Hungry Ghost (24 page)

‘A couple of cases that need tidying up, nothing much. One of them comes to court next week so I had to get all the paperwork out of the way. Really boring stuff, but it has to be done.’

‘You don’t like your job, do you?’

Dugan shrugged. ‘It’s OK. But I’d rather be doing real policework, rather than just shuffling papers. Life is funny, isn’t it? We spend almost one third of our lives doing jobs we don’t particularly like, and another one third asleep. That means we only do what we really want to do for one third of our lives, and into that time we have to cram eating, washing, shopping, cleaning the house. Life is so short, Petal. Too short to fill with things we don’t enjoy. Don’t you think?’

‘At least you can change your life, Pat. You can switch jobs, or you can always go back to England.’

‘Sure, but I still have to work. But what can I do? No work, no money. And Hong Kong is the last place in the world to be without money. That’s what makes the place tick. I wish I’d been born rich.’

‘You’re not poor, not by any means.’ She reached up and touched his cheek. ‘Stop feeling sorry for yourself.’ She pinched the lobe of his ear, hard.

‘Ouch,’ he said, surprised at the pain, but at the same time excited by it.

‘Well,’ she said, ‘you need jogging out of your misery. Stop being so morose.’

‘Yeah, you’re right,’ he said grudgingly. The waiter returned, a plate in each hand. ‘Do you feel like wine?’

‘No, I’m fine with Perrier,’ she said. Dugan ordered a lager for himself, and another Perrier for Petal. She toyed with her food, pecking at it with her fork.

‘Not hungry?’ he asked.

‘I’m OK,’ she said brightly. ‘I’m just feeling a bit, how do you say it, out of sorts.’

‘I’m sorry. Can I help?’

‘Just being here helps,’ she said. She put her knife and fork down. ‘You don’t know how lucky you are,’ she said earnestly.

‘What do you mean?’

‘You have so much freedom. You can go anywhere. Do anything. I envy you, and all you do is complain.’ Dugan realized he had touched a nerve and reached over to hold her hand. ‘Imagine living in a world where you are told what to do all the time: what to study, where to work, what to eat, where to live, what to think. To have no freedom at all. To be taken away from your family, to be made to work on a farm, to be forced into a job you don’t want to do just because you show a talent for it. You have so much freedom, Pat, and you fritter it away and moan about what a tough life you have.’

Tears were welling up in her eyes and the couple at the next table glanced over to look at the big, awkward gweilo bullying the small Chinese girl. Dugan hunched forward over his plate, wanting to get closer to her, wanting to comfort her but not knowing the magic words that would make it all right.

‘Do you have any idea what life is like in China, Pat Dugan? Have you any idea at all?’

He shook his head. He wanted to tell her that it was OK, that he understood, except that he didn’t think he did.

‘I’ll tell you a story,’ she said slowly. ‘And maybe when I’ve finished you’ll count your blessings and stop feeling so sorry for yourself.’ She sniffed and groped in her bag for a packet of paper handkerchiefs. ‘I was born in Shanghai,’ she said. ‘My mother was a singer, a very famous singer. She could sing Chinese opera, but preferred western music and jazz, and in Shanghai during the fifties and early sixties she was as famous as Anita Mui is in Hong Kong today. Her concerts were packed out, and she was courted by all the rich and famous people, invited to all the best parties. She was a star, a real star, not one of the manufactured Cantonese pop idols of today. She had the pick of all the eligible men in Shanghai, but chose my father, a doctor. One of those crazy things; she sprained her ankle horse-riding, he was there when she fell, he treated her, they fell in love. In any normal, sane world they would have been happy ever after. But not in China.’

‘What happened?’ Dugan asked quietly, conscious that, for whatever reason, Petal was allowing him inside her shell for the first time.

‘They married, they had me, and three years later my brother was born. That was before the days of the one-couple, one-child craziness. For a time we were the happiest family you could imagine; we were rich, life in Shanghai was so good. It was a thriving, bustling city, lots to do, lots of places for children to play. We lived in a big house, with servants, and horses. I had my own pony. You can’t imagine how perfect it was.’

Her voice was dropping in volume and Dugan had to strain to hear her over the noise of the videos.

‘And then?’ he said, gently urging her on.

‘The Cultural Revolution,’ she said. ‘The country went mad. Anything artistic, anybody with money, anybody who was not prepared to swear total and complete allegiance to the Communists, was treated with such contempt, such bitterness, such savagery. The Red Guards stormed our house one day. Actually that’s not true, the servants let them in. The servants joined them. They smashed up everything we had. I have no pictures of my parents, none of my mother’s records. They even killed my pony, can you think of anything so horrible, so vindictive? They slit its throat in front of me, screaming that animals were for food or for work, not for pleasure. Patrick, they killed my pony.’

She was crying out loud now, small sobs that she tried to stifle with her handkerchief. Dugan felt totally lost. He had no idea what had brought this on, and had no idea what to say. She blew her nose, pocketed the screwed-up ball of tissue and picked up her knife and fork. She had her head down over her plate as she hacked at her burger, her hair hanging forward like a veil. She looked up with a forkful of meat halfway to her mouth and tried to smile.

‘I’m sorry,’ she said. ‘I didn’t mean to sound so upset. I’ve just had a hard day, that’s all. I’ll be all right, honest.’

Her eyes looked different, as if a bullet-proof screen had come down behind her pupils, locking her emotions in and Dugan out. He felt cheated; for one blinding moment he had glimpsed the pearl within the shell, and then it had closed. He didn’t know how long it would be before she opened up to him again, or if she ever would. He began to eat again, but the chicken had no taste.

Both English-language television channels closed down at about one o’clock in the morning. Howells flicked through the buttons on the remote control. He found a black-and-white Chinese historical drama where the men had pigtails and the women looked like porcelain dolls, and a horse-racing programme presented by two young Chinese men in matching blazers. He switched off the set and got undressed. He’d wake up soon enough when Grey rang. For the moment he was tired, dog-tired. His calf muscles ached from the exertions of the morning, and his knees were grazed where he’d scraped against rocks on the sea bed. He slipped quickly and easily into sleep.

Whatever had upset Petal, it didn’t get any better as the evening progressed. She seemed lifeless and withdrawn, almost a stranger. Dugan tried to make light of it, told her a few jokes which were rewarded with a weak smile and did everything short of standing on his head to win her round.

‘I’m sorry, Pat, I’m terrible company tonight,’ she said, half-way through her third Perrier water.

‘No you’re not,’ he said. ‘Perhaps you’d feel better after a drink.’ He raised his glass of lager. ‘Drown your sorrows.’

She shook her head. ‘Drink won’t help,’ she said. ‘Anyway, I’ve got a headache. A drink is the last thing I need.’

Dugan waved at a waiter and asked for the bill. It arrived on a stainless steel tray and he paid with a handful of red notes.

‘I’ll take you home,’ offered Dugan, pulling out her chair for her.

‘No, no need,’ she said. ‘I just don’t feel very well, that’s all. I’ll just go home and rest. You stay here; your friends will be downstairs, won’t they?’

‘Of course,’ he laughed. ‘They never go anywhere else.’

‘Well, you stay here with them. You can walk me to a taxi.’ She held his arm as they walked out of the door and down the steps to the road. A cab was waiting there with its light on but with a red card with the Chinese characters for Hong Kong covering its ‘For Hire’ sign. Dugan held the door for her. She stood in front of him, her breasts against his chest, her head tilted back so that she could look at his face. ‘Thank you for a lovely evening,’ she said. Dugan snorted, but he smiled as he did it. ‘I’m serious,’ she said. ‘I’ll be OK tomorrow, I’m sure.’

‘I hope so,’ said Dugan. He kissed her on the forehead. ‘Petal?’

‘Hmm?’

‘Is there anything I can do to help?’

‘Don’t be so silly,’ she said. She reached up, linking her arms around his neck and pulling herself up on tiptoe to kiss him full on the lips. ‘Good night,’ she said, and slid into the taxi.

Dugan closed the door and stood on the pavement to watch it drive towards the harbour. He could see the dark shape of her head in the middle of the back seat. She didn’t turn round and Dugan felt cold and empty inside. He turned and went back to the lights and noise of the disco.

There were three of them, two men and a girl. One of the men bent down over the lock and inserted two thin pieces of wire, one hard, the other curved and springy with a hook on one end. While he worked, silently pushing the tumblers back one by one, the girl and the second man stood at either end of the corridor, keeping watch. It took him less than a minute, and then he rested back on his heels and nodded to his colleagues. They walked carefully, placing each foot flat on the carpet, heel then toe, arms slightly away from their body so that they didn’t even disturb the night air with the rustle of clothing.

There was no need to speak; the three had worked together for many years. They worked as one. The lock-picker slowly rose to his feet and rested his palm against the wooden door. He put his tools in the inside pocket of his poorly fitting suit and slowly opened the door. All three were tidal breathing, their lungs taking in just enough air to breathe, no exertion, mouths slightly open.

The two men entered first, moving as if in slow motion, past the bathroom and the minibar, stopping as the girl gently pushed the door closed, turning the handle in fractions of degrees so that it locked with no noise. She carried a small leather bag in one hand. The room was very dark, the thick curtains blocking any outside light, and the trio stood for a while until their eyes grew used to the room. They could make out the dressing-table, the wardrobes, the television, the bedside table and Howells, lying on his back, one arm across the pillows, the other under the single sheet that covered the lower half of his body. It was hot and airless in the room because he’d switched off the air-conditioning.

They moved quickly then, the two men up on the balls of their feet crossing quickly to opposite sides of the bed, grabbing an arm each. Howells woke as the man on his left grabbed hold of his arm, the nails biting into his flesh. He rolled towards him, freeing his right arm from under the sheet and preparing to slash out, fingers curled to strike when it too was seized and thrust down on to the bed. Howells made no sound, he knew there was no reason to cry out, there would be no one to help him. He tried to lift his shoulders off the bed but a bitter-smelling hand hit him in the face and pushed him back on to the pillow, the palm firmly under his chin, clamping his jaw together and making breathing difficult. The fingers of the hand moved to either side of his nostrils and he was forced to breathe through clenched teeth like a muzzled dog.

He tensed, waiting for the knife or the gun or whatever else they were going to use, testing their strength by pulling his arms in towards him. There were two hands holding his left arm, one holding the right, because it was the man on his right who was holding down his head. That was a mistake; Howells was right-handed and when he moved that would be the way he’d go. He kicked out with his legs, pushing the sheet off the bottom of the bed so that he’d be able to lash out with his legs. He saw the girl then. She was standing at the dressing-table with her back towards him. She was dressed in black and seemed little more than a shadow, and when she turned her face and hands were all he could see, everything else faded into the dark. Even her face was partly obscured by her black hair. She was pretty, very pretty, and Howells had the feeling that he’d seen her somewhere before but he couldn’t place it, there was just a niggling feeling at the back of his mind. She had something in her right hand, and as she stepped forward to the foot of the bed he could see it was a hypodermic, the needle pointed to the ceiling. She held it in both hands, pushing the plunger up slowly and expelling a small amount of the liquid. It dripped slowly down the needle and she tilted it so that it wouldn’t run down her hands.

She moved to the left side of the bed, stepping on the sheet that he’d kicked on to the floor. Howells moved his legs up the bed, crossing his left thigh across his groin, and she smiled at his attempt to cover himself. She knelt on the bed, slowly, handling the hypodermic carefully as she prepared to mount him. Howells flinched, drawing his legs up to his left side, and her smile grew wider. She flicked her head to one side, throwing the black sheet of hair away from her face and she was still smiling when Howells threw all his weight to the left and swung his right leg round and kicked her full on the side of the face with the ball of his right foot, the toes pulled back, the ankle tense, hard enough to kill if he hadn’t been held flat on his back and only able to use the lower half of his body.

Her head snapped away and she crashed off the bed, the hypodermic spinning through the air and hitting the curtains. Howells pulled in with both arms, breathing hard with the exertion, then quickly thrust his right arm to the side, slipping through the man’s hand just enough so that he could twist it round. He kicked across with the left leg, missing the head but making the man relax his grip again. He released Howells’ head but before he could get both hands to hold the arm Howells twisted again and grabbed the man’s index finger. He bent it back savagely, hearing the bone crack. The man screamed involuntarily but then bit back the pain as Howells released him. The man on his left hadn’t moved, he’d concentrated on holding the left arm firmly on the bed, and he looked across in surprise as Howells’ right arm whipped across, fingers rock-hard, the cutting edge of the hand curving through the air and then arcing up and thrusting hard into his temple. His head jerked back and both hands let go. Howells was on his feet immediately, crouched low on the bed. The man shook his head and his eyes focused just in time to see the second strike coming, a clenched fist that smashed into his windpipe and shattered the cartilage. He collapsed on top of the girl, his eyes wide with panic as he fought for breath, air bubbling through the blood that ran thickly down into his aching lungs.