Blue Noon

  The Blue Noon

  A Novel

  Robert Ryan

  For Deborah and Lottie

  Contents

  Prologue

  Part One

  One

  Two

  Three

  Four

  Five

  Six

  Seven

  Part Two

  Eight

  Nine

  Ten

  Eleven

  Twelve

  Thirteen

  Fourteen

  Fifteen

  Sixteen

  Seventeen

  Eighteen

  Nineteen

  Twenty

  Twenty-one

  Twenty-two

  Twenty-three

  Part Three

  Twenty-four

  Twenty-five

  Twenty-six

  Twenty-seven

  Twenty-eight

  Twenty-nine

  Thirty

  Thirty-one

  Thirty-two

  Thirty-three

  Thirty-four

  Thirty-five

  Thirty-six

  Thirty-seven

  Thirty-eight

  Thirty-nine

  Forty

  Author’s Note

  About the Author

  Prologue

  Paris detention center, Porte des Lilas, 1945

  BY THE TIME THE three military policemen delivered him to the gaol it was after midnight and he had a closed eye, a split lip and a football-sized knee from a truncheon blow. They had to drag him up the worn stone steps to the guardroom on the third floor, the political section, where he was forced to strip out of his US Army uniform.

  It might have been spring outside, but it had failed to penetrate the ancient walls of the fort that served as the Allies’ detention centre and he was soon shivering. He had enough sense, though, not to try to hide his nakedness. He had been in this state before, and any attempt to cover his genitals or to assume a defensive posture was like blood in the water to sharks. The Redcaps were itching to use their truncheons again. He had to minimise the risk of that happening.

  The guards took their time completing the transfer paperwork and as his teeth started to chatter he shuffled a few steps towards the ancient pot-bellied stove in the corner, but one of his captors slapped him back into place with an open hand. He could taste blood now.

  His arrest detail finally departed with a farewell poke in the ribs, and he was left in the charge of the Paris Detention Centre guards, one Englishman and an American. They threw him a set of blue coveralls and thin, grey underwear and he dressed as quickly as his damaged knee would allow.

  ‘What’s with the American uniform?’ asked the Yank as he picked up the discarded jacket and binned it. ‘You ain’t one of us.’

  ‘Seconded,’ he said through his clashing teeth. ‘From the British army.’

  The American looked down at the charge sheet and ran his finger along the list. ‘So how come it says under item fifteen: impersonating an American officer?’

  ‘Misunderstanding.’

  ‘Yeah. Hey, you hear what the sentence for that Guy William Joyce was today? Your Lord Haw Haw?’

  ‘Strictly speaking, I think he’s yours,’ the prisoner said. The famous traitor was American born, although since he had taken UK citizenship, the British had decided they should have the privilege of punishing him. ‘But I can guess.’

  The American sniggered. ‘I think you’ll be doing better than that, pal. I think you’ll be following his footsteps up that scaffold.’

  He didn’t like the Yank, and was relieved when the Englishman indicated he should accompany him down the corridor to the cell. The guard unlocked a cupboard on the wall and took out a Colt sidearm along with an almost medieval key.

  ‘Nasty eye,’ he said as they left the guardroom.

  ‘It’s worse from the inside.’

  ‘And the leg?’

  ‘It’s going to be an interesting colour tomorrow.’

  ‘Fell downstairs, did you?’

  ‘I suppose I did.’

  ‘We get a lot of that.’ The guard stopped before cell eight, turned the heavy key and pushed the battered steel door open.

  ‘Can I see a doctor?’

  ‘You’ll live till morning,’ the man replied. ‘In you go, Mason.’

  He limped inside and lowered himself gingerly onto the bed. It had been a long night, and one that had started so promisingly. Women, he thought bitterly, they really will be the death of me.

  ‘I suppose you want a cuppa?’

  ‘Yeah,’ he said, modulating his cockney accent to mimic his gaoler’s. ‘I could murder a cup of tea.’

  The guard laughed. ‘I’d watch what you say, mate. You’re in enough trouble as it is. That’s the longest bloody charge sheet I have ever seen.’

  As the Englishman turned to leave, the prisoner asked quickly: ‘I don’t suppose there is any chance of a typewriter, is there?’

  ‘A typewriter? At this time of night? You’ll wake up half the block.’

  ‘No. For tomorrow.’

  ‘I doubt it, mate. What’s it for? An appeal?’

  He hadn’t even had a trial yet, but he knew everyone thought the verdict a mere formality. ‘Something like that.’

  ‘I’ll see,’ the man said grudgingly, then hesitated. ‘Is it all true, Mason?’

  ‘Is what all true?’

  ‘What they said about you on the detention order and the charge sheet? What you did?’

  The prisoner smiled grimly as he thought about the charges, a seven-year fairground ride around Europe reduced to nineteen stark indictments. Was it all true? Well, he couldn’t deny the bare facts. His salvation would be in the details, if he could make anyone listen. ‘Pretty much,’ he finally said.

  The Englishman nodded and said quietly: ‘In which case, you can shove the typewriter up yer arse.’

  Part One

  One

  Hong Kong, 1938

  HARRY COLE LIT HIS first Capstan of the day and gazed over the waters of the bay to the dark shape of Stonecutter’s Island, wondering how the gun crews out there had fared during the night. Two hundred dead and counting on the mainland, that’s what they were saying. Mostly Chinese, of course, and nearly all refugees from the sprawling shanty towns that had colonised the foot of Lion Rock.

  The daih fung, the big wind, had dashed itself around the hillsides, creating berserk vortices that tore at the tin, wood and canvas of the makeshift homes. The torrents of water it had sucked from the ocean had transformed the thin soil of the hillsides into a thick sludge that had swept through the compounds, pulling the weakest individuals into its glutinous embrace.

  Out in the Straits, the sea was still boiling in the aftermath, its surface thick with the detritus of the storm. Harry turned to face the ugly sprawl of the Sham Shui Po barracks, where various sappers inspected walls and roofs for damage, and the red-eyed men of the First Battalion were bullying and cursing the gangs of coolies charged with clearing the debris.

  A Number Nine storm, the old hands claimed, one short of a direct hit. If that was a nine, Harry would hate to see a ten: the barracks’ church tower had gone, casually sheared off and carried into the hills. The Other Ranks’ dining room was so much kindling, although the Officers’ Mess and Club were still standing, because, as always, they were the best built bit of kit on the barracks. A mafoo, one of the Chinese stable coolies, walked by, pulling two jittery horses behind him, the beasts still snorting with residual terror from having the roof torn off above their heads.

  Harry closed his eyes and the familiar show-reel played. In his mind he saw the crimson robe fall from her shoulders, held his breath as she stepped forward out of the shadows. I
t had been a week since he had stood behind the carved screen that formed the false wall of the spartan room where he watched the girl Suki perform for Colonel Parkhill, his CO. He had felt certain that his Colonel and the girl would hear the drumming of his heart from his hiding place, but the lovers had other things on their minds.

  Harry had marvelled at the colour and texture of her young body in the soft orange glow of the lanterns and he almost groaned as she climbed on top of the prostrate Colonel. A tap on the shoulder from Mister Eric, the whorehouse’s manager, and he had left, taking the vivid scene with him.

  Harry and Mister Eric—not, of course, his real name, he was Lam Sang to the locals—had had business. There was always business to discuss. In the past few years, Harry had moved from London’s Hoxton, Bethnal Green, and the West End, to Surrey—with a short diversion into Wormwood Scrubs—then out to Singapore and now Hong Kong. Just a change of venue, that’s all. The basics were always the same—all you had to do was get the language right, so there were no misunderstandings.

  Hence he had Jimmy the barman from the Officers’ Club teaching him a few basic Cantonese phrases. Most of the expats derided it as a total waste of time, especially as the Chinese all spoke pidgin anyway. Harry disagreed, it was still the locals’ manor, no matter how many fancy hotels, gun emplacements and tram systems the British put in, or how much they excluded them from their clubs and the whites-only housing on The Peak, the highest spot on the island. Learning the Chinese ways, even if it was just how to say hello, was simply a mark of respect.

  ‘Cole.’

  Harry flung the cigarette over his shoulder and straightened as he spun round. Striding towards him, splashing across the sodden ground, was the beefy form of Regimental Sergeant Major Cross. He was one of the permanent Hong Kong garrison, as attested by the deep walnut colour of his knees, an NCO who had been moved up from Stanley to show the First Battalion the ropes.

  ‘Sir,’ Harry said quickly. At his full height of a shade under six foot, Harry was almost a head higher than the RSM, but Cross carried a couple more stone of muscle, upholstered with what looked deceivingly like baby fat.

  ‘What you doing out here, Corporal? Half the barracks looks like shit and you’re out here sucking on a Woodbine.’

  A Capstan Extra-Strength, he almost corrected, but thought better of it. ‘The MO sent me out for a break, sir.’

  Harry flinched as a fat hand shot out and cupped his forehead, checking for fever. ‘The MO? He give you any more quinine for the malaria?’

  ‘Offered it. But you know what that stuff’s like. You get Bow Bells goin’ off in your head all night.’

  ‘You take it, Cole, I don’t care what’s goin’ on in your head. I’ve had two bouts of the shivers, boy, and I tell you, it’s worse than anything the quinine can do. You’re driving the Colonel today?’

  ‘I am.’

  ‘Well, before you do, report to me at the Officers’ Mess. You was an orderly once, wasn’t you?’

  Harry nodded. For all of three weeks in Singapore, till a little confusion over the brandy stocks.

  ‘Wolsey is out of action,’ offered Cross.

  ‘Out of action?’

  ‘Touch of the Cubans.’

  Harry suppressed his smile. A piece of old Havana, a touch of the Cubans, something burning on the Spanish Main—‘nobody knew why, but the Hispanic Caribbean provided most of the euphemisms for a good old dose of the pox in Hong Kong.

  ‘I need someone who knows his way around an optic, get the drinkboys working on Ladies’ Night. You think you can handle that?’

  ‘Yes, Sarge.’

  ‘Good. Off you go. And take your bloody quinine.’

  Harry walked back to the barracks, only grinning when he was sure Cross couldn’t see his face. Running the bar at Ladies’ Night, all pink gins and dull small talk? A piece of piss.

  Of course Harry didn’t have malaria. When the orders came to reorganise as a machine-gun battalion in anticipation of shipping out to Hong Kong, he had suddenly seen the future. It involved lugging either a Vickers or, worse, its metal boxes of ammunition through some godforsaken jungle or, in the case of the New Territories, a sodding wet, mosquito-infested paddy field. He’d been long enough in Singapore by then to know you could get anything you wanted on Amoy Street. Even a bitter potion that would mimic malaria by causing a fever and making your skin look jaundiced. The metallic after-taste that lasted three days was just about worth it.

  A squad of soldiers double-marched towards the docks, rifles across their chests, causing a couple of mui-tsai, the indentured servant girls, to step out of their way. After a typhoon there was always the threat of looting, and Harry was certain these men were off to make sure the rice godowns were secure. Later in the day they would be on congee duty, distributing the mix of rice and salt to the poorest inhabitants of the city, a lesson learned in the 1920s after the riots when the typhoons kept the rice boats away for days on end.

  Harry reached the barrack gates, nodded at the sentries and stepped over the growing pile of roofing tiles that were being swept together by coolies, overseen by the sweat-stained soldiers of First Battalion.

  ‘Best get them out of the way, lads,’ he said to his colleagues. ‘Colonel’s car comin’ through in a couple of hours and we don’t want a puncture, do we?’

  ‘Fuck off, Cole,’ came the reply in unison.

  Harry laughed. He had been thinking, what with the order to be ready to defend the International Settlement in Shanghai from the Japanese army at twelve hours’ notice, that he had better come up with a way of fucking off pretty soon.

  Colonel Parkhill was new to the First Battalion, but not to Hong Kong, having completed a tour of duty three years previously. He’d been given the command of Harry’s unit when the previous CO was shifted off to Palestine. Parkhill knew the value of a good driver and picked Harry because, although he was on light duties, he alone in the battalion boasted a First Class Motoring Certificate from the demanding Reading course. He wasn’t to know it had cost Harry a fiver from a fly corporal at Aldershot. Fake or not, Harry made sure he impressed the Colonel with his ability to keep the ride smooth over Kowloon’s tricky roads, to abuse roundly the local ricksha’ coolies (‘diu lay lo mo hail’—fuck your mother’s hole—was one of the first phrases Jimmy taught him) and to keep the Colonel informed of the mood of the troops.

  Harry drove the Colonel’s Austin out of the barracks and south, past the shoe and incense factories towards the strip of watercress fields that separated Sham Shui Po from the tenements of Kowloon proper.

  ‘How are the men, Cole?’

  Harry looked in the mirror. The Colonel had put down his papers and was fiddling with his pipe, excavating the bowl with a knife, but Harry knew he wasn’t simply making conversation. Drivers were meant to double up as weathervanes.

  ‘Concerning what, sir? The typhoon?’

  ‘The reorganisation.’

  Harry shrugged and marshalled his thoughts. He recalled a conversation he had overheard between two warrant officers, and played it back as his own. ‘Now they have got used to the guns, sir, not too bad. However, I do feel some men in the anti-tank company are wondering if their howitzers are the most appropriate weapon for the terrain. Assuming we’ll be defending the bridges to the north, sir, over the—’ What was the bloody river called? ‘—Shum Chin. The thinking is that the best strategy would be to blow the bridges to stop the enemy tanks, sir, then pin the Japs down with the Vickers.’

  Harry saw Parkhill frown. ‘Might not come to blowing bridges, Cole. The twelve-hour order is about to be rescinded. We are now on twenty-four to Shanghai. My guess is it’ll be forty-eight before long.’ This was no idle tidbit, but a reassuring rumour to be circulated through the ranks by Harry on his return. ‘Where are you going, lad?’ Parkhill snapped.

  Harry had followed the waterfront to the harbour, the route the Colonel usually preferred, making a left onto Salisbury Road.

  ‘Pe
ninsula Hotel, sir.’

  ‘King’s Jetty, Cole. I’m off to see the Governor.’

  ‘Sir. Sorry, sir. Thought it was a normal Wednesday.’

  ‘Does it look like a normal Wednesday?’ He waved his still unlit pipe at a drunken tower of bamboo scaffolding, leaning dangerously across the Hankow Road while a gang of shirtless erectors battled to make it secure with streams of rattan.

  ‘Sir.’

  Harry spun the car around, ignoring the muttered protests of the cyclists and ricksha’ coolies, and swept down to a Victoria Harbour getting back to chaotic normality. Now the winds had dropped, the lighters, the scruffy coasters and the bobbing walla-wallas had recolonised its waters. A Short flying boat made its approach, klaxon blaring to clear the way for its landing. The Governor’s launch was waiting at the jetty, rising and falling with the chop, the official plumage atop the wheelhouse looking a little threadbare. As Cole opened the car door for him, Parkhill said, ‘I’ll be three hours, Cole.’ Harry nodded. He waited until the launch had cast off, heading for Blake Pier, before stepping back into the Austin and driving along the waterfront for some meetings of his own.

  Harry parked the staff car in its usual bay on the eastern side of the great U-shape of the Peninsula adjacent to the railway station. He pulled his small kitbag from the boot, paid the usual fifty cents to the carboy, and walked back to the end of Hankow Road and stood for a few moments revelling in the sight and sounds of this Asian Babylon, from the illegal fan tan gaming den to his right, to the opium divan, selling its adulterated dope, opposite, and the low-rent brothel next door.

  Harry walked the twenty yards to Kumar the tailor’s place and stepped inside the cramped store, setting off the tinkle of bells.

  Fifteen minutes later when Harry emerged, he was dressed in the cream linen and silk suit that Kumar had tailored for him and allowed him to store in the shop. It had been on only two outings so far. Harry slipped the matching lightweight panama on his head, the tortoiseshell glasses on his nose, lit a small cheroot and strode onto the main street, not as Lance Corporal Harry Cole, but as Rupert Wayne, industrial dye importer.