Kingdom Lock Page 6

  Lock came to the astern companionway. He was about to go down when a voice whispered out from above.

  ‘Kingdom?’

  ‘Amy?’

  She stepped out from the shadows and embraced him. Their lips met and they kissed long and hard, Lock pulling her close and feeling her breasts crush softly against his chest.

  ‘How did you know I’d be here?’ Lock said, pulling his mouth gently away and moving his lips to her ear.

  ‘I knew it would be when it got dark,’ Amy said. ‘So I waited. I must have smoked ten cigarettes wondering if you would show.’

  She grabbed his hand and led him up to the top level where she opened a door out onto the poop deck at the very stern of the ship. They moved over to the far guard rail. The moon had appeared from behind the clouds again and Lock could see the ship’s wake foaming away into the night.

  ‘Did you have any trouble slipping away?’ Lock asked.

  Amy shook her head. ‘Looks like you did, though. You’re soaking.’

  ‘A little light acrobatics, that’s all.’

  Amy’s pale face frowned up at him. She looked very smart in her uniform, Lock thought, and he put his hand to her cheek, brushing the same piece of loose hair behind her ear again.

  ‘I’m confused, Kingdom,’ she said.

  ‘About what?’

  ‘This. Us. Casper.’

  ‘Casper’s not here,’ Lock said and leant forward and kissed her.

  She responded, then pulled away and turned to gaze out to sea. ‘This is wrong.’

  ‘Perhaps it is, Amy. But it feels right to me,’ Lock said. ‘For the first time in months, I feel this is allowed.’

  ‘You mean because of that girl?’

  ‘What girl?’ Lock was genuinely mystified as to what Amy was getting at, and then he remembered. On the Hindu Kush, with a weakened and semi-conscious Amy in front of him in the saddle of the dead Turk’s horse, he had mentioned Tsingtao. ‘You’re talking about Mei Ling?’ Lock said, and pulled her round to face him again.

  Amy nodded. ‘What happened to you in China?’ she said scowling up at him. ‘You never talk of it, always avoid the subject.’

  ‘I do not,’ Lock lied.

  ‘Tell me, were you hurt so very much?’

  Lock shook his head. ‘I told you that was the past. This is now. You, me, here.’

  ‘And the future?’

  ‘And the future.’

  ‘But it’s impossible, Kingdom … My parents …’ Amy averted her gaze.

  ‘It’s your life, Amy.’

  ‘This is different.’ There was anger in her eyes now.

  ‘How so?’ Lock pressed. Although he already knew the answer to that one. Amy was talking about tradition and status and how things had always been. She was aristocracy, he was nothing but an uncouth colonial. They, in the eyes of society, could never be. Her parents would never stand for it.

  ‘Piss on tradition,’ he said.

  Amy frowned. ‘It’s not as simple as that.’

  ‘When this war is over we should be together,’ Lock said. ‘Come with me, to Australia, to South America, to wherever you desire.’

  A sudden noise from the port companionway distracted them both. It sounded like a metal door opening and then closing again. Lock and Amy hesitated, waiting for the inevitable footsteps.

  ‘I must get back before I am missed,’ Amy said. ‘Same time, same place tomorrow? We need to talk about this. And I need to think.’

  Lock smiled. ‘Of course, although I shall seek out an alternative route to get to you. Tonight was a little … salty.’

  Amy lifted up on her toes and kissed Lock’s mouth. ‘Don’t get caught. Bonne nuit.’ She made her way to the starboard companionway, paused as she listened for movement on the stairs, and then was gone.

  Lock put his hand to his lips feeling the memory of her there. What the hell are you doing, Kingdom?

  Footsteps were approaching from the port companionway. Lock made to go the way Amy went, but stopped in his tracks. There were voices coming from the darkness of that companionway. Had Amy been caught? Caught doing what? She was alone. But if he bumbled into the situation then things would get awkward. No, he needed an alternative exit, and fast.

  He ran back to the guard rail and peered down. Could he face another climb down, clinging on for dear life? Sod that. He looked up. He could scramble to the compass flat, along the gunwale to the rear lifeboat. Yes, that would have to do. If his knee would hold. He jumped up onto the guard rail, pulled himself up, and was met by a scream that was cut short. It was more a scream of surprise than of fear and was quickly followed by suppressed giggles. Two nurses, young ones for all Lock could tell in the moonlight, were huddled together sharing a cigarette on the roof of the poop deck.

  ‘Ladies,’ Lock said, doffing his hat and moving swiftly on.

  He hauled himself up onto the first raised lifeboat, scrambled across the taut canvas stretched across as a cover, leapt onto the second, then the third, and stopped. He scanned the open part of the boat deck. He could see the dark figures of many nurses sat below and could hear their gentle chit-chat. He didn’t want to jump down in the middle of them, too conspicuous. The line of lifeboats continued to stretch along the roof of the promenade deck. The beginning of the men’s section of the ship was about six foot higher and a good ten feet over to where he was now.

  Lock looked down then shrugged. ‘Ah well, the things I do for love.’ He walked back a few paces, to give himself a run-up, then sprinted forward and leapt up and across. His hands grabbed the first lifeboat as his body slammed into its bow with a thump. Lock cursed and winced and then pulled up onto the canvas cover of the lifeboat. It was thankfully unoccupied. He glanced back the way he’d come and at the two shadowy figures on the flat of the poop deck. They waved. Lock waved back. He pulled out the handkerchief Amy had given him before the Lucknow had disembarked, and mopped his neck. He then leapt to the next lifeboat, and made his way to the compass flat. He needed a nightcap now, and what better person than the major to provide one, he thought, and made his way to the companionway and back down to Ross’s cabin.

  For the next four evenings Lock kept up a similar routine at night. He would go for a stroll after the evening meal and later, when it was much quieter, would make his way to a rendezvous with Amy. They never had long, always someone would disturb their increasingly intimate time together and Lock would have to slip quietly away again. He was careful never to be seen and found an easier, though more time-consuming, route to get to her. It involved negotiating the service areas below decks, making his way past the engine room, through the shaft tunnel that ran between the tanks, and which eventually led to the steering engine room. From there he could climb up to the poop deck and to Amy’s warm embrace. They talked of dreams and plans and places they could travel, to see the world away from war and family and tradition. Although Lock encouraged this talk, he never really believed it, always his mind recalling their first conversation about the class divide. But he enjoyed her company, the holding hands, the taste of her mouth, the smell of her hair, of her skin. He wanted her more than he thought possible and soon the ghost of Tsingtao and Mei Ling began to fade.

  Then, on the fifth night, everything changed.

  Ever since they had hit the Oman coast three days earlier, where they passed the beautiful old Portuguese fort at Muscat, the temperature had been increasing. Despite the fact that it had been raining continuously for twenty-four hours, the heat was unbearable and the men had become short-tempered and irritable, too. Lock noticed the change in the atmosphere and it made moving about the troopship hazardous. Petty squabbles broke out over the smallest things, noses got bloodied, eyes blackened. Lock, not trusting himself to keep his own temper at bay, spent more and more time visiting with Ross in his cabin.

  The major poured over maps of Persia as he tried to second-guess the German Wassmuss’s next move, whilst Lock buried himself in a book he’d lifted from Townsh
end’s library about Napoleon’s strategies. It was actually rather dull and he would often find himself reading the same paragraph over and over and drifting off. If only he could visit Amy in the day, spend time talking with her, to make love with her. But he knew that was impossible.

  Night was better. The temperature dropped and around 6 p.m. Ross would put his charts away and get out the rum and the chessboard. Rum and chess was an odd mix, but both men seemed to revel in trying to see who could remain focused the longest. Added to which, they would be drinking on empty stomachs. Both had agreed that it was just too damned hot to eat.

  ‘Checkmate!’ Lock grinned.

  ‘Well, you’ve bettered me again, my boy,’ Ross said.

  ‘You’ll win next time, sir,’ Lock smiled, as he scraped his chair back and staggered to his feet.

  ‘Where are you off to?’ Ross’s words were slightly slurred as he held his pocket watch close to his eyes. ‘It’s only just gone eleven!’

  Lock squinted at his wrist. ‘Bugger, I’m a little late.’

  Ross looked up at him. ‘You be careful, Kingdom. You are playing with fire meeting up with that girl.’

  Lock was taken aback. He thought he’d been discreet. ‘Sir?’ he said slapping his slouch hat on his head.

  ‘Don’t “Sir” me. You know damned well what I’m talking about. Nothing good will come of it, my boy. What if her father finds out? Or her fiancé, come to think of it.’

  Lock shrugged, as Ross rose unsteadily and fell back on his bunk.

  The major had drunk quite a lot over the course of the evening and the evidence was scattered across the table in front of him. An empty bottle of rum lay on its side gently rocking to and fro with the movement of the ship.

  Lock, sensibly, had paced himself, and although very merry, felt surprisingly clear-headed. He opened the cabin door and a cool, sobering spray hit him square in the face. He jerked the second bottle of rum he held in his hand up in a gesture of farewell and stumbled out.

  ‘Cheerio!’ Ross called. ‘Give Miss Townshend my reg—’ His voice was cut off.

  Lock hesitated outside the major’s cabin. He stifled a belch and grimaced as the acid rose in his throat. He really should cut down on his drinking, he thought as he stood swaying, letting his eyes adjust to the gloom. It was mostly deserted on this side of the ship now. Lord Shears had complained earlier about junior officers swearing and lazing about outside his cabin, so everyone, bribes or no bribes, had been ordered to move off the promenade and boat decks and cram in with the rest of the troops on the saloon or upper deck.

  The warm breeze was getting stronger and the ship was beginning to heave and pitch like a child’s see-saw. Lock could hear the steam engines chugging away, and feel them pulsating beneath his feet. Perhaps he shouldn’t see Amy tonight, he thought. He’d make it up to her, get a message to her via the MO. Best hit the biscuit. He wiped the sea spray from his eyes and pulled himself away from the major’s door.

  The deck was slick underfoot and, despite the moonlight, Lock carefully began to weave away from the cabins towards the companionway that led up to the compass flat. He was about to put the bottle of rum to his lips when he was yanked violently from behind. The bottle fell from Lock’s hand as he was spun around and his arms were pinned behind his back. A fist smacked him squarely on the jaw, the force of the blow knocking his slouch hat off as his head jerked to one side. Salty blood filled Lock’s mouth. His head was reeling, but before he could clear his mind, he was punched again in the belly. He folded up and crashed to the deck, the wind knocked out of him. Lock wheezed, gasping for air and a boot kicked into the small of his back. A lightning stab of pain raced up and down his spine and he rolled over, his brain trying to tell his body to protect itself.

  ‘Filthy colonial scum!’ The accent was clipped and educated.

  Lock felt hands patting and searching through his pockets. Then something was pulled from one of them and the search ceased. As he lay there listening to a mutter of conferring voices, he tried to concentrate, to bring himself to his senses. He reached his hand out across the clammy wood of the deck for something solid to grab hold of, and found the bottle. He clasped it tightly by the neck.

  A figure loomed close, breath reeking of whisky. ‘I saw you on the wharf, Lock, and you’ve been seen on the poop deck. You stay away from my Amy, do you under—’

  Lock swung his arm out. There was a scream and a spray of blood as the bottle smashed into his assailant’s face. Lock twisted and slashed wildly at his second attacker. The jagged edge caught against something and he heard a tear of cloth and a gasp of pain. Lock scrambled to his feet, wielding the bottle like a dagger, his back to the companionway entrance.

  A portly officer, a lieutenant, was standing a little away, cradling his injured forearm. Lock didn’t recognise the officer but he knew the insignia on his collars. They depicted the three hills of the Mendips, the same as Lock wore. The second officer Lock knew from his voice. It was Amy’s fiancé, Lieutenant Bingham-Smith. He was sat on the deck, hand pressed to his bloodied, broken nose, moaning in pain. Then Lock noticed Amy’s handkerchief in Bingham-Smith’s hand, wet with blood.

  The fat officer moved a step towards Bingham-Smith to help, but Lock jabbed the broken bottle at him. The fat officer hesitated.

  Just then a nearby porthole banged shut.

  ‘Gingell,’ Bingham-Smith groaned, ‘help me up.’

  The fat officer, Gingell, glanced nervously at Lock as if asking permission. No one moved.

  ‘Gingell!’

  Lieutenant Gingell stared wide-eyed at the bottle in Lock’s hand and edged his way towards his friend. Lock watched Gingell like a hawk, but didn’t stop him from helping his bleeding chum to his feet.

  ‘We’d best get the MO to look you over, old chap, nasty cut there,’ Gingell said.

  ‘You haven’t heard the last of this, Lock,’ Bingham-Smith snarled. Lock stabbed out with the bottle making both Gingell and Bingham-Smith flinch.

  ‘Get lost!’ Lock said, spitting a glob of blood to the deck.

  Gingell put his arm around Bingham-Smith’s waist and helped him to shuffle off.

  ‘Stay away from Amy Townshend,’ Bingham-Smith called over his shoulder, before the two officers were swallowed up by the shadows of the companionway.

  Lock let out a heavy sigh. He stepped over to the guard rail and closed his eyes against the spray. He stood listening to the howling wind, to the crash of the waves against the hull below and to the straining hum of the engines. He took a deep breath, cursed softly, and opened his eyes.

  A movement to Lock’s left made him snap his head to the side, broken bottle raised in readiness. Despite the gathering clouds and the fading moonlight, Lock could make out a figure by the companionway, watching.

  ‘Who’s there?’ Lock slurred.

  The figure was still, and then stepped forward into the moonlight. It was Amy.

  ‘How could you?’ she whispered, her face a mask of despair.

  Lock turned to her. ‘Amy. I’m sorry, I—’

  ‘You’re sorry? I’ve just seen Casper. His face. He told me what you did.’ Her eyes were dark with anger. Lock moved towards her, but she put her hand up to stop him. ‘Don’t touch me!’

  ‘Amy, what are you doing here?’ Lock’s mind was swimming with confusion.

  ‘You were supposed to meet me, remember? However, I’m just as capable of slipping past the sentries as you are.’ She glared at the bloodied broken bottle Lock still held in his hands. ‘But it appears that fighting like a common soldier, a drunken fiend, is more to your liking this evening.’

  ‘Please, Amy, listen to me.’

  Amy shook her head. ‘No, Kingdom, I will not. I think it best you sleep it off. As for poor Casper—’

  ‘Poor Casper!’ Lock spat before he realised he’d said the wrong thing. ‘Amy, I—’

  But it was too late. She’d turned and, without another word, disappeared back into the companionway.
Lock cursed under his breath. He thought about going after her, but decided that it was best to leave it until morning.

  He put his hand to his mouth and realised that he was still holding the broken bottle. He frowned, then tossed it over the side. He was exhausted and his head was swimming. He needed to lie down, to sleep. He turned and, scooping up his slouch hat, made his way to his sleeping space on the compass flat.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Lock awoke to the sound of roaring furnaces, an overwhelming smell of burnt oil, and an intense throbbing in his temples. His mouth was dry and his body was stiff. The thin, lumpy mat beneath him did little to disguise the hard deck he was lying on. He couldn’t feel his left arm. He rolled onto his back and waited as the blood rushed back into the numb limb, and he tried to ignore the tender spots and the complaining muscles, his body’s memory of the skirmish he’d endured only a few hours earlier. There was a dull ache in his side and he felt certain that a rib was cracked. He lifted his arm and studied the face of his wristwatch. The glass was splintered but he could still make out the hands. They read five-fourteen. He groaned and swallowed dryly. He needed water. He rubbed his face and made himself sit up.

  Lock put his hands over his ears. The dull throbbing in his head faded. He took his hands away again and the sound returned. He was momentarily confused, and then he smiled wryly. It was the bloody engines! He paused and then pulled himself to his feet and gingerly moved away from his fellow soldiers, a mass of sleeping, snoring bodies, and staggered to the navigation deck, which was thankfully deserted. He gripped the guard rail and took in deep lungfuls of air. But it smelt foul and made him retch. He put his hand to his moist face and realised that the weather had changed. The storm had passed and the air was bone-baking dry. He noticed the water was different, too, and guessed they were now well into the Shatt al-Arab canal. They were close to the shore and were moving dead slow.