For Kingdom and Country E-Book

I. D. Roberts

• Herausgeber: Allison & Busby
• Kategorie: Abenteuer, Thriller, Horror
• Serie: Kingdom Lock
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2015

Seitenzahl: 570

Beschreibung

May 1915. Kingdom Lock and his faithful sidekick, Siddhartha Singh are gunned down on the streets of Basra and suspicion falls on German spy, Wilhelm Wassmuss. Major Ross believes Wassmuss is not only still alive but that he is behind the assassination of a senior Turkish officer, the death of whom has been blamed on Lock. Meanwhile, Lock has discovered that Amy Townshend is pregnant and that the child is his. But the general's daughter stubbornly refuses to break off her engagement with Bingham-Smith. Then, when Lock learns that there is a price on his head and every cut throat and desperate man in the area is after the bounty, Ross sends him to the frontlines for his own safety...

Leseprobe

FOR KINGDOM AND COUNTRY

I. D. ROBERTS

For Nathan, James and Nick. We band of brothers.

Contents

Title PageDedicationMapPROLOGUECHAPTER ONECHAPTER TWOCHAPTER THREECHAPTER FOURCHAPTER FIVECHAPTER SIXCHAPTER SEVENCHAPTER EIGHTCHAPTER NINECHAPTER TENCHAPTER ELEVENCHAPTER TWELVECHAPTER THIRTEENCHAPTER FOURTEENCHAPTER FIFTEENCHAPTER SIXTEENCHAPTER SEVENTEENCHAPTER EIGHTEENCHAPTER NINETEENCHAPTER TWENTYCHAPTER TWENTY-ONECHAPTER TWENTY-TWOCHAPTER TWENTY-THREECHAPTER TWENTY-FOUREPILOGUEAUTHOR’S NOTEACKNOWLEDGEMENTSAbout the AuthorBy I. D. RobertsCopyright

PROLOGUE

Hammar Lake, 50 miles west of Basra, April 1915

‘Kingdom Lock, that bastard,’ Wilhelm Wassmuss spat, shaking his head. ‘I cannot believe this … Scheißdreck.’

The German agent was in a dark mood as he trotted along the length of the stinking, sweat-sour and dusty retreating column of Turkish troops and Arab irregulars. Once again he was dressed in the uniform of an Ottoman officer, but now as a cavalry binbaşi, a major. The Barjisiyah Woods were behind them and ahead, towards the setting sun, lay the small settlement of Nakheilah nestled on the banks of the fast-flowing and bloated Euphrates River. The soldiers paid little heed to the dishevelled mounted officer as he rode by, most just avoiding contact with the piercing blue eyes that glared down at them. These men were lost in their own thoughts, all glad to be leaving the carnage of the trees and the heat of the British guns behind.

It had been a hasty, panicked retreat. During the late afternoon the Infidel British had suddenly charged forward, smashing into and overrunning the first line. The Turks had waited to see if the British would push on into the woods after seizing their trenches but, to their surprise, the Infidels had halted their advance. Many of the soldiers had worried that their officers would order a return to the woods and a reoccupation of the trenches but, Allah be praised, Kaymakam Süleyman Askerî Bey had ordered their complete withdrawal to Nasiriyeh on the far side of Hammar Lake.

The retreat was sounded quickly. Hundreds of white flags were raised by those too tired or too far behind, whilst the main body of troops turned and fled the trees, heading north-west for the river. There was confusion wherever one looked, with officers and soldiers moving as fast as they could without stopping. But it was worse for those stragglers at the rear, the exhausted and the wounded. They were suddenly set upon, not by the British, but from their own allies, the Marsh Arabs. They turned on their Turkish comrades like a pack of wolves, slaughtering any stragglers and stripping them bare, leaving their mutilated corpses for the vultures and flies.

At first the blood-curdling screams of the stragglers being picked off had made the panic all the more chaotic, but the NCOs and some of the more level-headed officers had formed the men into an orderly retreat, keeping them together and therefore less vulnerable to random attacks. The odd shout of anger and an occasional rifle shot could be heard at sporadic intervals until eventually a rhythmic, almost hypnotic state fell over the march. There would be hot food and warm fires waiting for them in the safety of the garrison, and it was those thoughts that kept them moving at a steady pace. Eventually the mud gave way to dry, rocky desert. But not a man shuffled or grumbled on that march back.

Wassmuss whipped his sweat-soaked horse with a crude crop made of reeds, urging it on. He was furious and desperate to catch up with Süleyman Askerî’s litter at the head of the column. As he rode on, his mind was racing with questions. He could not understand why the troops were retreating. The Ottoman Forces outnumbered the British by at least five to one. Yet, why had Süleyman Askerî not used them to smash through to the fort at Shaiba and from there overwhelm Basra as had been planned? But after his run-in with Lock, he himself had been lucky to escape from the city, had been lucky to escape with his life.

‘Scheiße,’ Wassmuss spat again.

With his face cut and bleeding, he’d been unable to escape north up the Tigris to the Turkish lines at Amara and so had made his way to the south of the city. There he had sneaked past the British soldiers who were spread out along the shore, and made his way through the marsh towards Zubair and the fort of old Basra.

Along the way, he came across a Turkish patrol. But they were all dead, stripped naked, mutilated, and left to bloat and rot in the sun. A shifting miasma of flies engulfed most of the bodies, making them barely recognisable as human beings. And when Wassmuss approached, the insects swarmed around him, before settling back to do what they did in the great scheme of nature.

Wassmuss scoured the area, searching for something he could use. After ten minutes of fruitless exploring, he came across a missed corpse, that of an Ottoman cavalry officer, almost invisible and half-submerged in a reed-choked lagoon. He dragged the body on to dry land and was pleased to see that not only was the man not too tall, but that he was fully clothed. Wassmuss stripped the carcass and dressed in its muddy and drenched uniform. The tunic, with its silvery-grey collars, was a little loose across the shoulders, but the breeches, with their distinctive red stripe down the outside of each leg, could have been made for him. The larger than normal kabalak helmet with its upturned brim was a snug fit.

There were no horses, but he did find a saddlebag that contained a hunk of stale black bread and some dates, along with a battered brass telescope, a crude map of the surrounding area and some personal letters, which, when the need arose, he later used to wipe himself.

Wasting no time, Wassmuss moved on towards the old fort, now little more than a scattering of broken rocks and the remnants of walls, but was bitterly disappointed to find nothing but a group of Marsh Arabs camped there. He avoided contact with those natives, knowing that he would be set upon and killed as soon as they laid eyes upon him. So again he lay low, sheltering from the heat of the day and enduring the incessant pestering of flies, all the while listening to the guns shelling Shaiba with hope in his heart.

At nightfall he crept to the edge of the Arab camp and, with not so much as a second’s hesitation, slit the throat of the young boy watching over the horses, and made off with the best mount, a tan mare with a frisky temper. The boy also had in his possession a gun tucked into his belt, a Mauser M.1910/14 pistol, with a full clip.

Wassmuss kept riding south and eventually hooked round to the west, where he planned to meet up with Askerî’s army that was facing Shaiba. But instead, he was horrified to see a large British force marching on Barjisiyah Woods. Settling upon a mound within a copse of trees, he observed the battle through the battered telescope he’d found and watched as both sides pounded each other to the point of exhaustion. He saw with horror the British lightning strike on the Ottoman trenches, and cursed as the Turks fled into the woods.

The German stayed hidden on that mound in the copse, and cried bitter tears of anger when Askerî’s troops abandoned their own positions and began to flee back towards Hammar Lake. But his disgust was multiplied when the British gave up their advantage and returned to the safety of their fort.

Wassmuss pushed his horse on towards the distant rooftops of the garrison town of Nasiriyeh. The beast’s eyes rolled white as its heart pumped harder and harder, legs pounding past the line of troops. There was no sign of Askerî’s litter and so Wassmuss cantered on, until the rocky desert gave way to scrub grass and then, passing through clusters of date palms, he finally hit a more established road that ran parallel to the nearby Euphrates River. At the end of a small row of mud-brick hovels was a checkpoint, its wooden barrier pole raised. Wassmuss passed by the sentry hut and rode on into the town following the string of telegraph poles and lamps that lined the street.

Wassmuss cantered by busy cafes, shopfronts and stalls, until he came to a junction. He turned left down a narrow side street, his horse’s hooves echoing back from the surrounding buildings, and then right to emerge out onto a tree-lined square. The white-brick, flat-roofed buildings on two sides were of two storeys, with the ground floor being a series of open archways and the floor above one long, open terrace. The larger building over to the left was a grander affair of three storeys. Jutting out from the top of the latticed balcony on the second floor was a flagpole from which, flapping limply in the breeze, hung the red and white crescent moon and star of the Ottoman Empire. This marked out the building as Command Headquarters. The entrance was at the top of some stone steps. An ancient fig tree stood to one side, its canopy of leaves rustling in the warm breeze.

Wassmuss whipped his horse forward, crossing the square, until he reached the stone steps. He jumped from the saddle, threw the reins at the Mehmetçik on guard duty outside and bounded up the steps. Throwing open the large studded wooden doors, Wassmuss marched along the dark, cool inner corridor, his footsteps click-clicking a rhythmic, determined hatred. He had no idea where he was heading, but his anger drove him onwards. He must have made a terrifying sight to the young military clerks he passed, a thickset, stocky, short ball of fury, looking as ragged and enraged as he did, with a five-day beard, a face lacerated by tiny cuts, and his uniform crumpled and caked in mud and dust.

‘Where is the lieutenant colonel? Where is Kaymakam Süleyman Askerî?’ he growled at an alarmed-looking sergeant.

‘The end of the corridor … turn right, effendim,’ the çavuş offered, as Wassmuss stormed by without breaking stride.

Around the corner, the dapper naval lieutenant acting as Askerî’s adjutant was not so intimidated, though. He stood, arms folded across the chest of his dark-blue uniform, blocking the way.

‘Effendim, you cannot enter … Süleyman Askerî Bey is not at home to anyone today,’ the yüzbaşi protested strongly.

But Wassmuss was in no mood for protocol. He roughly shoved the adjutant aside and forced himself into Askerî’s office.

The room beyond the threshold looked more like a study belonging to some English stately home than the office of the leader of the Mesopotamian Area Command, such was the splendour of its heavy, dark decor and fine, plush furnishings. Süleyman Askerî was standing at the open French window at the far end, his back to the room, staring out onto the lengthening shadows in the gardens beyond. Beside him was a sparse desk, with nothing more than a single candlestick telephone and a cut-glass ashtray on the polished surface. There was a strong smell of jasmine wafting in from outside and the sound of the gentle chatter of songbirds bidding the day adieu. The distant clatter from the traffic on the river beyond was barely audible.

‘Effendim, effendim, I protest!’ the adjutant spluttered, chasing Wassmuss into the room.

Askerî slowly turned his head. His slim, studious face looked ashen and defeated. Even his large, carefully cultivated moustache drooped like a house plant deprived of water, and the usual sparkle of self-gratification was absent from the hazel eyes that peered back at Wassmuss through thin circular lenses.

‘It is all right, Yüzbaşi,’ Askerî said, his voice deflated. ‘Fetch coffee, if you please. Welcome Herr Doktor? Or is it Binbaşi?’ He frowned at Wassmuss’s uniform. ‘In the cavalry now? Well, no matter, it is good to see that you have survived.’

The adjutant glanced uneasily at Wassmuss, who remained motionless, standing in the middle of the room, then nodded and closed the door after him.

‘Come, sit!’ Askerî said affably, as he indicated to the chair opposite his desk.

But Wassmuss did not move. He just continued to glare back at Askerî. ‘Did you order Miralay Daghistani to hold at Ahwaz?’ he said.

The question clearly took Askerî by surprise. He blinked behind his glasses, and hesitated. And it was that hesitation that told Wassmuss all he needed to know. He knew then that Askerî had betrayed him. He knew then that Askerî was a coward.

In one swift movement he drew the Mauser pistol he had taken from the Marsh Arab boy, and pointed it at Askerî’s head. Süleyman Askerî’s eyes widened in horror and, as his hand fluttered up instinctively to protect his face, Wassmuss pulled the trigger.

The shot echoed round the room and out into the garden. The birds exploded from the trees, startled into flight.

Wassmuss quickly kicked over the chair Askerî had offered him a moment earlier, then turned the pistol and shot himself in the arm. He cried out in pain, fired two more shots towards the French window, dropped the gun, and collapsed heavily upon Askerî’s desk.

‘Assassin!’ he screamed, just as the adjutant, with a pistol in his hand and two sentries close behind, burst into the room. There was a cloud of gunsmoke hanging in the air above the desk.

‘Assassin!’ Wassmuss gasped again, feebly indicating towards the French window. He then feigned blacking out and crumpled to the floor. It was a touch theatrical, but he hoped the confusion would mask his ruse.

‘Quick, after him!’ the adjutant shouted. ‘Search the grounds!’ The two sentries ran towards the open French window and burst out into the garden.

Wassmuss watched through hooded eyelids as the adjutant looked about the room. He spotted the bullet holes by the edge of the French window. Blood and matter were splattered up the wall and across the austere portrait of Enver Pasha that was hanging behind Askerî’s desk. The adjutant stepped over Wassmuss’s seemingly unconscious body and moved over to the desk. Wassmuss knew what he would see there. Süleyman Askerî was slumped like a broken doll behind it. The kaymakam’s left eye was half-open, and a look of shocked surprise was frozen upon his face. His right eye was no longer there. The lens of his glasses was pierced and splintered, the wound behind it small and black.

Wassmuss groaned as if coming to. The adjutant pulled the chair upright and helped Wassmuss into it. The German’s arm was bleeding quite badly.

‘What happened, effendim?’ the adjutant asked. There was suspicion in his voice.

Wassmuss winced as he cradled his injured arm.

‘An assassin … from the garden,’ he gasped. ‘I tried to warn Süleyman Askerî Bey … that is why I was in such a hurry … to get to his office … But I was too late.’ He shook his head dejectedly and looked up at the adjutant. ‘I fired a couple of shots … but he got me …’

The adjutant frowned. ‘How did you know of this?’ he asked.

Wassmuss coughed and winced again. ‘I learnt of a plot … of an assassin … who had been employed by the Infidels. That is why I was desperate to get to the kaymakam.’ He coughed again and shook his head. ‘Is he …?’

The adjutant nodded. ‘Dead.’

Wassmuss let his body slump back in the chair. ‘Dannhabe ich versagt,’ he whispered. ‘I have failed …’

The adjutant stood and watched Wassmuss closely, his hand all the while stroking his moustache like a man petting a cat.

‘Do you know who the assassin is, effendim?’ he asked eventually.

Wassmuss opened his eyes. ‘Oh yes, that I do. An Australian officer … a dog and a spy for the British,’ he spat. ‘He is called Kingdom Lock, Lieutenant Kingdom Lock.’

CHAPTER ONE

Basra. One Week Later.

It took Singh two days to track Kingdom Lock down, but he eventually caught up with him in a house in the north of the city that was situated near to one of the many picturesque canals. The house was like so many of the older properties in Basra, with large, arched latticed windows on the ground floor and the distinctive overhanging wooden balconies on the first. But it was what was behind the front door that made this house so different from the rest. It was a property frequented by officers and rich merchants. And it was known locally as ‘Cennet’ or, to translate from Turkish, ‘Paradise’ … even ‘Heaven’.

Once across the threshold, the visitor was immediately taken with the richness of his surroundings, not only visually but in smell, too. There were plush, elaborate materials from India and the Orient everywhere the eye fell: from the wall hangings to the carpets under one’s feet, and to the chairs one sat on. The furniture was of the finest carved mahogany, and exotic plants were dotted in every corner. And, as Singh stood there drinking in the beauty of that place, his nostrils were filled with aromas that brought to mind the temples back home.

It wasn’t long before the proprietor, a portly Arab with a large mole on his left cheek and mischief in his yellowing eyes, sidled up to Singh with barely a swish of his golden aba. He outstretched his sausage-fingered hands and beamed a smile of crooked teeth.

‘Ah, a guest from the jewel that is India. Come, enter. I am Jalal Al-din Bahar and I bid you welcome.’

Singh nodded and stepped further into the foyer. His feet immediately sank into the thick carpet. He looked up to see, lounging on the chairs dotted about the room, about ten women in various stages of undress.

‘You seek the pleasures of the house, my friend?’ Jalal Al-din Bahar whispered, as the women rose to their feet and approached the tall, handsome Indian.

They were high-class prostitutes from all corners of the globe – Europe, Africa, Asia and the Far East. As they gathered around Singh they began to giggle, stroking his thick, black beard, his arms and his chest, and cooing over his strength and form.

‘No, sahib, regretfully. I seek my officer.’

The Arab’s charm melted away instantly. He clapped his hands angrily and the girls sulkily slipped away, back to their chairs, and their coquettish stares and whispered conversations.

‘I know of no officers here,’ Jalal Al-din Bahar said curtly. ‘Please leave.’ He made for the door, but Singh remained where he was.

‘Tall and fair. An Australian officer with a bullet hole in the chest of his tunic, and … unusual eyes …’ Singh mimed the description of Lock while he spoke, and pulled a gold coin from his pocket. He held it out to the Arab.

Jalal Al-din Bahar glared at Singh for a moment before snatching the coin from his grasp.

‘He is upstairs, second room on the left.’

Then the Arab turned and scuttled away to the far side of the foyer, and exited through a doorway that was screened by an elaborately beaded curtain.

Singh watched him go, and his eyes fell upon an attractive, slender African girl reclining nearby. He grinned at her, then made his way to the foot of the thickly carpeted stairs. As he climbed, passing beautiful and intricately decorated tapestries that adorned the walls, he kept glancing back at the girl. Her dark, hypnotic eyes followed his ascent all the way to the landing at the top. Singh stopped and looked back down at the lounge. The African girl was no longer looking at him. A bald, plump British officer with a beetroot complexion had just come in from the street and, with a swish of the beaded curtain, Jalal Al-din Bahar had appeared again. Singh watched as the girls gathered around the blushing general, giggling as the Arab went through his salesman routine.

Singh turned away and walked along the corridor. It was lined with more tapestries and the occasional heavy, studded oak door. When he neared the first door, he stopped and listened. Muffled grunting was coming from the other side. He smiled and moved on to the second door. As with the first, he stopped and listened. There was no sound from the room beyond. He tried the handle. It was unlocked, so he pushed the door open and entered.

The room inside was again decorated to a high standard of decadence. An opulent, dark Persian rug covered the polished oak floorboards and ran all the way over to a large wooden-slatted window that was open at the far end of the room. Next to the window was a dressing table adorned with perfume bottles, brushes and all the things that a woman uses to enhance her beauty. There was also a bowl of fruit and a plate with a half-eaten loaf of bread on top. A cloud of fruit flies hovered above the food. A number of liquor bottles littered the floor.

Strewn across a deep, leather armchair, which was pushed up against the dressing table, was Lock’s uniform. The sweat-stained slouch hat and the tunic with the bullet hole were unmistakable, as was the prized Beholla 7.65 automatic that Lock had taken from the dead Turk officer in the trench at Barjisiyah Woods. Away from the window, beside a large hearth that, despite the heat outside, burnt gentle warmth into the room, was a tin bathtub full of milky water. Rose petals floated on its surface.

Opposite the door, taking up much of the room, was a large four-poster bed. It was enshrouded in mosquito nets that hung loosely open, like the curtains to a stage. On the bed were three bodies, entwined in an unconscious, drunken, post-coital stupor, such was their heady perfume of sweat, sex and alcohol. Singh moved forward and pulled the nets aside. Lock lay, head slumped on his chest, naked in the middle of the bed with a nude woman either side of him. One was milky-white, freckled and had long curled red hair; the other was a brunette with silky olive skin. Singh could not help but smile as he looked down on the slumbering trio.

After a moment’s hesitation, he took hold of Lock’s foot and shook it.

‘Sahib! Wake up, sahib! It is I, Singh.’ He shook Lock’s foot again.

The redhead stirred and flopped over onto her back. Despite his best efforts, Singh felt his eyes magnetically drawn to her body.

‘Sahib!’ Singh called again, louder this time, and with a touch of embarrassed irritation.

Lock groaned.

‘Sahib?’

With an immense effort Lock lifted his chin. He opened his eyes blearily and tried to focus.

‘Sahib. It is I, Singh.’

Lock frowned and put the half-empty bottle of arrack he still held in his hand to his lips. He drank heavily and blinked back at Singh. ‘Sid?’ he slurred.

‘Yes, sahib.’

‘You wanna girl, Sid? Here …’ He lifted the arm of the olive-skinned brunette. ‘She’s a bit of a minx though, I warn you.’ He grinned stupidly and took another swig of arrack, belched loudly, and grimaced.

‘No, sahib. I was sent to fetch you.’

Lock looked up hopefully. ‘Amy?’ he slurred.

Singh shook his head.

Lock’s face fell again and he waved Singh away.

‘Bloody Ross. Well, bugger him!’ he said, and threw the bottle of arrack at the wall.

The bottle smashed, spraying glass and liquid over the floor, and both girls woke with a start. The redhead let out a yelp and pulled the sheets over her nakedness when she saw Singh towering over the bed. Her olive-skinned colleague merely groaned and turned over onto her belly. Lock pulled the redhead back down and put his arm protectively around her. She relaxed and let the sheet slip from her shoulders.

‘Go away, Sid. Leave me be,’ Lock whispered, and turned his gaze to the window.

‘Sahib, if I may be permitted to saying so, this is not the way. You must get up now and come with me,’ Singh said. ‘The men need you, your men. They have a great respect for you, sahib, I have a great respect for you. I am proud you are my captain. But I am not proud to see you like this. You must take control of your heart, sahib, you must not let it ruin you. All is not lost, not yet. Perhaps Memsahib Amy will not marry that fool – forgive my bluntness, sahib, but a fool is what he is, this Sahib Bing Ham Smith. It is not over yet, sahib, not unless you wish it to be.

‘You are a good man and a good officer, sahib,’ he added. ‘Do not throw all that away. Not like this, sahib. Not like this.’

Lock turned his bloodshot eyes back to Singh. He sat up and pushed the redhead away. ‘But it is too late, Sid. She’s gone, she said so herself, gone to that … slimy … pompous … buggering bastard, Bingham Bloody Smith.’

Lock’s face was twisted with anger and hurt, and spittle was running down his chin as he spoke. He shook his head and winced, and pulled himself down to the end of the bed.

‘What am I doing here? What am I doing wearing that bloody uniform?’

‘You fight with us, sahib, to protect those we love, all that we hold most precious, from the evil Turk and the corrupt German.’

‘Bollocks, Sid,’ Lock said. ‘What we fight for is a lie! It’s all for greed, for money, for oil. For fucking oil, Sid. Sick black death … on our hands, on every man’s hands. I cannot … I will not be a part of it. No more, Sid. No more.’

‘But you are, sahib, and you have been. I know nothing of oil, sahib. But Major Ross wanted me to tell you that you are a true hero and that you have saved the reputation of the regiment by your actions at Barjisiyah Woods. He is very proud of you.’

‘He’s a using bastard, Sid, and well you know it,’ Lock sniffed.

‘Maybe that is so, sahib. But he is a good using bastard. Better than that monkey’s arse, Lieutenant Colonel Godwinson. And we need men like you to keep men like Godwinson in … What is the term you like, from the chess, sahib? In check? Yes?’

Lock grunted and ran a hand through his matted hair. ‘I’ve lost half the platoon, Sid. What can I do with so little? We’re finished. We’ll be swallowed up by that bloated aristocratic fart Godwinson and his bloody nephew. I’ll lose my command, not that I really ever had one …’ He fell silent for a moment. ‘I’m lost, Sid.’

Lock shook his head and pulled himself to his feet. He wobbled uneasily as he staggered over to the dressing table.

‘No, sahib, you have not,’ Singh replied earnestly, as he followed the naked Lock across the room. ‘You have fought and won with much, much less. The platoon … it is still yours. That is why Major Ross wants to see you, why he sent me to find you, Captain sahib.’

But Lock didn’t hear Singh’s words as he leant down on the dressing table and stared back at his own reflection in the mirror. He looked truly awful. His face was sallow and rough, and his eyes were red and dull. He really did look as if he had been single-handedly fighting a war. He laughed suddenly and, pulling himself upright, he weaved his way unsteadily over to the bathtub. He hesitated, then stepped into the water and slumped down. He looked over at Singh, then closed his eyes and let himself slide under.

Singh watched as the air bubbles burst on the surface of the water. And just as it seemed that Lock had been under for too long, the fair-haired officer suddenly shot up again, gasping. Water sloshed and splashed over the edge of the tub, soaking the floor, and Lock shook the water from his hair like a dog. He groaned, squinted up at Singh, and rubbed his eyes.

‘Sid! How are you?’ he smiled affably and sniffed. ‘What time is it?’

‘It is getting late, sahib. The sun will be gone soon.’

Lock hauled his soaking body out of the bathtub and squelched over to the window. He pushed the shutters wide open and squinted at the setting sun.

‘What does Ross want, Sid?’

‘I do not know, sahib. Something to do with General Townshend, and the new election in Britain. Politics.’ Singh shrugged, and looked over to the two girls that still slumbered in the bed. ‘And she does too, sahib.’

Lock shivered. Goosebumps had broken out on his skin.

‘She?’ he asked, as he turned back and pulled a sheet from the bed, wrapped it around himself, and walked over to the fireplace. He crouched down and reached for a fresh log from the basket at the side.

‘Memsahib Amy,’ Singh replied quietly.

Lock threw another log onto the fire and stared silently down at the flames.

‘All right, Sid. I’m up. I’m sober … well, conscious anyway. You go on ahead. I need to get dressed and settle my account here.’

‘No, sahib,’ Singh smiled wryly down at his friend, ‘I am to accompany you. Major Ross’s strict orders.’

Lock rose stiffly to his feet and walked over to the armchair. He let the soaked sheet slip from his body and began to dress. Sitting down to pull on his boots, he glanced over to the bed. The two girls had curled up together now. Lock looked to Singh. The big Indian must have read his thoughts for he shook his head firmly. Lock grinned and stood up. He bent down to the dressing table mirror and brushed his still damp hair back with his fingers.

‘How do I look, Sid?’

‘Very smart, Captain sahib.’ Singh said, and opened the door.

Lock gave a final glance to the slumbering girls, sighed, and stepped out into the corridor. He hesitated, realising what Singh had just said.

‘Yes, I’d forgotten that. My promotion, I mean. But I doubt Godwinson will stand for it.’

‘But it is not up to him, Captain sahib, surely?’

Lock grunted, then they both made their way down the stairs and through the foyer towards the front door.

Jalal Al-din Bahar was waiting for them, and he bowed and smiled at Lock as the two men approached.

‘I trust that your stay has been … refreshing, effendim?’

‘Most. Here.’ Lock handed the portly Arab a couple of coins. ‘Right, come along then, Havildar!’ Lock said, and slapped a bewildered Singh on the shoulder. ‘If I’m to be a captain, Sid, then I insist that you’re my new sergeant.’

‘No, no, sahib, you cannot, please. What about the sergeant major?’

‘Sod Underhill, Sid. I never wanted him as my number two, watching my back. That’s like bedding down with a cobra. No, I want a friend at my side, and you’re it.’

Before Singh could protest further, Lock opened the door to the street and stepped outside.

The sun had fallen behind the rooftops now and, despite the sky being an artist’s palette of pinks and reds, the street was in darkness. For a moment, as the door closed behind them, it was difficult to see, coming as they had from the bright lights of the brothel out into the gloom of the street.

The two men paused in the doorway to let their eyes adjust, and Lock lit a cigarette. It was a quiet night. Only the insects broke the silence around them, and it was a relief not to hear the sound of distant guns. After a minute they turned and moved off in the direction of the canal. But, as they did so, a shadowy figure stepped out from the doorway opposite. There was a brief scuffle before two gunshots rang out, their cracks echoing off the surrounding buildings, and the muzzle flashes momentarily illuminating Lock and Singh’s surprised faces. Then the street was enshrouded in gloom again. A body fell heavily to the floor as the sound of fleeing footsteps slowly diminished.

‘Sahib,’ Singh gasped weakly, before a second body slumped to the ground.

The echoing footsteps faded into the distance, until there was nothing, only silence and darkness …

CHAPTER TWO

Everything was white.

Too bright.

Kingdom Lock squeezed his eyes shut again. His thoughts and feelings were a tumble of confusion. He remembered a blinding flash of light and then nothing, just blackness and cold. He was no longer cold, though, no longer numb, but warm and somehow overwhelmed with a feeling of security, of safety, as if he was back in the womb. A part of his mind expected to feel pain, his body to ache, but there was nothing, only softness. He knew he should try and sit up, but found he hadn’t the strength. So he lay still and listened. Nothing. No, there was … a gentle, rhythmic pulse. It was barely audible, yet he knew it was close. Then he felt his face flicker into a smile. His heart was still beating. He was alive.

Lock’s nose twitched. A smell, faint, but there all the same, like a memory. Furniture polish and caustic soap. He opened his eyes once more, trying to focus through his bleached surroundings. He turned his head stiffly and a pain exploded inside his skull. He wanted to scream out, he wanted to vomit. But he lay still and waited for the wave of nausea to pass, for the pain inside his head to subside. His breathing slowed. Calm.

For the third time in what seemed as many hours, Lock opened his eyes. He was in a private room, clinical and white, lying on a bed, shrouded in starched cotton sheets. They were pulled up to his chest. His arms were free, stretched out either side of him with his palms facing down. Soft cotton pyjamas had replaced his uniform, but his head felt tight, encased, as if he still wore his slouch hat. Opposite the bed, daylight was streaming through a high window and Lock could make out the gnarly branches of a tree swaying in the breeze outside. He cautiously, should any sudden movement give him a relapse of nausea, turned his head. To his right was a door; to his left a small bedside cabinet. On top were a jug and a glass of clear water.

Lock licked his lips. They were chapped and sore. His throat was dry. He tried to reach for the glass. Sweat broke out on his brow. He could feel it prickling his skin. His heart started to race in his chest. A dull ache was building in his temple. His arm was trembling. It was barely off the bed. He stopped trying and felt the weight of his whole body sink back into the mattress.

A flurry of movement caught his attention. He moved his eyes. Three white-speckled bulbuls had landed on the nearest branch to the window. Lock could hear their loud chattering now, as if they were in disagreement about something. He frowned at the scene for a moment and tried to recall where he had been before, before the bed and the white room. He lost his focus and the birdsong melded into the voices of men talking.

Lock groaned in confusion. The voices were familiar, yet they sounded alien to his ear. He couldn’t make out what they were saying.

‘Speak up,’ he said.

The voices ignored him and continued with their chatter. One said ‘Kahve’.

Lock grunted and relaxed. Kahve was Turkish for ‘coffee’. Coffee would be nice. He’d like a cup, strong and bitter. Perhaps with a little sugar. He nodded.

‘Yes, good idea,’ he said.

Movement rocked the bed. Lock opened his eyes.

But he was no longer lying in bed, in the white room. He was sat upright, fully dressed in his old, brown corduroy suit, perched on the back of the ox cart he knew so well; the ox cart he had used for weeks at a time to lug telegraph poles and cables around the lonely roadways of eastern Anatolia. That was his job initially, and then his cover, putting up telephone lines for the Sultan. He recognised the man moving about next to him, rocking the cart. It was Bedros, the Armenian, a wiry fellow with pockmarked skin, who was always dressed in a worn, ragged blazer. He was part of the work detail Lock had assigned to him; one Armenian and eight Kurds.

‘I make coffee, effendim?’ Bedros said in Turkish, beaming a smile of broken, blackened teeth.

Lock nodded and noted that his head no longer throbbed with pain. ‘Yes, good idea,’ he said in the same tongue, understanding perfectly.

He turned his attention to the main work detail a little way ahead.

The Kurds, despite being strong labourers, with rough hands and rougher manners, were struggling to lift a pole into a freshly excavated hole. Two of them had even stopped working and were shading their eyes, staring off beyond the cart, into the distance.

Lock raised himself up and turned around.

Stretched out before him was a flat, grassy landscape dusted with snow. It ran all the way to the foot of the distant white peaks of three mountains to the north: Soli, Davutaga and Isik Dagi. To the right was the eastern shore of Lake Erçek, its azure waters sparkling in the afternoon sunshine. A road, little more than a dirt track, followed the length of the shore before hitting a crossroads, and it was here that Lock could see a large dust cloud rising up in the distance.

‘Strange. Nothing heavier than farm traffic usually passes along this stretch,’ Lock said.

‘Not farm traffic, effendim,’ Bedros said. ‘They are … horsemen?’

Lock turned back at the sound of running footsteps. The two Kurds who had been pointing off into the distance, a young man with bright, excitable eyes, called Mehmet, and an older, burly chap Lock knew as Fuat, were rapidly approaching.

‘What do you think it is?’ Fuat said.

‘I can’t tell. I don’t think they’re coming this way,’ Lock said.

‘I go see,’ Mehmet said, lifting a pushbike from the far end of the ox cart.

‘Hey, no. We’ve work to—’ Lock started to argue, but the young Kurd had already pedalled off in a frenzy of pumping knees and creaking metal.

Lock shook his head irritably and jumped down from the cart. He gathered up a coil of cable and swung it over his shoulder.

‘Bedrosis making coffee. Ten minutes, then I want the rest of those poles up before nightfall.’

He pushed past Fuat and trudged towards the main work detail.

‘Mister Lock? Mister Lock?’ a soft voice called after him.

Lock turned about, but no one was there. The ox cart was empty and Bedros and Fuat had vanished. The dust cloud on the horizon had gone.

‘Mister Lock?’ the voice called again.

Lock dropped the cable and spun round. The main work detail had vanished. The road was deserted. He was alone. He shook his head and closed his eyes.

‘Mister Lock?’

It was a woman’s voice, gentle and speaking in English, tinged with a regional accent Lock couldn’t quite place. Lancashire?

He looked up and started. Staring down at him through a blurred fog was a pair of wide, brown eyes.

‘Mister Lock, I’m going to help you to sit up a little,’ the voice belonging to the brown eyes said. ‘I need to change your dressings.’

Lock felt himself nod as he was gently, but firmly, manhandled into a more upright position. The scent of strawberries tickled his nostrils. He stared until he could bring the woman into focus. She was a young nurse, in her early twenties, he guessed. Her face was as pale as milk and was framed by a white headscarf, which had a bright red cross emblazoned on its centre. A curl of brown hair was protruding from under the band. She had a delicate, small nose and beautiful, sensual lips. They were slightly open and Lock could see her tongue move across the tips of her teeth as she concentrated on what she was doing.

Lock knew her, remembered her, remembered the same act of concentration when she had … dressed his hand? … Yes, that was it, Nurse Owen. Molly? No, it was …

‘Mary?’

‘Here,’ she said, and Lock felt the coolness of a glass of water touch his lips. He drank thirstily.

‘Steady. Not too fast,’ she said, pulling the glass away again.

‘Thank you, Mary,’ Lock croaked. ‘It is Mary, isn’t it?’

‘Yes,’ she smiled. ‘It’s a good sign that you remember me.’

Lock looked about the stark room. ‘Where am I?’

Mary frowned. ‘In the Officers’ Hospital. A private room.’

‘How …?’

‘Long?’

Lock nodded.

‘A week now. You’ve been in a very bad way,’ Mary said, while she fussed around, straightening out Lock’s bedding.

‘May I have some more water, Mary?’ Lock smiled. ‘My throat feels like it’s full of sand.’

‘Let me change your bandages first.’

Mary turned to the trolley at her side and picked up a pair of scissors and a roll of gauze.

‘Now, let’s take a look at your head.’

She leant forward and began to cut away and unravel the bandage wrapped around Lock’s head. He hadn’t notice the bandages were there before, but as they came away he could feel the pressure ease and the air rush to his itching scalp.

‘We had to clip your hair very short to treat the wound,’ she said. ‘But it will grow back soon enough.’

As Mary worked, leaning close to him, her body heat radiating out, Lock’s eyes fell on the swell of her bosom and he felt a sudden surge of desire. Had this girl not kissed him once?

‘What is it?’ Mary frowned, catching the look on his face, and standing back.

Lock’s gaze moved to the soiled bandages in Mary’s hands. He could see the dark stain of old blood. His blood.

‘Nothing. I was just … thinking about Amy. Have you seen her?’

Mary looked down at him oddly for a moment, then picked up a fresh roll of bandages.

‘No.’

She began to re-dress his head wound. Lock knew she was lying.

‘I thought …’ He squeezed his eyes shut, tensing, as a stab of pain rushed through his skull.

Mary hesitated. ‘Are you all right?’

‘A little dizzy. I …’

‘Well, enough talking.’

‘But—’

‘No,’ she said firmly. ‘Be a good patient. Hush.’

She picked something up from the trolley.

‘Here, take this.’

Lock felt a small pill pass his lips and touch his tongue. It tasted bitter and chalky. Mary pressed the glass of water to his mouth and he drank, swallowing the pill down. The bitterness remained coated on his tongue.

Lock lay in silence as Mary finished dressing his head, his thoughts a tumble of confusion. Where was Amy? Why wasn’t she here, looking after him?

‘Has she been to see me? Tell me that, can’t you? Please, Mary.’ He smiled weakly.

Mary gathered up the soiled bandages, ointments and scissors.

‘I … don’t know. I don’t see her much any more, what with her wedding preparations …’ She trailed off.

The wedding! Of course. Christ, he needed to see her, to get out of here. But just the thought of trying to get up out of the bed made his head spin again.

‘I need to see her, Mary.’

There was a distant banging and Lock saw a shadow at the window.

‘Who’s that?’ he said nervously.

Mary glanced over her shoulder. ‘Just the window cleaner. Do you want me to close the shutters?’ She made to move over to the window.

Lock tried to shake his head. ‘No, it’s all right,’ he whispered, feeling weaker as the seconds passed.

‘I’ll see what I can do. About Amy, I mean,’ Mary said. ‘Try to sleep now.’

She began to push the trolley towards the door.

Lock nodded and Mary left his field of vision. He heard her open the door and there was a sudden blast of chatter and comings-and-goings from the corridor outside. The door closed again and he was alone in silence once more.

As he lay there, he could see the top of the ladder resting against the outside sill, and watched as the window cleaner stretched up and began to meticulously wipe the highest pane in slow, circular movements, his damp cloth squeaking against the glass.

A shout came from Lock’s left and he turned to see that Mehmet, the young Kurd, who had cycled off earlier, had returned from his scouting trip. He was standing in the corner of the hospital room and the rest of the work detail were gathered around him.

‘Effendim?’

Lock glanced back at the window. But it wasn’t a window any longer. It was a telegraph pole and at the top the man staring down at him wasn’t the window cleaner, but another of the Kurds on his work detail.

‘All right, down you come,’ Lock said.

The Kurd grinned, shimmied quickly down the pole, and ran over to his comrades. Lock scratched his brow and passed his hand through his thick, shaggy hair. He pulled his fedora back down over his head, and slowly walked over to the chattering group of men.

The labourers were all extremely animated, talking excitedly at once.

‘What is this?’ Lock asked, rather bemused.

‘War!’ one of the Kurds blurted out.

‘I beg your pardon?’ Lock wasn’t sure if he had heard right.

‘War, effendim,’ Mehmet confirmed. ‘The dust plume … It is cavalry and soldiers. They are marching from Van to reinforce the garrison at Erçek.’

‘War?’ Lock said, aghast. ‘War with whom?’

‘Britain, effend—’ Mehmet stopped and his face fell.

‘Turkey is at war with Britain? I don’t believe it.’

Mehmet shook his head. ‘No, no, effendim, with Germany.’

Lock was even more perplexed. Germany were strong allies of the Turks. ‘I can’t believe it. The Kaiser is a great friend of Enver Pasha.’

Again Mehmet shook his head. ‘Effendim, Germany is at war with Britain. It is therefore only a matter of moments before we, too, declare war on yo … on …’ He trailed off, embarrassed at his enthusiastic outburst.

‘Ah, I see,’ Lock said.

The labourers fell silent, each man staring back at him. Nobody said anything for what seemed like an age, until Fuat shifted on his feet and cleared his throat.

‘Work is over,’ he said, throwing down his pickaxe. ‘The army will need us now.’

‘But you can’t,’ Lock stepped forward. ‘The telephone lines need to be completed for the Sultan.’

‘Curses to the telephone lines, Kedisi,’ Fuat snarled. ‘We march for the Sultan. Come!’

The Kurds downed their tools and gathered their belongings together from the back of the ox cart, and set off down the road towards the marching soldiers.

‘What about you?’ Lock asked, turning to Bedros.

He shrugged. ‘Armenians are not really welcome in the Ottoman Empire, effendim. More so now there is war, I fear.’

‘Then you’d best head back to the city and to your family. Take the ox cart.’

‘And you, effendim?’

‘I think I may have an appointment elsewhere, don’t you?’ Lock flicked his stubbly chin back up the road.

A group of riders had left the main body of the march and were rapidly approaching. Lock imagined that most foreign nationals of the enemies of Germany would be put under house arrest sooner rather than later. He needed to get away and fast.

Bedros shifted nervously on his feet.

‘Go on,’ Lock snapped.

The Armenian began to gather up the discarded tools and pile them into the ox cart. Lock lit a cigarette and stood waiting for the riders. He could feel the ground rumble beneath his feet as they got nearer, and soon the sound of clumping hoofs filled his ears.

There were five horsemen, all smart in khaki uniforms with silver-grey collar patches, polished leather belts and riding boots. Leading them was a stiff officer with two stars on gold shoulder epaulettes and full silver-grey collars. He was sporting the obligatory upturned moustache favoured by the Young Turks. All the men rode typically tough, but small ponies that were adept at coping with harsh terrains.

With a jangle of bridle and bit, and a creak of saddle leather, the cavalry officer pulled up sharply and glared down at Lock. He waved his hand, indicating for his men to search the ox cart. The four riders with the officer dismounted, shoved Bedros aside, and clambered up onto the cart.

‘How can I help you?’ Lock said, exhaling tobacco smoke.

‘Papers,’ the officer demanded, holding out his hand expectantly.

Lock stalled by making a show of patting his pockets, until the officer snapped his fingers down at him irritably. Lock smiled and, pulling out his documents from his inside breast pocket, handed them up to the officer.

‘You are … Kedisi?’ the officer said, frowning.

Lock sighed. ‘No. My name is Kingdom Lock. I—’

‘You are German?’ the officer interrupted, leafing through Lock’s documents.

‘No, British. Well, Australian actually.’

The officer’s piercing hazel eyes flicked up, and he scowled.

‘You can see, Yüzbaşi, that I am in charge of a work detail,’ Lock said, using the officer’s correct rank of captain, ‘laying telephone lines for the Société Ottomane des Téléphones.’

The yüzbaşi leafed through more of the documents, and slowly shook his head.

‘The dates on these papers are invalid.’ He looked at Lock. ‘You are a spy, a khafiyeh, and an enemy of the Sultan.’

‘I am an engineer and have been working for the Sultan for nearly two years!’

Lock was beginning to lose his patience. If there was one thing he hated more than bureaucrats, it was military bureaucrats.

The yüzbaşi folded the papers up and stuffed them in his tunic pocket, then opened his holster and drew his pistol.

‘Çavuş, place this man under arrest.’

‘What?’ Lock protested, but he remained rooted to the spot. The yüzbaşi was pointing his gun directly at him.

The cavalryman with one band on his shoulder straps, indicating that he was a sergeant, jumped down from the ox cart and levelled his rifle at Lock.

‘Hands on your head!’ he ordered.

Lock glared up at the yüzbaşi. ‘I am not a spy! Ask my men.’

The çavuş jabbed Lock with the point of his rifle. ‘Up!’

Lock did as he was told.

‘Yüzbaşi, please, there is some mistake—’

‘You are to be taken back to Van for questioning,’ the officer added. ‘As for “your men”, they are Mehmetçiks, soldiers, now. Except this one.’ He waved his pistol at Bedros, who had all this time been standing, frozen, watching wide-eyed as the cavalrymen ransacked the ox cart.

‘Armenian?’ the officer said.

Lock nodded. ‘Yes, but wha—’

A deafening crack cut him short.

Bedros didn’t even have time to move as the yüzbaşi shot him dead.

‘You bastard! You murd—’ Lock screamed in English, dropping his hands and lunging towards the cavalry officer. But he didn’t get more than two paces before a blow to the back of the head knocked him to the ground. A surge of pain shot down his spine and then he felt himself spinning and falling, deeper and deeper into a black pit of nothingness.

‘Nurse, help me get him back into bed.’

Lock felt himself being lifted and laid gently back down again. Something was placed over his body up to the chest and then a sudden coolness enveloped his face.

‘How long has he been like this, Nurse?’

‘Most of the night, Doctor. Tossing and turning, calling out … Sometimes his eyes are open, but he doesn’t see … He was calm for a while when I was reading to him, but—’

‘Good, good. Well, keep bathing his forehead. We need to break the fever. I hope the wound isn’t infected. He’s strong, but we may have to operate again and I’m not so sure if he will survive the trauma to the brain.’

‘… with the offer to abstain from alcohol in order to encourage armament workers to do the same.’

‘Who’s abstaining from alcohol?’ Lock blearily opened his eyes. His vision was filled with Amy’s face and it lifted his heart. She was sat in a chair next to his bed, reading from the Daily Mirror.

‘His Majesty, King George.’

‘Why on earth would he want to do that?’

Lock struggled to lift himself up. Amy folded the newspaper away and moved to help Lock sit up in bed.

‘There’s a belief that alcohol consumption slows down production,’ she said.

‘Bollocks.’

‘You’re clearly feeling better,’ Amy said.

‘I didn’t think you would come.’

‘Mary said you were asking after me.’

Lock studied Amy’s face in silence. He enjoyed looking at her, he always had. Her face, framed by a ring of chestnut red hair just visible beneath her nurse’s cap, was still as soft and as white as snow, if a little harder around the mouth. Her full lips were as moist and as sensual as when he had first seen her. Lips to kiss. Yet her eyes, her beautiful emerald eyes, had lost some of their defiant sparkle, a light Lock found so captivating, so inextricably drawn to. It was a light that illuminated his very being, brought brightness to his darkest moments. And that brought despair to his joy at being close to her again.

Amy sat back down.

‘I’m glad,’ Lock said.

‘Glad?’ Amy said.

‘That you did.’

The room fell silent again.

‘I miss you.’

‘Don’t.’

‘What does “kedisi” mean?’ she asked after a while. ‘You kept mumbling the word in your sleep.’

Lock smiled. ‘Do you remember me telling you about the cat in my prison cell? After I was arrested? When Britain declared war with Germany, and excitable panic broke out across Turkey?’

‘No.’

‘It used to climb in through the barred window looking for food.’ Lock laughed softly, remembering. ‘Funny little creatures – the type of cat, I mean. They’re called kedisi and are native to Van. That’s a city in Turkey, in eastern Anatolia.’

‘I know.’

‘Oh, yes, of course you do.’

‘And?’

‘Hmm?’ Lock had drifted off momentarily, reaching back into his memory. ‘Oh, well, the kedisi cat is known for three things: a love of water—’

‘Really?’ Amy raised a soft brown eyebrow.

‘True. I saw one swimming once. For fun. It was trotting along beside a stream and just jumped in. Paddled about a bit, then got out again.’ Lock smiled.

‘Non. I do not believe you.’

Lock ignored her cynicism. ‘They are always white and …’ He paused, lifting his hand to his face, ‘… they have two different coloured eyes; one blue and one amber. So I was often referred to as “Kedisi”.’

‘But you have … a greyish blue one and … a green one,’ Amy said, frowning and leaning forward as if to make sure.

Lock held her gaze and was filled with an overwhelming urge to kiss her. Whether she could sense what he was thinking, he didn’t know, but she blushed and quickly sat back.

‘Please don’t,’ she said.

‘Why? Damn you, Amy. I love you and I bloody well know you love me. Stop lying to yourself. Ah—’ Lock sucked in his teeth and squeezed his eyes shut, pressing his hand to his temple. The sudden burst of anger was making his head throb.

Amy got to her feet. ‘Mon Dieu. This is why I didn’t want to come. I knew you would do this—’

‘What? Tell the truth?’

‘I don’t love you, Kingdom. I love Casper. And we are going to be married. And I wish you could just be happy for me.’

Lock could see the tears welling up in her eyes as she spoke.

‘Marry me, Amy. Marry me.’

‘You just don’t understand.’

‘Understand what? That shit you spouted to me in front of your mother, about duty, tradition and honour? Where’s the honour in marrying a coward like Bingham-Smith?’

Amy shook her head and a tear ran down her cheek. She wiped it away angrily.

‘Tupeux être un vrai salaud!’

‘There you go again, hiding behind your French ancestry when you can’t explain yourself.’

‘Filsde pute!’ Amy spat, and stormed out of the room, slamming the door behind her.

Lock sat and stared after her, at the finality of the closed white door. The echo of her final insult faded and he was left with the silence of the now empty room once more.

‘Bugger,’ he sighed. ‘I should never have left China.’

CHAPTER THREE

Lock paused in the doorway to let his eyes adjust to the gloom outside, and lit a cigarette. He thought with a mental shrug that to do so was a little stupid, for now all he could see was the flame of the match burnt onto his retina. The city was still, with only the insects protesting the silence. What a relief it was not to hear those damned guns booming in the distance. He gave a satisfactory sigh and, when the memory of the match flame faded, he turned to make his way towards the canal, its dank, mouldy, fetid stench a helpful guide to the right direction. But before he had taken more than two paces, a figure loomed out of the shadowy doorway opposite. Lock wasn’t really concentrating on his surroundings and was slow to react, painfully slow. He put his hand up instinctively to ward off the expected blow, but then something exploded in the hand of the shadowy figure and a bolt of lightning slammed like a hammer into Lock’s temple.

‘Singh!’

‘Easy there, laddie. Easy.’