by Tara Moss
‘It’s been done.’
‘We need to get to Makedde NOW.’
‘It’s being done, Andy. Interpol have a team of people in Hong Kong and they promise they are all over this. They are going to track her down.’
Oh Jesus, Makedde…
CHAPTER 66
Ladies Market was amazing.
It was absolute sensory overload: the sound of Cantonese and Mandarin, footsteps, laughter, arguments and haggling. Alarm clocks buzzed senselessly in one stall. T-shirts hung over every possible centimetre of selling space in another. There were tables overflowing with sparkling fake jewels, illegal Rolex copies, souvenirs, snow globes, toys, pirated CDs. Music played on cheap plastic ghettoblasters. Woks and frying pans sizzled with the greasy edibles of street vendors. Rich aromas floated out from lively cafés and restaurants, while pungent odours wafted from narrow back alleys.
Wide-eyed, Mak followed Jen through the shoulder-to-shoulder crowd—or in Makedde’s case, their shoulders to her waist. ‘Copy watch, copy watch,’ someone shouted. She threw a look in the direction of the voice but was moved along by the crowd, almost lifted off her feet towards another stall that seemed to carry precisely the same watches. Chinese symbols hung down from awnings in all directions, dilapidated apartment blocks rising like stacks of old shoeboxes above the neon signs and clutter of capitalism. Stains of rust and dirt oozed down the sides of the ramshackle buildings, tiny air-conditioning units teetering on the edges of the windowsills. The living conditions would be anything but first world. No wonder SARS had spread so fast through the plumbing, the ventilation, the sewerage. The city had suffered, but now it was thriving again—cleaner, safer, though still so much more crowded and layered than a Westerner could comprehend without experiencing it first-hand.
Makedde gawked at the stalls, the signs, the buildings—the whole overwhelming streetscape. And all the while, thousands of locals thronged in all directions around her, haggling, buying, eating and moving in a great human sea.
Mak pushed forward and grabbed Jen’s arm.
‘Oh wow! I don’t want to lose you…’
‘Come over here, I’ve got to show you these bags,’ Jen exclaimed. ‘They have great copies of the latest Louis Vuitton bag for, like, fifty Hong Kong dollars! That’s only ten US dollars a bag.’
‘Ten bucks?’
‘They’re double A fakes. The good ones.’
Mak followed Jen closely through the crowd, arriving at a stall displaying nothing but laminated photographs of what looked like Gucci, Louis Vuitton and Burberry handbags and wallets.
‘But where are the bags?’ Mak asked.
‘Which designer you want?’ the vendor said. ‘You want Burberry? Gucci?’
‘Louis Vuitton,’ Jen giggled.
‘I bring it. Which one you want?’
‘Um…I want to see that one.’ Jen pointed to a laminated sheet featuring a bag covered with graffiti-like scribbling. ‘How much?’
The man brought out a calculator and punched in some numbers. He showed the read-out to Jen.
‘One hundred Hong Kong dollars? Too much,’ she said.
Mak did a quick calculation. That was about twenty Canadian dollars. A bargain.
‘Very good quality. Double A. I show you.’ He scurried off behind the stall and down an alley.
‘What’s happening?’ Mak asked Jen. ‘Where did he go?’
‘They get raided twice a day. It’s safer for them to just have the catalogue out. They keep the bags hidden somewhere and bring them out when customers ask to see them. A lot of them work like this.’
The piles of trinkets in the next stall caught Mak’s eye. Mao books, Mao toys, Mao pins. The stall next to that had crazy underwear hanging all over it. There was a pair of men’s briefs on display with an elephant’s head on the front. It was obvious which body part was supposed to go into the long trunk.
‘Oh my God. Look at that!’ Mak exclaimed.
Just further on was a stall selling Osama bin Laden T-shirts. Mak moved closer. ‘I can’t believe this…’ she mumbled with disgust. There were T-shirts on the trestles portraying the World Trade Center towers collapsing, with a glowing head of bin Laden in the middle. The illustration looked pro-bin Laden. What the hell?
Mak turned back to tell Jen, but couldn’t see her. She was shoved sideways by a tall teenager in a hurry. Regaining her balance, she looked left and right. No Jen. A Caucasian man caught her eye a few metres away. He was short and slight with dark brown hair and pale eyes. A chill ran up her spine. He was staring at her.
He looked like…
Mak could feel panic run through her body. The man reminded her of Ed Brown. That was why she had come up in gooseflesh. She was seeing things again, like she had at the fashion show with the red-haired photographer. She had to slow down and think clearly. That could not have been Ed. Ed didn’t even have brown hair.
You are seeing things. Just calm down.
But she couldn’t will herself into calm. The sight of someone who looked so much like him, despite the different hair colour, had spooked her, and now she felt on edge. The crowd began to feel less like an exhilarating sea of people and more like an ocean to drown in. There didn’t seem to be enough oxygen. She breathed what she could through short, sharp gasps.
Get out. Get out of here now.
Mak ran back towards the stall of fake designer handbags and, not finding Jen, dodged past it, searching frantically for her. She needed to get out of the crowd, find space. She ducked through an unattended stall into a slim corridor that ran for blocks behind the market. There were winding alleys branching off it this way and that—but no Jen. No one familiar. She had to get out. A feeling like claustrophobia threatened to overwhelm her, pulling her away from clarity.
That could not have been Ed. He is in Australia, not in Hong Kong.
Unless…
There had been that front-page article about Hong Kong.
My God, what if it was him?
She scanned to her left, taking in the crowded street, busy as a mosh pit. There were hundreds, no thousands, of people walking, talking, haggling. Neon signs glowed and flashed and beckoned. H20. Virginia Hotel. PC Online Gaming. Levis. Fairwood. DVD. Import Fashion. Cantonese writing everywhere, on every surface, and a huge pink banner above it all: WELCOME TO LADIES MARKET.
She scanned to her right. More of the same. The crowds went on as far as she could see. Where was Jen? How could she have lost her? She was sure to stand out. Jen was six inches taller than anyone else. Just as Mak stood out in that jostling swarm, with her height and her fair hair. Perhaps Jen would see her?
Just calm down, Mak…
Ed could see her. She was on her own. Her eyes were wide with panic. Her mouth was open, yelling something no one could hear. She looked confused, distressed.
Makedde.
Mak.
Mother.
She had lost her friend.
It was time.
Ed followed several steps behind her. He matched the height of the crowd, able to watch the top of her blonde head as she turned and looked back and forth, jogging through the stalls. He would have to catch up with her. There was no more Prison Lady to get in the way. She would never bother Ed again. He could have Mak now and they would not be disturbed at the Wan Chai apartment. He would have as many days with her as he liked. There was no one to ask questions. He could take her home unconscious. A cab driver would think she was drunk. He was strong enough to carry her. It would be easy.
Ed reached into his pocket and brought out the rag. He clutched it in his gloved hand, and followed.
Makedde strode back the way she had come, moving briskly and checking each stall for her friend.
Calm. Calmly now. There is no need to panic. That could not have been him…
Jen had probably gone to look at the bag with the vendor. She would be back at the stall by now. You have been imagining things. You’ve had a tough day. You are under strain, that’s al
l. She reached the handbag stall at last, with the catalogue hung up for show. Or was it? She turned and looked through the crowd. Could she see the strange T-shirt? No. Where was it? It had been right there. Or was she mixed up somehow? Was this a different fake bag outlet? The stalls all looked the same, crowded one into the next, selling the same things, the same watches, the same cheap trinkets. Where was she? Where was Jen in this hellish bustle?
How did I lose her?
Calm down. Stop panicking.
Makedde felt eyes on her again and turned.
The blood in her veins froze. A deep, gnawing itch began in her toe. Everything seemed to grow quiet except her breathing. The world slowed to a halt…
Ed Brown stood no more than four metres away, staring directly at her.
Mak bolted in the opposite direction.
It was him.
How could it be him? How could he be here? Good God, how?
Makedde could not forget those eyes. The sight of them close to her face had been burned into her memory like the painful brand of a hot poker. ‘Are you ready, Mother?’ he’d said. ‘You have such beautiful toes. Lovely toes. Would you like to taste them? Suck them for me?’ He looked different, his hair darkened with bad dye, but he was unmistakable this time.
Scream, Makedde…
Scream for help!
Makedde called out. A woman beside her turned as she passed, then looked away and continued up the row of stalls. ‘The right foot, because it’s right…’ Ed had sliced through her big toe with a post-mortem scalpel while she was tied up helplessly, wide-awake in agony and fear. She would never forget that face, those eyes, that voice, the searing pain. And what he had done to Catherine…poor Cat, mutilated and abused, discarded in the tall grass like a mangled doll.
‘No, I won’t let you go…Mother.’
Makedde raced through the sea of strangers as fast as she could, knocking into people’s bags, hitting a young girl in the shoulder. She yelled loudly as she ran—‘Help me! Police! Police! Please someone help!’—trying to raise the alarm, her eyes no longer seeking Jen’s ponytail but desperately hoping for the sight of a uniform, police of some kind, someone, anyone, who could help. The swarming crowds went on as if nothing were happening, like the nightmares where she was screaming and no sound came out, no one could hear, no one would help. She could not recall the word for emergency in Cantonese, but it probably wouldn’t make any difference anyway. These were people who would mind their own business, especially when it came to a screeching tourist. How could they know that an escaped sadist who had murdered at least nine women was walking amongst them? How could they be warned?
It is Ed Brown. He is here. He has found me.
She looked behind her and with a sick despair saw that Ed was still there, matching her pace, moving through the crowd stride for stride. Mak ran straight into the back of a man holding a baby, and the child began to cry. She ran again, slipping past them and watching where she was going, but Ed was still there, so close, only a few paces behind her. She bobbed and weaved, urgently seeking a safe place, a police station, an officer, someone who looked official.
There were only unmoved locals, and the street vendors with their cheap wares, people who were raided twice a day for their fake Rolexes and Louis Vuittons. These people would likely run from the police, not help her find them. There were so many people, and yet she was truly on her own.
CHAPTER 67
Andy Flynn was coming out of his skin with anxiety. He could feel it in his bones.
Mak is in dire, immediate trouble.
His eyes ached from dehydration and lack of sleep. The abrasions on his palms had opened again from gripping his hands too hard. He felt as useless as tits on a bull in Sydney. Makedde was in Hong Kong and Ed was in Hong Kong. That was the worst-case scenario. He prayed they weren’t going to be too late. Ed had slipped into Hong Kong as Ben Harpin on Tuesday morning and it was already Wednesday night.
Interpol had alerted the Hong Kong Police. They were determined to capture multiple killer Ed Brown and his companion and had put out a major alert on them, but neither had been tracked down in the short time since the search began, nor did Andy believe that would happen anytime soon. Until they used a credit card or flashed a passport, finding them among the seven million-odd people in Hong Kong would be like finding a needle in a haystack.
Makedde should be easier to find, he hoped.
She, at least, should not be hiding.
CHAPTER 68
Ed was easily matching Mak’s pace through the mass of strangers. They were all moving too slowly, so many people in her way: children, old people, couples, everyone blocking her path as she ran. She had to think of something. She needed to get someone to help her. The last time she faced Ed he had taken her off guard, hitting her over the head with brute force. He might have a weapon now. He would not stop until he had her, that much was certain. He had come a long way for this.
The tables and stalls of cheap goods filled her vision in all directions. She saw no escape, only hundreds of tawdry souvenirs.
Use them.
In a flash she snatched a snow globe of Hong Kong off one of the tables.
The vendor screamed something angrily in Cantonese. ‘Wai! Gwoh lai a!’
She finally had someone’s attention.
Off the next table Mak snatched up a set of thin chopsticks held together with a pretty red ribbon. They looked like they might be plastic but they had sharp points. She pocketed them as she ran, making a show of her thievery, catching the eye of the incensed seller.
Yes, come after me. And bring the police.
With her mane of blonde hair rising above the rest of the pedestrians, Mak had no hope of disappearing into the market crowd. She needed to gain ground and find somewhere to hide, around a corner or through a doorway—to give her just enough time to flee way towards the Mongkok subway station where she’d noticed some uniformed officers earlier. There had to be police officers at the station. But which way was it from here?
There. Behind that last stall. Someone in a uniform.
‘Hey! Help me! Police!’ she called out.
Makedde dodged to her right, shielded momentarily from Ed’s view by a tall canvas tarp that protected a stall overflowing with toy planes buzzing, toy monkeys clapping symbols, toy ferrets chasing balls.
Clang, clang, clang…
She squeezed her way into the corridor behind the stalls and found herself at the mouth of a dimly lit alley. Tarpaulins blocked her way, she had to double back—this was a mistake, she realised now. Oh God, where to? The alley was filled with rows of garbage bins, each overflowing with rotting food. There was a high chain-link fence at the end. No officer. Whoever she’d seen was on the other side of those tarpaulins.
She had a fraction of a second to decide. Go back the way she came? Or…
Hide.
Mak flattened herself against the brick wall and gripped the snow globe tightly in both hands.
There he is.
In seconds Ed Brown had appeared at the mouth of the narrow alley, panting. She would not have had enough time to double back even if she’d tried. Without hesitation Makedde lunged forward to strike him hard over the head with the snow globe. The killer must have sensed movement. He flinched and the globe only glanced against the side of his temple, propelling her forward as she missed her target. She struggled to retain her grip on the globe but it slipped from her hands and crashed on the pavement at their feet, scattering water and fake snow as the cheap glass shattered. Already his hands were on her and they began to struggle like boxers in a hold, he so much shorter but somehow stronger, his power shocking. They wrestled grimly, their bodies straining and twisting. She tried to get free to hit him, to go for his eyes, to reach the sticks in her pocket. Even if they were too flimsy to be effectual, she might scare him, slow him down maybe. She only needed a bit of distance, just a few seconds on her side in order to escape his clutches.
But her stren
gth was no match for his freakish vigour. Ed got hold of her windpipe with both hands and squeezed, the black leather of his gloves creaking as they stretched tight. She batted at his arms in panic, a futile act, and in seconds felt her mind slip dangerously as she began to cloud into unconsciousness. His face was close to hers, those pale eyes burning through her, eyes that were windows to a diseased soul. She had to escape that sickness, that foulness. She would not let it claim her. The instincts of years of self-defence training finally came to her. She braced her palms together as if in prayer and lodged her hands upwards between his, the strength of her shoulders breaking his grip on her throat.
‘Mother-fucker!’ she gasped, swinging out with one good kick and striking his kneecap hard on the side. He cried out and stumbled backwards, his head briefly silhouetted by a halo of neon. She backed up one step. Two. Shattered glass crunched under her feet. He blocked the entrance to the alley. There was nowhere to go but the chain-link fence and the open ground-floor windows beyond, where she could use a phone, get someone to help. Mak turned and ran towards the fence, leaping at it with force and meeting it a full five feet above the ground, her fingers clawing through the holes in the wire mesh, her feet scrabbling for purchase as she pulled herself up, up, ever closer to the top. She had to get over it, get into the buildings beyond. Someone would have to find them soon, someone who was chasing the thieving Westerner who had run down a back alley. Where was everyone? Where was the police officer?
A hand grabbed her ankle and pulled.
Mak struggled to hold tight to the fence. She was almost there, her fingertips only inches from the top, her voice crying out as loud as she could make it, but the hands had her, Ed had her in his grip and he was strong, so strong. She strained with every fibre of her being, tears springing from her eyes. ‘I will save the fatal incisions for last’, ‘Have you ever seen an autopsy Makedde?’, ‘You are special…’, ‘Such pretty toes…’ Her fingers stung as the wire pressed into them, threatening to cut them as his binds had when he had her tied down, immobilised and helpless: her shoulders cried out, he had her by the waist now with both hands, how could it be, he had her, after everything he had her, he was pulling her down with both arms and her desperate determination was no match for his strength. She heard his breath hard in her ear. A sharp smell, like alcohol but stronger, a rag over her mouth, a strange sensation, something lifting, she was being lifted, she felt weightless for a moment—fight it, fight it Mak—she struggled and kicked, felt her oxygen fade, her head going, lifting away.