Free For Kingdom and Country by I.D. Roberts

up from the dusty, hard-baked earth. Singh was a silent presence at his side, even the pup was relatively quiet, content to sit and chew at his bootlaces.
    Lock let his gaze slowly wash over the brothel facade. It looked as quiet and as unremarkable as the many other double-fronted Mesopotamian buildings. Only the flickering of the oil lamp hanging above the door gave any indication of what could possibly lie beyond the threshold, a threshold that Lock himself stepped over and nearly drowned in not so very long ago. He gave a little snort thinking he’d still be there now, ifSingh, on orders from Ross, hadn’t come and dragged him away. Yet, if Singh hadn’t, then would he have been shot? Or would the assassin have sought him out in his room? He would have been an easier target, lying drunk and semi-conscious. He probably would have succeeded.
    A bawdy shout snapped Lock from his thoughts. The door to the brothel was flung open, spilling golden light and a cacophony of sound into the dusk. The traditional twang of an oudist struggled for dominance over the raucous chatter beyond the threshold. There was clearly some kind of party going on inside. Then a completely intoxicated young lieutenant of His Britannic Majesty’s army burst out. The officer stumbled once, then sprawled onto all fours and vomited violently across the dusty street. Two more officers stepped out of the brothel, jeering and laughing at the man being sick.
    ‘Bah, blardy whimp, Jackers! S’only blardy seven o’ clock. In the strit lick a gal. Haw, haw!’ The officer who spoke belched loudly and put his hand to his mouth.
    Lock didn’t know the officer on all fours, nor the taller of the newcomers, the man slurring his upper-class education, who was also a lieutenant. But he did know the shorter man at his elbow, the chubby one with the carrot-red hair, the one swaying unsteadily on his dumpy feet. It was the cowardly, bloated turd that went by the name of Gingell. And if Gingell was here then, by God, he knew his master, Bingham-Smith, would be, too. But more than anything, this was just too much of a coincidence for Lock. They’d come here to follow up on the fat man, which in turn was from tailing Underhill. And what do they find? Bingham-Bloody-Smith. Lock couldn’t believe it. He glanced at Singh, knowing what he must do now. The fat man could wait.
    ‘Here, don’t let him follow.’ Lock scooped up the dog and pushed him into Singh’s arms.
    ‘Sahib, no.’
    But the Indian was unable to stop Lock, as he was too busy keeping a tight grip on the squirming dog. Lock strode quickly across the street, snatching off his slouch hat and folding it away in his pocket.
    Gingell didn’t even see Lock approach until it was too late. His chubby face drained of all colour and crumpled in recognition, as Lock, shoving the taller man aside, reached out and grabbed hold of the fat lieutenant’s lapels.
    ‘I say, steady on, ol’chap.’
    Lock ignored the other officer and all but lifted Gingell across the threshold and back inside the brothel.
    ‘Wh-wh-what … d-d-d’you …? Wh-wh-what—’
    Lock bared his teeth in a grimace of hate. ‘Where is he, lard arse?’
    But Lock wasn’t really after a reply. Gingell couldn’t even speak properly, being in such a state of nervous surprise, his green eyes bulging out of their sockets. He just kept blustering and spitting out random half-words, his fleshy, wet lips quivering like two landed fish.
    Lock suddenly let go of Gingell’s lapels.
    Gingell stumbled backwards and fell heavily on his backside. He flinched, holding his short arms up for protection, as Lock stepped over him and into the familiar surrounds of the brothel’s foyer.
    Gone was its opulent beauty, its decadent style, its rich, sensual aromas that Lock recalled so vividly from when he had first entered into the brothel’s warm embrace. Now all he could see was something akin to one of the more disturbing paintings by Hieronymus Bosch.