The youths said nothing, but pressed more closely in upon the girls.
‘Take our bags,’ Sam said, holding out hers. The offer was ignored.
After the gang’s cries and screams, the silence in the alleyway had become terrifying. Sam could barely make out the youths’ faces, even though they were close enough for her to smell the leader’s deodorant, cheap and sweet. She wanted to vomit. Then he spoke.
‘Lovely hair.’ The words had a sinister sound. He reached out and began fingering the braids and the beads. Sam pulled back but there was nowhere to go.
‘I like your hair,’ he insisted, tugging at the tresses.
Sam shook her head.
‘I want your hair.’
Meaning? Then, in the darkness, she saw something flash. And flash again. It was a Stanley knife, sharp as any razor, its blade exposed. She wanted to scream but discovered that every part of her was frozen.
He waved the blade slowly in front of her face, so that he could watch her eyes following it from side to side. ‘It is very sharp,’ he whispered, relishing her terror. Then he put the back of the blade to her face, drawing it across her eyebrows like a pencil. She choked, waiting for the blood to trickle into her eyes. But none came.
‘Are … you going … to rape us?’ Sam gasped.
‘No. I simply like your hair. Very much.’ And he slit through one of the braids. She gave a strangled cry but dared not move her head, the blade was still circling.
Then another braid came off.
Tears – or perhaps it was blood, she could no longer tell – began burning down her face like tiny streams of lava as once more he hacked, and yet again. Some of the beads fell to the pavement, bouncing around her feet, and one of the youths sniggered. All she could see was dancing of the blade, and the purpose in his eyes.
Again and again the blade hovered in front of her cheeks before the knife cut and carved and hacked its way through her hair, until it was all gone. He held out a fist full of her braids. ‘I like your hair,’ he whispered.
‘I like the rest of her, too,’ one of the other youths muttered. Then his hand was on her breast, pawing.
And the blade flashed again, slashing across the back of the youth’s hand. He screamed in surprise.
‘You little banana,’ the leader spat, ‘that’s not what we came for.’
The youth was whimpering and wrapping a handkerchief around his hand to staunch the flow of blood. No one else said a word. The leader waved his fistful of hair once more, a victory trophy, the amputated braids wriggling like serpents between his fingers.
Then they were gone, into the night.
Goodfellowe pushed eagerly on the pedals as he cycled back from the House. He’d bought some candles – the lighting in his apartment was of a strictly utilitarian and non-seductive nature and he had begun to recognize its limitations. There were also two bottles of wine in his basket (something exploratory and Argentine from Sainsbury’s), some mineral water and a file of papers Mickey had insisted he take home, but which he had no intention of even opening. Oh, and a box of matches. For the candles. He’d almost forgotten the matches and had to make a special stop at the all-night store on the corner of Trafalgar Square. Candles with no matches. Like a plane without an undercarriage. Not going to get him anywhere.
As always at this time of night Gerrard Street was busy and he weaved his way carefully through the throng, sounding his bell, an incongruous figure in the crowd. People smiled, he smiled back. Such a change, he thought, from that time when there had been no smiles, only dark depression, when he’d had nothing, and no one, except for Sam and the Black Dog. And even Sam had often not been there. He would sit alone, surrounded by memories and debts. In silence. Eventually it had begun to affect his judgement. He had grown isolated, extreme, lost many friends. Only the best had stayed. He’d even lost Elizabeth. She complained that life for him was always a fight, that if he wasn’t already embroiled in a confrontation he’d go out looking for one. But life was a fight, he’d argued. Kids from his background weren’t born to expect reward, only retribution. Oh, but she’d been right, though. You couldn’t fight all the time. It wore out not only the body but also the soul; it also wore out those you loved. So nowadays he picked his fights more carefully – at least, he thought he had, until he’d bumped into these troublesome Tibetans. A real rust spot on life’s burnished armour, that lot. He was fed up trying to be another Lancelot roving the world in search of injustice and infant gods. Mind you, if there was a Guinevere to help out … He couldn’t deny that his aspirations on that front usually turned out to be about as collapsible as his bloody bike, but, he promised himself, not tonight. Not tonight!
He stabled his bike in the small cupboard beneath the stairs and hurried up to his second-floor apartment. He had a lot to do – shower, fresh clothes, candles, select some music – and only about ten minutes before Elizabeth was due to arrive. He scrabbled in his pocket for his keys but found he didn’t have to bother. The door was already open.
He had been burgled. No vandalism, nothing obvious missing, but his desk had been ransacked and papers were strewn everywhere. Why burgle him? he demanded of the walls. He had so little of value. And what the hell had they expected to find among his papers, nuclear missile codes and lists of Ministerial mistresses? He felt victimized, almost violated, and for a moment teetered on the brink of melancholy. Then he stepped back, angry with himself. No way was he going to let these bastards win, no matter who they were. But first things first. He opened one of the bottles and poured himself an exceptionally large glass.
He was on his knees, tidying the papers, a half-empty bottle by his side, when there was a knock at the door. He turned. It was Elizabeth.
He swore.
‘And greetings to you, too, Tom.’
‘Sorry. Not quite the candle-lit welcome I’d planned,’ he apologized. ‘Been bloody burgled.’
‘Have you called the police?’
‘Doesn’t seem a lot of point. I’m not sure anything’s missing. And they didn’t break in, the lock’s not damaged.’
‘A professional job, then?’
‘Not very professional if they chose me as a target!’
‘Unless they knew who you were, that it was you.’
‘Of course they did.’ Sod it.
That was why he couldn’t call the police. He was a target, too, and there would be too many clumsy enquiries – about god-kings, about the Chinese connection, about Kunga. He couldn’t tell them about Kunga; it might end up killing him. So he wouldn’t tell them anything at all. Oh, but why tonight of all nights, when the only thing he wanted to dwell upon was Elizabeth? He looked across the room, she was all ankle and thigh and – oh, bugger the burglary. It was time to get shot of this Tibetan tangle. He had no time for all this. OK, so the Tibetans were decent, but also chaotic, and Tibet was a million miles away. What did it matter to him? Not as much as Elizabeth. He’d done enough – no, too much! Time to wash his hands. He was about to tell her of his decision and put his life back on course when he was interrupted by a persistent, almost violent ringing of the bell downstairs. It hesitated, but started up again almost immediately. Then, through the night, came a wretched cry of despair.
‘Daddy …!’
Goodfellowe found himself flying down the stairs three at a time, almost tumbling in his haste. Sam was kneeling on the step, Edwina standing behind her. There were tears on her face, and blood splashed on her blouse. Her clothes were dishevelled, she seemed to have vomited and her hair … Her hair was grotesque, like the Medusa, and for a moment he could not move. Then, with all the tenderness he could find, he gathered her in his arms and guided her up the stairs.
Sam stood trembling and speechless in the middle of the room. Edwina sobbed quietly. Goodfellowe was in turmoil. Then Elizabeth was beside him, taking control. This is woman’s work,’ she instructed, ushering him aside and leading the girls in the direction of his small bathroom.
�
��It’s all right, Daddy,’ Sam whispered over her shoulder, trying to find a brave smile. ‘I haven’t been raped, nothing like that.’
He closed his eyes and felt sick inside. ‘I’ll call the police.’
‘No, Daddy! Please, we’re all right. No questions.’ Not about why they had come to London or where they had been. So for a change both father and daughter found themselves of one mind – no police. But it was with great reluctance and more than a little doubt that he allowed the phone to fall.
It hurt, how it hurt. He was her father. This shouldn’t have happened, not to his daughter, not on his doorstep. Somehow he had let her down. Again.
Yet perhaps in all this there was something to hold on to. Sam, in trouble, had come running to him. That made him feel a little better inside. And she appeared to have accepted Elizabeth’s presence without qualm or question. That might yet prove to be the brightest blessing of all. Later, after the women had re-emerged and Sam and Edwina were reliving and only modestly reinventing their ordeal for him, Elizabeth busied herself with making coffee, finding tissues, being an unobtrusive comfort.
It was also Elizabeth who voiced the fear that had been lurking in Goodfellowe’s mind. ‘A burglary and an attack. All in a few hours. You’re going to tell me it’s coincidence, Tom?’
‘Tell me again, Sam, what he said at the end. The leader. As he attacked the one who …’
‘Who pawed me? He called him a little banana. What did he mean, Daddy?’
‘Banana? A Chinese insult. Yellow on the outside, white on the inside. And bent.’
‘Then he said, that’s not what they had come here for.’
‘Oh, Buddha,’ he moaned. ‘Do you understand what this means?’
‘That it wasn’t an accident. They knew who I was. That I was your daughter.’
‘My fault. All my fault.’ Remorse flooded his voice.
‘Don’t be silly, Daddy.’
‘I’ve been helping save Tibetans. It’s caused a lot of trouble. I was going to give it up. I shall have to stop now.’
‘Not bloody likely,’ retorted Sam.
‘What?’
‘Give up? Because of this?’
‘Of course because of this.’
‘You want them to win?’
‘No, but I can’t have you—’
‘Daddy, you think it’s the first time I’ve been felt up in a dark alley?’
The veins in his neck bulged in alarm.
‘Although normally I don’t take on six guys at once,’ she continued. Edwina managed to muster a giggle. Not much of a joke, but in the circumstances any joke was better than tears.
Was this what he paid thousands of precious pounds for every term? he wondered. But there was also pride. She was a fighter.
‘Honestly, Daddy, you can’t stop just because of this; it’s all the more reason to carry on. And somehow it helps to know that it was for a purpose, for you. Much better than having been chosen at random.’ She put her arms around him and squeezed, like she used to when she was half her age. ‘Look, no harm done.’
He looked down upon his daughter’s hacked and savaged hair. ‘Can you forgive me?’
‘On one condition, perhaps.’ She buried her head in his chest.
‘What condition?’
She looked up, her eyes sparkling through tears. ‘That you pay for my hair extensions.’
She was laughing at him, the laughter running like spring water and washing away their pain.
‘The girls have missed their last train, Tom,’ Elizabeth reminded him, practical as ever.
‘They can stay on the sofa.’
‘Then you’d better call Edwina’s mother and explain.’
As he helped the girls prepare the sofabed, he kept turning the events in his mind, examining them from all sides. There were no coincidences, only connections. He had no doubt that the burglary and the attack were intended to be a warning to him to stay out of the Dalai Lama matter. They wanted him to know that next time, perhaps, Sam might lose more than her hair. But how did they know about him and what he was up to? He had no public connection at all with Tibet. Yet, as always, the Chinese seemed to be one step ahead, to know everything that was going on.
He telephoned Edwina’s mother, explained simply that they had missed the last train, nothing to worry about, that he would make sure Edwina ate something other than chocolate for breakfast – ‘Thank you, Mr Goodfellowe, preferably fresh grapefruit and a little Earl Grey with lemon; she’s so casual about her diet.’ – then turned to find the girls already clambering unselfconsciously and exhaustedly into their bed. He, too, felt as though he had been folded a hundred times. And the papers were still scattered everywhere. He swept them up in his arms and threw them into a pile for the morning.
Wearily he finished off the last glass of wine and put away the unlit candles. They would have to do for another day. He looked round for Elizabeth. As he did so the last of his energy drained through the soles of his shoes.
She was at the door. Coat on. A mournful smile that seemed to twist her full red lips in sorrow, an expression of both disappointment and determination in her eyes that brooked no argument. She stood only across the room but might have been a million miles away. And growing more distant. Then, without a word, she was gone.
NINE
Goodfellowe was not a man long on patience and neither was he a creature of the morning. By the time he had got the two girls roused, restored and off to their train, he was already grinding his teeth and in need of a little pampering. So he wandered down Gerrard Street to Chou’s place for some tea. Like Goodfellowe, Chinatown woke slowly. The mid-hours of the morning were still sleepy, almost gentle. Goodfellowe sat himself down with a newspaper and a pot of tea while he watched Chinatown stir itself and come slowly to life.
Chou’s restaurant could best be described as rudimentary, dressed in an assortment of cheap veneers and gaudily coloured lights, and frequented largely by Chinese who used it as something of a social club. Far more business was conducted across the tables by his customers than by Chou himself, but this caused him no great concern. It gave him contacts, enabled him to keep many friends and, in the margins of their friendship, to maintain a sound investment portfolio. And the modest surroundings helped keep the tax man off his back.
Not that everything was harmony. At the rear of the restaurant, full-scale hostilities had broken out in guttural dialect between Chou’s wife and the fishmonger who was trying to get her to accept the day’s delivery of fish. Chou was keeping well out of the way; he preferred the quiet life. Which was why any Westerners who came through his door with push chairs were told the place was full up – ‘No room! No room!’ he would gesticulate, shooing them off – while he allowed in any number of Chinese children. They knew how to behave themselves. Unlike Western kids. Or his wife. He lit a cigarette and drew deeply, filling his lungs and getting the kick-start to the day that would see him through until the small hours. He smiled encouragingly at Goodfellowe. Chou was an inveterate chatterer. He always had something to say. Goodfellowe waved him to a seat.
‘Trouble?’ Goodfellowe enquired, nodding in the direction of the battle.
‘My wife say prawns look …’ – he struggled for the word – ‘unhappy. It happen every day.’
‘Then why not fire the fishmonger?’
‘No, no, Mr Minister! He my best friend. Come from same village in Hunan.’ Chou smiled broadly through crooked teeth. ‘Prawns always very good. Frozen very fresh.’
‘So why the row?’
‘Just business. My wife want to make sure prawns are also frozen fresh tomorrow.’ He shrugged philosophically. ‘Marriage is business, too.’ Chou had no intention of intervening; the fishmonger would have to earn his money the hard way.
‘Everything is business in Chinatown, Mr Chou.’ Goodfellowe chuckled.
Chou nodded enthusiastically, and a thought began to rattle around in the back of Goodfellowe’s head.
�
�Tell me, if I had lost something very precious, or even someone, a person, and I wanted help looking for him, could I get any help? Around Chinatown?’
‘Sure-sure.’
‘How?’
‘Chinatown like a big notice board, Mr Minister. You want something. Somebody find it for you. For a price.’
‘And if I wanted a lot of help. In a hurry?’
‘Sure thing, Mr Minister. Bigger hurry, bigger price. You want something, you let me know. I put word around for you. I good at putting word around.’ He beamed. Being a gossip of gargantuan proportions was part of his trade, and he was a master at it.
Goodfellowe studied his cup. ‘And what if I wanted something a little unorthodox? No questions asked. If I had made a bad friend, for instance? Wanted him to feel … uncomfortable?’
Chou nodded thoughtfully, his head grown heavy, along with the price. ‘Then more money. Up front.’
‘And if I had made a very bad friend …?’
Chou drew once more on his cigarette, enveloping himself in a cloud of blue haze. At last he reappeared, smiling, with a mouth full of broken and badly stained teeth. ‘Very bad friend, very good business.’
‘You could help me, Mr Chou?’
Chou’s smile suddenly shrivelled. This sounded all too much like a leading question. ‘No, not with very bad friend. For that you go elsewhere. Four or five places in Chinatown for such very good business. Clubs. Families. You know?’
‘You mean gangs. Triads.’
‘Perhaps.’ Chou thought he had already said too much but did not wish to give offence. ‘But no good for you, Mr Minister. You not Chinese. Sorry.’
‘That makes a difference?’
‘Don’t mix with Chinese bad boys, Mr Minister. Look, Chinaman want to screw Chinese girl, you go ask barber and he give you address in Queensway. Westerner want to screw a Chinese girl and price double. Then she take him to hotel where she says she has a room. But front desk suspicious, she explain. So she get him to wait outside back door while she go round front to open it. You know what? He still waiting at Christmas.’ Chou began to laugh, hoping that the tale had diverted Goodfellowe’s enquiries. ‘Anyway, she probably not Chinese but Filipino. So don’t mix with bad boys, Mr Minister. Or bad girls!’
The Buddha of Brewer Street Page 18