When we gathered again to refine our plan, Horace wouldn’t talk about what Noma had made him do. “We’ve got to get out of here, Miss Violet.”

On Monday, early in the morning, I dressed again as a coolie and knocked on the kitchen door, bold as you please. Cheung let me in. He gave me a funny look, like he was trying to place me, but he didn’t actually recognize me. I went down the hall to the equipment room and helped myself to the reeking hamper of soiled clothes, making sure to pick out four of the cleaner ones in roughly the right sizes. I piled whatever else was there on top, but left some behind for the real laundry workers to collect later.

Tanaka and Horace put in a full day at the Supreme Court, interrogating prisoners. They came to Courchene’s room at the French Hospital in the evening, wearing soiled civvies and armbands. They looked weary and heartsick.

“Are you sure you are up for this?” said Ting-Yan.

“We have to be,” Tanaka said. “Cheung remarked this afternoon that the laundry people came twice today. If he hasn’t already figured out what’s going on, he will soon.”

“Noma asked me to do something today,” Horace said. “I couldn’t. I refused. He made me watch him do it, and told me my turn is tomorrow. I’m not sure if he meant I’d be on the giving or receiving end.”

No one was happy about the soiled uniforms in which unspeakable activities had been carried out. But we put them on. Our skins touched the skins of murderers.

Over the last couple of days of surreptitious activity, I had been tucking my hair under my cap. But now, I asked Ting-Yan to cut it. With an eyeliner pencil, she drew a little moustache on my upper lip too. “Too much?” she asked.

I looked in the mirror. “I like it.”

Ready as we would ever be, we stepped out into the warm, still night.

When I looked up past the battered bamboo shutter into the open ground floor window of the Tai Hang house, I saw Tak-Wing stumbling around like a confused animal. Given the extreme shortages across the city, I couldn’t fathom where he was getting booze. Perhaps from his father, Cheung, whose bar at the old cricket club had become a popular drinking spot for the Japanese military. There was no sign of Emily or Raymond, but the door to the backroom was still closed and locked. I prayed he’d been giving them food and water these last ten days.

We sidled up to the door as Courchene had taught us.

Courchene banged on it with his big fist.

In Japanese, Tanaka shouted, “Kempeitai! Open up!”

“Up your mother!” shouted drunk Tak-Wing.

“Open up or we’ll break the lock!” Tanaka yelled.