Blood Will Out

By W.W. Smith

While his uncle John was a Marine, the man himself never served in Hong Kong and that is where W.W. blended his personal life into his first and by no means last novel. Having worked with a water treatment company, he travelled the globe and experienced life in the Middle East, Asia, Eastern Europe and Libya during Gaddafi's reign.

• Language: English
• Publisher: The Regency Publishers, International
• Release date: Aug 17, 2022
• ISBN: 9781958517888

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Copyright © 2022 by W. W. Smith.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the author and publisher, except by reviewers, who may quote brief passages in a review.

ISBN: 978-1-958517-89-5 (Paperback Edition)

ISBN: 978-1-958517-90-1 (Hardcover Edition)

ISBN: 978-1-958517-88-8 (E-book Edition)

Some characters and events in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to the real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.

Book Ordering Information

The Regency Publishers, International

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Printed in the United States of America

Acknowledgements

Dedicated to my late uncle John who inspired me to write this book.

Foreword

The second World war was a scar on humanity’s history, but as with anything, we learn from the past and the mistakes we once made. To err is human and in this, a novel set in the aftermath of WW2, in the heart of a continent still reeling from the shockwaves of the brutality of battle, ‘Blood Will Out’ tells the tale of mistakes made and overcome.W.W.Smith’s tale provides us with a new look at post war Hong Kong, the corruption, the destruction and the reintroduction of a UK government to manage a devastated island. Jack Smith is a man like any other, but he has secrets and it’s only fitting that the woman in his life, his love, is equally complicated. A unique first novel, with an unusual back drop as well as characters that ring true, ‘Blood Will Out’ is a tale to pique anyone’s interest, but it has a strength of it’s own that will take interest to absorption.

SERENA AKEROYD.

Chapter One

June 27th, 1946

East Point, Causeway Bay, Hong Kong Island.

It was the smell that did it.

Transporting Jack Smith from East Point, Hong Kong and back twenty years to Yalding and the home land. More specifically, it sent him back in time to the Barnado’s home where he’d been left like an unwanted package; his brother in one hand and his sister in the other, making up a trio of abandoned parcels.

A shudder worked its way through his body, as his thoughts entwined with the smell. While the room before him was undoubtedly clean, it could have been covered in cow dung for all Jack noticed. It produced the same nausea, the same desire to gag as a pile of steaming manure would have done.

Ignoring the rest of the comfortable, if simple living quarters, which would be his home for the upcoming weeks, Jack’s senses focused on the stench permeating his nostrils as memories flooded him.

Memories of the negative variety and Jack was forced to ask himself, if he actually possessed any of the positive kind. And this was not the moment to start racking his brain for something that was sure to be non-existent. Anything good in his life ultimately soured. He knew that.

It was times like this particular one, where he agreed with his psychiatric report. Not that he’d read it, but his CO had dictated some of the details to him, whilst barking at him to keep it together to prove the quacks wrong. He’d shrugged the remarks off and blustered his agreement that the report was a load of rubbish, but inwardly he’d known the doctor’s insights to be the truth.

And never more so than at this very minute.

An inch away from a breakdown had been the therapist’s diagnosis and as emotions flooded him, he felt the crack in his control turn into a ravine. Anger was merely a secondary emotion to the sheer futility that swamped him.

It seemed unlikely that the scent of a disinfectant would be catalyst behind the complete destruction of his control, but as the carbolic soap wormed its way into his memories, chiseling off pieces here and there, it left him with a great rift. So huge was it, so impossible to bridge, it destabilized him unutterably.

Sucking in a shaky breath, he staggered over to the bed and sank down on to it. Relieved that his shaking limbs had some support, Jack pressed his elbows on to his knees and bowed his head. It was a pose of complete subjection.

The past clawed at him. From the beatings at the local school for being a Barnado’s brat, to the misery of knowing his mother didn’t want him. He’d been seven, when she’d left them all there. As an adult, he knew his mother must have had little choice. The Great Depression had pushed those already considered as being poor into abject poverty and with three children and no father to aid in their care, she’d had little alternative. But that hadn’t been of any help to a seven year old, who had become his brother and sister’s sole support.

And overnight.

His breathing was sporadic as panic choked him. At that moment, he was a child again. He could still feel that same shock as his mother left them, as she walked away. It had been the same then. His lungs ceasing, his heart pounding dully in his chest as he watched her abandon them.

Jack knew he had to calm himself otherwise he would collapse. But it was easier said than done. He’d pull in great lungful’s of air and then gasp through short gulps. His heartbeat was thready, he could feel the inner weakness pulling at him. After all he’d been through, Jack couldn’t believe this was what would tug him under. Something as ancient as his childhood.

Jack felt sure even his psychiatrist would have been shocked.

Rebellion surged through him at the thought.

He’d survived a hell of a lot worse than Barnado’s. He’d been fortunate to have a roof over his head and food in his belly! People had been there to protect him and his, even if they hadn’t been loving and no matter what was done to pretty up the place, it had always been an institution. It had never been home. And that stench of carbolic seemed to have followed him through his life, acting as a companion to the very worst moments.

He could recall a few days into his new existence at Barnado’s washing the floor with the gleaming red soap. His hands red raw as he scrubbed at a step to clean it only for one of the older charges to stomp over his work with muddy feet. He recalled his mouth being washed out with the disgusting ruby tablet, when one of the local boys had dared to call him a bastard and Jack had retorted with a flurry of curses he’d learnt from his childhood in East Peckham.

Then, the memories deteriorated.

Chores and a punishment were childish complaints. Carbolic soap followed him into adulthood. From his first time in a Red Cross hospital after witnessing two of his mates being shot down by those Jerry bastards and then, the prolonged treatment for malnourishment after his internment in a Jap POW camp as well the wounds from his escape attempt from a hell ship.

Many men had experienced the bitter side of the war. He would never pretend he alone had suffered, but the scenes that haunted him every night before he went to sleep were different to the sights other men had seen. The things he’d heard were different too. Not worse, just different and each man reacted to situations in their own particular way.

The men who had managed to escape the torpedoed Kamakura Maru alongside him had experienced the same torture of being imprisoned in the POW camp in North Point, as the name suggested- an area in the northern part of Hong Kong Island and then, had witnessed the horror of over two thousand men being blown to pieces. They’d had to endure more than just survivor’s guilt.

Five of them had managed to escape from the ship as the first torpedo hit the stern and caused enough damage and chaos for the guards’ routines to go to hell. By the time the second torpedo had hit, they’d been in the water. Alive, barely, but bloody and injured. Only three of them had endured the shark infested waters to be picked up by the USS Gudgeon, the sub which had attacked the hell ship in the first place. Thus, they’d escaped captivity.

But at a price.

Hearing a man being ripped to shreds by a shark, and not just any man, but a friend… Hearing thousands of men screaming as fire and shrapnel tore them limb from limb…

No, not many had experienced that. And the remaining two of their trio had committed suicide within weeks. The trauma had been too much for them.

Memories clawed at him and with it, his fingers began to dig into his skull, tugging and pulling at his hair, needing the pain to escape from the prison of his mind.

As the screams of Tiggy flushed through his ears, Jack felt on the brink of collapse. The only thing that saved him was the abrupt opening of the door to his rooms.

Instantly in attack mode, his instincts screaming at him regardless of his state of mind, he had the maid pinned against the wall within three seconds of her entry. Only as her gasps overtook the sounds of Tiggy’s last screams, only as his blind eyes ceased to see the blood gushing into the ocean, did he realize what he’d done.

Jack immediately released her throat, staggered backwards as he shook his head to clear it. Oh, God, I’m so sorry. His voice was guttural and even to his own ears failed to sound in any way apologetic. She certainly didn’t seem reassured by it and he had to clear his throat, before he continued in his normal tone, I was imprisoned in Hong Kong three years ago. Something took me back there. I don’t know what came over me. I’m sorry.

As stilted as the reply was, it eased the woman’s nerves. Compassion swiftly replaced the fear, distrust and unease which had gathered in her eyes. The young woman had shown him to his quarters but ten minutes ago, with the promise she’d return to show him about the house so he’d know what was what.

Her blonde hair had tumbled out of the neat bun perched at the back of her neck and strands of the straw-colored locks stuck to her sweat-soaked face. That he’d caused her to fear him sickened Jack. He’d never once in all of his life attacked a woman, had never hurt her and now, because some god-damned smell had done a job on his memories, he’d behaved like an animal.

Joan jerked him out of his torment once again by the sheer act of lifting her pinny and using it to dry her brow. Once patted dry, she took a step towards him. Even through the haze of self-disgust, he realized she walked towards him carefully, with no real fear now, but just a healthy dose of self-preservation; almost as though he were a lion that she wanted to stroke, but knew he could kill her with one bite.

She patted him on the arm and squeezed the muscle reassuringly. My Paul was in a Jap POW camp. He’s my, well… we’re courting. She flushed for a second and then the color leached from the rosy cheeks. He still has nightmares, Joan admitted with a slight shudder. I can always tell. When he comes to meet me, he can’t look me in the eye and the slightest sound has him jumping out of his skin.

I’d rather die than hurt a woman. There aren’t any words to tell you how sorry I am. Misery drenched him. It was joined by disgust. The two were sorry companions.

Joan patted him again and said, That you feel that way tells me you didn’t mean to hurt me. Next time I have to come and get you, I’ll knock louder on the door. That way, you’ll know it’s not some Jap coming after you.

A weak smile forced the corners of his mouth into twitching and he nodded. I’d appreciate that, Joan.

She smiled encouragingly at him, like a mother trying to persuade her son to eat his carrots, and murmured in a soft voice, obviously still trying to calm the beast, We’d best get going, Jack. Can I call you Jack? He ducked his head in agreement. Mrs. Punder doesn’t like for her staff to keep her waiting and she wants to guide you around the house herself. I’m not sure why, but… She shrugged her disinterest and beckoned him out of the room as she moved towards the door.

Glad to escape the stench of the carbolic, which had just added another miserable experience to Jack’s already overflowing quota, he quickly followed her. The utilitarian quarters led on to a bare hallway. It wasn’t grim, but it wasn’t pleasant either. On the subterranean floor, there was no natural light in the servant’s quarters. The only illumination came from the bare filaments of single bulbs suspended from the ceiling every few three feet or so. It was a relief to ascend the staircase and enter the owner’s living areas.

It was obviously a new property, probably built on the site of a destroyed house during the Japanese occupation of the island. He suppressed a snarl at the thought and only because Joan was with him. She already thought of him as some kind of wild beast, hell only knew what a snarl would do to her opinion of him!

The house was European in style. In fact, there wasn’t an ounce of Asian influence within the ground floor. Not even a small antique to show that this was British Hong Kong and not Park Lane.

The entrance to the servant’s quarters was tucked away behind a door, one shielded by a large tapestry. Wooden floors gleamed in the foyer, three large rugs ran at angles to the room; one large one ran down the centre and acted as an arrow to the grand staircase and mezzanine floor above. The other two ran parallel and were smaller, but they added more color.

There were some paintings on the walls. Nothing particularly pleasing to his jaundiced eye, but each probably worth a mint. He hesitated over the desire to study the paintings and see if he was correct or not. Pre-war, he’d managed to find himself acquainted with a toff by the name of Sidney Helson. Over the years, they’d grown to be good buddies and Sidney, who was almost twenty years older than Jack, had shown his younger friend quite a different side to life.

Before Sid, Jack wouldn’t have known a mezzanine floor from a landing. Post-Sid, the Peckham boy could have executed himself in a party worthy of his new employers. Not that they’d realize that. Hell, they wouldn’t even know he was in the Marines. To them, he was just another chauffeur. And that was the way it had to stay.

The war had done away with the tug of the forelock to a man’s supposed betters. Or maybe it hadn’t. Maybe it was just Jack. Never in his life had he been subservient. Obedient, yes. It was why he was a good soldier. But he’d never been one to lick another’s boots simply because that man was a lord.

He’d lived through too much, had seen too much to put up with the petty bureaucracy of dealing with the snobbish upper classes. Sid was different. Sid was Jack, but from a different age. The Second World War had scarred Jack, the First had done a number on Sid. Like Jack, he followed his own rules and lived in a world of his own. The rest of the toffs didn’t play that way though and Jack knew he’d probably have to bite his tongue whenever he dealt with his new employer.

Sir James Hayworth was an up and coming minister in the newly regained British colony. He was on the short-list of becoming the next commissioner of the Hong Kong police but only a few select people knew, he’d already been selected. Not even Hayworth was aware the years of arse-licking had finally come to fruition.

Jack’s job was to ensure Hayworth’s life was lily-white. One sniff of suspicious activity and the position would be snatched away without the man himself even realizing it.

Because of Hayworth, Jack had to turn civvy for a few weeks and the prospect didn’t fill him with glee. If he’d wanted to return to the ranks of the rat race back in Blighty, he could have done so at the end of the war. Instead, he’d remained a part of his battalion and what thanks had he received for that?

He’d been shipped back to the hell hole he’d had to escape!

Acting as a chauffeur, driving Hayworth about and keeping an eye on the man’s activities did not sound like a task that was to Jack’s taste. But he had no choice but to put up and shut up. That damned therapist’s report had come back to bite him on the behind and his CO had insisted he take a more relaxed assignment, one not on the front line. It didn’t matter that he wanted the front line. Oh, no, that meant little in the Forces. He had to do as he was told, play at being a good boy and when the therapists analyzed him afterwards, he’d be back doing what he was good at.

Killing people.

Could Jack help it he was an ace shot? Could he help that his eyesight was better than twenty-twenty?

The therapists seemed to think so. Apparently all of the evil bastards Jack had helped to stop polluting the earth had caused him internal trauma. Or so the psychiatrists said. According to them, it wasn’t normal to not feel guilt for murdering people who deserved to die for the evil they’d done.

Rolling his eyes at the thought, he spotted Mrs. Punder waiting by the staircase. Joan dashed away as soon as she could, but her eyes had flickered to his and he’d been relieved to see they had still been fear-free. She’d smiled and darted off, leaving him with the grim middle-aged housekeeper.

It was the first time he’d met her. The government had paid off the last chauffeur to make him quit his position and had subsequently paid off an agency into pushing Jack as the best possible candidate for the role.

Unlike Joan, there was no smile from this woman. Her eyes raked over him, taking in his suitability for the task ahead of him. They narrowed making her piggy eyes all the smaller, but she nodded abruptly. Obviously, he’d do.

Without a word, she walked up the stairs and up to the first floor. When they reached it, she murmured, It’s unlikely you’ll be needed upstairs, but there are times, when the maids need a man’s brawn to lift and carry sheets, or move furniture, you understand? She turned to him and waited for his nod, then proceeded to point to the eight doors on the landing. The first two on the left are the Master’s, the next two are her ladyship’s. The remaining four are guest rooms. We rarely have guests staying, but if we do, you’ll be expected to aid them with the carrying of their luggage.

She turned on her heel and retreated down the stairs. The front door faced the staircase, to either side there were a row of more doors. She walked along each row, paused beside each door and told him the room’s function. Finally, she hovered outside one of the rooms and said, This is the master’s study. He has requested to speak to you. Before I leave you with him, I wish to make something abundantly clear- there will be no gossip with friends or acquaintances about the activities which occur in this house. If I even hear of a sniff being mentioned by you to someone, you’ll be out of this job before you can even put on your chauffeur’s cap!

Without waiting for a reply, without even waiting to see if he understood, she knocked on the door and a gruff, Enter barked through the thick expanse of polished wood. She opened the door and ushered him in with a hard look. Jack was surprised, when she closed the door behind her and left him with the subject of his assignment.

Bloated, heavily overweight, ruddy. These were some of the words that popped into Jack’s mind as he first laid eyes on his new ‘employer’. He was the type of gentleman who could have been a miner. Any genteel qualities in the nobility had danced by him- the man was grotesque. It made the gossip he’d heard about the man’s new bride, a mere girl of twenty-one, all the more repulsive.

This man would crush. He would destroy. Not cherish as such a young woman, untarnished by the world deserved.

Instantly, Jack felt pity for the unknown woman who had been married off to such a beast.

In the heat of the study, over a large plantation desk, both Hayworth and he made their first contact. The former frowned, when the latter refused to look away, but he made no remark on Jack’s lack of subservience, merely saying, If my last chauffeur hadn’t walked out on me, I wouldn’t have to tell you my timetable.

Jack refrained from commenting. If first impressions counted for anything, he could well understand his predecessor grabbing government money and running from the man in front of him. He’d be an obnoxious bastard to work for- Jack could feel it in his bones. It was in the way he moved. Even in the little act of leaning forward to reach for a cigar from an open box on his desk! Arrogance and the innate belief that he was King of this very little castle weighed down every movement. There was self-belief and then, there was arrogance.

It was a rare thing for Jack to meet someone he instantly and instinctively disliked, but he’d met one today.

If you’d prefer to write down your schedule and I can study it, sir? Whatever is easiest for you, sir. The words nearly choked in his throat, but he managed to say them and saw the pleased glint in Hayworth’s eye.

He waved his hand, the cigar gustily coughed out smoke, which clouded the man in an inhumane light. My secretary has already done that. Inhaling upon the cigar, he picked up a sheet of paper and held it out. Jack walked forward and retrieved it. "I might as well tell you what I expect of you.

"At eight, every morning, I arrive at Government House. You will collect me at seven in the evening. There will be times, when this schedule changes; my secretary will inform you of these alterations and you will adhere to them until she confirms other arrangements.

There will be other times that I need you to collect or deliver packages for me. She will give you the addresses the day before, either for you to pick up the package or for the ultimate destination of one of the letters I’ll give to you on occasion. You will be on hand at all time for my needs. Whilst you are waiting on me, I expect you to tend the garden here. Do you have any questions?

Jack did, but he withheld it and said, No, sir.

You may go then.

Nodding, Jack retreated from the study. Any thoughts of the man’s arrogance and ego disappeared as the question ate at him: What kinds of packages was this man collecting and delivering?

The way Hayworth had phrased it, this was more than just post. This was almost a bloody courier service and damned odd it was too! The way the man’s eyes had darted from Jack’s had merely augmented his suspicions. Hayworth had no qualms in mixing his chauffeur up in his ill deeds, but even so, the man hadn’t been able to hold eye contact.

That being said, few men could hold Jack’s gaze. So perhaps he was looking far too deeply into that angle.

An old CO Jack had once said, It’s like you’ve turned into one of them, Jack. You’ve spent such a length of time with those bastards that you’ve taken on some of their ideals. When Jack had threatened to punch the CO in an attempt to shut his mouth, the man had merely continued, I only mean in one sense, Jack. Kamikaze. That’s what you’re like. A one man suicide bomber. Ready and waiting to do whatever necessary to ensure your mission’s success, no matter the personal cost- to your mind or your body.

Unable to argue, because Jack knew it to be true, he’d simply stormed off. But Jenkins had been right. He was on a mission. The quickest and sole route to escape lay in death. Suicide wasn’t an option. There were two ways of looking at it: he wasn’t brave enough to pull the trigger when it rested against his temple and there had been many occasions, where Jack had rested the butt of his service revolver on his forehead; or he was a coward to keep on leading this miserable existence.

Only the thrill of chasing death, no matter the consequences, and in the interim, providing himself with some fabulous career opportunities had kept him sane. This assignment didn’t seem to have the same thrill, but add in this peculiar courier service of Hayworth as well as the housekeeper’s warning, it seemed there’d be enough to keep him entertained!

Thoughts circled through his head as he walked down the hall to the tapestry, which hid the servant’s entrance. The kitchen was here and Jack was hungry. It was almost eight o’clock now. He didn’t really understand why they’d asked him to start so late, nor was he sure why he hadn’t been asked to collect Hayworth from Government House tonight, but it suited Jack just fine. The less time he had in the other man’s company, the better.

The kitchen was quiet, but it rumbled with activity. A kitchen maid and a cook worked in the sweltering heat to produce something worthy of a prince for the man upstairs and another maid, one he’d yet to meet, was polishing some silver. All three women were dotted with sweat and even though he’d only been in the room a good ten seconds, Jack could feel it at his brow and above his lip.

When they realized they had company, they all stopped for a moment and then the maids ducked their heads and carried on with their duties. The cook pointed to a large, scrubbed table and said, Take a seat… Jack isn’t it? When he nodded, she continued, "Millie will get