Yoshiwara

A Game of Nerves

"Have you put the chess board out?"

"Yes, colonel sah!"

"Good. Any sign of Motson yet?"

"No, colonel sah!"

Colonel Barrington thought for a moment. It didn't matter where he was waiting for his guest, so he may as well wait in comfort. "Very well. When the major turns up, inform him I will be waiting for home on the verandah."

"Yes, colonel sah!"

The native servant bowed to the colonel, then backed out of the library. Colonel Barrington ignored him; turning away to open the French windows onto the verandah. The muggy night air seeped into the library, bringing with it the heavy perfume of the Indian night. A card table had been placed just outside, under the awning, along with two camp chairs. On the table was a chess board, with chess pieces set out in their rows, two glass and two bottles – one filled with gin, the other with tonic water.

Colonel Barrington pulled one of the camp chairs over and sat down on it. Then he poured a generous measure of gin into one of the glasses, topped it up with the tonic water, and took a sip of the bitter mixture. It was part of the colonel's routine to spend evenings on his verandah, drinking gin. It gave him time to relax after the business of the day. His chess games with Major Motson were a recent but welcome addition.

Today, for some reason, the colonel was particularly tired. The heat, the alcohol, the evening air – they all worked on him. It did not take long for his lined face to sag and his breathing to grow deeper and more regular. Soon, the colonel was asleep.

"What?" The colonel sat bolt upright, brought back to consciousness by something. He looked around, trying to work out what had disturbed him. From somewhere out in the garden came the sound of an owl screeching. Barrington relaxed and reached for the gin bottle.

He stopped. A slight movement caught his eye. Curled around the chess board on the table, its head close to the bottles, was a snake. It was blue-black in colour, with white bands around its body. Barrington recognised the creature straight away. It was a krait: one of the deadliest snakes in India. The snake seemed to be dozing, with only its tongue flickering in and out of its mouth as it tasted the evening air.

Colonel Barrington tensed, trying not to move. He did not want to antagonise the krait. The power of its deadly bite was well known, but, like many other snakes, it was known to strike humans only if it was given no other choice. Barrington did not want to give the creature an excuse. He withdrew his hand slowly from the bottle, his muscles in agony from the effort. The snake's tongue stopped, and its head moved unhurriedly until it seemed to be looking straight into Barrington's eyes. The colonel froze, hardly daring to breathe. Now that the snake had noticed him, what would it do? Would it strike? Would it just slither away? If only the damn thing would lower its head or look away or ... .

With a scraping noise like a rasp on cloth, the snake started to move across the baize of the card table. It unwound itself from the chess board and advanced towards the colonel, its head raised and full of purpose. The snake stopped a few inches from Barrington's hand and regarded him. Barrington wanted to jerk his hand away, to shout for help, to do something to relieve the hot needles of agony that were pricking his flesh. But what about the snake? What would it do? Barrington closed his eyes and tried to remember a prayer.

The scraping noise started again. The krait was on the move once more. Barrington felt something press gently against his hand, then wind itself around his wrist and arm. A muscular weight settled onto him, and then made its way up towards his shoulder. Colonel Barrington willed himself not to move.

* * *

"Major Motson, sah!" Colonel Barrington's servant bowed and stepped back to allow the officer through the front door. "Colonel sah is waiting for you on the verandah, major sah."

Motson put his cane under his arm and gave a curt nod to the native. "Thank you." He made his way to the library and onto the verandah. "Colonel," the major began. He fell silent.

The colonel was sitting in his camp chair, his body stiff and unmoving. One arm – his right arm, the major noted – was outstretched as if pointing at something. Motson knelt down to check the colonel's breathing, but he already knew the answer. No pulse, pallid skin, sightless eyes: Colonel Barrington was dead.

Motson picked up the glass that was in front of the colonel, and sniffed at its contents, noting the distinctive aroma of gin that rose from it. Satisfied at his conclusion, he called the servant. "Fetch the doctor. Tell him ... ." Major Motson paused to consider his next words. "Tell him that there is no urgency, but Colonel Barrington has had a heart attack."