Hungry Ghost (25 page)

Howells whirled around, dropping down into his fighting crouch again, but as he did his ears roared with a deafening explosion that stunned him and he felt a crashing blow on his right shoulder that knocked him backwards into the modernistic painting on the wall behind the headboard. He rolled along the wall, smearing blood against the painting, and staggered off the bed. The pain hit him then, a red wave that flashed from his shoulder and made him grit his teeth, swallowing the roar of rage that wanted to erupt from his mouth. He dropped low, forward hand up to block any attack, rear hand clenched at waist height, ready to punch despite the searing pain. It was a reflex action because the strength had deserted his right arm, it ached fiercely and he could feel wetness spreading around the wound. The man with the broken finger was standing with a wicked-looking gun in hand, a wisp of smoke oozing from the barrel. Howells realized that if he hadn’t been turning the bullet would have struck him in the middle of the back, instead of hitting him in the shoulder. He knew also that he had to move immediately because he could see the man’s finger tightening on the trigger. He was perfectly calm, despite being stark naked and facing a man with a gun. All fear, all hesitation, had long ago been trained out of Howells. The gun was in the man’s left hand, the right hand out for balance with the index finger awkwardly crooked, and Howells knew instinctively that the man was right-handed. He ducked to the left, a feinting movement that moved the gun just a fraction, and then dropped his weight back on his right leg and flicked his forward leg out and up, so fast the movement was a blur. It wasn’t a killing kick, there was little or no focus, but it moved so quickly that before the man’s finger could generate enough force to pull the trigger the foot had reached its target, knocking the gun upwards. Only then did the trigger kick, the explosion making Howells flinch as the bullet ripped over his head and buried itself into the plaster ceiling. Howells dropped his kicking leg to the floor and moved forward, bringing his right knee up and then powering forward, focusing the kick a good nine inches behind the man’s sternum, kicking through him rather than at him. As the ball of his foot connected with the chest, Howells twisted his hip into the kick, tightening all the muscles in his legs, the whole weight of his body behind the blow. A killing blow. The sternum disintegrated and the diaphragm collapsed as Howells followed through until the man slammed into the wall, blood frothing from his lips as he grunted and died.

Howells stood over the man as he slumped to the floor, watched as his eyes filmed over and only then did he walk over to the mirror above the dressing-table, to check the damage to his shoulder. The man’s gun had been a small calibre, a .22 maybe, not a professional’s gun. There was no exit wound, the bullet was still in there; he couldn’t feel it, but he knew he would once his body’s adrenalin and enkephalin had dropped to normal.

He was lucky, lucky that the man hadn’t had a .357, lucky that he’d ducked as he turned, lucky that he’d hurt the man’s shooting hand. Lucky that they’d planned to kill him with some sort of an injection and not a bullet. But luck was often all that separated the living from the dead. Luck and training.

He dressed as quickly as he could, knowing that someone was sure to have reported the shot. He pulled on his trousers and his socks and shoes, using only his left hand. He could feel blood dripping down his shoulder, so he shook a pillow out of its case and wrapped the white linen across the wound before gingerly putting on a rust-coloured shirt. It wouldn’t stop all the bleeding but at least it wouldn’t show if it soaked into the shirt.

He looked at himself in the mirror. The bulky pillowcase was bulging under the shirt, it was as obvious as hell. He had a black cotton bomber jacket so he put that on, too. That looked better. His wallet was on the dressing-table and he put it in his jacket pocket, using his left hand, and then slotted his passport and Donaldson’s into the back pocket of his jeans.

The shock was beginning to wear off and shafts of pain shot through his shoulder, making him wince. He stood with his eyes closed, breathing deeply and willing the pain to go away, then he moved quickly to the door. He couldn’t risk taking his bag or belongings in case the front desk stopped him. He checked the corridor, both sides, and then slipped out, locking the door behind him.

Pat Dugan was pissed. Well pissed. He’d stayed in Hot Gossip with Burr and a handful of the anti-triad boys, drinking hard and fast. He was angry at Petal for leaving him, angry with himself for not knowing how to handle the situation, and angry at the world in general. He laughed too loud and drank too much until even Burr told him he’d had enough.

‘Fuck you,’ Dugan told him.

‘Fuck you, too,’ said Burr. ‘Go home.’ He walked off, leaving Dugan standing by himself at the bar.

‘Time to go, Pat,’ he told himself and then headed unsteadily to the exit, bumping into one of the dinner-jacketed bouncers on the way out.

A cab pulled up in front of a young Chinese couple standing at the kerbside and Dugan grabbed at the handle, getting hold of it a fraction of a second before they did. He yanked open the door and glared drunkenly at them, daring them to argue. They moved away, embarrassed by the open show of hostility, and Dugan tumbled on to the back seat. The driver leant over and pulled the door shut. Dugan lay where he was, face down, and shouted his address in Cantonese. The driver grunted and drove off.

Howells had to stand in a queue outside the Hilton Hotel while a tall, bulky Indian with a gleaming white turban, black and yellow tunic and white breeches went down to Queen’s Road and flagged down taxis, directing them up the slip road. As he stood in line he felt faint, his head filled with the throbbing sound of his own heartbeat. He gasped for breath and rubbed his forehead with his sweating left hand. His right arm and shoulder ached horribly. His legs began to tremble and he had to lock his knees rigid to stop himself falling over. Two cabs arrived, then a third, and then thankfully it was his turn. The Indian asked, in impeccable English, where he was going, and only then did he realize that he had no idea, simply that he had to get away from the hotel before the bodies were discovered. He heard himself say ‘Wan Chai’ before he carefully got into the cab.

The Indian nodded and told the driver, and the driver grinned at him. ‘Another fucking gweilo about to get fleeced,’ he said in rapid Cantonese.

‘They never learn,’ agreed the Indian.

‘Fuck his mother,’ said the driver, slamming the car into gear and lurching back to the road. Howells groaned and kept his eyes shut.

There were certain preparations that had to be made if Dugan was to make it through the night, what was left of it. He made sure the aircon was switched on, and pulled a plastic bottle of distilled water out of the fridge and drank as much of it as he could force down before placing it next to his bed. He took a bottle of orange-flavoured Eno fruit salts and tipped a spoonful into a glass and put that down next to the water. He did it all on automatic pilot, humming quietly to himself, and then he sat down on the bed and undressed, dropping the clothes on the floor before flopping back and passing out. He’d left the light on, but he didn’t notice.

The taxi stopped outside the Washington Club and Howells fumbled with his wallet. He handed over two green notes and didn’t wait for the change. The driver grinned and used a lever under the dashboard to pull the door closed after him.

The aged doorman heaved himself off his wooden stool and opened the door for him, allowing out the pulsing beat of a Cantonese pop song. Howells caught sight of his reflection in the fish tank as he walked into the bar. He looked terrible. Big deal. He felt terrible. He felt like his shoulder had been put between the jaws of a red-hot vice and was being squeezed, hard. The bar was busy but there were a couple of empty seats side by side and he walked to one, being careful not to bump his arm. On the seat to his left was a small man in a crumpled beige suit with sweat stains under the armpits drinking Foster’s lager from a can. He raised it to Howells. ‘How’s it going, digger?’ he asked in a broad Australian accent.

‘Great,’ said Howells. The Australian had blank eyes, a film of sweat over his skin, and a stupid grin on his face. He was well gone.

Howells looked around for Amy. He missed her at first because she was standing on the opposite side of the bar with her back to him, caught between two men in dark business suits, drinking champagne. One of them had his hand on her hip, the other was looming over her, teeth bared like a vampire about to take a piece out of her neck. She laughed out loud and he thought it sounded forced. Wishful thinking, maybe.

She turned to pick up the bottle of champagne out of a battered stainless steel ice bucket and pour the last drop into her glass. She saw Howells then and instantly smiled at him, then followed it by pulling a face and nodding her head towards the man on her left. He grimaced back and she smiled again. She held her hand up, fingers splayed and mouthed ‘five minutes’. She was wearing a lemon-coloured evening dress with white frothy lace arms. Howells nodded and told the barhag in front of him that he wanted to see the wine list.

‘Huh?’ she barked at him.

‘Lager,’ he said.

She screamed the order over the top of his head at one of the waiters behind him.

‘What’s your name?’ she asked him, leaning her elbows on the bar and breathing garlic fumes into his face.

‘Fuck off,’ he said. She glanced at him and cursed in Cantonese. ‘Fuck off,’ he repeated, quietly this time, and she read the menace in his eyes. She backed away, saying nothing.

The Australian was impressed. ‘Jesus, digger, you sure know how to treat a girl.’ Howells ignored him.

He left his right hand on the bar, trying to keep the weight off his throbbing shoulder. Occasionally he lifted the glass of lager to his lips but he only sipped at it. His mouth felt dry but he knew alcohol would only dehydrate him and that would make him feel worse.

It took Amy more than fifteen minutes to drag herself away from the three-piece-suited barracudas, during which she drank two more glasses of champagne and allowed them to fondle her breasts, albeit briefly.

She stroked the back of his neck as she passed behind him, then allowed her hand to move across his right shoulder. Howells nearly screamed and he had to clamp his teeth together to keep the noise in. It felt as if she’d stuck a red-hot poker into his flesh and then twisted it round, deeper and deeper. She pulled back her hand as if he’d bit it.

‘What’s wrong?’ she said.

Howells kept his eyes closed but he could still see a red mist punctuated with flashes of bright yellow light. He waited until the waves of pain subsided before he risked opening them. He saw Amy sitting on the stool next to him, one hand covering her wall of teeth.

‘Tom, what’s the matter?’

Howells kept his voice low so that the Australian wouldn’t hear him. ‘I need your help, Amy.’ The dimpled barhag appeared next to him and demanded that he buy Amy a drink. He agreed and she walked off, a satisfied smirk on her face.

‘What do you mean?’ Amy asked.

‘Can I pay your bar fine?’ he asked urgently. ‘Can I take you out?’

‘Of course. But it is expensive. Are you sure you want to?’

‘Yes,’ he hissed, the pain returning.

‘I’ll speak to the mamasan,’ she said. She slipped off the stool in a rustle of silk and went over to a wrinkled old woman who was wearing an ill-fitting wig and an equally ill-fitting navy blue dress. She had a lousy dress sense, but Howells could see she was wearing a solid gold Rolex and he doubted that it was a fake.

The old woman looked at Howells and he felt as if he was a side of beef being weighed up by a butcher. Then she nodded and Amy smiled and came back over, her hands clasped together across her stomach.

‘Mamasan says it’s OK. How will you pay?’

Very romantic, thought Howells, but he knew it wasn’t romance he needed. It was help, a place to hide and someone who knew what they were doing to take the bullet out.

Howells gingerly took his wallet out and handed it to Amy. ‘Take out what you want,’ he said. She looked through it and pulled out a handful of notes before giving it back.

‘You stay here while I change,’ she said.

‘Don’t worry,’ said Howells. ‘I won’t run away.’

Thomas Ng couldn’t remember exactly when it had happened, but somewhere along the line he’d begun to develop a fear of flying. He could remember the time when he thought no more of making the trip from San Francisco to Hong Kong than he did of driving through the Cross Harbour Tunnel or over the Golden Gate Bridge. The first few times he’d actually enjoyed the flight, relishing time to relax away from ever-ringing phones and the demands of others, time to watch a movie and catch up on some work. Then the trip became a regular chore, something that had to be done to keep the family business running, painless but boring. Not something he gave any thought to. But recently he had started to dread the flight, lying awake the night before, tossing and turning, trying wherever possible to postpone the time when he’d be sitting in an aluminium tube thousands of feet above the earth. He’d begun asking for aisle seats so that he couldn’t see the wings flexing, he’d started taking a couple of Valiums an hour or so before checking in at the airport. And whereas in the old days he’d have sipped a tonic water with his meal, now he’d put away a couple of Martinis. Or more. None of it helped; he could still feel his heart beating, the sweat beading on his forehead, the physiological symptoms of his apprehension. To make it worse, this time he’d had to fly United Airlines, all the Asian airlines had been fully booked. So instead of being waited on by the girls of Cathay Pacific he had to suffer overweight gweipors with fat arses, plastic smiles and too much make-up.

First had been full and half the plane seemed to have been given over to Business Class and the treatment he was receiving was worse than he’d ever got in Economy with Cathay or Singapore or Thai. He’d held out his jacket to a blonde with scarlet-smeared lips and over-plucked eyebrows but she just looked at him with contempt and suggested he put it in one of the overhead lockers. He’d asked for a Martini and been told he’d have to wait. He asked for headphones and was told they’d be issued after they’d taken off. Ng supposed it was to be expected with a Western airline, but he’d had no choice, he had to get to Hong Kong immediately.