The Pure Land by Alan Spence Read Free Book Online Page B

himself and she pulled on her robe, held it tight around her. He stood up, went carefully to the window and looked out. A gang of Japanese men had gathered on the mainland, on the other side of the bridge. In the flicker of light from torches and lanterns he could make out some of them, chanting, brandishing sticks, hurling stones across at the settlement.
    What else could the day become? He pulled on his trousers, his jacket, his boots, told the girl it was all right, everything would be fine, and he rushed headlong down the stairs and out into the street. A few others had gathered at the bridge, looking acrossat the mob on the other side. There were still two guards on duty, pikes at the ready. But they stood with their backs to the mainland, facing the island.
    ‘Christ!’ said Glover. ‘They’re keeping us penned in instead of driving them away!’
    Richardson’s voice was languid, unconcerned. ‘I think they’re trying to prevent an incident. If anyone did manage to get across there, they’d be hacked to pieces.’
    ‘So we just stand here and take it?’ said Glover.
    ‘The Jap rabble are just making mischief, trying to provoke us. If they really wanted to cross the bridge, it would take more than those two to stop them.’
    A stone landed at Glover’s feet and he picked it up, hurled it back across the bridge into the crowd. The two guards took a step forward, threatening. On the other side, a powerful figure looked ready to lead the mob onto the island. In a flare of torchlight, Glover saw him clear, the samurai Takashi he’d encountered that day, his features suddenly, sharply visible as if in limelight, held in that same intense grimace of pure hate, contained rage. His right hand reached for the hilt of his sword, but another man, by his side, placed a hand on his arm, restrained him. They exchanged words, the other man bowed and Takashi turned on his heel, moved off through the crowd, which parted to let him pass. The other seemed to give a command and the crowd broke up, moved away. The guards stood at ease again, motioned to the foreigners on the island to disperse.
    Richardson lit a cigar, blew its fragrant smoke into the night air. ‘Whatever next?’ he said.
    Aye. What else?
    The girl was waiting for Glover, back in his room, and they sweated and slid together in his cramped bunk, and he lost himself in her, sank at last into oblivion.
    *
    He woke alone, thought himself in Bridge of Don and his journey a dream. But no, he was here, in Dejima. The girl had gone in the night, and now the morning light streaked in through his broken window. The fragments of glass had been swept into one corner. She must have done that before she left. He hoped she hadn’t cut those fine white hands. He’d had no money to pay her and a chit wouldn’t do. He remembered saying, Next time. And she’d laughed and said, I come you again! He could still smell her, taste her. Welcome to Nagasaki.
    Christ! He had to start work today, this morning. Mackenzie would be coming to collect him.
    He hauled himself upright, pulled on his clothes. Even he could recognise that he smelled choice now, stale and sour from the travelling, from wearing the same sweatstained suit for weeks on end. He opened up his old trunk, took out a rough cotton towel, a cracked lump of carbolic soap that smelled of home, laid out his only other suit of clothes. Downstairs in the bathroom was a wooden tub that could be filled from a handpump. He cranked the handle till the tub was half full. The water was cold, but there was nothing else for it. He stripped and stepped into the tub, gasped as he sat right down in it, immersed himself completely, let it shock him awake.
    Back in his room he shaved, peering at a little hand mirror propped on the windowledge. Looking out through the broken window he saw Mackenzie crossing from the mainland. He wiped the last of the lather from his face, hurried down the stairs to meet him.
    ‘Keen,’ said Mackenzie,