The wasteland was a sea of mud with no roots to hold the soil together. She slipped and skidded at every step, stumbling to her knees, blinking the rain from her eyes, but she finally reached the stubby bush. When she raised her head from watching where she placed her feet, avoiding the trailing coat, she saw what lay behind it. A shallow gully. Five or six feet deep with a sluggish layer of rainwater covering the bottom. That’s what caused the mist. A few yards off to her right stood a row of ramshackle shelters, half collapsed by the rain.

‘Chang!’ she shouted and slithered down the muddy bank.

34

Lydia found him. Inside the third heap of driftwood and rags and newspapers that was meant to keep the rain off but failed miserably. She was terrified he was dead, he lay so still. Eyes closed. His skin as grey as the water that swilled over the earth beneath him. She crawled inside the hutch, too low to stand, and knelt beside him in the mud, her heart like a stone in her throat. He was wrapped in old newspaper that was so wet from the rain pouring through the roof and from the water rising underneath that it was disintegrating and freezing at the same time. His eyes were encrusted shut and his face was covered in sores. But not boils. Thank God. Not the plague.

She touched him. Like ice. A cocoon of ice. Her fingers tore fiercely at the paper, stripped it from his body. She gasped. His body. It was barely there. A few rags and a few bones. The sight of them wrenched a cry from her. Her eyes stung with tears. The stench was of rotting flesh and it was the smell of death.

No, no, not dead. Not dead. She wouldn’t let him be dead.

She swept Liev’s heavy coat from her shoulders and laid it on top of Chang’s inert form. ‘Don’t let go, my love,’ she called out to him but barely recognised the voice as her own. She leaned over him, brushed a hand across his cold forehead, placed her lips on his, and kept them there, willing the warmth of her body and the force of her life into him. His lips, cracked and scabbed, gave the slightest of trembles beneath hers. But it was enough. ‘Liev,’ she shouted, ‘Liev, come…’

There was no need to call. He was there. With an easy nudge of his hand he tore off what little remained of the hutch’s roof, bent down, and hoisted Chang onto his shoulder. Lydia quickly wrapped the coat around the still form and pulled it tight against the rain.

‘A rickshaw,’ she said. ‘We need a rickshaw.’

‘No rickshaw puller take me. I’m too heavy. Nor touch this sick body.’

‘Can you carry him as far as the British Quarter?’

His lips unsheathed a grin inside his black beard. ‘Can a tiger catch a fawn?’

The bolt to the back gate was locked. Liev just leaned against it and it sprang open with a loud crack as the nails left the wood. Lydia checked that the garden of her new home was empty. It was nearly dark and still raining. She was thankful for that. These smart streets were not ones where you could pass unnoticed if you were covered in mud and carrying a strange bundle, but the grey gloom of evening gave them shadows to hide in. A narrow alley ran behind the back gardens of the houses, where the rubbish was put out for collection, and it was to this that she had led Liev.

‘Hurry,’ she whispered and pointed at the shed.

Instantly he was across the corner of the lawn and ducking through the narrow door. Lydia was frantic with fear that Chang might have died on Liev Popkov’s shoulder, and she cradled his head tenderly as his limp body was lowered to the dusty floor. She touched his cheek with her fingertips. Shuddered. With relief. With alarm. At the fiery heat of his skin. He was burning up inside. The scabs on his lips had burst open and blood was oozing out, trailing green pus with it. She jumped to her feet.

‘Wait here,’ she said to Liev.

She ran. Down the length of the lawn, across the slick grass, keeping to the dark border under the trees. She tried to think as she ran, to list what she needed – blankets, clothes, food, warm drinks… or ice, did he need ice for a fever?… bandages and medicines, but what medicines, she didn’t know, she needed help, she needed… Wait a minute. The lights. They were on in the house. The curtains were closed but still the windows cast yellow bars across the terrace. How could she not have noticed earlier? Did that mean people were still there? Or had the servants left the lights on for her? What did it mean? What?

She didn’t know. She just didn’t know.

She veered off toward the far side of the house to the kitchen door and tried the handle. It turned. The kitchen was empty. The cook had obviously retired to rest after his exertions for the party. She closed the door quietly behind her and was hit by a wave of dizziness as the warm air enveloped her. She had been cold and wet for so long now that the sudden change in temperature made her teeth ache. She was trailing mud and water over the black and white tiles, so she eased off her shoes and tiptoed out into the hall.

Two things happened.

First, she caught sight of her reflection in the long mirror that hung at the bottom of the stairs and barely recognised herself. A filthy wet scarecrow. Liev’s black scarf plastered to her head and shoulders, her green dress no longer green, caked with mud and clinging to her body so tight it was indecent. Blue lips, shaking. Bloodless fingers. Eyes too dark to be hers. It came as a shock.

Second, the voices. From the drawing room. Her mother’s. Then Alfred’s.

A pulse thumped in her head. Why hadn’t they gone? Off on honeymoon. Why weren’t they on the train?

‘No, Alfred,’ her mother’s voice rushed out at her. ‘Not till I’ve seen her. Not till I know she’s…’

Lydia didn’t wait for more. Suitcases stood by the front door, coats and umbrella draped across them.

She raced up the stairs. Silent, she must be silent. In her room, her smart new room, she tore off her dress and underclothes and threw them into the bottom of the wardrobe. Using an old sweater she scrubbed her hair and skin till it tingled. Quick brush. Old dress. Cardigan. Downstairs.

She walked into the drawing room with a ready-made smile. ‘Hello, Mama, I didn’t expect to see you still here.’

‘Lydia,’ Alfred exclaimed. ‘Thank the Lord you’re home. Your mother has been worried sick. Where have you been?’

‘Out.’

‘Out? That’s no answer, my girl. Apologise to your mother at once.’

Valentina was standing staring at Lydia, her limbs very rigid, her back to the fire, a half-smoked cigarette in her hand. There were two high spots of colour on her cheeks, as though the heat of the fire were affecting her. But Lydia knew her mother. Knew those telltale spots. They meant fear.

Why? Her mother knew she often roamed the streets of the settlement, had done so for years. Why the sudden fear?

‘Lydia,’ Valentina said slowly, ‘what’s wrong?’

‘Nothing.’

Valentina took a long draw on her cigarette and exhaled with a little grunt, as if she’d been prodded in the chest. She was still wearing the chiffon dress but had replaced the bolero with a warm suede jacket, and there were dark smudges under her eyes.

‘I’m sorry, Mama. I didn’t mean to delay you. I thought you’d have gone ages ago. With all those guests to wave you good-bye, I didn’t think you’d even notice that I…’

‘Don’t be silly, Lydia,’ Alfred said. She could see he was trying hard to hang on to his temper and be polite. ‘Of course we wanted to say good-bye, both of us. Now take this.’ He held out a brown envelope. ‘It contains some money in case the need should arise before we’re back, but of course Wai, he’s the cook, will provide your meals, so you shouldn’t need much. A trip to the cinema perhaps?’

Lydia had never been to the cinema in her life. At any other time she’d have jumped at it.