a jug of water with a brightly painted piper and the legend ‘Bonnie Scotland’ next to their glasses.
‘I hope it’s real,’ said George Cartwright, smelling his whisky.
‘Nothing’s real in Shanghai, you know that.’
‘Well anyway, down the hatch. If it doesn’t touch the sides, it can’t hurt.’
They both finished their drinks in one long swallow. The waiter ambled over again to refill the glasses. ‘I wouldn’t go too far, pal, it looks like George has got a thirst on.’
‘I’ve always got a thirst on. Runs in the family. A thirsty throat, that’s what all the Cartwrights have, according to my dad.’
‘Bottle, him seven dollar,’ said the barman.
‘Leave it. Saves you troubling your legs.’ Meaker reached over and snatched it from the barman, pouring another large double for himself.
‘So