The Buddha of Brewer Street (22 page)

There was also the fact that even if ‘the enemy’ in this case was the Chinese Government, how could they have known where Kunga was? Only a few Tibetans had known that, plus Goodfellowe himself, and he hadn’t told anyone. But someone had. And that someone had to be Tibetan.

His suspicions and frustrations grew when, later the following afternoon, they were once more gathered around his dining table. Three people manning telephones can make rapid progress through a list of names less than a hundred long. As Phuntsog explained, there was only a handful they hadn’t so far been able to contact.

‘And?’ Goodfellowe demanded.

‘That’s the problem, Mr Goodfellowe. There’s not a single boy aged two in the entire Tibetan community. Four girls. A boy aged eight months. Too young. But no one aged two.’

‘Impossible,’ groaned Kunga, his breath expiring as though it were his last.

‘What about those you haven’t been able to contact?’ Goodfellowe suggested. ‘The boy might be a member of one of those families.’

Phuntsog shook his head. ‘All those families are known to other Tibetans, who say there is no such child.’

‘But …’ Goodfellowe clenched his fists in exasperation. But what?

‘The child doesn’t exist,’ Phuntsog said.

‘He has to,’ Kunga insisted. ‘He must exist. Too many people have already died for him not to exist.’

Frasi was agitated. ‘All around the country, wherever there is a Tibetan family, it seems there are Chinese. Waiting on the doorstep. Watching. Asking neighbours about the children. Offering money for the right information. Like bounty hunters. Some Tibetan houses have been broken into. Already one attempt has been made to snatch a baby from its mother’s arms. There is still much danger.’

‘But also some relief,’ Goodfellowe offered. ‘If they’re still searching it means they haven’t found the child either.’

‘Many Tibetan families are not happy,’ Frasi continued. ‘They blame us for bringing them this trouble. Many have difficulty believing that the reincarnation of His Holiness could be born in Britain.’

‘Frankly, I have trouble believing it, too,’ Phuntsog added.

‘Phuntsog!’ Kunga exclaimed in disbelief.

‘So if the child exists, where is he?’ Phuntsog demanded in his own defence.

The teamwork these colleagues had managed to mount was visibly fraying at the edges. ‘What are we to do, Tummo?’ Kunga asked. All their faces were turned in his direction, looking to him for guidance. They were out of their depth. He was none too sure of his footing, either. He very much wished he’d never started with this.

‘We must work on the assumption that the child is here in Britain,’ he began. ‘And that somehow, in ringing around, one of you has missed him. So – we exchange telephone lists. And start all over again.’

‘What are you suggesting …?’ Frasi exclaimed.

‘Or suspecting?’ Kunga enquired more softly.

‘… that we have made a mistake? Missed someone out?’ Angrily Phuntsog pushed the three telephone lists across the table at Goodfellowe.

‘It’s possible.’

‘But not by accident,’ Frasi continued.

‘Which is why I suggest you exchange telephone lists and start all over again. To double check.’

‘You suspect one of us, Tummo?’ Kunga asked grimly.

‘Someone betrayed you, Kunga Tashi, almost got you killed. They would also betray the child.’

There was a long and awkward silence as they looked around the table at each other – which one was it? – before Phuntsog turned to the monk. ‘Why should we listen to this man, Kunga Tashi?’

‘Because he is one of us.’

‘He is a foreigner. He lives among the Chinese.’

‘Nevertheless …’

Slowly, as though moving bars of gold, Goodfellowe pushed the telephone lists back across the table. Without another word and with a prolonged scowl from Phuntsog, the Tibetans left.

There was only one piece of good news that day but it was the best. She was back. He called as soon as he got her message.

‘Damn it, but I’ve missed you,’ he began as soon as he heard her voice.

‘That’s great.’

‘I’ve missed your body, too.’

‘That’s also good to know.’ She laughed. It merely encouraged him.

‘I want it. I want you. Right now.’

‘Fine, but …’

‘But what?’

‘Who is this?’

Goodfellowe was stunned. His jaw dropped. How many men …?

‘Oh, Goodfellowe, you’re such an idiot,’ she interrupted his thoughts. ‘It’s no fun pulling your leg when you make it so easy.’

He couldn’t find the right words, or indeed any words. Her tone softened.

‘It’s been that tough without me?’

‘Tougher.’

‘I’m flattered.’

‘Sorry to be so dense. A sense of humour bypass. While you’ve been playing havoc in foreign parts, foreign parts have been playing havoc with me.’

‘Eh?’

‘A long story. Which I desperately want to bore you with. Tonight. Please. Come over, Elizabeth.’

‘To be bored? Sounds irresistible.’

‘What if I also said that I want to bonk your brains out?’

‘That’s better. You’re improving.’

‘I’m stuck in the House until ten, I’m afraid, but after that …’

‘Hmmm. You’re suggesting I bring my toothbrush.’

‘In the morning I’ll make you the finest cup of Souchong you’ve ever tasted.’

‘Sorry, I’m strictly a ground-coffee girl.’

‘So come over and we can argue about it. In the morning.’

‘But I’m dog tired after my trip around France,’ she countered.

‘And I promise to keep you up all night.’

‘In which case … That is a promise, is it, Goodfellowe? To keep me up all night? Not just another of your idle threats?’

‘I’m a politician. You can trust me.’

‘Then there’s only one thing to do.’

‘Which is?’

‘I shall bring my own coffee.’

Sam and Edwina were in a hurry. There was a train to catch. They’d had an enjoyable meal, in the circumstances, sweetcorn and crab meat soup, fried seaweed – Edwina’s favourite – and a shared plate of Singapore noodles. Less than a fiver a head at Mah’s Kitchen, and the owner didn’t mind their stinginess. Sam had eaten there often with her father; Mah was always glad to see her. And both Sam and Edwina, the closest of friends, always felt in need of a little fortifying after their visits to the pregnancy clinic.

They were on half term and staying with Edwina’s mother. After their last row, Sam was avoiding her father and anyway he was up to his eyes in parliamentary work. As always. Even worse, he had explained to her that it was most unlikely the Chief Whip would allow him time off to see her Cleopatra. She took it badly. So although the direct route from the restaurant to Charing Cross Station would take them practically straight past his front door in Gerrard Street, they made a small detour to avoid it, just in case they bumped into him. Didn’t want to visit, let alone stay. After all, she argued with herself, the studio apartment was so cramped, such a come-down from Holland Park. Only later did she take time to consider her feelings, then thoroughly scold herself. A come-down it might be, but he was the sad, mad mongrel who had to live there.

They were a little late. Mah had delayed them with a free dessert, egg-custard tarts, and they were hurrying now. Sam wouldn’t normally have used the quiet alleyway that cut through towards Little Newport Street, not at night-time, but it would save them a few necessary seconds. It seemed clear, apart from the binned rubbish outside the barber’s shop, and it was less than fifty yards long.

As soon as they turned into it, Sam realized she had made a mistake.

A leering wolf whistle came first, then two Chinese youths were pushing past them to block the way ahead. Another four followed behind, and increasingly closely. They were all wearing jeans and sneakers, with T-shirts or windcheaters, most of which were emblazoned with Hollywood logos.

‘Please let us pass,’ Sam said, trying to sound unflustered as the first two youths stood in their path. They simply laughed and spread their arms to cover the way. Sam turned but the others were right behind them.

‘No hurry, ladies.’

‘We have a train to catch.’

‘Trains? There are hundreds of trains.’

The youths were now surrounding them, the sense of menace growing, and backing them into the darkened doorway of the barber’s shop. The girls held hands.

‘I’ll scream!’ Sam spat, tossing her head defiantly. The beads amongst her braids gave the sound of a rattlesnake.

‘She wants to scream?’ the gang leader mocked. ‘We’ll show her how to scream.’ And the youths had whooped and shouted at the top of their voices until the sound echoed down the alleyway. No one paid the slightest bit of notice.

‘What do you want?’ Sam asked, knowing that she sounded very much less brave. ‘We don’t have much money.’ She opened her bag as if to show them, although in the dark they wouldn’t have been able to see.

‘Please … don’t hurt us,’ Edwina begged. She was trying very hard not to cry.

The youths said nothing, but pressed more closely in upon the girls.

‘Take our bags,’ Sam said, holding out hers. The offer was ignored.

After the gang’s cries and screams, the silence in the alleyway had become terrifying. Sam could barely make out the youths’ faces, even though they were close enough for her to smell the leader’s deodorant, cheap and sweet. She wanted to vomit. Then he spoke.

‘Lovely hair.’ The words had a sinister sound. He reached out and began fingering the braids and the beads. Sam pulled back but there was nowhere to go.

‘I like your hair,’ he insisted, tugging at the tresses.

Sam shook her head.

‘I
want
your hair.’

Meaning? Then, in the darkness, she saw something flash. And flash again. It was a Stanley knife, sharp as any razor, its blade exposed. She wanted to scream but discovered that every part of her was frozen.

He waved the blade slowly in front of her face, so that he could watch her eyes following it from side to side. ‘It is very sharp,’ he whispered, relishing her terror. Then he put the back of the blade to her face, drawing it across her eyebrows like a pencil. She choked, waiting for the blood to trickle into her eyes. But none came.

‘Are … you going … to rape us?’ Sam gasped.

‘No. I simply like your hair.
Very
much.’ And he slit through one of the braids. She gave a strangled cry but dared not move her head, the blade was still circling.

Then another braid came off.

Tears – or perhaps it was blood, she could no longer tell – began burning down her face like tiny streams of lava as once more he hacked, and yet again. Some of the beads fell to the pavement, bouncing around her feet, and one of the youths sniggered. All she could see was dancing of the blade, and the purpose in his eyes.

Again and again the blade hovered in front of her cheeks before the knife cut and carved and hacked its way through her hair, until it was all gone. He held out a fist full of her braids. ‘I
like
your hair,’ he whispered.

‘I like the rest of her, too,’ one of the other youths muttered. Then his hand was on her breast, pawing.

And the blade flashed again, slashing across the back of the youth’s hand. He screamed in surprise.

‘You little banana,’ the leader spat, ‘that’s not what we came for.’

The youth was whimpering and wrapping a handkerchief around his hand to staunch the flow of blood. No one else said a word. The leader waved his fistful of hair once more, a victory trophy, the amputated braids wriggling like serpents between his fingers.

Then they were gone, into the night.

Goodfellowe pushed eagerly on the pedals as he cycled back from the House. He’d bought some candles – the lighting in his apartment was of a strictly utilitarian and non-seductive nature and he had begun to recognize its limitations. There were also two bottles of wine in his basket (something exploratory and Argentine from Sainsbury’s), some mineral water and a file of papers Mickey had insisted he take home, but which he had no intention of even opening. Oh, and a box of matches. For the candles. He’d almost forgotten the matches and had to make a special stop at the all-night store on the corner of Trafalgar Square. Candles with no matches. Like a plane without an undercarriage. Not going to get him anywhere.

As always at this time of night Gerrard Street was busy and he weaved his way carefully through the throng, sounding his bell, an incongruous figure in the crowd. People smiled, he smiled back. Such a change, he thought, from that time when there had been no smiles, only dark depression, when he’d had nothing, and no one, except for Sam and the Black Dog. And even Sam had often not been there. He would sit alone, surrounded by memories and debts. In silence. Eventually it had begun to affect his judgement. He had grown isolated, extreme, lost many friends. Only the best had stayed. He’d even lost Elizabeth. She complained that life for him was always a fight, that if he wasn’t already embroiled in a confrontation he’d go out looking for one. But life
was
a fight, he’d argued. Kids from his background weren’t born to expect reward, only retribution. Oh, but she’d been right, though. You couldn’t fight all the time. It wore out not only the body but also the soul; it also wore out those you loved. So nowadays he picked his fights more carefully – at least, he thought he had, until he’d bumped into these troublesome Tibetans. A real rust spot on life’s burnished armour, that lot. He was fed up trying to be another Lancelot roving the world in search of injustice and infant gods. Mind you, if there was a Guinevere to help out … He couldn’t deny that his aspirations on that front usually turned out to be about as collapsible as his bloody bike, but, he promised himself, not tonight. Not tonight!

He stabled his bike in the small cupboard beneath the stairs and hurried up to his second-floor apartment. He had a lot to do – shower, fresh clothes, candles, select some music – and only about ten minutes before Elizabeth was due to arrive. He scrabbled in his pocket for his keys but found he didn’t have to bother. The door was already open.

He had been burgled. No vandalism, nothing obvious missing, but his desk had been ransacked and papers were strewn everywhere. Why burgle him? he demanded of the walls. He had so little of value. And what the hell had they expected to find among his papers, nuclear missile codes and lists of Ministerial mistresses? He felt victimized, almost violated, and for a moment teetered on the brink of melancholy. Then he stepped back, angry with himself. No way was he going to let these bastards win, no matter who they were. But first things first. He opened one of the bottles and poured himself an exceptionally large glass.