by Jean Moran
Tears of the Dragon
TEARS OF THE DRAGON
Jean Moran
www.headofzeus.com
First published in the UK in 2019 by Head of Zeus Ltd
Copyright © Jean Moran, 2019
The moral right of Jean Moran to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act of 1988.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the prior permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.
This is a work of fiction. All characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
9 7 5 3 1 2 4 6 8
A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.
ISBN (HB): 9781788542555
ISBN (XTPB): 9781789543391
ISBN (E): 9781788542548
Typeset by NewGen
Printed and bound in Great Britain by CPI Group (UK) Ltd, Croydon cr0 4yy
Head of Zeus Ltd
First Floor East
5–8 Hardwick Street
London ec1r 4rg
www.headofzeus.com
Black Christmas, no snow.
High fences, no freedom.
Sunburst, cloud and black rain.
Contents
Welcome Page
Copyright Page
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
About the Author
An Invitation from the Publisher
1
Hong Kong, 1941
There was only one car on the Star ferry, about to head away from Hong Kong to Kowloon. The vehicle was uninteresting, but the woman sitting behind the steering-wheel was exceptionally good-looking, her hair dark and her features strikingly imperial.
Her companion was fair, and her eyes were shining with excitement. ‘Rowena, I might get drunk this evening.’
‘Pace yourself, Alice. The night is still young.’
‘We’re the only car. Did you notice that? Though that chap over there has a bicycle.’
Most of the foot passengers were huddled around the exit, keen to disembark as quickly as possible. The bicycle was slung over the man’s shoulder.
Close by a broad-set man, wearing a black tunic over Chinese-style pantaloons, was leaning over the side rail, looking down into the black water, a smouldering cigarette clinging to the corner of his mouth.
Rowena glanced at him briefly. She didn’t care who else was on the boat. All she cared about was that she’d put some distance between the hospital where she worked in Hong Kong and a night of enjoyment. They might indeed get drunk – though she reminded herself she had to drive back. Or they might dance until dawn, exchanging lustful glances with the hordes of servicemen also heading for the lights of Kowloon. ‘I’m looking forward to this. Thanks for coming.’
‘No worries. I’m looking forward to it too. In need of it, in fact. Being a nurse isn’t all glamour and uniforms, you know. I dreamed of bedpans last night. Been dreaming of them all week.’
‘You’re a good nurse, Alice. I – we appreciate you.’
‘I’m not sure the male doctors are as appreciative as you are, Dr Rossiter.’
‘No need to be formal. We’re not on the ward now.’
‘It’s nice to know that I’m more than a skivvy. Not all doctors are like you, Rowena.’
‘That’s because they’re men.’
‘Let me tell you this as a girl from Brisbane – it could be worse. They could be Australian men.’
The throaty blast from the ferry’s horn drowned their laughter, signalling that they were about to dock.
Carefully averting his eyes from the women in the car, the man leaning over the rail took one last puff on his cigarette and threw it into the sea.
Alice got out of the car with the starting handle. She gave it a turn but it kicked back.
‘Give it another go,’ shouted Rowena.
She tried again, but the same thing happened.
‘Blimey. It nearly took my arm off that time,’ she said, rubbing her shoulder.
The man who had been leaning over the side rail silently nudged her aside, took the handle from her and gave it a single turn. The Austin’s tinny engine gurgled into life.
‘Thanks... Oh. He’s gone.’
*
At eight in the evening, heaving with humanity, the streets of Kowloon were plunged into startling brightness by a sea of neon lights when there was power – and flickering infrequency when there was not.
‘Buy, buy, buy!’
The car windows were swiftly wound up.
‘We’ll boil like lobsters,’ said Alice.
Rowena laughed. ‘The lesser of two evils.’
‘Whose crazy idea was this?’
‘Mine! There’s a war on, Alice. It might be our last chance to kick up our heels, sing and dance until dawn.’
‘Fat chance. We’re back on duty tomorrow.’
‘Until midnight then.’
‘What’s that dark place over there?’
Jostled by street-sellers and soldiers on leave, there was plenty of time for Rowena to glance to where Alice was pointing.
‘The real China. Kowloon walled city. KWC for short.’
Alice wrinkled her nose at the ramshackle buildings between the main thoroughfare and the old city. ‘They look like they’re ready to fall down.’
‘Some bits of them do – when it’s been raining.’
‘I can believe it. We’re not going in there, are we?’
Rowena smiled. Alice was all front, brave as could be, but underneath she quivered. ‘Do you want to?’
‘No, thank you. I thought we were going to a club.’
‘It’s a bar, not a club. Connor’s Bar. It was recommended.’
Alice pointed at the substantial stones of the walled city. ‘But it’s not in there. Tell me it’s not in there.’
‘Of course it’s not. Nobody bothers the people inside that place. Even the Hong Kong police have no real jurisdiction.’
‘But we’re safe out here?’
‘Of course – as far as we can be.’
Alice shook her head despairingly. ‘Rowena Rossiter, I don’t know why I let you talk me into this.’
‘You know you wanted to.’
Alice demurred. ‘I must be as mad as you are, then, and to think you’re a doctor.’
‘You have to admit it makes a change from yet another foxtrot with a pimply officer at the country club, the officers’ club or whatever.’
‘You can say that again. I take it good old Reggie’s still in pursuit?’
‘Uh-huh.’
The crowd divided like a tidal wave, nudged aside by the bonnet of the Austin motor car Rowena had borrowed from Reggie, her would-be and so far unsuccessful seducer. ‘Good old Reggie,’ she murmured.
Alice laughed. ‘Will he expect payment for
the loan of his car – if you know what I mean?’
‘If he does, I shall remind him that he’s a gentleman and the son and heir of another.’
‘Oh, yes.’ Alice smirked. ‘One has one’s reputation to think of.’
‘Sharing a bed with Reggie Stuart is not the stuff that dreams are made of.’
Reggie had been pursuing Rowena for months. Dinner, theatre and other diversions having failed, he was obviously hoping the car would do the trick. Rowena had other ideas. She didn’t fancy Reggie. He was too much like every other officer stationed in Hong Kong, an outpost of empire that didn’t even warrant a full complement of military personnel – it was minimal, especially when compared with Singapore.
Silk stockings made a rasping sound as they slid out of the car, the humidity of the day lingering to dampen their armpits and have them dabbing their handkerchiefs against their top lips.
A figure flickered almost out of vision into a dark alley, immediately attracting Rowena’s attention. Then her eyes picked out the name of the store on the corner of the alley and the sign above it. ‘House of Peace. This is the one.’
Alice followed her into the alley. ‘How did you know what the sign said?’
Rowena stopped and pointed, her finger following the form of the Chinese character. ‘That top bit is a roof. The bottom bit is a woman. One woman under one roof is peace. Two women under one roof mean war.’
‘Put like that, it’s pretty obvious.’
Rowena looped her arm through Alice’s. ‘It’ll be fine. Trust me.’
‘If you say so. Bit dark, though.’
‘This is it.’
Above the blank surface of a dark red door a solitary sign, unadorned by any decorative feature, declared they’d arrived at their destination – Connor’s Bar. A figure in black dissected the shaft of light from the briefly opened door, then was gone, swallowed by the inner depths of the alley.
‘Are you sure it won’t be all uniforms and rounded vowels? I mean, it is an English name.’
‘Irish, actually. Trust me.’
The door might have been plain, the sign inconspicuous, but the interior was far from it. The smell of sandalwood, spices and something tellingly sweet seeped out and enticed them in.
Rowena entered as though she owned the place, a dream in green silk, her glossy black hair coiled around her head.
Alice followed nervously. ‘You never told me it was like this,’ she said, in a hushed voice.
‘That’s because I didn’t know it was.’
‘What?’
‘Sorry. The truth is I’d heard a rumour about it and just had to take a look, but didn’t want to come by myself.’
‘Rowena! How could you?’
‘You’re good company.’
‘Reggie might have come.’
‘Reggie would cramp my style...’ Rowena held the door open as she took it all in, a place that had been recommended as exciting and surprisingly different. Black and red walls. Dragons painted on the ceiling, believed by the Chinese to bring luck.
Booths adapted from the frames of bridal beds lined the walls, only the roofs and sidepieces remaining, their panels ornately carved. The part where newly-weds had once consummated their marriage had been removed, replaced by bench seating around an oblong table with richly carved legs. Lit only by frugal lamps, the features of those inside were indistinct, a mix of shadows and burning brightness, like the candlelit expressions of men in old Dutch paintings set against gloomy backgrounds.
The best-lit booth contained a group of Chinese businessmen playing cards beneath a suspended lamp with a green glass shade shaped like a coolie’s hat.
The light laughter of a woman sounded from one booth, the hushed whispers of shared secrets from another. Someone was singing ‘The Flower of Killarney’...
‘Mavourneen’s the flower of Killarney,
The fairest of all to me...’
As she hummed along with the traditional tune, Rowena’s attention wandered to a white fedora sitting on a table next to a glass tumbler in a darkened booth. A slight movement told her that its owner had crossed his legs. Like his hat, his trousers were white. She couldn’t see his face but sensed he was looking directly at them.
Ignoring him, she headed for the bar. ‘Let’s get some drinks.’
The glow of the back bar gave enough light for the barman to work and for them to notice his slightly nervous expression.
The singer at the other end of the bar was now belting out ‘Molly Malone’, another traditional Irish song.
‘And music too,’ Rowena murmured to Alice, as she opened her purse. ‘Two gin slings, please.’
The Chinese barman didn’t budge but stared at them, glass in one hand, a towel in the other, as though they’d grown horns.
Rowena held a banknote between finger and thumb. ‘Didn’t you hear me, barman? Two gin slings, if you please.’
He shook his head. ‘No ladies served here.’
Rowena frowned. ‘I beg your pardon?’
‘As she wheeled her wheelbarrow,
Through the streets broad and narrow...’
He shook his head again, more vehemently this time. ‘No ladies. No serve ladies.’
‘We’re not tarts, if that’s what you think,’ Rowena declared.
Alice turned nervous. ‘Let’s go.’
The barman’s eyes slid sidelong to the end of the bar. He seemed disinclined to interrupt the singer, whose companion was raising a glass to his efforts.
‘Boss. These ladies want drinks.’
The singing stopped and the vocalist turned round. His companion followed suit.
The two men, wearing white dinner jackets and ties, exchanged brief looks. One picked up his glass and drank. The singer peeled away and came closer.
‘Ladies.’ His tone was less than friendly, but Rowena kept her smile in place, noting that his eyes were sea blue, his hair brindled brown and copper gold.
On hearing Alice’s sharp intake of breath, she grabbed a handful of silk at Alice’s waistline just in case she cut for the door. ‘We’d like a drink, please,’ she said, in her most beguiling voice.
‘I’m sorry. We don’t serve unaccompanied ladies.’
‘Judging by that accent, I suppose you’re Connor.’
‘I suppose I am.’
‘You sing very well.’
‘Your flattery’s welcome, but it won’t get you any drinks. Women alone are trouble. It’s the bar’s policy not to invite it.’
His expression was unyielding and his voice without humour.
‘We’re not whores. We’re not looking for men. We came here for a drink and to have some fun while we still can before the fighting starts.’
‘We don’t allow unaccompanied women to buy drinks. They have to be with a man.’
‘Let’s go,’ said Alice, turning away from the bar, her face flushing.
Rowena pinched a bigger bunch of her dress and her flesh. Alice yelped. ‘I’m sorry, Alice, but I won’t go. I will not be treated like this.’ She turned back and faced him. ‘I insist that you serve us. In fact, I will not move until you do.’
A muscle ticked beneath his right eye and his jaw seemed to harden. ‘You can stand there all night if you like, but if you’re not with a man you will not be served. That’s the house rules.’
Rowena looked him up and down. ‘Army, navy or air force?’
‘Do you care?’
‘I care that you should know we’re respectable women.’
‘I don’t know you.’
‘Surely at the officers’ club...’
His look was steady, his gaze cold. ‘Like I said, I don’t know you. Now get going.’
‘And you don’t know the officers’ club?’ She looked tellingly around her. ‘I don’t understand. I’m assuming that like everyone else you’re in the army but your name is in lights above the door of this bar. How did you manage to swing being in the army and indulging in a little business enterprise? Sh
ouldn’t you be getting ready to fight?’
‘I didn’t say I was. Anyway, there’s no rule saying I can’t run a sideline, as long as it doesn’t interfere with my duties. I have a manager.’
She could tell by the tightening of his expression and the stilted outpouring of information that her insinuation had hit home. She made the decision to go one step further.
‘You’re a deserter. That’s it, isn’t it? You both are.’ She looked past him to the other man, who had remained at the end of the bar, smiling over the top of his glass. He was definitely a pale shadow of Connor, not so masculine, finer-boned, slimmer-faced, which made her wonder about them. Not just friends, perhaps. Still, none of her business.
‘Are you deaf or just stupid?’ he asked.
‘I beg your pardon?’
‘My manager takes care of everything. This is my friend’s and my little nest egg, something to come back to once this bloody war is finally over. Not that it’s any of your business.’
He grabbed her arm and propelled her towards the door. ‘Out.’
‘Connor. Excuse me.’
An arm protruded from the mysterious darkness of the bridal bed booth, the hand waving the white fedora. The voice was unlike any other she’d ever heard, like ice grating over gravel. It made her legs turn to water.
‘I know these ladies, Mr O’Connor. I can vouch for them. Kim Pheloung, Dr Rossiter. We met at the country club. We played tennis. Matched pairs. I won. I always win. Please,’ he said, waving his hand at the empty benches on each side of his table. ‘Join me. Might we have two gin slings, Mr O’Connor?’
Connor looked her up and down. ‘Doctor? Did I hear that right?’
‘Yes. I’m a doctor and if things really do get going, I’m not going to be out and about enjoying myself for a very long time. That’s why I came here this evening. You wouldn’t begrudge me that, would you? Seeing as you’re likely to be in need of my services if an invasion occurs and you’re injured.’
The Irishman looked as though a war was going on inside him. He looked at the man at the end of the bar.
A slight smile came to the other man’s face. ‘Oh, go on, Connor. If they’re known to Kim it has to be okay.’