by Jean Moran
Harry paid Yang with the last piece of change he had in his pocket, the only coins not taken. He grabbed the Chinaman’s wrist. ‘You got a spare pipe? Some opium?’
Connor grabbed his arm. ‘No, Harry. Listen to me. You’ve got to keep your wits about you. We’ve got to survive. Think of your mother.’
Harry stared at the rice he still held uneaten in his hand.
Yang passed Connor another rice ball.
‘I hear what you say, Yang,’ Connor said quietly, and for a moment their eyes met in mutual understanding.
Hearing a shout from a guard, Yang turned away. He muttered in Chinese as he stepped over other men, giving them rice balls and demanding money, which he sometimes got.
Connor locked eyes with his superior officer. ‘Did you hear what he said?’
Harry nodded. ‘Yang was born in Kowloon yet has just insisted that his birthplace was Sham Shi Po.’
‘So it’s Sham Shi Po. The old refugee camp. We were right.’
Harry nodded. ‘Seems like it.’
Sham Shi Po in Kowloon had received thousands of refugees following the Japanese invasion of China and its ongoing civil war that had been raging for years. The numbers had surged following the slaughter in Nanking. Now, if they’d interpreted Yang’s outburst correctly, they were to be taken by boat across the bay and interned in Sham Shi Po.
A number of motor torpedo boats along with an assortment of junks had been requisitioned to ferry them to Kowloon. Their numbers swollen by non-combatants, civil servants, businessmen, their wives and children, the process was taking hours to complete.
And still they came.
Over the heads of those sitting on the ground or on what was left of their bundled belongings, Connor spotted a small group of dusty women.
Harry noticed them too. ‘I do believe the latest arrivals are the residual female medical staff of St Stephen’s. Still alive, though not entirely unscathed, methinks. Is your doctor among them?’
Connor nodded slowly and got to his feet. ‘Yes. She is.’
A guard ran towards him, ordering him to sit down again.
Connor raised both arms in surrender. ‘Permission to use the latrines,’ he shouted, then patted his crotch with one hand.
The guard nodded. ‘Go.’
Connor made his way to where a number of buckets were positioned behind a canvas screen. He had to pass the women to get to them, close enough to see if she was there, perhaps even exchange a word or two.
He nodded at them, his eyes swooping over their heads to where she stood looking oddly alone, although others crowded around her.
‘Good to see you.’
‘Do you happen to know where they’re sending us?’
He recognised the nurse named Alice, but wasn’t sure of the names of the others though he knew them by sight. They all looked glad to see him, except Dr Rossiter. His chest tightened at the sight of her close up. There were deep hollows under her eyes, her cheeks were bruised and blood had dried at the corner of her mouth. She looked withdrawn, hugging herself protectively, and showed no sign of the confidence he’d seen in her from the very first. His stomach churned at the probable reason, which caused him to curse his own sex and wish he had not been born a man.
He doubted it would work but managed anyway to adopt a cheery smile. ‘I’m not sure where you’re going, but me and my friends are off to Sham Shi Po for an extended holiday.’
‘Don’t ask me what happened,’ said Alice, her voice barely audible, her eyes fixed on Rowena. ‘They took her first.’
He knew what she meant and in knowing a terrible rage rooted him to the spot. ‘I want to kill them.’
‘One day you might get the chance. I hope you do.’
He eased his way through the other women until he was standing as close to her as he could get.
‘Rowena?’
She gave no sign of having heard him.
‘Dr Rossiter?’
The white coat she wore on the wards was filthy and smeared with blood. She was gripping its lapels with both hands, hugging it around her as though it was a protective suit of armour.
She backed away when he attempted to touch her.
‘Rowena. It’s me, Connor O’Connor, the man who should be performing on Broadway, not stuck here with a load of short men in khaki. They’re not my type at all.’
Her eyelids flickered. When she looked at him it was as if she couldn’t quite work him out.
As far as he was concerned, there was only one thing to do.
Softly and at a slow tempo, he began to sing the song they’d sung together when they’d first met. ‘She looked so sweet, from her bare brown feet to the tip of her raven hair…’
He sang as much of it as he could before his presence and voice attracted the attention of a Japanese guard and a rifle slammed across his back.
‘Move. Move.’
As he was pushed away, he saw a flicker of recognition in her eyes. Suddenly her lips moved, formed his name but no sound came out. She made a second attempt and this time she was audible. ‘Connor?’
‘It’s me and, never fear, for you’ll never see the back of me.’
Brighter now, her eyes followed him and she raised her hand as he was bundled away.
He received another glancing blow before he was obliged to dip behind the canvas screen where, despite the freshness of a Hong Kong winter, the buckets stank.
‘Too many people, too few buckets,’ he muttered.
On coming out again his attention was drawn to where the Japanese commander saluted a man alighting from a pale green Lagonda.
‘By Paddy McGinty’s whiskers...’ he murmured, his brow furrowed in surprise and fear.
A man wearing the customary black of a triad henchman, got out from behind the steering wheel, went to the back passenger door and bowed as he held it open.
Wearing his customary white fedora, his crisply tailored suit, Kim Pheloung alighted, raised his hat and seemed to be exchanging pleasantries with the Japanese commander. It was also noticeable that not once had he bowed, almost as if, thought Connor, the two of them were of the same status, equals in whatever dealings they had with each other.
What dealings? wondered Connor, and scowled.
Not only did Kim Pheloung control the Hong Kong opium trade, but the criminal element of Kowloon paid him homage in the form of protection money, a portion of profit from their activities. He had ruined Yang’s business, and he and Harry had had to pay him a premium for allowing them to operate. He had also encouraged Harry’s addiction.
Loyal only to his own greed, Kim didn’t care who was in power and was known to bribe any Hong Kong police who would take his money. Now it seemed he was currying favour with the new power in the land.
A conversation ensued, followed by a waving of hands, intense discussion, accommodating smiles and the passing of a parcel from beneath the bowed head of Kim’s chauffeur to the imperial officer.
For a moment they disappeared inside the hotel where pre-war dances and concerts had taken place, the haunt of officers and wealthy civilians. They came out a short while later, shaking hands, saluting in their own individual ways, the officer in the military manner and Kim raising his hat.
Connor’s eyes narrowed. ‘I’m wondering what you’re up to, Kim, rogue that you are.’ He said it softly but was under no illusion that business was being done. Money would be changing hands.
‘Go! Go!’
Unseen by him at first, a guard was giving him an order and swinging a rifle, leaving him in no doubt that he was to sit down.
He did as ordered, making his way back to where Harry was hunched over his knees, his body sometimes twitching, his head jerking as though he were dreaming, still chasing the dragons induced by opium.
His attention went back to Pheloung. ‘Now that’s a man with many sins to answer for.’
To his dismay he saw Rowena being separated from the other women and shepherded to the car. ‘Oh, Christ!’
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Nobody heard his exclamation. Nobody could know how angry he was for what Rowena had gone through and how afraid he was for what she would face next.
He wanted to race through the crowd and drag her out of the car but would likely get a bullet in his back before he got within ten feet of it.
He fancied she looked for him before getting in, nervously smoothing her hair, which was tied in a bunch at the nape of her neck. When the car drove away it was hanging loose and Kim was running his hand through it as though removing the very last pin.
He stared at the spot where the car had been, willing himself to remember her steady grey eyes, her smiling lips and the sound of her voice singing or her feet tapping in time with a tune.
Her departure left him feeling useless because Kim had done what he could not do: he’d saved her from an internment camp – for his own reasons no doubt. He’d seen how Kim had looked at her that night in his bar, wondered how he’d known so much about her, who she was, where she worked and the mode of transport she’d used to get to Kowloon. One of Kim’s henchmen, a thickset man dressed in black, had entered the bar before Rowena, bending low and whispering into Kim’s ear: the man who was driving the car today.
Where was he taking her?
It was rumoured that Kim had a house in the walled city. Nobody knew how he’d come to live in such a place. Although forgotten, the only people who should be there were government administrators, but they hadn’t been seen for some time, not since Japan had invaded Manchuria. The prison at Sham Shi Po was some distance from there and, in his heart of hearts, Connor had to accept that he would never see her again.
One thing he knew above all else was that what Kim Pheloung wanted he made sure he got, and once somebody was in his grasp the only way to escape his clutches was in a coffin.
8
Her hair was loose. She knew that much. Her thoughts, normally so wide-ranging and energetic, had contracted and become guarded. She was still clasping the collar of the white coat she always wore on duty, holding it and both her hands tightly together.
‘There’s no need for you to do that. You’re safe now.’
Long cold fingers attempted to prise her fists open so she would let the collar go, but she hung on fearing that if she did so she would be exposed body and soul to an uncaring world.
Time was of no importance. Hours, days or years could have passed. The pain was still there. The horror. The clawing hands and thrusting bodies again and again and again.
He made a second attempt to prise her hands apart, but she still wouldn’t let him, her grip unyielding as iron. She never looked at him, not so much as a glance. Neither was she really aware of the touch of his hands, teasing her hair out into long dark locks, caressing her cheek and telling her to count on him from now on. Just him.
She kept her stony gaze on the road ahead, if there was a road.
She saw nothing but them.
Heard nothing but them. Felt only the clawing of their hands, the thrusting of their bodies. Smelt the stink of male sweat.
Awareness of where she was and who she was with didn’t begin happening until she felt a rush of salt air on her face that sent her hair streaming out behind her.
She saw the water they were crossing, short chops of turquoise and indigo, black, yellow and green, and the prow of a boat rising and falling with the motion of the water.
The stiff breeze cooled her brain. The nightmare visions were still there but lessened. She touched the crusting of blood at the corner of her mouth and tasted salt but wasn’t sure whether it was seawater or dried blood.
‘Don’t worry. We will get you cleaned up.’
So. He was watching her. She touched her cheek and winced. ‘Why?’ Her voice was little above a whisper and caught swiftly on the breeze, but he heard and, apparently, felt the need to explain.
‘Since the time of Genghis Khan, conquerors have taken women as prizes. I will not ask for the details unless you wish to tell me.’
She didn’t answer. As yet she wasn’t sure who this man was, though he seemed vaguely familiar. Instead she opened her mouth, swallowing the fresh air as though it were oranges.
Her throat felt sore when she tried to speak. She took one of her hands away from her collar and pressed it to her neck. ‘I don’t want to talk about it.’ Her voice was barely above a whisper.
‘Then you need not.’
She eyed him nervously, still not sure who he was and why she was with him.
His eyes were like dark holes beneath the brim of his hat, unfathomable, like deep, dark wells.
The car slowed and she cowered when they reached a checkpoint on the other side of the harbour in Kowloon. Just the sight of the uniforms made her feel sick because she could do more than see them: she could smell them. Taste them. She slunk further down into the seat so her knees were almost touching the floor.
The car did not come to an abrupt stop but was waved through, as though this man was important. Was he? She wasn’t sure. He was wealthy, she knew that much.
He spoke. ‘We met at the hospital, then played tennis at the country club. We also met at the Jockey Club. Do you not remember?’
She frowned. Bits of what he said seemed to ring true. If she could just retain those bits and add others when and if they came back to her... ‘Your name’s Kim.’
‘That’s right.’
‘Where are we going?’
‘To my house. It is in Kowloon Walled City. The ancient walls have defended the city for centuries. You will be safe there.’
The breeze flung her hair across her face when she turned back to the checkpoint. To her great relief nobody appeared to be pursuing them. ‘They did not stop you.’
‘Why should they?’
She cast around for some reason, noticing the driver’s hands on the steering wheel. They were big hands, the fingers thick and square-ended. Seeing the wheel move beneath those hands was strangely hypnotic.
Hands told a lot, she thought. She looked at Kim’s hands as though she had never seen them before, yet she had. He’d told her she had. Half-memories bubbled into her mind.
They were strong hands with slender, tapering fingers. His nails were polished and overly long – like a woman’s but more so – yet still he appeared exotically masculine, like a prince from The Arabian Nights. Ah! That was it. A favourite story helped her to fill in the details.
‘I remember you now, but only bits about you.’
He glanced briefly. ‘I hope they are the best bits.’
She frowned as though that would help her catch the vestige of memory that could so easily fly away. ‘You gave me breakfast. I remember that.’
‘Breakfast was in lieu of dinner at the Jockey Club. You stood me up.’
His mouth opened, his eyes crinkled. He was laughing, but silently, a strange phenomenon. It made her think that the memory did not amuse him.
‘I can’t remember.’
‘What do you remember?’
She looked down at her hands, frowned and thought very hard. ‘The war started. I remember that. I remember people running and the air-raid sirens ... and St Stephen’s...’
Stating the last words caused bile to rise from her stomach. The nightmare. Christmas Day. That was what St Stephen’s meant to her.
‘It’s best you forget all that. It is nothing to do with you now. You are safe and no longer a participant in the warring of great powers.’
She thought his comment slightly odd, but had no appetite for confrontation. Both the present and the future were foreign countries in which she could not yet be interested. The recent past was still with her, a festering wound that would not easily heal and a barrier to whatever had gone before.
He didn’t press her to tell him what had happened, if she’d been treated badly or well, and for that she was grateful. She did not want to speak about it.
The harbour and the checkpoints were left behind. The heaving mass that was Kowloon began to look familiar even thou
gh she couldn’t recall visiting this place more than once.
Women hanging from overhead balconies were throwing rice-paper notes containing their price lists to the short men who suddenly looked taller since their takeover of Hong Kong and its adjacent territories.
The red robe of a prostitute leaning over a parapet parted at the front, thanks to a draught from a side alley. She wore nothing underneath but her thighs were tattooed with writhing dragons, their fangs meeting either side of a mass of wiry pubic hair.
Rowena was more intrigued by this than shocked.
Ahead loomed the walled city of Kowloon. Around it a cloud of dust shrouded the vague outlines of trucks, dust-covered labourers and the soldiers guarding them.
Suddenly huge stones crashed from the wall to the ground, causing the prisoners and the men guarding them to scatter in all directions. Gradually, the men were reassembled and the dust began to clear.
The man sitting beside her stood up and spread his arms, his face full of pride. ‘See this?’ he said. ‘I supply these men. They are taking stone to extend the runway at Kai Tak airport.’ He sat down once he’d imparted the information but the self-satisfied expression remained.
A man who seemed to be overseeing the gang bowed as the car went past. Kim did not acknowledge him but stared straight ahead as though such obsequious courtesy was his due.
They drove past the fog of choking dust and straight into the old city, coming to a halt outside the entrance to a traditional Chinese house with red pillars, blue-tiled steps and green dragons painted on either side of the door.
The driver got out first and bowed as he opened it. The man she now remembered as Kim got out first and extended his hand to help her.
Hesitantly she disengaged the fingers of one hand from the front of her white coat and accepted his assistance. She was instantly struck by the other-worldliness of the place, the home of this most exotically fascinating man. Lucky charms and magic words written on tin hung between each pillar, tinkling like bells in the gentle breeze, and half a dozen cats lounged on the warmer spots, spitting and snarling as she walked within a foot or so of their unsheathed talons.