The Master Of Rain

He turned and strode down the corridor to the source of the noise. The children were having breakfast. They faced each other across four long oak tables. The chattering died as he walked in.

“Does anyone here know Alexei Simonov?”

The children, with big eyes and subdued faces, stared at him in silence.

“Please, Mr. Field.” Sister Margaret was tugging at his sleeve. “Please.” He stepped back into the corridor. “There was no need for that,” she said.

“Where is the boy, Sister?”

“I do not know.”

“Sister . . .”

“I will find him.” Sister Margaret looked from Field to Natasha and back again. “I will need a little time.”

She was gone for almost an hour, and Field and Natasha did not speak. Natasha was frightened, but he knew that nothing he could now say would reassure her. He had to force himself to remain in his seat by the entrance hall. His eyes were repeatedly drawn to the article about Lu and the note saying he would be inspecting the orphanage on the coming Wednesday.

He tried to think clearly, to shape the plan that was forming in his mind.

Sister Margaret returned, her footfall soft on the stone floor. “Do you have a car?” she asked.

Field drove slowly, following Sister Margaret’s directions. They turned onto the Bund and continued over Garden Bridge onto Broadway East, and then through Hongkew past Wayside Park.

She indicated that he should stop as they came up to what looked like a school. Field parked alongside a rugby pitch where a small group of children was playing tag. They were close to the Settlement boundary.

As she got out of the car, Sister Margaret’s face was pale and drawn, but there was a determined set to her mouth.

The sign on the facade said, The Christian Brothers Orphanage, and the entrance hall was as gloomy as Sister Margaret’s own. She told Field and Natasha to wait and disappeared down a corridor to their left. Natasha had her head down, her knuckles white as she tugged at the fabric of her skirt.

Field heard voices and saw a small group of boys emerging from swinging doors at the far end of the corridor Sister Margaret had taken, talking quietly among themselves. As they turned away into one of the rooms, they stopped and eyed him curiously. The light was dim, but he could see they were all Asian boys, dressed in simple white uniforms, each with a blue cross on his chest.

“This way.”

Field turned with a start, then followed Sister Margaret.

They headed through the swinging doors and turned into an even darker corridor.

The classroom, when they reached it, was strikingly bare; it had tables and chairs, but there was nothing on the walls save for a large, battered blackboard.

Alexei sat in one corner, a tall priest in brown robes towering over him.

The boy didn’t move, and for a moment he and Natasha stared at each other.

Then Alexei broke free and ran, and Natasha swept him into her arms, where she held him tight, her face transformed by joy and relief, her hands clasped around the back of his head, tears in her eyes. She stroked his hair haltingly with her fingers. The boy shook and she picked him up. “I’m sorry,” she whispered, her eyes tightly shut. “I’m so sorry.”

Like the other boys, Alexei was dressed in a white uniform. His short black hair was damp and combed neatly across his forehead. His eyes were closed now, too, his face still betraying his anxiety and uncertainty and fear.

The priest came forward and parted them roughly, yanking the boy back to the other side of the room. Natasha appealed to Field with tears in her eyes. Alexei was crying. “Stop it!” the man hissed.

Field said, “I’m sorry, I didn’t catch your name.”

“Father Brown.”

“Father Brown, would you step outside for a moment, please?”

The man followed Field reluctantly with Sister Margaret. Field shut the door behind them. “I think it would be better if we were alone with Alexei for a minute. Then we can talk about what happens next.”

“That’s out of the question.”

“The woman is the boy’s aunt, as I think you are well aware.”

“It’s out of the question.”

Field felt his temper flaring. “Sister—”

“No.” Father Brown was intransigent.

“All right, let me make this clear,” Field said. “This is not a debate. A crime has been committed, I’m an officer of the law, and I’m going to go and speak to this boy alone. Please wait at the other end of the hall.”

Field could see the fury in the man’s face. He pointed with his finger, and Father Brown retreated. Sister Margaret looked at Field with new respect as she followed the priest.

When Field came back into the classroom, Natasha was on her knees, whispering urgently to the boy. With his somber face, neat black hair, and hollow eyes, Alexei suddenly, forcefully, reminded Field of himself at the same age: sad, lonely, vulnerable, damaged.