The Son by Marc Santailler Page A

had, of course. I was getting my wires crossed, like David. I had no doubt now why he’d been in such a hurry to get back to Saigon. Hien had rung him that fateful morning, virtually asking him to come back that night. Hao had told me that on the way back from Jack Lipton’s. Hien had been beside herself with guilt and anguish over it. It had taken all of Hao’s sisterly skill to make her see it wasn’t her fault.
    But that was what had led David to his death. He’d got his wires crossed, letting his heart rule his head.
    And now here I was doing practically the same thing: in my anxiety to sort the problem out before Hao left – and in the process maybe win her heart – I had let my heart take over my judgement, rush me into situations I should have avoided – and all I’d succeeded in doing was to drive her away.
    I soon got my come-uppance. And in the process, an unexpected reprieve.

CHAPTER FIFTEEN
    On Friday evening I stayed back at work. I’d tried again to reach Hao, in vain. I was getting desperate. I knew I’d see her the next day at the airport, but I could hardly tell her what I’d learnt in a few words as she boarded the plane! Vivien had taken the afternoon off. After a week of functioning at half speed there was plenty for me to do. A couple of clients rang with last minute requests for the following week, and that kept me busy for an hour or so, ringing round our stable of part-timers, then I started on paperwork. There was nothing to tempt me to go home to my empty flat.
    By nine o’clock I was through and ready to leave. The cleaners had gone, the building was quiet. I heard the whine of the lift, but took no notice. People often came back after hours. When it stopped at my floor I wondered who it could be. I wasn’t expecting any visitors.
    Then the outer door creaked open and I went out to investigate.
    The first blow came at me from nowhere. I put my hands up, but a punch in the face sent me reeling, a kick in the guts doubled me over. Before I could do anything two pairs of hands had pinioned my arms while a third began to work me over.
    The next few minutes passed in a savage blur of beating. I struggled as best I could, and tried to call for help, but they held me too tight, and there was no one to hear. I wriggled and twisted to dodge the worst of the blows – the one who was doing the punching slammed his fist on my skull and cried out in pain, but then he changed places and another took over. I lashed out with my feet but he moved in closer and began to beat a tattoo on my ribs, occasionally varying it with a punch to the head. Before long I was too groggy to know what I was doing. My lips were split open and my eyes began to close.
    Tyger Tyger burning bright . What does a clever Tyger do when cornered? I’d been told once that if you got caught in a fight and there was no way out, the best thing to do was pretend to pass out. This I did, and it worked, to the extent that they got tired of holding me up. But they let me fall to the floor and started to kick me instead. There was a swishing sound, a sudden lash of pain on my back. I curled up into a ball, tried to protect my head. The kicks kept coming, the chain lashing at my back. I heard myself scream. Something hurt in my side and my back was on fire. There was the taste of blood in my mouth.
    The blows stopped. Vaguely I heard rummaging, the crash and thump of furniture thrown about, papers flying. A chair landed on me.
    â€˜Stay away from us! Bastard! Fuck! Next time we kill you!’
    A few more kicks, a sharp stab of pain in the ribs. I cried out again. Then silence.
    Clever little Tyger, curled up on the floor, feeling sorry for himself.
    When I came to I couldn’t move at first. I lay panting on the carpet, feeling its rough texture under my hands. One of them felt as if it might be broken. My mouth had stopped bleeding but I ached everywhere and my back hurt like a