‘A sort of sharp, searing pain, like a nerve pain?’
‘Yes.’
‘First symptom of a brain tumour,’ laughed Burr. ‘You’re fucked.’
Dugan opened his eyes, but continued to massage the sides of his aching head. ‘Can I help you, Colin?’ he asked.
‘Just popped in to see if you’d heard about Holt.’
‘What happened?’
‘Stupid bastard got mugged. After you left. In the toilets. They found him sitting on the pan with his trousers round his ankles. They had to break the door down. He reckons somebody walloped him from behind. They took his wallet.’
‘He’s OK, though?’ Dugan was genuinely worried; Holt was a friend.
‘Yeah, he’s all right. They took him to casualty for a checkup and they gave him the all clear. He’ll probably be in Hot Gossip tonight as usual. Are you on for a bevy tonight?’
‘I suppose I could be persuaded to force down a pint or two.’
The phone rang and Burr waved goodbye as Dugan picked it up.
‘Hi,’ said Petal. ‘How’s your day going so far?’
‘It was OK,’ lied Dugan. His head was still throbbing. ‘Yours?’
‘
Ma ma, fu fu
,’ she said, Mandarin Chinese for horse horse, tiger tiger – not so good, not so bad. ‘Same as usual.’
Dugan realized he didn’t even know what she did. But then again, she hadn’t asked too many questions about what his job involved. He’d spent what, nine hours in her company, four of them in bed, and yet he knew next to nothing about her. But at the same time he seemed to know everything, a sort of empathy, knowledge by osmosis.
‘Are you doing anything tonight?’ he asked.
‘Nothing planned.’
Dugan cleared his throat. ‘Do you fancy going out?’
‘With you, you mean?’
Dugan laughed. ‘That’s what I had in mind.’
‘Well . . .’ she sighed, but Dugan knew he was being teased.
‘Of course, if you’ve got something else on . . .’
‘I’d love to see you,’ she said.
‘Dinner?’
‘Mmm. Where?’
‘There’s an Italian restaurant in Tsim Sha Tsui, great food.’
‘That sounds fine, I love Italian food.’
‘OK, I’ll meet you opposite the Hang Seng Bank inside the Tsim Sha Tsui MTR station at eight.’
‘See you then.’
She put the receiver down first, and Dugan held it to his ear for a few seconds, listening to the electronic tone.
Howells lay on the bed, flicking the remote control from channel to channel, but there was nothing to hold his attention for more than a few minutes. He’d eaten a room-service sirloin steak an hour earlier. There was nothing in the room worth reading and he didn’t feel like sleep.
He’d transferred all the equipment to the junk, and he’d bought a strong lock and bolt which he’d screwed into the toilet door so that it could be locked from the outside. He’d stocked the galley with the bare essentials: bread, milk, and cans of soup and stew. He’d tested the aqualung and spent half an hour snorkelling around the boat, enjoying the feel of the water. But there was nothing he could do now. First he had to find out which school Ng’s daughter went to, and he couldn’t do that until tomorrow. It wasn’t that Howells was nervous; there was no adrenalin rush, just empty hours to fill. He decided to go back to the Washington Club.
The taxi dropped him close to the bar and the moist, humid atmosphere wrapped itself around him like a damp towel as he stepped out of the air-conditioned environment. He was wearing light brown cotton trousers and a dark blue fake Lacoste T-shirt, yet he still felt as if he was overdressed. It wasn’t just that it was hot, it was the humidity that made it uncomfortable. He’d spent three weeks in the deserts of Oman a few years back, helping the Government do a favour for the Sultan, and he hadn’t felt half as hot as he did now. He wiped his forehead and when he took his hand away it was wet.
At several points along the length of the busy road were small groups of people lighting fires in the gutter. One group was a few steps away from the entrance to Popeye’s, and Howells stood for a minute to watch. There was a mother with a young baby strapped to her back, her husband and two small boys gathered around a cluster of joss sticks that had been stuck into a large orange. The man was crouched down, squatting on his heels watching a pile of sheets of paper crinkle and burn. He was holding what at first glance looked like orange banknotes, but there were so many zeros on them that Howells realized they were play money. As the pile in front of him died down, the man fed more notes on to it. To the left of the burning paper was a cardboard plate on which were two pieces of meat, some grapes and a bread roll. The two boys were skipping around their mother, clapping their hands in excitement. Howells couldn’t work it out; they were a well-dressed family, and the man was wearing an expensive wristwatch. Some religious festival, maybe. He left them to it.
Amy spotted him as soon as he walked in. She came over and gave him her tombstone smile. ‘Nice to see you, Tom.’
She caught him by surprise until he remembered that Tom was the name he’d used the previous night. He was impressed that she’d taken the trouble to remember his name, but then realized that it was part of her job – make the customer feel wanted and important and special and chances are that he’d buy you a drink. Sound commercial sense, nothing else.
‘Hiya, Amy. How are you?’
‘Happy to see you,’ she said, and linked her arm through his, leading him to the circular bar. It was crowded and there were only two empty seats, one either side of a bulky giant of a man with a crew cut and bulging forearms. Amy touched him lightly on the arm and asked him to move to the right, and he did so with a beaming, drunken smile. Amy guided Howells to one of the seats and sat down next to him. ‘Beer?’ she said.
Howells nodded. ‘What’s the best local beer?’
‘San Mig,’ she said. ‘You want?’
‘Sure, I’ll try it.’
There were two girls dancing, with three sitting on stools chattering. The cadaverous man was there talking to his girl-friend, a sheaf of blue chits in the glass on the bar in front of him. Must be love, thought Howells sourly. Most of the men in the bar were soldiers or sailors, youngsters with cropped hair and pimples, laughing and shouting above the pulse of the music, ogling the girls and heckling each other. American accents everywhere. Amy returned with his drink.
‘Get yourself one, Amy,’ he said.
The girls dancing were Filipina, short and slightly chubby, mahogany skin and black eyes, flirting madly with their adoring audience. The record changed to a Beach Boys number,
Surfing USA
or something, and with whoops of delight three of the young men jumped on to their stools, waving their arms and swaying from side to side in a pretty good imitation of surfing. The girls stopped dancing and stood there pouting with their hands on their hips. Amy put a plastic tumbler in front of him with a white chit for his beer and a blue one for her hostess drink.
‘Sailors,’ she said. ‘Americans.’ As if that explained everything.
‘Good business,’ he said.
‘No,’ she said, with surprising venom. ‘Just trouble. They come from PI. No money left.’
‘PI?’
‘Philippine Islands. Girls there very cheap. When they come here no money left. And they not buy drinks for girls, just themselves. And usually they very impolite.’
Howells nodded sympathetically. ‘How long are they here for?’
‘Four days. I think I try to take holiday tomorrow. I ask mamasan.’
‘Probably a good idea. What sort of ship are they on?’
‘Submarine. Nuclear submarine. They stay about five miles away and come in on small boat. Stay four days and then go.’
‘To where?’
‘Supposed to be secret, but one of them said they go to Korea. They talk all the time, boasting. See that boy?’ She nodded towards the middle of the three barstool-surfers. ‘He weapons officer. His job is to fire the missiles.’
He looked to be barely out of his teens, a faceful of freckles and ginger hair, flushed with drink and frowning as he tried to maintain his balance. He whooped and attempted to spin his stool around, his arms windmilling through the air and knocking his two mates over. The three of them tumbled backwards, crashing into the wall behind them and falling into a pile of arms and legs and stools. One of the girls screamed but they were OK, too drunk to hurt themselves with anything less than a fall from an eight-storey building.
‘You look fierce,’ said Amy, concern in her voice. ‘What is wrong?’
Howells forced a smile. ‘Nothing,’ he said. ‘Just a hard day, that’s all. Hey, what’s going on outside?’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Families burning paper and putting food in the street.’
‘Festival,’ she said. ‘Festival of the Hungry Ghosts.’
Howells looked bemused and Amy laughed. ‘This is the time of the year when the gates to Hell are opened and all the ghosts come back to earth. You must keep them out of your houses, so you feed them in the street. And burn money for them. You must keep them happy so that they bring good luck.’ She lifted her glass and looked at Howells through it. ‘Nice to meet you, Tom,’ she said. Over the other side of the bar the three surfers had climbed back on to their stools and were busy drinking themselves into oblivion.
The meal had gone well, very well. The pasta had been cooked to perfection, an unusual feat in Hong Kong, the veal was as tender as he’d ever eaten and the bottle of red wine they’d put away had relaxed Dugan completely. The only black spot on the evening had been when the waiter had returned with his Access card and told him that it hadn’t been accepted. Dugan realized he hadn’t paid the last account from the card company. There hadn’t been enough in his bank account to cover it. He handed over his Amex card and smiled apologetically at Petal.
‘Let’s split it,’ she said.
‘No, it’s OK. It’s just an administrative foul-up, that’s all. And my salary cheque went in a couple of days ago. Don’t worry, I’m solvent.’
Until the bank took his mortgage payment out, and the management charges for his flat, and the electricity, gas and phone bills all got whipped out by the magic of direct debit. And he’d have to pay something on his credit cards or they’d be repossessed this time, he was sure of it. Shit. At least if he was in the private sector he could go and ask his boss for a raise.
‘Well, I insist on you letting me buy you a nightcap,’ she said. ‘How about going back to Hot Gossip?’
‘Fine by me,’ Dugan answered, though with just a tinge of regret. He wanted to get back into bed with her as quickly as possible. She looked stunning; tight black velvet trousers and a jacket made of some glossy, gold-coloured material, with padded shoulders and a thin collar that was turned up at the back. She had on open-toed shoes and he noticed for the first time that she’d painted her toenails bright pink. God, she was sexy, even more so by virtue of the fact she seemed so small and vulnerable. Still, if the lady wanted Hot Gossip, that’s what the lady would get.
They walked through the crowded streets of Tsim Sha Tsui, Dugan taking pride in the fact that Petal turned a lot of heads, Chinese and gweilo. He wanted the whole world to know that she was with him, wanted to label her as spoken for. He made do by holding her hand. It felt small and cool and was lost in his.
Most of the shops they walked past were for tourists: electric goods, jewellers, high fashion, with a sprinkling of topless bars, but even here families were out in force with their offerings to the ghosts.
‘Do your family do this?’ asked Dugan.
Petal nodded earnestly. ‘Of course. It’s part of our heritage. Even more so on the mainland. I help clean my ancestors’ graves each year, I eat moon cake during the moon festival, I feed the ghosts.’ He still couldn’t get used to the cut-glass accent coming from such an obviously Chinese girl.
‘But do you believe in it all?’
‘It doesn’t matter whether I believe it or not. That’s not the point. It’s part of being Chinese. You wouldn’t understand, and I don’t mean that nastily.’ She squeezed his hand. ‘I’m not explaining it very well,’ she said.
‘Are your family in Hong Kong?’ he asked.
‘No,’ she said. ‘Manchuria, northern China. What about your parents? Where are they?’
Dugan noticed the sharp change in subject, as if he’d touched a nerve. It was understandable, though; many Hong Kong Chinese were sensitive about their origins. Most were refugees, or the children of refugees, and the richer families didn’t like anyone taking too close a look at their backgrounds because a great many of the old fortunes were based on opium or drug smuggling.
‘They live in a town called Cheadle Hulme, near Manchester.’
‘The north of England.’
‘That’s right. They have a shop there, a bookshop.’
‘Are you from a big family?’
Dugan shook his head. ‘No, just one sister, Jill.’
They’d reached the entrance to the disco, but went upstairs to the bar. Standing at their usual place were Bellamy and Burr, and Bellamy raised his eyebrows as he saw who Dugan was with.
‘Petal,’ he said, stepping forward to meet her. ‘So nice to see you again. It seems like only yesterday . . .’
‘It was only yesterday, Jeff,’ said Colin.
Bellamy took her elfin hand and kissed it gently. Dugan felt a flash of jealousy but let it pass. Bellamy tried it on with every girl he met. His theory was that the more times you tried, the more often you’d succeed – it was just a matter of statistics.
‘How’s Holt?’ asked Dugan.
‘He’ll be OK, it’s his pride that hurts more than anything,’ said Burr.
Dugan put his arm protectively around Petal’s shoulders. She smiled up at him and held him around the waist. Bellamy and Burr looked at each other with mock horror on their faces.
‘The boy’s in love,’ gasped Burr.
‘Throw a bucket of water over them, somebody,’ yelled Bellamy.