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An Inch of Ashes (Chung Kuo)(52)

By:David Wingrove


‘No... nothing. I...' He smiled reassuringly, then repeated what Chian-ye had tried before, getting the same response. ‘Hmm...' he said. ‘There must be something wrong with this terminal. I'll call one of my men to come and see to it.'

Heng Chian-ye was watching him strangely. ‘Shall I wait, Uncle?'

For a moment he didn't answer, his head filled with questions. Then he shook his head absently. ‘No, Chian-ye...' Then, remembering what day it was, he turned, facing him.

‘You realize what day it is, Chian-ye?'

The young man shook hat earas wais head.

‘You mean, you have been wasting your time gambling, when your father's grave remains unswept?'

Chian-ye swallowed and looked down, abashed. ‘Sao Mu,' he said quietly.

‘Yes, Sao Mu... Or so it is for another three-quarters of an hour. Now go, Chian-ye, and do your duty. I'll have these details for you by the morning, I promise you.'

When Chian-ye was gone he locked the door, then came back to the terminal.

Ben Shepherd... Now, what would Shih Novacek be doing wanting to know about the Shepherd boy? One thing was certain  –  it wasn't a harmless enquiry. For no one, Han or Hung Mao, threw a million yuan away on such a small thing. Unless it wasn't small.

He turned, looking across at the tiny chip of the report where it lay on his desk, then turned back, his decision made. The report could wait. This was much more important. Whatever it was.                       
       
           



       Chapter 55



CATHERINE



‘Would you mind if I sat with you?'

He looked up at her, smiling, seeming to see her, to create her, for the very first time. She felt unnerved by that gaze. Its intensity was unexpected, unnatural. And yet he was smiling.

‘With me?'

She was suddenly uncertain. There was only one chair at his table. The waiters had removed the others, isolating him. So that no one would approach him.

She felt herself colouring. Her neck and her cheeks felt hot, and, after that first, startling contact, her eyes avoided his.

‘Well?' he said, leaning back, his fingers resting lightly on the casing of the comset on the table in front of him.

He seemed unreachable, and yet he was smiling.

‘I... I wanted...' Her eyes reached out, making contact with his. So unfathomably deep they were. They held hers, drawing her out from herself. ‘... to sit with you.'

But she was suddenly afraid; her body tensed against him.

‘Sit where?' His hand lifted, the fingers opening in a gesture of emptiness. The smile grew broader. Then he relented. ‘All right. Get a chair.'

She brought a chair and set it down across from him.

‘No. Closer.' He indicated the space beside him. ‘I can't talk across tables.'

She nodded, setting the chair down where he indicated.

‘Better.'

He was still watching her. His eyes had not left her face from the moment she had first spoken to him.

Again she felt a flash of fear, pure fear, pass through her. He was like no one she had ever met. So... She shook her head, the merest suggestion of movement, and felt a shiver run along her spine. No, she had never felt like this before  –  so... helpless.

‘What do you do?'

Not ‘Who are you?' Nothing as formal as an introduction. Instead, this. Direct and unabashed. What do you do? Peeling away all surfaces.

For the first time she smiled at him. ‘I... paint.'

He nodded, his lips pinched together momentarily. Then he reached out and took her hands in his own, studying them, turning them over in his own.

So firm and warm and fine, those hands. Her own lay caged in his, her fingers thinner, paler than those th a >

‘Good hands,' he said, but did not relinquish them. ‘Now, tell me what you wanted to talk to me about.'

About hands, perhaps. Or a million other things. But the warmth, the simple warmth of his hands curled about her own, had robbed her of her voice.

He looked down again, following her eyes. ‘What is it, Catherine?'

She looked up sharply, searching his face, wondering how he knew her name.

He watched her a moment longer, then gave a soft laugh. ‘There's little you don't pick up, sitting here. Voices carry.'

‘And you hear it all? Remember it?'

‘Yes.'

His eyes were less fierce now, less predatory in their gaze, yet it still seemed as if he was staring at her; as if his wide-eyed look was drug-induced. But it no longer frightened her; no longer picked her up and held her there, suspended, soul-naked and vulnerable before it.

Her fear of him subsided. The warmth of his hands...

‘What do you paint?'

Until a moment ago it had seemed important. All-important. But now? She tilted her head, looking past him, aware of the shape of his head, the way he sat there, so easy, so comfortable in his body. Again, so unexpected.

He laughed. Fine, open laughter. Enjoying the moment. She had not thought him capable of such laughter.

‘You're a regular chatterbox, aren't you? So eloquent...'

He lifted his head as he uttered the last word, giving it a clipped, sophisticated sound that was designed to make her laugh.

She laughed, enjoying his gentle mockery.

‘You had a reason for approaching me, I'm sure. But now you merely sit there, mute, glorious... and quite beautiful.'

His voice had softened. His eyes were half-lidded now, like dark, occluded suns.

He turned her hands within his own and held them, his fingers laid upon her wrists, tracing the blood's quickening pulse.

She looked up, surprised, then looked down at his left hand again, feeling the ridge there. A clear, defined line of skin, circling the wrist.

‘Your hand...?'

‘Is a hand,' he said, lifting it to her face so that she could see it better. ‘An accident. When I was a child.'

‘Oh...' Her fingers traced the line of flesh, a shiver passing through her. It was a fine, strong hand. She closed her hand on his, her fingers laced into his fingers, and looked at him.

‘Can I paint you?'

His eyes widened, seeming to search her own for meanings. Then he smiled at her; the smile like a flower unfolding slowly to the sun. ‘Yes,' he said. ‘I'd like that.'


It was not the best she had ever done, but it was good, the composition sound, the seated figure lifelike. She looked from the canvas to the reality, sat there on her bed, and smiled.

‘I've finished.'

He looked up distractedly. ‘Finished?'

She laughed. ‘The portrait, Ben. I've finished it.'

‘Ah...' He stood up, stretching, then looked across at her again. ‘That was quick.'

‘Hardly quick. You've been sitting for me the best part of three hours.'

‘Three hours?' He laughed strangely. ‘I'm sorry. I was miles away.'

‘Miles?'

He smiled. ‘It's nothing. Just an old word, that's all...'

She moved aside, seher Aside, seletting him stand before the canvas, anxious to know what he thought of it. For a moment she looked at it anew, trying to see it for the first time, as he was seeing it. Then she looked back at him.

He was frowning.

‘What is it?' she asked, feeling a pulse start in her throat.

He put one hand out vaguely, indicating the canvas. ‘Where am I?'

She gave a small laugh. ‘What do you mean?'

‘This...' He lifted the picture from its mechanical easel and threw it down. ‘It's shit, Catherine. Lifeless shit!'

She stood there a moment, too shocked to say anything, unable to believe that he could act so badly, so... boorishly. She glared at him, furious at what he'd done, then bent down and picked the painting up. Where he had thrown it down the frame had snapped, damaging the bottom of the picture. It would be impossible to repair.

She clutched the painting to her, her deep sense of hurt fuelling the anger she felt towards him.

‘Get out!' she screamed at him. ‘Go on, get out of here, right now!'

He turned away, seemingly unaffected by her outburst, then leaned over the bed, picking up the folder he had brought with him. She watched him, expecting him to leave, to go without a further word, but he turned back, facing her, offering the folder.

‘Here,' he said, meeting her eyes calmly. ‘This is what I mean. This is the kind of thing you should be doing, not that crap you mistake for art.'

She gave a laugh of astonishment. He was unbelievable.

‘You arrogant bastard.'

She felt like slapping his face. Like smashing the canvas over his smug, self-complacent head.

‘Take it,' he said, suddenly more forceful, his voice assuming an air of command. Then, strangely, he relented, his voice softening. ‘Just look. That's all. And afterwards, if you can't see what I mean, I'll go. It's just that I thought you were different from the rest. I thought...'

He shrugged, then looked down at the folder again. It was a simple art folder  –  the kind you carried holo flats in  –  its jet-black cover unmarked.

She hesitated, her eyes searching his face, looking for some further insult, but if anything he seemed subdued, disappointed in her. She frowned, then set the painting down.

‘Here,' she said, taking the folder from him angrily. ‘You've got nerve, I'll give you that.'