Kiss Me, Hadley: A Novel

by Nick Macfie

  I tried the second door along the deck. It was locked.

  The third door opened into a dark, warm room which smelt like a museum. The ultra-violet light was so low I could barely see my hands in front of me. The dial of my watch was shining bright green, as were the cuffs of my shirt. All I could hear was the throb of the engine room below.

  I pushed my way through heavy, dark, satin curtains and entered a space about the size of a badminton court lined with pictures. The light was still low, with the pictures lit from individual lamps attached to cables stretched across the ceiling.

  I was a veteran of sleaze of all varieties in some of the key capitals of Asia and nothing much could surprise me. But I gasped gently and put the back of my hand to my mouth. In front of me, ten foot high and framed in gold, was a portrait of Margaret Thatcher. She was dressed in blue, carrying a handbag and walking a dog. It took me by such surprise I had to sit down. Next to her was a picture of Ronald Reagan in the Oval Office. All round the room were leading Republicans and Tories. But they weren’t pictures, I now saw. They were screens and images were ticking over one by one, faster and faster. In front of me now was a picture of a notorious Conservative member of parliament from the 1990s who was forced to quit after a newspaper showed pictures of him picking up rent boys outside the gents in Paddington station. In this picture, he was leaning against a lichen-covered stone wall smoking a cigarette, his left hand covering his prick. He was entirely naked.

  In the picture to his right now was a slick, humourless bully who became Home Secretary for a short time in the early 1980s. I say for a short time - he was done for the attempted rape of the 60-year-old janitor of the gents at Paddington station. I saw a trend. For those unfamiliar with the station, it serves a very rich commuter belt west of London full of Conservatives. In the picture, the man was wearing a long university scarf and leaning on a cricket bat.

  There were other pictures of novelists, game show hosts, media tycoons, second-rate tennis players, all sleaze-balls in one way or another. The pictures were flicking over now so fast one was barely distinguishable from another.

  “You see before you the template of success,” a voice said. It was coming from all around. “Larger than life, captains of the arts, industry and sport, leading by example, pooh-poohing big government and taking a gamble.”

  The voice was a languid, mid-Atlantic drawl. It could have been a soap commercial.

  “Ask yourself: what brought you here? Right now. A desire to enrich yourself, to forge your own way, to live a little and forget those less adventurous, more needy, than yourself. A desire to look after number one.”

  The Christmas spirit seemed sorely lacking from this presentation. What I remember about the next five minutes or five hours is a bit vague. I remember the silky voice and mention of “malicious falsehoods” and “momentary indiscretions”. Momentary indiscretions? If memory serves, the pooh-poohing MP had had twenty minutes to kill before his Paddington train. Then there was a sting in my hand and the feeling of a cold solution entering my vein. I remember thinking it felt like a large gin and tonic though was puzzled how whoever had done this had managed to get a needle in.

  I didn’t see who had done it. Nor did I see, or acknowledge, the person who slapped me around however long it was later. “Snap out of it, you bastard,” he kept saying. And then there was more cold liquid going into my arm this time. I remember Christmas visions. Sugar-plums danced in my head, I was snug in my bed. A wink of his eye and a twist of his head soon gave me to know I had nothing to dread. And I had a fucking awful headache when I woke up. At home, in my own bed.

  I couldn’t remember how I got there. I got out of bed and compiled a long email explaining what had happened to all the bosses in Hong Kong and London.

  “Hadley, this is disturbing and brilliant,” Stone wrote back. “It’s a police matter, of course. It’s a diplomatic matter. Copying London editors for a telecon for 0800 GMT Wednesday. We need to know you are safe. You need to assure us that you want to carry on and tell us if you need help, though I am not sure how we can help you on the boat. Well done! You have done great work!

  MY DESIRE FOR SCOUT was growing by the day. It was totally outrageous and unfair. Why allow a man to fall for a much younger girl when the girl is completely beautiful and disgusted by the whole prospect of even a kiss? I had to stop myself staring into those eyes or at those ridiculous lips.

  I took her to the top of Taai Mo Saan, the tallest mountain in Hong Kong in the middle of the rural New Territories where Route TWSK once took me to my village home. The Honest Bar was my local in those days but I would go there later. And alone. In particularly cold winters in sub-tropical Hong Kong, where the temperature rarely drops below ten degrees Celsius, Cantonese will head happily as far up the mountain as the road goes, less than a thousand metres, for a possible sighting of frost on the leaves and go “waah” if they saw it. The mountain, where cobras are two a penny, is famous for its centuries-old tea terraces which are now just ripples in the ground. The day Scout and I visited, a white mist smelling of chemicals, pollution from the factories of Guangdong over the border mixed up with Hong Kong car exhausts, obscured the view.

  “How do you know about places like this, Hadley? It’s cold up here. It fucking stinks.”

  “Well winter is approaching.”

  “‘Well winter is approaching’,” she mimicked. “Boy you can be pompous.”

  We were walking along a hill path with views over the old British barracks on the Kam Tin side of the hill where I used to live.

  “Never mind that.” I felt for the hip flask in my pocket. “We’re having a nice walk.”

  “Never mind Catholic priests wearing nothing but pink negligees,” Scout said. “We’re having a nice walk. I told you there was one American giving me a hard time. He spat at me yesterday.”

  “What?”

  “You heard what I said. He lost a load. He didn’t actually spit at me, but he swore at me then spat on the floor.”

  “But why did you say that about Catholic priests?”

  “I don’t know what you are talking about.”

  “This is getting silly. You just said they wear pink negligees. I’m not saying you’re wrong, it’s just a strange thing to say.” This was our story and we could take it at our own pace, Stone had said. “Maybe I was hearing things,” I said. “Tell me about the American. Did the pit bosses see?”

  “Of course. They didn’t care. They laughed. One actually said something like ‘having a bad night are we sir’ and laughed. And then this guy, Spike…”

  “That’s his name?”

  “That’s what he said. He asked me if I was up for it. Going out after work.”

  “What did you say?”

  “I said it was against regulations.”

  “What did he say?”

  “He said ‘fuck the regulations’. He said I wouldn’t regret it, that he knew how to give a girl like me a good time.”

  “Do I know this guy? What does he look like?”

  “Plays only blackjack, as far as I can tell. Depressed, swarthy face. Sullen.” It sounded like Zeb. “Wears thick glasses and calls everyone ‘pal’.”

  “He calls you ‘pal’?”

  “All the time. He even calls the pit bosses ‘pal’.”

  “Mid-forties, swept back hair?”

  “That’s him. You’ve dealt to him too?”

  “Not dealt to him. Not in the casino. He’s too clever for that. May have to deal with him though. His name is Zeb.”

  “He told me Spike. How do you know him?”

  I remembered the way he had broached the subject. There’s this girl. As if there were something fateful and romantic about it. As if it were a feather in his cap. It was just the opposite. There was something treacherous about him. I train them to love me and then I break their hearts. A cruel, mawkish call for attention.

  “Sorry?” I said.

  “How do you know him?”


  “It’s a long story.”

  But I told it anyway. I told her everything. About Shrubs and the casino story. I told her about my life in Hong Kong, about Zeb working for us and his gambling debts and the old man with the spiky hair dropping a sack full of snakes in the bar. I even told her how far advanced we were into the Conservative Party story. How advanced I was into the Conservative Party story.

  “So Percy isn’t your real name?”

  “No, it isn’t.”

  “And you seeing me first time in the hall in Camden Town and inviting me in for tea. That wasn’t an accident?”

  “I’m afraid not.”

  “Oh Perse. Another breach of trust. What do you want from me?”

  “I want, I wanted, to find out where these casinos were. Someone said you had money troubles and may know. That’s all. Not so deceitful. As it turned out, you didn’t give me any information.”

  “So you didn’t follow me out to Hong Kong?”

  “Of course not. Seeing you again was a huge surprise. A lovely surprise. You must have seen how happy I was. I have a huge crush on you, you must know that.”

  “How did you find out about the boat?”

  “It was Zeb. He told me about it and then kept going there himself, obviously finding out from someone what my shifts were. I’ve never seen him on the boat. Zeb comes from a very rich family. I suspect he’s used to getting what he wants, but he isn’t getting any help with his debts.”

  “And you’re telling me that this boat is brainwashing people to become Conservatives? That they disappear back to England and join the Conservative Party? Isn’t that a bit of a stretch?”

  “Remember when I told you how I wanted to be a banker? It’s the same thing.”

  “And what about the Catholics?”

  “Exactly. More of the same. I haven’t got it clear in my head. I heard the dealer say it. You’ve heard me say it. And boy, you know how much I admire Mao Zedong’s Great Leap Forward and the hugely successful campaign to build up the Chinese steel industry.”

  Scout and I looked at one another. “Not one life was lost to starvation,” I added.

  “Oh Percy, this is scary.”

  “Tell me about it. Tell me about Tony Blair.”

  “What? What’s your real name?”

  “Hadley.”

  “I’ve never heard of that name. And Shrubs is a newsagent?”

  “An agency. It’s quite famous in the trade. Not the biggest, but one of the oldest.”

  “And you also have to deliver newspapers door to door?”

  “It’s a news agency, not a newsagent. We write stories. I write stories. That is what I am telling you. That is why I am writing a story about the underground casino business, and now this brainwashing thing which is much bigger.”

  “So, you’re going to blow the lid on this place?”

  “Ha.”

  “You write a story and then they all go to jail.”

  “It doesn’t work like that. I don’t even know what the story is at the moment. But it’s bigger than just the illegal casino. This is organised crime. I write a story about one boat and it may disappear for a while, but it will soon be back, in another boat or in some building, and all the bad guys will still be working. You said as much yourself. The only people to lose their jobs will be the dealers.”

  “Okay, so I’ll be free of them. They’ll deport me.”

  “It’s not that simple. If you owe them as much money as you do, they’ll come after you wherever you are and it wouldn’t be nice.”

  “What am I going to do, then?”

  Scout and I were sitting on a barbeque campsite bench a few yards off Route TWSK. A green New Territories taxi drove past slowly and pulled up about a hundred yards ahead. The driver started to back up, presumably hoping for some business.

  On the other side of the road was a brown concrete sign, made to look like wood, welcoming visitors to Taai Mo Saan Country Park in English and Chinese, a smiley Yogi Bear-type character at each end.

  Sitting on a phony wooden bar fence in front of the sign was the Chinese man with the spiky grey hair. He was wearing a smart, blue Mao jacket done up at the neck.

  “Scout, you must leave this with me.”

  “Don’t get angry.”

  “Time to stand our ground, I reckon.”

  I started across the road but now the taxi had backed up and the old man was opening the door. Then he appeared to change his mind, said something to the driver and closed the door. He stood there looking at us as the taxi drove away with a puff of black diesel smoke. I was half way across the road and Scout was following. He raised his hands in front of him.

  “Don’t mean no harm, honest,” he said in broad London Cockney, dropping the “h” from the last two words. “You got to believe that.”

  Close up, he looked in better shape than I had thought. The expensive blue Mao suit gave his shoulders stature and he had bright, twinkling eyes. I put him in his early sixties.

  “What are you doing here?” I asked.

  “You mean in Hong Kong? This is my home.”

  “What were you doing on Lamma? Why are you everywhere we go? Why did you throw stones at me?”

  “Home is where the heart is, I reckon. Hello, love.” This was to Scout who put out her hand to shake. “You’ve got to believe me, I’m on your side.”

  They shook hands.

  “Why are you shaking his hand?” I asked in a high voice. “He’s stalking us. He throws stones.”

  “Mate, hold the phone. I’m not stalking no one. Honest. This is business. You want to know what brings me over here from good old Camden Town and I can tell you. But have a little faith, know what I mean?”

  He winked at Scout.

  “I never felt for one moment you meant us any harm,” Scout said.

  “That brings a flutter to my old heart, that does. God bless you, miss. It’s a treasure to hear.”

  “A treasure to hear?” I said. “A treasure to ‘ear? What’s all this Dick Van Dyke Cockney bollocks. You’re Chinese.”

  “I would never do you wrong,” he said to Scout. And then to me: “As it happens, I was born in London, my old China. We lived in a flat above a pawn shop. A pawn shop, with the dodgy goods. Not a porn shop with the dirty postcards. Eleven of us in one room. My accent is completely legit, within the sound of Bow Bells. I said I could tell you why I am here.”

  “Go on, then,” I said.

  “Ah?”

  “Tell us why you’re here. And while you’re about it, tell us why you emptied a sack full of snakes on a Kowloon nightclub dance floor? Why did you throw stones at me?”

  “Ah.”

  “Well?”

  “Such a hurry all of a sudden. Something I’ve noticed as I’ve got older. You Western toffs never stop for a moment and think. Fifty years from now, we’ll all be dead. Did you ever stop to think about that?”

  “You can spare us the paperback-pagoda philosophy.”

  “Paperback-pagoda philosophy. Dunno what you mean by that. But more bollocks I reckon. I shall give it some thought. More thought than you, anyway.”

  I was about to get cross. I could feel it coming on. Scout put her hand on my arm.

  “Up this path about a hundred yards is a little village,” the man said. “It’s nice. If you want, you can join me for a cuppa at my favourite tea house. Then we can have a good old natter.”

  This had to be a joke. Favourite tea house, my arse. What was this, the ‘Inn of the Sixth Happiness’? I looked up the rocky path.

  “Come along,” the man said. “You can do this.”

  We started up the path, which was lined with small plants that shrunk away when touched, or in my case, kicked. It was a mini ‘Lost Horizon’ in the making, without the plane crash, the snow, the porters, the Himalayas, the old geezer in the sedan chair, the beautiful girl playing the piano and the whiny little Brit called Mallinson. I saw myself as the wise, laconic Hugh Conway, except this Hugh Conway
would have kicked Mallinson over the nearest precipice at the first opportunity and shouted “now fuck off” as he fell.

  The noise of the road below fell away as we climbed. The only sounds were the croaking of frogs and a breeze in the trees. We came out on level land and walked through a long, stone-bricked village. There was no traffic. We turned through a circular gateway into a cobbled courtyard and gardens with red candle lanterns strung from willows. Ahead was an ancient two-storey building with a tiny balcony over a front porch, the white plaster stained green by the damp. Plants were growing out of exposed brick work on the upper floor.

  The man knocked at the red, wooden door which was promptly opened by a tiny old woman in black who bowed and said nothing. A clock ticked loudly on the stairs as we walked through the house. Scout nudged me. In a side room, another man, with a ponytail and his back towards us, was lying immobile with an opium pipe, a girl no older than twenty mopping his brow. The smell was irresistible. The smell of the opium pipe, that is, not of the old man.

  We arrived at a small room with circular rosewood tables and chairs and the man with the spiky hair opened his right arm and invited us to take the load off. The tiny old woman stood at the table.

  “So what’s it going to be?” the man asked.

  “If this is a tea house…”

  “It is a tea house, and as it happens there is a tea from this very mountain on offer. In English, it goes by the name of Samurai Mountain Water, named after the invading and brutalising Japanese troops.”

  “Do you recommend it?”

  “Fuck off. It tastes of blood. But there is more than tea on offer. I, for one, am having a large Old Airds House Thistle, no ice.”

  I slapped the table. I couldn’t help it. Of all the gin joints in all the towns in all the world, this was suddenly my favourite.

  “I’ll take the same,” I said.

  “There you go. Let’s relax a little. We can have a bit of a singsong later if you like. Some of the oldies. Siujie?”

  “A gin and it,” Scout said. “If it’s not too much trouble.”

  “A gin and ‘it’. No trouble at all.”

  “What’s your name?” Scout asked.