Thunder over the Grass Read online

  “It’s like Lincolnshire,” said Valentine.

  “But bigger, I would imagine,” said Maliha.

  They had the driver stop near a stand of trees. Valentine checked his revolver as Maliha raised her parasol against the intense sunlight.

  “Worried about rabid hyenas?”

  “That, and lions, rhinoceros and everything else here.”

  “I don’t think that little gun would stop a rhinoceros,” she said.

  He placed it back into the holster at his waist. “No, but it makes me feel better.”

  She smiled. “There are snakes to worry about as well. Scorpions. Spiders.”

  “You don’t seem concerned.”

  “I grew up in a place where such things are commonplace,” she said. “But most of the lessons involved just not going where you might expect to find such things.”

  She took his arm with the parasol against her shoulder, and he guided them along the track instead of heading off across the grass.

  “We did not have much in the way of poisonous insects in Boston.”

  “I never left the south coast except to go to London.”

  “It’s near the Wash,” he said.

  She shook her head innocently.

  “Just north of the bit that sticks out on the right.”

  She laughed. “Just south of Sleaford and north-west of Bury St Edmunds.”

  “I could hate you,” he said grinning.

  “I’ve only seen it on a map,” she said. “I know a lot of facts, Valentine. And almost nothing that’s real.”

  They walked on in silence for a while. Maliha looked out across the sea of grass. There was a light wind and the grass moved in waves like the sea. Just as she had seen it on the hills by the sea during the summers in England.

  She let out a deep breath. If only life could be as uncomplicated as this all of the time.

  “Why haven’t the children of white families been taken?” she finally said.

  “Do you really want me to answer or have you already worked it out?”

  “I’m sorry,” she said.

  She smiled at the frown that appeared on his face even though she wasn’t looking. “What for?”

  “Being too clever.”

  He stopped, turned her to face him, and kissed her lightly. “I’m not sure you’re all that clever,” he said casually and headed off down the track.

  “What do you mean?”

  “Well, you agreed to marry me,” he said. “Not sure that marks you as an intelligent woman.”

  “I think you’re fishing for a compliment, Mr Crier.”

  “Would I do such a thing?”

  “I would not have chosen you if you were not intelligent, kind, generous, and a gentleman,” she said. “There, does that satisfy you?”

  “For the time being,” he said, “but compliments wear out and I will need additional supplies in future.”

  They walked on again, their steps synchronised.

  “So,” he said, “why haven’t white children been taken? Except for the Nickells incident obviously.”

  “If a black child is stolen away, who cares?”

  “The family.”

  “Of course,” she said. “But not the authorities.”

  “Especially not when the family claim it was an evil spirit.”

  “Quite,” she said. “And if a white woman has a child out of wedlock?”

  “She is shunned, disgraced and disowned by the family, all the usual things.”

  “And she cannot keep the child.”

  “No, of course not,” he said. There was a moment’s pause and then, “Baby farming.”

  She stopped and glanced back down the trail. The taxi stood nearly a quarter of a mile away, steam and smoke rising gently from the furnace and boiler. She turned and faced Valentine. She looked into his eyes and waited.

  She could see the realisation come over him just as she knew it would. And then the horror, as she expected. He gripped her by the shoulders; she did not resist. “You can’t do it.”

  “I don’t see what choice we have,” she said quietly. “Has it occurred to you to imagine what might be happening to these children?”

  He shook his head but she knew from the dread in his eyes he was lying.

  “We could just leave,” he whispered. “Go home.”

  It was her turn to shake her head. “Could you live with yourself?”

  “Could I live with myself if something happened to our little girl?”

  “It won’t go that far,” she said. “We just need to make the contact. Little Baba will add credibility if I need it.”

  “Could you stop yourself?”

  She flared into anger and shrugged off his arms. “What in hell’s name do you mean by that?”

  His voice was almost a monotone. “Think of all the things you have done to yourself, Maliha. All the things you have willingly had done to you.”

  “But...” she trailed off. Thoughts flashed through her mind: putting herself in the power of a murderess; placing them both in danger with the Dutch spies; letting herself be abused by the guru; demanding Valentine beat her; and things he did not know about.

  “Yes,” he said as if he had watched the images in her mind. “All of those.”

  She nodded. “I understand what you are saying. My own body is my responsibility and I can do with it as I wish. I would not put an innocent child at risk,” she took his hand. “But to ignore this would be to condemn all the ones yet to be taken and abandon the ones already gone.”

  His expression was tortured as if he wanted to believe but that the evidence denied it.

  “I promise,” she said.

  Chapter 6

  i

  Amita jumped at the knock on the door and pain shot through her shoulder. She took a deep breath to calm herself. She glanced around to see if anyone had noticed. Ulrika was feeding the baby and Barbara was asleep again having slowly communicated her sympathy with Amita about her injury.

  Ulrika had explained how the spelling board worked and Amita found translating for Barbara useful to practise her writing and reading. But she was still scared. The energy of her attack on the intruder last night was gone only to be replaced by a constant nervousness.

  The knock came on the door again. Amita stood up straight and steeled herself. She went through into the lounge and forced herself to unlock the door.

  “Hiya ’Meeta,” said Ray as he strolled into the room, grinning from ear to ear. His gaze took in the table, which did not contain breakfast, then he saw her arm in the sling. The grin disappeared. “What the hell’s happened to you? You all right?”

  She flushed at his concerned attention, slightly embarrassed by him looking directly at her. “We were attacked in night.”

  “Bastards,” he said. “What did they do to you?”

  “I was shot,” she said. “But I am not badly hurt.”

  “Bastards,” he said again. He reached out and touched the back of her hand then withdrew it. Then as an afterthought. “Everyone else all right, yeah?”

  “No one else is hurt.”

  There was a silence that stretched out embarrassingly too far.

  “Sorry I weren’t here,” he said. “I’d’ve given ’em what for.”

  Amita frowned. “What for?”

  “I’d’ve smashed their ’eads in,” he explained.

  Amita looked down at him. He wasn’t very tall, just skin and bone without a significant muscle in sight. But she smiled. “I am sure you would have protected me.”

  “Right, anyway,” he said looking round. “Any chance of something to eat? I’m starving.”

  Ray was sitting down to a breakfast of toast, bacon and tomatoes when Maliha and Valentine returned.

  “I have to talk to Ulrika,” said Maliha to Amita. “Send her into my rooms will you?”

  * * *

  Ulrika knocked on the door into Miss Anderson’s room. The door was not shut tight and Ulrika could see through
to where Miss Anderson was looking out through the French windows.

  “Come in, Ulrika.”

  She pulled it open and went through, shutting it carefully behind her.

  “Sit down at the table, please.” It was hard to imagine that she was barely older than Ulrika herself. She carried herself with such strength and certainty. Ulrika sat. She did not sit back but perched, rubbing her fingers against her palms.

  “I know you find it difficult to talk about what’s happened, Ulrika,” she said, still without turning. “But there is information I need to know.”

  “Yes, Miss Anderson.” Ulrika swallowed hard. “I promise not to cry.”

  “You can cry all you like, just don’t avoid the questions.”

  “Yes, Miss Anderson.” She felt so pathetic; her eyes were burning with salty tears already. She was angry with herself for having no backbone. It felt as if her heart were fluttering behind her ribcage, like a bird trying to escape.

  A shadow moved to her side. She looked up to see Miss Anderson dangling a kerchief for her. She took it and wiped her eyes.

  “You did well last night, Ulrika,” said Maliha. “You got little Baba away.”

  Ulrika sniffed. “It was Amita,” she sniffed, “and your Mr Crier.”

  “And you.”

  Miss Anderson sat down in front of her, across the table. “I am sorry that you were put in danger, and thank you for helping to save the baby.”

  Ulrika opened her mouth but did not know what words to say. Miss Anderson smiled at her. It was the kindest smile Ulrika thought she had ever seen. She sniffed again and wiped her eyes. Then she whispered “Thank you.”

  “Why didn’t you tell me who your father is?”

  Terror flooded Ulrika. She went cold and felt as if her every muscle and joint was paralysed. She flinched when Miss Anderson reached out and took her hand. But all she did was give it a gentle squeeze and release it again. The desperate desire to flee did not diminish.

  Miss Anderson sat back and put her head on one side as if she was reading Ulrika’s mind. Ulrika swallowed. The other woman pushed back her chair and stood slowly, making no sudden moves, then turned her back on Ulrika. She seemed to be loosening her dress and let the right shoulder drop down over her forearm. Then the left dropped too.

  Ulrika stared. Whip scars criss-crossed the woman’s back.

  “Who did that to you?”

  “It doesn’t matter,” said Miss Anderson. She covered up again and sat back down. “You have them too, don’t you?”

  Ulrika nodded. There was no point denying it; she already knew Miss Anderson could see into her heart. “What colour is your baby’s skin?”

  Panicking, Ulrika jumped up but Miss Anderson’s hand was already round her wrist, holding her back, not letting her out of the chair. Ulrika gave up.

  “Is Henry black?”

  Ulrika nodded.

  “You’re lying to me.”

  “No, Henry is black. He’s black, black as the night, black as sin, black as dirt.” The words came out of her like a chant. She did not see the blow coming. It was not hard but the slap across her face snapped her back to the present.

  “Henry is white, isn’t he?” Miss Anderson’s voice was not harsh but coaxing and gentle.

  Tears burst from Ulrika’s eyes. “No, no, no, not white, he can’t be white.”

  “I know he’s white.”

  “How can you know?”

  “Because Henry’s father is your father.”

  Ulrika wanted to scream that it wasn’t true. But the fear and the shame filled her. The memories of every night that he came into her bed. From the first night that he hurt her, when she hid from him; being dragged across the floor. And every night thereafter. His threats against her if she dared try to tell anyone. How she would be locked up if she did. His endless blows. The things he did. What he made her do.

  Grief and the suppressed hatred welled up inside her. She felt as if it would burn away her flesh. She sobbed with great tearing breaths as if her body were not strong enough for the pressure of the emotion to escape.

  Miss Anderson held her hand. Ulrika clung to her as if she were the only thing that would not break.

  Her throat was hoarse when the tides of emotions eventually subsided. Her eyes were dry because there were no more tears that could be shed. They felt red raw and gritty. But her hands no longer shook. She felt empty of the pain, as if it had been drained away. As if she was no more than a clay vessel.

  Miss Anderson released her hand and went to the bureau. She returned with a glass of water. “Here.”

  Ulrika drank it down in one go.

  “You’re probably hungry,” said Miss Anderson. Ulrika realised she was. Very hungry indeed.

  “We’ll eat soon but now you need to tell me exactly how you found the woman to take your baby.”

  And to her surprise Ulrika found that she did not want to cry anymore.

  ii

  Maliha, Valentine and Ray emerged into the light through the swing doors of the hotel. The air tasted dry and the few clouds dodged the relentless sun.

  “We shouldn’t leave ’em alone,” said Ray. “Meeta can’t protect all the others with her arm like that.”

  “There are only two reasons for the attack,” said Maliha. “Either because we’re non-whites in a white-only hotel who dare to bring in a black baby, or because we’re making progress in the investigation. In the first instance we’ve made it clear we’re leaving so that should prevent any further attack and, in the second, I’m the target and I’m not there.”

  She did not mention the third possible reason: that it was someone who had discovered Valentine’s subterfuge and that he was the target.

  “I need to go to the air-dock,” said Valentine.

  Maliha nodded. “We’ll see you later.”

  “I don’t know when I’ll be back.”

  “I know.”

  They had said their proper farewells in a quiet moment alone in his rooms. She could still feel his lips on hers. But here in the present he touched his fingers to his hat and headed away at a brisk pace.

  Ray hailed a hansom for them and Maliha gave instructions to take them out to the west border of the city. The interior of the cab was roasting in the midday sun and the smell of the sweating horse drifted in through the open window as they headed at a slow trot through the streets. They soon left the central shopping area and were heading through the business district.

  “Where’s he off to then?” asked Ray. His attitude was offhand but Maliha was sufficiently experienced with him to know how dangerous that was.

  “He has some business to take care of.”

  “Bill Crier used to work for the Foreign Office at the Fortress,” Ray continued casually. “He had an air-plane they gave him. He called it Alice.”

  “Really?”

  “Your name.”

  “Our relationship is not exactly private, Ray,” she said. “If he chooses to name a flying machine after a name I don’t use because I don’t like it that’s not really my problem. He’s a romantic at heart.”

  Ray was silent for a few minutes. “Except he’s a spy,” he paused for effect, “and I reckon he killed at least two men when you was in Pondicherry. How’d the French feel about that?”

  “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

  “And that guru wossisname in Kerala.”

  “Do you have a point, Ray?”

  “I reckon he’s on the trail of something big, is all.”

  Maliha finally turned and faced him. “Even if that were true, do you think for one moment that I would tell you anything?” She sat back again. “And that’s supposing he told me.”

  “’E’d tell you everything,” said Ray.

  Maliha said nothing and returned her gaze to the outside world. The people walking the streets reduced in numbers and changed from only white to a mix. The cab stopped.

  Maliha let Ray pay the driver. If she was right he was go
ing to learn everything he wanted in the next hour.

  She then led the way along a side street with a high wall on one side and poor quality residential housing on the other.

  “Christ, I recognise that stink,” said Ray. He was not wrong; the air was filled with the putrid stench of sewage. He stared around, tried to jump to see over the wall but when that failed studied the buildings in more detail. “These are the same sort as Nickells’ house.”

  “That’s correct and, about a half-mile that way,” Maliha said, pointing over the wall, “is where the black children were taken.”

  “You know where the children are?”

  “No.”

  They came to an ornate iron gate in the wall. Moulded into its lattice of metal were the words “Treatment Works”. The smell became even worse wafting out through the gap.

  Inside they could see the great circles of the sewage beds with sprinklers rotating and letting the liquid effluent spill out on to the stones. Closer to them, off to the left, was a two-storey brick administrative building.

  “Very modern,” Ray muttered then laughed. “So we’re going to be stirring shit this afternoon.”

  “Must you?”

  “I thought it was funny.”

  “I’m sure you did.”

  Maliha took hold of the metal handle and turned it. The gate swung open on well-oiled hinges. They went in and closed the door behind them.

  “Did you want a tour, then?” asked Ray. “I’m sure they won’t mind us wandering round sniffing the flowers.”

  Maliha looked around. “There should be a series of tanks here where they let the effluent stand and liquefy before putting it out on to the beds.”

  She looked to the right. There was a slight incline up to a low brick wall. “This way.”

  She walked briskly up the slope towards the brick barrier. The beat of a thumping engine emerged from the background sounds as they climbed. As they got closer the walls resolved into a set of nine squares in a three by three pattern. Each square comprised a wall two feet high, and perhaps twenty feet on a side, while the inner space of each was hidden beneath corrugated iron panels. The stench of human waste grew worse at each step until Maliha felt as if she would have to eject the contents of her stomach.

  There was the sound of retching behind her. She saved Ray’s pride by not turning. Instead she rummaged in her bag and pulled out a bottle of lemonade. She set it on the edge of the wall and continued round.