Mr Wong Goes West (32 page)

Malachy and Balapit yanked furiously at their controls, but they seemed to have no effect.

Skyparc continued to move forwards at high speed without slowing. In front of them was an unforgiving grey, rocky peak—which the plane was approaching steadily.

‘Slow it down, slow it down,’ Balapit shrieked.

Malachy was trying to use the retro jets to slow the plane’s forward movement, but there was a problem: ‘They’re full of snow,’ he shouted over the thunderous noise of the plane’s belly tearing up against the frozen ground. ‘There’s no response.’ Tons of ice crystals thrown up by the initial touchdown had been gulped up by the front vents of the engines.

As Skyparc closed in on the far end of the Fire Dragon’s Back, the top of the tailplane finally cracked and the structure started to break away. It stuck into the ground and acted as a
brake, cutting right through the snow layer, etching a line into the hard ice below.

The plane slowed, twisted, and finally came to a halt at a forty-five degree angle to the ridge, anchored by the trailing tailplane.

There was sudden, complete, wonderful silence.

And then it vanished in a chorus of screams, cheers and yells that echoed off the sides of the Kunlun Shan.

Joyce grinned up at Army. ‘Free, 1978,’ she said.

‘What?’

‘“All Right Now”. Yeah, baby, we’re
all right now
.’

A plane touched down at Heathrow Airport. Not a Skyparc. Not a giant plane of any sort. Just an ordinary Airbus 340. On it were some tired but happy travellers: a group of thrilled-to-have-arrived passengers who had expected to have been on a memorable, history-making flight—but had not anticipated just how memorable and history-making it was destined to be.

They had been quickly rescued from Uncle Rinchang’s Walk by an airborne division of China’s People’s Liberation Army, bringing in blankets and hot tea, and escorting them in small groups to a lower plateau where they filed into a series of waiting helicopters. There were a few broken limbs, and many bruises and abrasions. But no lives had been lost.

The choppers shuttled them to a Chinese town called Shache for cursory medical check-ups. They were then sent to the nearest big city, which was Islamabad, just over the Pakistan border, where they were placed in the hands of representatives of their nearest embassies for repatriation. After a day’s rest and a good night’s sleep at the five-star Serena Hotel in the shadow of the Margalla Hills, part of the Himalayan mountain range, Airbus Industrie of Europe chartered an A340 to pick them up and fly them to their original destination six thousand kilometres away: London. They arrived nine hours later.

Joyce stopped on the top step, taken aback. ‘Cheese. Who are all these people?’

‘Well-wishers, I guess. I guess we must have all been on the news and stuff.’ Army gave a wave to the crowd. ‘We’re celebrities.’

‘Yikes.’

Captain Malachy was standing behind them. ‘A tarmac meet ’n’ greet. How nice. How rare,’ he added. ‘You should feel honoured, kids. The airport authorities in London very rarely let family and friends onto the air side—just on very special occasions. A delightful custom. They should revive it more often.’

The passengers walked down the metal aircraft steps, gazing at the large crowd waiting to greet them, and waving to family members they recognised. Although there were several hundred people present, they were kept orderly by a barrier of velvet ropes, like a crowd waiting at the red carpet in a movie premiere. There were also several soldiers present, some
dark-windowed cars, and clusters of people in front of the barriers: more VIPs.

‘Good grief,’ said Army Armstrong-Phillips. ‘My great-aunt’s here.’

‘Your aunt? Not your parents?’

Then it occurred to Joyce who he was talking about. ‘Your
great
-
aunt
? You mean, like
her
?’ Her fist flew to her mouth.

Army said: ‘And lookie here. She’s brought her grandsons with her.’

This time it took less than two seconds for Joyce to work out the family connections and guess to whom he was referring. Her eyes grew wide and she dropped the bag she was holding. ‘You mean?
You mean?
Where?
Where
?’ This last word was uttered in a state of feverish excitement. She dropped his hand and abandoned him, pushing her way down the rest of the staircase and racing towards the crowd.

Army turned to the pilot. ‘When Prince Will appears, everything else is forgotten. It’s the story of my life.’

Behind them, passengers streamed off the aircraft, breaking into happy yelps as they spotted friends and relatives and started running.

Wong and Sinha stood to one side, watching the emotional reunions with a very Asian disdain for public shows of affection.

‘Welcome to London. It’s not so bad, is it?’ Sinha said, looking around the cluster of airport buildings and filling his chest with iced air. ‘The West is really just like the East. A little chillier, perhaps, but not really any different.’

The feng shui master looked unimpressed. ‘Just wait,’ he said. ‘Too much drama in the West. Even getting here, too much excitement. Bombs, violence. Very Western. Hope we can go home soon.’

‘Surely you can’t wait to see Buckingham Palace?’

‘Can’t wait to see my home,’ the geomancer said.

‘Why so sour?’

‘Not been paid yet. And person who promise to pay—he is locked up. Jailbird now. Who is going to pay me?’

Sinha made a sympathetic cooing sound. ‘I see the problem. Jackson may still pay you—although you may have to wait until all the court cases have gone through. It has all become a bit complicated. Probably take months to work it all out.’

‘Months?’

‘Oh, yes. Maybe years. It will all be bogged down in a morass of legal claims, I expect. Could go on for a decade. Remember Jarndyce v. Jarndyce?’

Wong scowled, thinking of Arun Asif Iqbal Daswani and his knife-wielding friends, waiting for him back in Singapore. Expecting to be paid in a few days.

Aiyeeah
. Why did the gods hate him so?

The sky, grey and dark, began to open up. Mischievous gusts of wind appeared from nowhere and knocked hats off the heads of people in the crowd. Headscarfs were pulled out of shape and scarves whipped away.

Then, just minutes later, the wind dropped and it began to snow. Large, fat flakes descended slowly, meandering in the air as they found their way to shoulders and the tops of shoes.

‘Pretty,’ said Janet Moore to Dilip Sinha, as her hair became whiter.

Army gave his great-aunt a hug, and then wandered around, looking for Joyce. She appeared squealing, banshee-like out of the crowd and grabbed his hand, sucking him into the throng of people.

‘Come,’ she said. ‘There are some people I want you to meet.’

He followed obediently. ‘If it’s my cousins once removed, I’ve already met them.’

But it was two young people, a European girl with short, dark hair, and a stocky Eurasian man.

‘This is Nina and Jason,’ Joyce said. ‘They’re my friends from Hong Kong. It’s so weird—they saw me off in Hong Kong. And now they’re here.’

Nina shook Army’s hand and explained: ‘When we heard your plane crashed, but everyone survived and would be flown on to London, we got money from our folks to fly over to London and greet you guys. We thought it would be nice if there was someone waiting for Joyce, her folks not being very good at remembering she’s alive and all that sort of thing. I hope you don’t mind me saying that, Joyce?’

‘No.’

Nina whispered to Joyce. ‘Should I curtsy to him or something?’

‘Nah. I hope you don’t mind. I told them you were a royal.’

‘I don’t mind,’ Army said generously.

‘I also told them you were totally ordinary.’

‘I am.
Totally
ordinary. And proud of it.’

Jason grabbed Joyce’s shoulder. ‘Kid, did you hear the news about Paul?’

‘No?’

‘Abel went to see him several times. Kept him in the loop about what was happening with you. Then, as soon as all that stuff came out on the news about new evidence being discovered in his case, Abel started proceedings to get Paul out of jail. He should be out on bail soon, if not already.’

‘That’s brilliant. I feel…I feel…ooh, Eric Clapton, 1977.’

‘“Wonderful Tonight”,’ said Jason.

‘Let’s go out and have some fun, the four of us,’ said Nina. ‘If you guys are not too tired.’

‘Well, we have had a fair bit of excitement the last couple of days,’ said Army, catching Joyce’s eye.

Joyce entwined her fingers with his. ‘Bachman Turner Overdrive, 1974,’ she said to him.

The young man wrinkled up his face in thought as he tried to play the game. ‘Got it,’ he said. ‘“You Ain’t Seen Nothin’ Yet.”’

Joyce touched his lips with her finger.