The Noble Path: A relentless standalone thriller from the #1 bestseller by Peter May (electronic book reader .TXT) 📗

in his voice made her lift her head from the depths of despair. She saw light reflected in his eyes and turned to follow his gaze.

A cry of anguish tore from her throat and she broke free of him, scrambling over the door and into the room.

‘What is it?’ Ny’s voice came from the other end of the hall. Her bare feet padded through the gloom. She stopped in the doorway, her eyes filling with tears at the sight of the skinny, naked figure rocking back and forwards in Serey’s arms on the floor, clutching at her soaking black tunic. Wordlessly, she walked into the room and knelt to put her arms around her mother and brother and bury her face in theirs.

Elliot slumped back against the wall and lit a cigarette, his eyes gritty and stinging from lack of sleep. He heard footsteps crunch across the debris and looked up as McCue turned his eyes from the room to meet his. They held each other’s gaze for a long moment, then Elliot looked away. He had nothing to say.

CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

Sunlight slanted through the shutters in long yellow stripes, cutting through the dark interior to zigzag across the contours of the bedroom and the bed. Lisa’s slender white body lay twisted among the sheets, frozen in the final turn of a restless sleep as though bound there by the strips of light. She seemed caught in time, like the dust suspended in the still air. Somewhere, far off in the depths of the house, the faint sound of breaking glass disturbed the silence, seeping into her troubled dreamland to force her up through unfolding shrouds of darkness to the waking light of day.

For several drowsy moments she lay still, feeling nothing but a vague awareness of the slats of light that lay across her like hot fingers. She turned her head a little to the side and saw the oil lamp on the bedside table. A blurred memory pricked her consciousness, fighting to find focus. And then it all flooded back in a sudden shocking wave of recollection, horrifying in its clarity. She sat bolt upright, a fluttering in her chest, a sick feeling in the pit of her stomach. She tasted the choking, cloying smoke of the opium, saw the face of the General hovering over hers, twisted to ugliness by the force of his passion.

She looked around her, suddenly anxious that he might still be there, but the room was empty. Only the stale smell of the opium lingered. For a moment she wondered if perhaps it had all been some kind of nightmare induced by the drug. Then she saw the stain of her blood on the sheets and let out a cry of shame and hurt. She turned quickly on to her side as bile rose from her stomach, burning her throat and mouth to spew out on to the pillow. Her eyes blurred as they filled with tears.

She lay for several minutes sobbing painfully, increasingly aware of the raw, tender feeling inside her. Then, slowly, she eased herself from the bed and rose unsteadily to her feet. Still trembling, she picked up the General’s black gown from where it had been dropped on the floor. She slipped into it, hugging it tightly around her, and crossed to the door, each jarring step a painful reminder of her lost innocence. The hall was dark. She made her way along it, pushing each door open until she found the bathroom. The light switch yielded a hard bright light that glared back at her from white-tiled walls. Light-headed and on the point of fainting, she staggered to the washbasin and was sick again, a dry, retching sickness. She looked up and saw, with a shock, her face staring back at her from the mirror. It was a face she barely recognized, eyes swollen and puffy from tears she had no recollection of spilling. She saw the disgust in her expression and turned quickly away to run back along the hall to the bedroom.

Her clothes lay strewn across the floor at the end of the bed. Hurriedly, she gathered them together and slipped into her red silk dress with fumbling fingers. She felt soiled. Dirty. But her desire to get out of this house was even greater than her desire to wash – if it would ever be possible to wash away the shame.

She hurried down the stairs as the General’s houseboy emerged from the kitchen winding a strip of lint round a bloodied hand. He grinned. ‘I break glass,’ he said. ‘Cut myself.’

‘Where’s the General?’ Lisa heard herself asking.

‘Gone,’ said the boy. ‘Early.’

Lisa fought to remain calm. ‘Would you call me a taxi, please.’

‘Sure,’ said the boy. ‘You want breakfast first?’

‘No!’ Lisa heard the panic rising in her voice. ‘Just call me a taxi.’

With a little bow, the boy disappeared back into the kitchen. Lisa saw her purse lying on the settee where she had left it. She picked it up and looked inside. Her heart sank. No money. She put a hand on the back of the settee to steady herself. Think! Think! Grace would pay for the taxi when she got there. Wouldn’t she? Of course she would. She perched on the edge of the settee and waited for what seemed an age. The General’s collection of Buddhas stared at her from shelves and plinths, something mocking in the serenity of their gentle, smiling faces. She found herself shivering, and had to concentrate to stop her teeth from chattering.

Eventually the houseboy came out from the kitchen. ‘Taxi here.’

She almost ran to the door, flinging it open to run down the steps to the waiting car. She slipped into the back seat and pulled the door shut, and only when she saw the driver’s inquiring eyes in the mirror did she realize that she did not know Grace’s address. Again she fought to stay calm. ‘Do you know La Mère Grace?’

‘Everybody know La Mère Grace,’ the