The Noble Path: A relentless standalone thriller from the #1 bestseller Peter May (intellectual books to read .txt) 📖

‘Can you take me there, please?’ She was surprised at how controlled she sounded.

‘Chez La Mère Grace?’ said the driver. ‘No problems.’ And Lisa let her head fall back, weak with relief, as the car drew away from the house, out into the soi and away from the Klong San Saep towards Rama I Road.

*

‘La Mère Grace, La Mère Grace! Is Miss Lisa!’ The girl’s shrill Thai voice pierced the brooding silence of the villa, her pale feet pattering across the cool, tiled floor.

Grace emerged anxiously from the dining room wrapped in a white bathrobe, hair pulled back from her drawn face. There was shock in her eyes as she took in the pale, bedraggled figure of the English girl standing awkwardly just inside the door, her new red dress creased, and torn at the shoulder. ‘Good God, child! Where have you been? I’ve been worried sick about you!’ She hurried across the hall to take her arm as Lisa almost fainted. Grace barked an instruction in Thai and the housegirl moved quickly to take Lisa’s other arm. But Lisa took a deep breath and shrugged them aside.

‘I’m alright.’ All the way across the city in the taxi she had wanted only to throw herself into Grace’s arms, to tell her everything, to feel her warmth and sympathy. But now that she was here she felt trapped by her own secret; guilty and ashamed. ‘The taxi is still in the drive,’ she said. ‘I had no money.’

Grace nodded to the house girl, who hurried away to see to it.

‘I’d like a bath,’ Lisa said.

‘Of course, child. Have you eaten?’

Lisa shook her head.

‘Then I will see there is some breakfast waiting for you when you come down.’ Grace watched with concern as Lisa walked to the foot of the stairs. As she climbed the first step, Lisa hesitated, half-turned, and looked back as though about to speak. Grace felt a chill run through her at the penetration of those sad blue eyes. She wondered, with a tiny stab of guilt, if it was accusation she read in them, but whatever it was that Lisa had thought to say, she changed her mind, turning away again to walk stiffly up the stairs. Grace stood for a long time in the hall after Lisa had gone. She was disturbed, confused by the powerful and unfamiliar feelings of guilt that the girl had aroused in her. It was as if some half-remembered conscience had returned from a half-forgotten past to haunt her.

She wandered back through to the dining room and sat listlessly at the long table. A great wave of fatigue broke over her and she let her head fall into her hands. It had been such a long, sleepless night, an agony of waiting. Each time she had closed her eyes, Lisa’s trusting face had materialized in the dark, and she had been forced to open them quickly to dispel the image. She had lain wide-eyed, remembering the touch of the girl’s father. The thought that he might now be dead had only increased her sadness. She heard the faint sound of water running, the bath being filled, and she felt her eyes filling, too. Unaccountably. She shook her head. It was madness! Had she survived a life of corruption, actively pursued it, only to fall victim to the insidious innocence of a young girl? Such feelings, she knew, were a weakness, stealing away her strength and independence. And that could only be dangerous. For the first time she felt a seed of fear germinate deep inside her.

Grace was still sitting at the table when Lisa came down, wrapped in a thin cotton robe, her hair still wet and brushed back from her face. There was something almost shocking in the whiteness of her skin, more naked than naked. With all trace of make-up washed away she looked very young. Her eyes were red and still puffy. She cast a listless eye over the fresh fruit that had been laid out.

‘Help yourself,’ Grace said.

‘I’ll just have some orange juice.’ Lisa leaned over to pour herself a glass. She sipped at it pensively. There was something dead in her expression, something very far away.

Grace watched her apprehensively. ‘Sit down.’

But Lisa turned her back and drifted slowly across to the French windows where she stood in the open doorway gazing out at the sun-dappled garden. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said at length, without turning. ‘I’m not very good company.’

A brightly coloured bird flitted among the dense green growth, screeching some secret signal to a mate. Lisa felt Grace’s hands on her shoulders, warm lips on her neck, and a shiver ran through her. ‘Do you want to tell me about it?’

Lisa did. But she couldn’t. ‘I don’t think so,’ she said.

Grace moved round to her side and took her hand. ‘It might help. Whenever you feel you can.’

Lisa turned to face her and was struck anew by her perfect beauty. Fine, dark, almond eyes, the curve of her cheekbones, the full sensuous lips; lips that had kissed her father’s. And for a moment she was almost tempted to lean forward and brush her own lips against them. But the moment passed and she took a step away, turning back to the garden. ‘My father’s dead, isn’t he?’

Grace was shocked by the cold fatalism in her voice. She hesitated too long. ‘I don’t know,’ she said.

Lisa glanced at her. ‘He should have been back by now. They were talking at the table last night about the Vietnamese, how they have defeated the Khmer Rouge. How things are in Cambodia. Even if he has survived till now he doesn’t stand much chance, does he?’

Grace lowered her eyes and shook her head sadly. ‘I suppose not.’

‘I think I want to go home,’ Lisa said.

‘You’re in no state to travel.’ Grace wondered why the thought of Lisa going induced in her a feeling close to panic. ‘In a day or two, perhaps. You need to rest.’

Lisa