by Andy Maslen
He took the Airport Express train to Hong Kong Island, squashed among Hong Kongers and international tourists who stared across the greenish waters of the Zhujiang river estuary to the city beyond.
Free of the crush of the train, Gabriel made his way to a taxi rank. The noise all around him was disorientating after the long, relatively peaceful flight. The slap of shoes on concrete formed a pattering background to the honking of car horns and the ding-ding of the double-decker trolley cars as they approached their stops. Local voices speaking Mandarin, Cantonese and English swirled in and out of the Babel of tourist languages.
Gabriel hailed a white-roofed, red taxi and slid onto the rear bench seat. There was no air conditioning so he wound the window down, letting in the smell of traffic fumes, street cooking and incense. The driver sped away, using the horn as Gabriel would the indicators. They passed between dizzyingly tall skyscrapers, jolted down back streets packed with low-rise buildings housing restaurants, fast food joints and mobile phone shops and then emerged onto a highway taking them into the hills overlooking the glistening towers of the financial district.
He arrived at the house mid-morning, and, as the taxi pulled away from the kerb, he leaned against, rather than pressed, the doorbell.
His heart was racing. Butterflies in their thousands were swarming inside his stomach. His palms were damp with sweat. And yet what he felt deep inside – at his core – was hope.
A figure materialised beyond the pale-green frosted glass in the door, and a key scraped in the lock.
The door swung inwards.
And there he was.
48
Reunion
ZHAO Xi rocked back on his heels. His dark eyes opened wide and his mouth spread wide in a toothy smile.
“Wolfe Cub?” he asked, in Mandarin. “Is that you? It is!”
The old man stepped forward and pulled Gabriel into an embrace that had a strength behind it that belied his slight frame. Gabriel hugged him back, and as he did, felt a lightness inside he hadn’t felt for a long time.
When, finally, Xi released him, it was to hold him by his shoulders, at arm’s length.
“You look tired Wolfe Cub. Come, come inside. I will make tea.”
The house was sparsely furnished, although every wall was lined with books, and it smelt wonderfully of cooking. The aromas of garlic, ginger and chilli permeated the ground floor, and the salivary glands at the angle of Gabriel’s jaw began prickling as the smells reached his brain.
Gabriel dropped his bags by the bed in the room Xi showed him to and followed him back out to the kitchen.
“I’m sorry I didn’t call ahead, Master Zhao,” he said. “But I needed to get out of the UK in a hurry and I thought it best not to leave any sort of trail.”
Xi spoke while he busied himself boiling water and spooning tea into a dull green ceramic teapot with a bamboo handle.
“Are you in trouble, then?”
“I am. But I think maybe I can sort it out.”
“I am sure you can. I will do all in my power to help you, of course. Now, here is tea. And are you hungry?”
Gabriel nodded. “Very.”
“Then we will eat first and talk of old times, then you can explain more about this trouble in which you find yourself.”
Gabriel sat on a high stool at a scrubbed wooden worktop. He watched Xi wield a razor-sharp cleaver, slicing peppers, carrots, a giant white radish and some pak choi into slivers so fast the edge of the cleaver was blurred. A piece of translucent-fleshed fish was cubed and the whole lot went into a wok half-full of the garlic, ginger and chilli broth Gabriel had smelled on his arrival.
“There is another reason I am here, Master Zhao,” Gabriel said.
“Of course there is.”
“I want to know about Michael. About what happened that day.”
“And you will. I can take you to see the place where it happened. The old house. And his grave.”
At the mention of the grave, Gabriel’s pulse spiked and he gasped involuntarily. In all the time he’d been thinking about Michael, since recovering the memory of his younger brother, he’d never once stopped to ask himself whether there would be a place where he could visit him.
“I never thought about a grave.”
Xi smiled, deepening the lines around his eyes and the deep grooves running from the wings of his nose to the corners of his mouth.
“I will take you there. But now we eat.”
The food was excellent, and the flavours of the fish braised in the aromatic and spicy broth took Gabriel flying backwards through time to a younger version of himself: sitting at this same table, eating with this same man, wrestling with his urges to defy authority at every turn, to talk back, to run away.
Once the meal was cleared away and the plates and chopsticks washed in the stone basin, Xi filled two glasses with a pale honey-coloured spirit and motioned for Gabriel to follow him into the sitting area. He handed him one of the glasses and they clinked the rims together.
“Your health, Wolfe Cub.”
“And yours, Master.” The liquid was sweet and packed a hefty alcoholic punch that burned the back of Gabriel’s throat. As its heat mellowed and spread outwards from his stomach, he at last felt ready to talk. “Please tell me about Michael.”
Xi sipped from his glass then turned his gaze on Gabriel.
“He was very different from you. Obedient where you were unruly. Thoughtful where you were impulsive. Gentle where you were aggressive. And he adored you, Wolfe Cub. Remember that. You were his older brother and could do no wrong as far as he was concerned. He would defend your behaviour to your parents and to me.”
Gabriel swallowed down a lump that had solidified in his throat.
“What about the day itself? Tell me again what happened. Don’t leave anything out.”
“Lin – that is, your mother – had taken the two of you to play down at the little park by the harbour. We can go there tomorrow. You brought a rugby ball with you. You were obsessed with the game. It was the only school activity you really enjoyed. Michael pestered you to play a simple game of catch with him. This game went on for a few minutes and then, according to your mother, you told Michael to move back so you could practice kicking.”
The rest of the story confirmed what Gabriel already knew, ending with Michael’s drowning and his own descent into darkness.
“And then what?” he asked, when Zhao Xi finished speaking. “You said before, when I called, that I went into a coma or something.”
“We didn’t know what it was. The doctor did not either, though he used clever language to obscure the fact. You lay in bed for two weeks. Either you were sleeping or you were awake, with your eyes open, but seeing nothing, saying nothing, doing nothing. You ate nothing. Just the odd spoonful of soup. And you drank water if the cup was pressed to your lips.”
Gabriel watched his old teacher carefully as he retold the story, hoping that some new detail would present itself that would help him make sense of the tragedy for which he had been at least partially responsible.
“How did it stop?”
Xi rubbed a liver-spotted hand over his eyes.
“One morning, you appeared in the doorway to the kitchen and asked for breakfast. A boiled egg. Your parents were eating their own breakfast and were astonished to see you. Your mother prepared your meal and then they both watched as you ate it. They telephoned me and I came as fast as I could. You were talking, walking, smiling. I asked you this one question. I said, ‘Gabriel. Do you remember what happened with Michael?’ And do you know what you said?”
Gabriel had a clutching feeling in his gut and thought he knew the answer all too well. “Tell me,” he said, finally.
“You asked, ‘Who is Michael?’, and you had a look of such open curiosity on your face, I will never forget it. Your mother burst into tears and left the room, but your father told you that Michael was your younger brother. He did not mention the accident.”
“
What happened then? What did I say?”
“Just that he was playing a trick or joking. Because he knew fine well you didn’t have a brother. I took you for a walk then. Your father had to go to work and your mother had gone to lie down. I asked you in several different ways about Michael, but it was clear to me that you really had no recollection of him at all. It was as if your mind had wiped itself clean, like a cook cleaning out his wok. Nothing of Michael remained inside.”
“But there was something, Master Zhao. In the end. Wasn’t there? Because last year I heard his voice inside my head. Calling me ‘Gable’.”
Xi nodded. “Somewhere, deep down in your soul, you had saved one part of your memories of Michael. ‘Gable’ was his name for you because he couldn’t say Gabriel. Until the accident, it had been the whole family’s pet name for you. Afterwards, we went back to calling you Gabriel.”
“You said they put all the photos of him away.”
“Yes. You became angry and that is when your real troubles at school began. It became too upsetting for your mother, and for your father, too, though he was better at hiding his feelings than she was. When you came to live with me, things became easier for them, but we agreed never to mention Michael to you until the day when you should come and ask freely about him yourself.”
Gabriel finished his drink and set the glass down on a small red lacquered table beside his armchair. He scrubbed his eyes with his sleeve. The bare facts of the story weren’t new to him, but hearing the story retold in his master’s soft cadences, sitting with him above the city where it had all happened . . . this was too much to bear.
“Master Zhao, I am so tired. Would you forgive me if I just went to bed now?”
The old man simply inclined his head.
Gabriel stood, and left the room, head hanging. He was asleep less than a minute later.
The following morning, Gabriel awoke at dawn. Outside his bedroom window, starlings were singing so loudly it sounded as though they might be in the room with him. Despite the troubles he had left behind in England, and the detailed retelling of the story of his brother’s death, he felt ready to face everything. Barbara Sutherland. Whoever or whatever Gordian was. The mystery southern belle in the bar in Harare. All of them.
After thirty minutes of push-ups, sit-ups and yoga poses in his room, he pulled on his running shoes and left the house by the back door. The day was overcast, but mild. Gabriel alternated between short sprints and longer periods of steady running, working his body harder with each sprint, until he could feel his heart operating at peak capacity. High above the harbour, he could see ships steaming into Hong Kong, boats skippered by sailors eager to get out on the water, and the many super-yachts owned, he assumed, by China’s new super-rich, still berthed at the Hong Kong Royal Yacht Club.
He closed his eyes and listened to the birds and the distant blaring of ships’ klaxons.
Something made him frown, but he couldn’t pinpoint what it was. He felt at peace. Nothing was bothering him, despite the forces ranged against him.
Then he realised. No voices. Smudge was leaving him alone. And even though he was so close, the young boy’s voice that called him ‘Gable’ was silent, too. Was it the effect of being close to his childhood guardian, he wondered? Master Zhao had always seemed to have infinite reserves of patience. He had never once rushed Gabriel into saying or doing anything, but had let him come to the decision by himself. He shrugged. Whatever it was, he didn’t mind.
He ran back down the path to Xi’s house, showered and changed into jeans and a T-shirt and went to find some breakfast. Xi was in the kitchen sipping tea from a small, white cup, the porcelain so thin as to be translucent.
“Good morning, Wolfe Cub. Would you like some tea?”
“Yes, please, Master Zhao.”
“Have you eaten?” Gabriel shook his head. “Then we will eat. I usually start the day with homemade baozi. You remember? Pork dumplings. You used to love them.”
“That sounds perfect.”
Sipping the smoky-flavoured tea, Gabriel watched Xi preparing the food. He looked for a sign that he should begin his story. But Xi seemed entirely taken up with preparing and steaming the dumplings.
“Do you want to know why I’m here, Master?”
“Do you want to tell me?”
Gabriel laughed. “You haven’t changed at all. Yes, I do want to tell you. I really, really need some advice.”
“Then begin. But when the food is ready, we eat, yes?”
“Yes. Of course.”
Gabriel began with his and Britta’s abortive trip to find Smudge’s remains. And how Barbara Sutherland had given him permission to go, once he agreed to kill Philip Agambe. With a short break while they ate the pork buns, fragrant with coriander, the story took half an hour. Xi nodded occasionally, furrowed his brow at others, but mostly sat perfectly still, listening intently.
When Gabriel reached the end – “Then I took the boat Dad left berthed for me in Southampton, crossed the Channel and flew out here to see you” – Xi nodded more emphatically and then clapped his hands together with a pop.
“The British Prime Minister is in league with a person or company called Gordian. She has been trading blood diamonds for political influence. You killed one of the people who could have exposed her. A mystery assassin killed the other. You confronted the Prime Minister at Number Ten Downing Street and she denied everything, naturally. But she has already tried to have you killed twice and you believe she will again.”
“That about sums it up, yes.”
Xi steepled his fingertips together under his chin and looked up at the ceiling, where a bamboo-bladed fan creaked arthritically.
“You must discover who or what Gordian is. Even if the Prime Minister does want you dead, they are helping her. She must be stopped. But so must they. There is someone I know here in Hong Kong who might be able to help you. A very powerful man. Not a completely legal man, but then, you are not completely legal yourself, are you?”
Gabriel shook his head. “Not exactly, no.”
“First, the harbour, though. You wish to see the place where Michael died. And where he is buried?”
“Yes, please.”
“I will call my friend. Then I will take you. Meet me at the front of the house in ten minutes.”
49
Family plot
THE streets were packed with people, all dodging the scaffolding poles, backhoes and road-works, arranged as if by a malevolent hand intent on booby-trapping the pavements. One street was devoted exclusively to restaurants and a cluster had specialised in selling “stinky tofu” as their English-language signs proudly boasted. Gabriel wrinkled his nose as the smell – a combination of burnt blue cheese and overcooked duck liver – rolled out of the doorways and air-conditioning extraction vents.
The park, when they reached it, was a simple square of mown grass dotted with benches and picnic tables, perhaps fifty yards to a side. It was separated from the harbour on its eastern side by a wide pavement and a low retaining wall. Under the pale grey sky, a group of elderly ladies in loose-fitting cotton smocks and trousers extended their arms and legs in graceful, slow movements. Xi led Gabriel to the pavement and pointed to a ladder leading down to the water.
“That is the spot where Michael jumped in. He could have used the ladder but I think he wanted to impress you. We do not know exactly how he injured his head, perhaps there was something from one of the ships floating on the water. Your mother said you just shouted his name as you watched, then dived in after him. Do you remember anything now you are back here?”
Gabriel stared down at the greenish water, willing himself to recall even a fragment of the scene. The sound of a splash, or the smell of the water, the feeling of the cold on his skin. Nothing came. He could only recall Michael because he had been told the story by Xi and combined it with a couple of fleeting auditory hallucinations. His brother remained a void in his mind.
“There’s nothing ther
e. It’s just a blank.”
Xi touched him on the arm. “Do not worry. Perhaps now is not the time for you to remember. You were brave. That is what matters. You went in after Michael and you pulled him out. It is sad that you were unable to save him. But . . .”
“But I killed him, Master. Didn’t I? I kicked the ball too high for him and I told him to fetch it out.”
“You were young, Wolfe Cub. And you were an older brother. You did what older brothers do the world over. But taunting and bossing are not killing. It was an accident. That is all. An accident.”
Gabriel sighed and scratched his scalp. “I know. The trouble is, the accidents I get involved in tend to get people killed.”
*
As they approached the cemetery, Gabriel felt oddly calm. He had expected to feel afraid or anxious, but there was nothing. No fluttering butterflies in his stomach. No sweating palms. No breathlessness. They walked side by side along the gravelled path between the headstones until Xi laid his hand on Gabriel’s shoulder to slow him down. He pointed to a small, polished slab of black granite, perhaps two feet high by one across and four or five inches thick. In front of it, a few sprigs of pink magnolia sat in a glass vase.
Gabriel looked over at the grave. “The flowers?”
“I put them there. I tend the grave. It was a promise I made to your parents.”
“Thank you.”
Gabriel inhaled deeply. He squared his shoulders. Then he walked, alone, away from the path, towards his brother’s grave.
He knelt in front of the stone and read the carved and gold-filled inscription aloud.
“Michael Francis Wolfe. Nineteen eighty-five to nineteen ninety. Beloved son and brother. Taken from us too soon.” He closed his eyes, strained to recall the face that belonged with the name. With the voice that had spoken to him and called him ‘Gable’. There was nothing. He opened them again. “I’m sorry, Michael,” was all he said. Then he stood, turned, and walked back to Xi, who was waiting for him on the path.