Blood appeared at the tip of the sword and seeped into the white cloth around the hole in Cheung’s shirt. Cheung didn’t care. He wanted to die.

“Come on,” Tanaka said. “The storm is over. Let’s return to the match.”

“Save yourself and save us all,” Yim-Fong said.

“Please, Brother,” said Hok-Yee.

Cheung hadn’t noticed his wife and his sister approach closer.

The pain intensified as the sword probed deeper into his flesh.

Yim-Fong said, “Think about your sons.”

Cheung shot Noma one last vicious glare, then drew on all the martial calm his father had trained him how to will. He nodded his head. “All right. Deal.”

No coffin was possible given the circumstances. But in the storage room, the Japanese soldiers found the perfect shroud—the Union Jack that used to sail from the rooftop of the club, until it was replaced on Christmas Day 1941 by the Rising Sun. They found it as they’d left it, respectfully folded and placed on a high shelf along the with the spare uniforms for the HKCC’s international tournaments. True to their word, with the respect and care they’d normally reserve for one of their own, the Kempeitai wrapped the last inhabitant of Wong Nai Chung Village in the British flag.

Out on the cricket pitch they built a pyre consisting mostly of wickets and bats, preserving only the ones in play for Noma’s timeless Test match and one set of spares. To it, they added an old sofa and half a dozen chairs from the first-floor bar. For a platform, two bar tables were made to serve, set atop the pyre like an arrangement for a party of eight. Cheung, Tanaka, and Horace laid the venerable old lady atop this heap. A couple of bottles of good English gin served as lighter fluid. Tak-Wing and Richard Hancock did the honours of setting the pyre alight.