Blue Lantern (26 page)

“No, fuck you. I'm not fitting-up fall-guys, and your enemies.”

“You're a tosser. You don't know what the job is.”

“You don't scare me,” Brodie lied.

Flinn was silent for a moment, and then his mood seemed to soften. “One last appeal to you Brodie. I've blown my stack with you more than once. Strong words. Everything I've said, the whole ruckus we're in now can be washed out and forgotten in a year, if you do as you're told.”

“No chance.”

Flinn showed bewilderment. “You've had opportunities I never had, Brodie. You're throwing away…”

“I've already told you,” Brodie said stonily, and it wasn't entirely the liquor; he felt better.

The sardonic light returned to Flinn's face. “OK. That's it. I've been here quite a few times before, sonny. Get out!”

When Brodie was in the calm of his room, under the shower, he began to see that Flinn might think that there was no option but to press charges. Brodie regretted losing his temper. But it would take time to assemble a prosecution file; most of the Brits likely to deal with it would be wallowing in the bars over the next few days, or away in Macao, or Singapore, for a Christmas break. There couldn't be a move on charges until well into January. He'd have time to work it all out in Manila with Helen.

He caught a ferry and taxi back to the apartment. The streets outside the tourist areas were empty. The light was waning. In the lounge, which the amah had cleaned, there was suddenly nothing to do. He had received two or three reciprocal invitations to friends' homes, but none he felt comfortable to accept. He slumped on a rug with a magazine, and another whisky. He awoke with cigarette ash and rug-wool on his lips, and hoisted himself from the floor. Lights were pricking on all over the city, burning through the charcoal darkness.

“You want dinner, master?” the old amah asked

“No, I go now. I no stay here tonight. I leave paper money for your master. Pay for broken things, OK?”

Brodie wrote a note to Ted Wells, thanking him, and regretting the damage. He made out a cheque with the amount blank. He gave the amah a hundred dollar note. Then he stood at the lounge windows, surveying the columns of deserted buildings, and the deserted streets. He had to go out. It was nine forty-five. The day seemed to inch along. He wanted to blot out the memory of Flinn's baleful but undefined threat.

He took a cab to Wanchai. Although the crowds were reduced, soldiers and sailors moved in gangs from one pool of rainbow light to another. Rickshaw boys and pimps grinned in the shadows. The occasional girl showed her bosom or thigh from a doorway. Music and shouts and laughter trembled frenetically. Every night was the same in Wanchai; there was no Christmas, no weekend, no time except now; not even Chinese New Year. Only a native, and Brodie regarded himself as a native in relation to bars, would notice that the usual oomph wasn't there. Christmas like other festivals had its small effect, a few less people, and a lot more tinsel, but by and large Wanchai, like Tsim Sha Tsui on Kowloon side, went on forever, regardless.

Brodie tramped from one bar to the next, forcing watery beer down quickly, hoping to find a place where he could be at ease for a while, but knowing that these haunts were all the same, and that there would be no solace in the journey. An American Marine, sitting on a high stool next to him in a bar, apologized for addressing him. He was a kid of nineteen or twenty, and sober. He said he just had to speak to somebody who could understand English, and wasn't a member of the US forces. The Marine described his home in Illinois; and Brodie talked to him about Glasgow, forgetting for a short while his inner turmoil.

As the night wore on, the streets maintained a fake air of gaiety, but the bars, inside, were on life support, cranking partytime out of old tapes and coloured lights, little grottoes whose cave-like interiors ranged off into emptiness on all sides. The best of the women had been bought, or gone home. Only the older momma-sans, and mangy whores, hung about. After a few more drinks, skulking from bar to bar became a journey in itself for Brodie, rather than a quest for a haven. He was always uneasy that he might meet people he knew, who would see he was on his own, and pity him. It was better to have a plan, a route to be executed, rather than droop into maudlin drunkenness in one place – and be seen.

After his tour of Wanchai, he crossed in the ferry and headed for Yulinda's bar. And there she was, cruising between the tables, looking lively despite the smoke and crashing jukeboxes, directing a girl, nodding to a customer, calling a waiter.

“Mike, a surprise. I thought you'd be with Vanessa. Not many locals tonight.”

Brodie ordered a beer, and a Brandy Alexander at an outrageous price for Yulinda, so that she could sit with him.

“I don't think I'll be seeing Vanessa any more.”

Yulinda wouldn't take this seriously. “She loves you. She's a lovely girl. Marry her, Mike.”

“She's screwing around with Andy Marsden as well as me.”

“Maybe in the past, Mike. Not now. That's all been over for ages.”

“And the kid, is it Andy's?”

“No, it's like she told you.”

“I don't trust her.”

Yulinda, who was beside him, slipped her arm through his, and leaned close. He could feel her breast pressing his arm. Her age and experience didn't show in perceptible lines, but in a coarsening of her face, the yellowing of her eyeballs and teeth; it increased her sensual appeal. Her mouth split invitingly.

“She's a good girl.”

“Let me take you home tonight. I know you're not doing anything, or you wouldn't be here.”

“Vanessa is my loyal friend.”

“It's over. Come on, Yulinda, we can go out, have a meal, talk.”

She looked at him sharply. She covered her feelings by finishing the small drink with a quick swallow, and smiling mechanically. “I have to go now, Mike. Bye,” she said, patting his wrist.

He watched her buttocks chafing jauntily inside her tight skirt as she retreated.

He was on the street again, running the gauntlet of grinning Arab and Sikh doormen.
Hey nice girls here. Good bar, Johnnie, here. You want, eh? Tell me what you want?
If only he knew. Well, he did know. Only Helen would put him at rest; glorious days on the sea with her. He didn't yield to the enticing faces. He walked to the end of the block, moving out of the bright light, into a street of boarded-up shop fronts and dark alleys.

“Hullo master.”

A smiling tart blocked his path. She wore black pantaloons, and a black silk shirt. She was at the very edge of darkness, a shaft of light falling on her round, thick-lipped face. She had a wicked smile that lured a man. On impulse, he followed her up wet stairs, into a black interior like a purse of rat's fur. The woman giggled, on her knees before him, tucking his money under her shirt, fingering his belt. He put a hand on the cap of hair knotted at the back of her neck, and pushed her away gently. He felt cold; in his loins, nothing. He could hear creatures scuttling in the blackness.

He was easier as he came carefully down the slippery steps, the woman's cracked and scornful cackle behind him. He felt unaccountably cheerful as he turned in the direction of Mongkok station, smelling scents in the air, and hearing noises as though they were new.

Brodie went to bed at the station. He lay awake. The telephone rang. At first, he thought it might be Helen – but she wasn't on duty. It was Freddie Hudson, a surprise.

“I apologise, disturbing you at this hour, Michael, my son. I've come across a bit of information you should know.”

Hudson sounded sloshed, but somewhere in the pool of alchohol, his brain was pulsing carefully.

“What is it Freddie?” Brodie asked anxiously, knowing the news could only be bad; the inflexion in Hudson's voice, phlegmy and dire, said that.

“We've been out at a party. Just got back. Message from Flinn. He has to report to me. You must have been careless lad, because a warrant has been issued for your arrest on corruption charges.”

“Jesus!”

“Why the hell did you antagonize Flinn? You should have come to me, Mike. I'd have sorted things with Flinn.”

“When will it happen? When will they come for me?”

“Flinn knows you're on leave. He probably hasn't thought too much about your exact whereabouts. They could get you before you leave with Harold. I'd get the hell out of Mongkok, at least.”

“Why a
criminal charge
? Why isn't there a disciplinary?”

“They've got proof, they charge you,” Hudson said, coughing messily. “Disciplinary will come afterwards. Kick you out if you're guilty – and if you're not. Ha-ha.”

“Bloody hell!” Brodie said desperately, unable to think.

Hudson's breath rattled in his throat as he toked on a cigarette. “Maybe Flinn only wants to know there's a warrant out for you, like I'm telling you, and hopes you'll go on leave, and never come back! Ah-hah! Ha-hah! I don't know.”

“Thank's for the call, Freddie.”

“Lie low. You may get away with Harold. You need help, call me. I'm sure we can sort this, Mike, my son.”

Brodie was running with moisture when he replaced the handset. His mind darted in confusion between the possibilities as he levered himself up from the bed. He had underestimated the speed at which Flinn could move. Or were Flinn – and Hudson – together, trying to scare him?

23

It was three am. Brodie had to act without delay. He pulled on jeans, an old shirt, and old moccasins. He reached down the canvas travel bag from the top of the wardrobe, ignored the dust, and threw in his best underclothes, socks, a thin summer suit, a pair of Nikes, a swimsuit and his toilet gear. He prowled the room for other necessities, a couple of ties, shirts, a sweater, his anorak. He'd have to leave the rest.

He stood over the table and scribbled a note to Andy Marsden. IID could be on the stairs, coming for him.
I've decided to leave HK for good, and only just made up my mind. I don't want any explanations. You'll understand. I'll write from Manila to the Department. All things in my room for you. Best, Mike.

It was a matter of pride to keep the note calm; mentioning Flinn's latest machinations would make it sound as though he was running scared – and he was. He wrote Marsden's name on an envelope, sealed it with the note inside, and propped the envelope against a book on the table. He took one last look round the folorn, unlived-in room. He touched his breast pocket with his cash and passport, and let himself out quietly. He went rapidly down the deserted stairs. The desk sergeant had his attention on papers. The building was awake, flooded with jaundiced light, the tap of typewriters, and the mush of distorted radio voices, the bang of doors, peremptory voices giving orders. The machine was grinding on.

He ran, at first out of fear, then walked. He went by the back streets. He could call Harold Evans at about eight-thirty. To kill time he loitered at the end of Haiphong Road, near Harbour City; there were plenty of spaces where he could watch people without becoming conspicuous. He toyed with the idea of taking a water taxi, and then rejected it. He would be less obvious amongst the early morning crowds on the ferry. He went down a dark alley, and sat on a beer crate, and dozed. Nearly five hours crawled by. At eight, he moved up Canton Road toward the Star terminal. There were no police outside the pay booth. His tongue was thick and slimy in his mouth; his hair itched. He crossed in the ferry, and called Harold Evans from a payphone.

“Hi, Harold, Mike Brodie.”

“Ah, good man.”

“I'll be on my way to the marina. I'll be meeting Helen Lau there.”

“Great. I'm leaving the flat now, Mike. I think we'll get away from the basin about eleven. Shake out our tackle in the harbour for half an hour or so.”

“OK, see you.”

Brodie headed for Causeway Bay on foot. He walked in streets he didn't expect to see again. Another new day was starting in the dust and decay; street-sweepers with their barrows; two labourers in shorts and bare feet sitting on a wall eating bowls of rice; an old woman packing up her bed in a doorway; children chasing each other, a pole of washing, dripping, pushed out overhead with a cautionary laugh. As he drew near the marina, he could see Harold's black-hulled forty foot craft amongst the forest of masts in the typhoon shelter, moored thirty yards out.

Brodie bought two oranges from a stall, and walked out along the breakwater. He was looking for a place he could hide, and wait for Helen. He left the path, and settled himself between two of the concrete sea-defence blocks piled along the edge of the harbour. If he raised his head, he could see Hung Hing Road. In the other direction, through a cluster of masts, he could see
Pacific Cloud
riding at anchor. He sat in the sun, and peeled the oranges, breathing the oily perfume of the skins, letting the juice sluice away the slime in his throat. He watched the tide carry the peel along by the stones. A flood of tiredness engulfed his agitation.

He started, alerted by the sound of somebody's approach. He jerked round. Andy Marsden, dark-suited, was advancing with urgency. A black and white patrol car, which had evidently brought him, had pulled up at the end of the breakwater. Brodie suffered a sudden agony that everything was going to go wrong; he showed himself; he had no alternative.

“What the hell's going on?” Marsden shouted as he got near.

Brodie's words dried up, and Marsden loomed over him on the rocks.

“I had to go to the station early, and I went up to your room. You can't walk out like this. What about Vanessa?”

“I don't want her.”

“And your place in the Force?”

Brodie shaded his eyes, and looked up at Marsden's glistening face. “I don't fit in.”

“What an irresponsible bastard you are,” Marsden exploded. “You're supposed to be a member of a disciplined unit. One man gets blown apart, and you go to pieces!”