The Black Dragon (9 page)

Clearly revealed—negative white lettering through the graphite—is the imprint of what Inspector Lo scrawled on the sheet above.

A short string of Chinese characters—and two numbers below: a 4 and a 9. The goosebumps prickle up Danny's skin.

“Are you still sure this is just a wind-up, Major?”

“I'm not sure about anything, to tell you the truth.”

“And Detective Lo claimed to know nothing about it. We need to find Laura's notebook. That's what she shouted as they pushed her into the car. It's the one she always keeps on her.”

He adds
WHERE IS THE RED NOTEBOOK?
to the list of problems.

“Let's start at the Golden Bat. There must be a reason that Lo wanted to divert attention away from it.”

“I take it we won't be following his advice then?” Zamora says with a smile.

Danny shakes his head.

“But we're going to take my advice,” Zamora says, straightening himself to his full height and stretching. “We're going to eat something. And get forty winks. Recharge. No good running around on empty. We'd just make stupid mistakes. Like that time I fell off the Wall of Death. I was just tired.”

He rubs his thigh thoughtfully at the memory, the old break aching there like it always does when the weather's stormy.

“Strength and balance, Danny, that's what Rosa always said. Doesn't matter whether we're doing trapeze or acrobatics or voltige or cyr wheel or tightwire or cloud swing or any of the other skills. We always need to be balanced—and we always need to keep our strength up. That way we don't make mistakes. Take our ringmistress's advice even if you won't take mine.”

Danny nods, remembering the way Rosa could manage the wilder elements of the company. Get the best from everyone with her Italian charm. Or turn on the anger just when it was needed.

“You're right. But just a few hours. And then let's get on with it.”

11

HOW TO CONCENTRATE COMPLETELY

But sleep doesn't come easily for Danny.

He lies awake for an hour, then two, listening to sirens, the sounds of boats in the bay, while his mind churns images, thoughts, fears.

When he does drop off, it's into that strange halfway place again, into the borderland between waking and sleeping—his head blurred by the long-haul flight, sleep deprivation, and shock. The last thing he's thinking about is the aquarium in the Golden Bat, and its tumbling bubbling water, the breaking glass, the fish.

The surge of water from the shattered tank repeats and his mind links one event to another, and slips a gear—and he's back there again, under the hemisphere of the Mysterium, standing beside the water torture cell.

His father has loosened the chains and is wrenching himself up toward the top of the tank, working the ankle locks. His expression is slightly different from normal. But then, he has only ever done this in practice, never as a performance. He looks surprised. And rather tired. As if all the energy is draining out of him.

“Two minutes ten . . . fifteen,” Danny calls, his voice sounding small against the music. You can sense the expectant crowd, waiting, holding one long collective breath . . . Two minutes thirty is the limit and they're past it now.
Come on
. . .

His father makes one more assault on the ankle locks and suddenly flops back down. Defeated! A few more bubbles escape from the corner of his mouth, his gaze searching out Zamora's. A single shake of the head, eyes wide, imploring help.

And then it all goes very quickly. Major Zamora takes a mighty heave with the axe.
Clung
. It bounces back off the glass. Zamora takes another swing and this time the glass splinters with a resounding crash. There is water everywhere. Simultaneously Danny can hear his father gasping for breath, retching, the crowd noise rising in uproar. Rosa Vega, their beautiful ringmistress, is stalling, her voice bright but faltering on the PA system.

The Khaos Klowns are coming on instead—they're only half changed but are snapping into their emergency
charivari
act like they know to do when there's an accident or hiccup in the running order. They rush past, some of them in the skull masks, brandishing torches and fire staffs, some made up with the leering smiles that haunt Danny's nightmares. Roustabouts are rushing to pull Dad from the wreckage.

Darko Blanco is crouched over him, helping him to his feet, supporting his sagging weight. And Mum's there too, hurrying to Dad's side, eyes flashing in fear.

In the Pearl Hotel bedroom Danny's eyes pop open, as he snaps back out of the memory. He sits bolt upright, and knows that this time
something
had been added to the memory. Something he hasn't seen before. What is it? He grabs for the thought—but too hard. Like trying to hold on to a wet fish, it slips his grasp. And then the reality of where they are now, of what has just happened to Laura, comes rushing back and the dream memory is swamped.

Even a week ago he would have pushed the unwanted surge of memory to the back of his mind, but now he actively follows it.
I need to start to remember properly
, he thinks.
Systematically
.

So what can I remember if I choose? If I don't just wait for the memories to come?

That night after the failed escape it was Blanco who helped Dad back to the trailer. We followed them and Mum told me not to worry. But I could see she was beside herself
. . .

The knifethrower saw to it that Dad was comfortable, and turned to leave.

Danny had never felt entirely at ease around Blanco, but there was something cool about the way he did his meditation every morning. Back straight, eyes half closed, radiating calm. You felt he had a clarity in his pale-blue eyes.

I stopped him on the trailer steps.

“Why did it happen, Blanco?”

“Why does
anything
happen?”

“Dad never makes mistakes.”

“But we all do,” Blanco said. “It's about concentration. Mindfulness. Can you count slowly to ten without thinking
one
thought? Without clutching at a single thought? That's what we have to do when we try and escape from underwater. Or throw knives. Or push long nails through our noses. Concentrate one hundred per cent and think of nothing else.”

He smiled then. A sad smile.

“Maybe your dad just has a bit too much on his mind.”

It's Zamora who wakes him, shaking Danny gently by the shoulder, bringing him back from the sleep that has finally pulled him under.

“Rise and shine, Danny. Six in the morning.”

Danny rubs his eyes, sitting up, trying to get his bearings. “Have they found her? Any news?”

“No.
Nada
. Nothing from kidnappers, or police. But you know what they say. No news is good news.”

It just doesn't feel like that, though. Surprising that nobody has come to find them.

“Let's start working on our list.”

“Better than twiddling our thumbs, no?” Zamora rummages in his pocket and produces a card. “And I was thinking maybe Kwan can tell us something about what your aunt got up to yesterday. Got his number here. I'll call him from the lobby. But first you're going to eat some breakfast.”

In the Pearl's foyer, a plasma screen is looping BBC World News, sound muted. The tail end of the ticker feed catches Danny's attention—and he keeps watching, waiting for whatever it was to come round again. The Prime Minister smiles and delivers a speech on the steps of No. 10 Downing Street. Then a famous soccer player deadpans platitudes in a post-match interview. And then a still image of the rusting hulk of a cargo ship fills the screen—an ugly, squat vessel, with the headline
MISSING CHINESE FREIGHTER
.

The image shifts to shaky handheld footage of a kind of rubbish dump, protected by high fences that are dotted with yellow radiation signs.
PIRATE HIJACK SUSPECTED: AUTHORITIES DENY LINK TO RADIOACTIVE CARGO
, the caption reads, before the bulletin flips to the start and there's the newsreader and the prime minister opening his mouth again, stuck in the loop.

“
Vamos!
” Zamora says. “I got hold of a dispatcher at Kwan's office. They'll get him to meet us at the Golden Bat.”

The heat's already building as they retrace their steps to Mong Kok. The streets are emptier and, in the clear light of day, the exoticism of last night is replaced by something harder. Crumbling concrete on some of the buildings. Peeling paintwork. Laundry hanging out to dry in the gritty air while restaurant and shop owners scrub down the pavements.

They have expected to find police tape cordoning off the restaurant—or even an officer on duty—but there's nothing at all to suggest the events of the previous evening. The door and main window are blinded by graffiti-covered shutters, both padlocked shut. One small window is uncovered, gazing at the street blankly from just above them.

“You take a look, Danny. You've got the advantage over me now,” Zamora says.

Standing on tiptoes, squinting into the gloom, Danny can just make out the wreckage of the aquarium, shoved back against a far wall. Chairs are stacked on tables, but otherwise all the glass, broken furniture, water and dead fish have been cleared away.

“Can't see much.”

“We need to get inside,” Zamora grunts, rattling the shutter.

Danny touches the lock pick set on the end of its bootlace. Maybe it's the kind of simple padlock that springs easily?

He remembers Dad giving him the basic lessons and going on and on about Houdini's great moment of discovery as a boy when, working in an ironmonger's, he had been asked to free a convict from handcuffs. He had succeeded and—hey presto—that was the start of a whole career.
Everyone has to start sometime
, Danny thinks. Saw rake is the best bet when you're in a hurry. He flips open the pick set, then cranks the lock with the tension tool and starts dragging the rake in and out, feeling the pins moving, trying to make them fall into the shear line. Nearly. Try again.

But then he hears footsteps approaching quickly and, guiltily, he snaps the tool shut.

Looking up, he sees Sing Sing.

She's coming at a half trot down the hill, eyes hidden behind a big pair of wraparound shades, a small rucksack slung over one shoulder. The sun catches her bright-green trainers. Danny feels something lift, as if a small weight has come off his shoulders. In broad daylight she looks like any other early teen—hardly like an enemy. He's glad to see her.

“What do we think about her?” Zamora whispers.

“Not sure,” Danny says. “But it felt like she was waiting for something to happen last night—”

“Oi,
señorita
!” Zamora booms. “We want a word—”

“What happened to you last night?” Danny says, cutting across the major.

She comes close up to them, but then walks right on by. Zamora goes to grab her elbow but she sidesteps neatly and hisses, “Shut up, dumdums. Follow me.” And hurries on.

“Nothing to lose,” Danny says. “But let's keep our eyes peeled.”

Three shops farther down the lane, Sing Sing swings around a corner into an alleyway. Danny tries to relax, open his senses up, eyes wide, scanning for trouble as they follow close behind.

The girl is moving at speed, ten or so paces in front of them, turning right again, into a much darker, narrower passageway that cuts along the back of the shops. She comes to a halt.

“Back door to the Bat,” she says over her shoulder. “I have a key—”

“Why did you disappear?” Danny interrupts. “Where's Laura?”

Sing Sing shakes her head. “No time. Not good to be seen around here. You want to look for something, right? Something that belongs to your aunt?”

“How do you know?”

“Lucky guess.”

“Now, listen, Miss Sing Sing,” Zamora says. “Where's Chow?”

With her eyes shrouded by the sunglasses it's very difficult to read anything on her face. “No idea.”