City of Ghosts (30 page)

‘You are beautiful,' she told him.

CHRISTMAS PASSED WITHOUT
further incident. It was a bittersweet time, with both Lillian and Bissen trying to forget the trouble that loomed over them. Lillian wanted to make Bissen's first Christmas as special as possible; after all, it might turn out to be his last. She had gone out of her way to create a seasonal atmosphere, with a tree and presents and decorations. But on the day before New Year's Eve the police had arrived.

Bertie had done what he could to protect his niece and her lover but it wasn't enough. Various meetings with Max and other friends had made it clear that his position was untenable. He hadn't told the whole truth when Lillian had asked him about things on Christmas Eve. The workmen had spotted Bissen through the drawing-room window, reading the paper by the fireside. And they had reported him to the police when the story of the missing Indian broke in Brighton. It was his own fault, Bertie told himself. He should have made sure Bissen remained hidden while the work
was being carried out. And now he simply had to go – an outcome that tugged at Bertie's heartstrings.

Hiding him, which is what Hamadi had done when the police arrived, was a temporary measure. He could not stay locked away indefinitely. At some point he would have to come out – otherwise why rescue him from the prison of the hospital ward in the first place? A free man couldn't spend his life in confinement. It just wouldn't do. And when Bissen did appear, the police or any other eagle-eyed observer would soon realize who he was. The description given in the news reports was very accurate – and exactly how many eastern-looking chaps were there wandering around Brighton? No, Bissen would be a sitting target. And the police
would
return; Bertie had that on the best authority.

There was also the issue of Max – who had furnished Bertie with the false letter he'd used to spring Bissen. If Bissen were found on the estate, Max would be easily identified as the insider: he was the only person Bertie knew with the authority to forge a letter; he was a junior government minister. They were known associates and fellow club members – not to mention clandestine lovers. And it was Max who had clarified Bertie's options at dinner on New Year's Eve.

‘Just won't do, old chap,' he'd said. ‘If they rumble us, I'll be for the chop – and I've been in this business for far too long to let it slip now.'

‘Damn,' Bertie had replied.

‘You know I love Lillian as much as you, but we have to watch ourselves. We've held onto our secret since we were
young men. We even gave up our idyllic existence in India and survived. Now is not the time to let the cat out of the bag.'

Bertie reached across the table and gave Max's hand a little squeeze, careful not to let anyone else in the club see. ‘I'm ever so sorry,' he replied sadly.

‘It's not your fault. But we both have far too much to lose.'

‘I'll deal with it, Max.'

‘Poor things,' said Max. ‘To be torn apart in such a way. Sometimes I feel deeply ashamed of my country. What harm could it do if Bissen stayed? The man nearly lost his life defending our so-called freedom, for God's sake!'

Bertie wiped away a tear and poured another glass of wine.

Now here he was, four days into the New Year, about to break his niece's heart. He waited until Lillian and Bissen had finished breakfast before summoning them to his office, a large square room with floor-to-ceiling windows and an extensive library. When they arrived, he told them both to sit.

‘I have some terrible news,' he said immediately, not wanting to sugar the pill. They deserved much more than that.

‘
Please . . . no!'
gasped Lillian, realizing what this meant. Her hand clutched Bissen's thigh and the colour drained away from her face.

‘I'm sorry, my dear,' replied Bertie. ‘Truly I am . . .'

Bissen watched the conversation between Lillian and her uncle impassively. He had known since the day the police
had come that things were over for him in England. But everything he'd felt – the despair and the agony – he had kept inside, not wishing to burden Lillian with it. Instead he had let her enjoy their final few days together, blissfully unaware of their impending fate. Or perhaps entirely aware and hiding from it. Now, as that fate became apparent, he nodded silently.

‘I've arranged things with the Persian chaps,' added Bertie. ‘They are arriving this evening, under cover of darkness—'

‘
No!
' cried Lillian, unable to come to terms with what was happening.

‘There is no other way,' Bissen told her. ‘I cannot get caught –
Uncle-ji
will get much trouble.'

‘But we'll run away!' insisted Lillian. ‘To that place in north Wales by Porthmadog, Uncle Bertie; the place where we used to go for holidays. No one will look for us there.'

Bertie shook his head. ‘Bissen will stand out wherever he goes until the war is over. The authorities treat desertion as a serious matter, Lillian. They won't let it rest.'

Tears flowed freely down her face, salty and warm. She looked at Bissen and stroked his face until her belly began to spasm. She sobbed uncontrollably, from her very core, and threw her arms around him. Bissen held her, pulling her close.

‘I'm so, so sorry,' Bertie said to him. ‘I really did think it would be all right – if only I'd considered those blasted workmen!'

Bissen shook his head. ‘What you do for me, for us, no other man do. You are a good man,
Uncle-ji
,' he told him.

He looked down at his lover and nuzzled her hair, taking
in its familiar scent. But then, as he closed his eyes, the smell changed. Suddenly he was back in Neuve Chapelle, and there was the stench of rotting onions all around him. He opened his eyes with a start, trying to banish the memories, but the smell remained. Why the smell? he asked himself. Why now? A flashing image came to him: gunshots and screaming, blood flowing across a dirt floor. He found himself thinking of a marketplace in Amritsar, as a woman tried to sell him fragrant oranges. Her eyes tried to tell him something but he couldn't work out what. And then came more gunshots and the faces of countless dead men lying at the bottom of trenches, inches deep in rainwater.

Two hours later Lillian was still crying with her head resting on Bissen's right shoulder. They were lying on his bed, talking very little, as their situation sank in. There was no other way around it, that much was certain. Bissen would be gone by the end of the day and their brief, sweet time together would be at an end. He caressed Lillian's back and told her everything would be fine.

‘You come to India. There we can be together.'

Lillian looked up at him and nodded. ‘I will go anywhere to be with you,' she replied.

‘It will not be long.'

‘Uncle Bertie will find a way for me to come to you,' she promised. ‘And I'll write to you every week.'

Bissen shifted so that her head rested on his chest. ‘Perhaps I come back too,' he said, ‘when the war is over.'

‘Yes,' sobbed Lillian. ‘When these stupid people stop making up horrendous rules. You can come here like
Hamadi did and work for my uncle. And I'll make sure that everyone knows how much you gave for this country; that you're a hero!'

‘We will see,' replied Bissen. ‘Whatever comes, we will be together.'

They spent the afternoon there, talking and making love and planning for a future together somewhere – anywhere. As dusk began to fall, Lillian grew inconsolable. They made their way down to Bertie's office; she clung to Bissen for all she was worth and refused to let him go. It took Bertie to gently prise her away. She began to sob again, this time on her uncle's shoulder. Bissen felt his own eyes welling up; he wiped away the tears as soon as they fell. He looked over to Bertie.

‘I'm afraid the time is here, Bissen,' said Bertie. ‘Hamadi and the Persian gentlemen are outside.'

Bissen nodded.

‘They are good men. I trust them implicitly. They tell me that the passage may be difficult, but only until you reach the ship. Once you're aboard, you'll be fine.'

‘Does the ship go to India?' asked Bissen.

Bertie shook his head. ‘Afraid not, old chap. It docks at Cape Town in South Africa. From there you'll be met and put aboard another ship bound for India. But I don't know where in India exactly.'

‘It is not a problem,' replied Bissen. ‘Once in India I can get home.'

‘I've packed you some things,' Bertie told him. ‘Not much – just a few books and things. Please feel free to take whatever food you'd like from the kitchen.'

‘Thank you,' said Bissen.

Lillian looked up from her uncle's shoulder and tried to smile. ‘You can give me a rose when I get to India,' she said to Bissen. ‘Like the ones you told me about.'

‘Yes,' he replied.

‘And show me the Golden Temple and your father's village and the hills of Anandpur and—' She ran to Bissen and threw her arms around him. ‘I'm so sorry!' she cried. ‘I wish I could change things . . .'

Bissen held her for a few moments and then, at her uncle's signal, let her go.

‘Through the kitchen and out the back – quickly!' ordered Bertie. ‘We have no time to lose.'

Lillian watched as he left the room, closing the door behind him. He did not stop to look back, fearing that if he did, he might not be able to leave. She continued to stare at the door, her mind and heart in a state of shock. Not since the death of her parents had she felt so numb.

‘Goodbye . . .'she whispered.

Outside it was cold and wet. Hamadi introduced Bissen to the two Persians but he didn't catch their names. They were both short, squat, powerful-looking men with thick mono-brows, light skin and broad shoulders, and Bissen realized immediately that they were brothers. One of them spoke quickly in a thick accent.

‘Come, come,' he said. ‘We must quick!'

Bissen climbed into a van that was similar to the one in which he'd escaped from the hospital. Inside, the air was foul with the stench of dead animals. One of the brothers told
Bissen that no one was likely to look inside and pointed to a blood-soaked blanket in the corner.

‘If they look,' he said, ‘get under that.'

Bissen nodded as the man closed the doors and joined his brother. He heard them say something to Hamadi, and then they were away, off into the dark Sussex night. Bissen sat on the floor of the van and cursed his luck. How quickly things had changed, he told himself, from bliss to despair. He closed his eyes and thought about Lillian's smile as the van took him away from her.

REHILL PAID CAREFUL
attention to Miles Irving, deputy commissioner of the Punjab, who was pouring himself another very large brandy. Irving was even redder in the face than usual and the hand he was using to hold the glass trembled. The man was losing it, thought the superintendent; typical.

‘Are there any orders, sir?' asked Rehill.

Irving shook his head. His eyes were red, the skin around them puffy. He looked very tired. ‘Dyer and the rest of them have it under control,' he replied. ‘I'm going home to try and get some sleep.'

Rehill held his tongue. There was no point in explaining the situation in the city to Irving – not when he had been out there all morning. The man had been complaining about sleepless nights for days now – he wasn't going to listen. It was as though he'd simply given up.

‘Would you like an escort back to your bungalow?' added Rehill.

‘No, no. My driver is armed and there are troops everywhere. I expect General Dyer will have orders for you.'

Rehill nodded as someone knocked on the door.

‘Come!' bellowed Irving.

The door opened and Lieutenant-Colonel Smith, the civil surgeon, strode in. ‘Ah, Miles,' he said. ‘You look dreadful, old chap. Anything I can do?'

Irving sighed. ‘I'm down four days' sleep. If you could get that back for me . . .'

Smith laughed. ‘Afraid not,' he said breezily.

‘I'm going home,' Irving informed him. ‘Tell Dyer that I can be reached there if he needs me.' Not that he meant it. As far as he was concerned, Dyer was welcome to the city and its myriad problems. Irving was sick of Amritsar in particular and India as a whole; the sooner he could return to England, the better.

‘Absolutely, old chap,' replied Smith. ‘I'll hold the fort here.'

Irving thanked him, downed his brandy in one gulp and left. After the door had shut Smith turned to Rehill.

‘Where is General Dyer at the moment?' he asked.

‘Making plans to deal with any trouble, sir,' replied Rehill. ‘There was a proclamation made across the city this morning. Commissioner Irving and I went out with General Dyer.'