They reached the rear of the hotel. A young Balinese man was sitting on an upturned bucket, smoking a cigarette. He leapt to his feet as Milton pulled to a stop, and flicked the cigarette away.

Milton opened the door and got out.

“Mr. John?”

“That’s right,” he said.

“You need help?”

“I do.”

Milton nodded at the back seat of the car. The young man looked inside, but, other than frowning for a moment, he did not react to the sight of Sakura slumped across the rear seats.

“Where can I take her?” Milton asked.

“I have room for you.”

“Could you grab the bags for me?”

Milton opened the car door, scooped Sakura into his arms and lifted her out, one arm around her back and the other beneath her knees. Her head lolled against his shoulder as he adjusted his grip. She was lighter than he had expected: one hundred and ten pounds, perhaps, certainly no more than one twenty.

The man took their bags and hurried over to a set of double doors that led into the hotel. He pushed them open.

“This way, Mr. John.”

Milton carried Sakura into the corridor, blinking his eyes to readjust to the gloomy light. The interior of the hotel was clean, but tired. The floral wallpaper on the walls was peeling away in places, and the carpet had a well-worn threadbare strip down the middle. Milton waited as the young man walked past him and down the corridor. He reached a door, pushed it open and indicated that this was where Milton was to go.

Milton turned sideways so that he could carry Sakura inside without bumping her legs against the frame of the door. The room matched the corridor in terms of decor, with the very same pattern of wallpaper, also peeling where the walls had grown damp. Milton did not care about luxury. He just needed somewhere quiet and out of the way where Sakura could be treated. He gently laid her on the sagging double bed in the middle of the room, turned her on her side once more, and pushed a strand of hair away from her eyes. She didn’t stir.

The young man deposited their bags on the floor. “Doctor coming,” he said.

21

The doctor was not at all what Milton had been expecting. He was a Westerner in his mid-sixties with a clump of white hair and a bulbous nose that was lined with prominent blue veins. It was still stiflingly hot, but, despite the temperature, the man was wearing a dark brown three-piece suit, complete with a claret-coloured waistcoat. He brushed past Milton with an officious air and assessed the room beyond.

He gestured to Sakura. “This is who I’m here to see?”

“That’s right.”

The medic put his bag down and crossed to the bed, where Sakura was snoring softly. He put two fingers to her neck to take her pulse.