by Bryan Murphy
Linehan's Ordeal
Bryan Murphy
? Copyright 2015 Bryan Murphy
Dark Future Books
Cover by Mao Qing
This book is a work of fiction and any resemblance to persons, living or dead, places or events is purely coincidental. The characters are products of the author's imagination.
To discover more work by Bryan Murphy, visit:
https://www.bryanmurphy.eu
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Table of Contents
Linehan's Ordeal
About the author
Other e-books by Bryan Murphy
Connect with Bryan Murphy on-line
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Linehan's Ordeal
Hong Kong, China, March 2021
Sean Linehan stares up at the Buddha, but the Buddha does not deign to let Linehan catch his eye. Instead, its bronze face gazes serenely over Lantau Island to the sparkling waters that pull Hong Kong's concentrated pollution into the broad, cleansing sweep of the South China Sea.
As Linehan continues to stare, the Buddha starts to shimmer in his vision, as though it were a holographic projection gone slightly out of focus. One of Linehan's hands wipes perspiration from his eyelids; the other rests over the micro-drive stitched into the waistband of his trousers. He blinks hard. The giant statue is again immobile. Linehan breathes his relief out into the humid air and breathes in the aroma of Cantonese cooking. He pushes his way through the crowds of pilgrims and tourists in search of its source.
The source turns out to be a series of fast-food stands set up amid tacky souvenir stalls. The former all look new, and they all bear a plethora of sponsor logos. Today, Linehan has time to contemplate the world, so he chooses the stand with the longest queue in front of it, reasoning that the locals will know the best one and give it their custom. Most of the tour guides have herded their charges off to the vast restaurant at the adjacent monastery. Linehan is thinking of the gentle nature of Buddhism, and what that might offer him in his quest to change his nature and become good, when he reaches the head of the queue. He glances at the menu pasted on the wall behind the owner and orders a spicy soup and a hot dog, a blend of East and West.
"Vegetarian dog," the owner tells him as he hands Linehan a sausage in a steamed bread bun.
Linehan looks round to see the strange creature, but then realizes the man is talking about the food. He pays more than he had anticipated for the meal and takes it to a designated eating area, where he finds a concrete table and plastic seats with a view of island greenery and grey-blue sea. He asks if he may join the people already ensconced there. They break off their argument to gesture him to sit down, then resume it with equal volume. The hot dog tastes of spicy pork. Linehan washes it down with the soup, which burns the back of his throat and brings tears to his eyes, but leaves a pleasant after-taste.
Linehan's neck prickles with more than perspiration from the late morning heat. He feels he is being watched, but not by anyone at his table. He looks around, but everyone he sees is minding their own business or anybody else's but his. He turns back to his food, finishes it and wants to be away from the crowds on the peak. He decides the monks can maintain the statue without the contribution of his entrance fee to view its insides, and sets off to take the cable car down to sea level. Only when he is in the relative solitude of the cabin, drinking in the stunning bird's-eye views it offers, does he feel free of watching eyes.
The cable car deposits its passengers at sea level, where Linehan picks up the Mass Transit Railway. He finds a seat and observes his fellow passengers for a while. They are calm and self-absorbed. The younger ones smile at their thumbs as they fly backwards and forwards over plastic rectangles like machines in perpetual motion.
Linehan pulls out the fake ThaiPad he bought in a back street the day before and finds the EBC News site. The top story is from Burma: Buddhist fundamentalist monks have instigated a pogrom against Christian and Muslim minorities in the commercial capital, Yangon, allegedly with the connivance of the military, which recently ceded power to the democratic opposition. Linehan shakes his head in disbelief and flicks over to the sports news. There is a short item about the inauguration of the SplattaDome in Hong Kong. Linehan smiles: his mission here is to prepare the stadium's opening ceremony, using the hologram of his late, lamented chief that he carries on the micro- drive stitched into his trousers for safe keeping. No-one must know that the head of the World Football Authority, though still kicking with full force, is no longer alive.
Half an hour later, Linehan has alighted on Hong Kong Island and is strolling from the business district called Central towards the entertainment district of Wanchai. He is passing through an area studded with government buildings, officially named Umbrella Square, when a light, cool rain starts to fall. The rain refreshes him, but he has not brought an umbrella with him, so he picks up his pace. He passes Hong Kong's Parliament, but does not recognise it as the graceful former Legislative Council building he has seen pictures of, for enormous swathes of canvas disguise its features. He wonders whether this is due to a renovation of the fa?ade to reflect its upgraded status, or whether the Bulgarian artist Hristo is in town. Only the phalanx of heavily armed police who guard it against urban guerrillas or demonstrators hints at its importance. Linehan imagines a hologram of Franz Splatta floating above it, embodying the traditional virtues of harmony, enterprise and fair competition, but knows that such an apparition will have to wait for better technology, as well as clearer recognition by the populace of who is really in charge.
Soon, Wanchai has crowded around him. Its buildings, considered low-rise here, tower over him; its neon reflects in the faces of the crowds that threaten to force pedestrians off the narrow pavement into the tumultuous traffic. Even in Geneva, his workplace, Linehan is deemed a big man, and he uses his physical presence to keep on a straight trajectory. He is not particularly wet when four flags of St. George outside an open-fronted pub tell him he has reached his destination, a bar called Me Old China. Linehan ducks into it, out of the rain. He strides to the counter, orders a pint of bitter and takes it to an unoccupied table from which he can watch both the old English FA Cup match being re-run on a giant screen on one of the walls and the people passing in front of the pub. This way, when Wayne arrives, Linehan will see him in good time to get to the bar before him and order him his Guinness. Wayne is not due for an hour yet, so Linehan watches the screen. He already knows the result - Spurs will lose - so he turns his attention to his fellow drinkers. Although it is mid-afternoon, the place is rather full. Most of the clients are men. Those that are standing look shorter than Linehan, though he guesses that they weigh more. The majority of the male-only groups are concentrating on the serious business of swilling beer, though some are glancing at the females standing or sitting near the bar counter, and commenting to each other on the women and their imagined proclivities. Linehan notices that the women tend to be both darker and pudgier than the local ones. Occasionally there is a braying from groups of better-dressed young business people, but Linehan is used to that and it barely registers on his consciousness.
What does register is a sudden increase in the volume of rain falling outside, and a further dulling of the light that accompanies it. Then he is transfixed by the gaze of someone who has just come in off the street. She stands there, just inside the doorway, her high cheekbones illuminated by the lighting inside the pub. The rain has pasted her short, thick, jet-black hair to her forehead and her neck, and welded the front of the white blouse below her soaked green jacket to the shapely breasts it covers. Linehan understands why he is staring at her, but not why she is staring at him. She glides over to his table. Linehan's heart misses two beats.
"You get me drink, please, be
fore wind is changing direction."
Linehan stands up fast, steadies his chair, steadies himself.
"What? would you like?"
"Gin tonic good enough. Same colour as rain."
When Linehan returns with the gin and tonic, he has calmed his breathing. He feels due for a change of luck with women, someone and something to console him for Veronica's dumping him by intercontinental text-only message.
The woman has seated herself at Linehan's table. She takes the glass with her fine hands, her fingers brushing his as she does so. Her touch electrifies him: if her fingers are so silky ?
"Sl?inte!"
"How did you know?"
"Know what? My English teacher Irish. May you having nicer legs than yours under the table before the new spuds are up."
Linehan laughs. He sits down opposite the woman, raises an eyebrow and takes a good look under the table. Her bare legs, pressed firmly together, are lovely. A rivulet of rain still makes its way down one calf from her skirt.
"I do having. I mean, I have, and it's not yet Spring."
The woman produces a mellifluous laugh and leans back in her chair.
"Thank you, Mr. ?"
"Sean. Sean Linehan."
He extends a hand. The