‘They ran him through the standard IQ tests once he’d joined the SAS, and he scored 135.’
‘Smart guy,’ I said.
‘Very smart, laddie. Well above university graduate level. But not smart enough, hey, Barry?’
Fender was sniggering again.
‘If he’d scored above 140 they’d have taught him Mandarin, and that’d be a real asset now, no doubt about it. And if he’d scored less than 130 they’d have taught him Thai. And that would have been bloody useful bearing in mind his choice of women.’
‘I like Thais,’ admitted Fender.
‘Like them? You collect them,’ said Howard.
‘Every man should have a hobby.’ I was starting to get fed up with the Mutt and Jeff double act. My drink didn’t taste too bad even without the lemon and I took a couple of gulps. It was hot and I was thirsty. I needed the liquid, the refreshment. OK, I needed the alcohol, so what about it?
‘However, Barry scored midway between 130 and 140.’
‘Neither here nor there.’
‘They put him in a language lab, seven hours a day, six days a week, for twelve months, learning Vietnamese.’
‘A year,’ said Barry, shaking his head. ‘Purgatory, purgatory.’
‘During the day they kept him glued to a tape recorder, getting the tones right, teaching him the structures. In the evenings it was hours of book-learning, memorizing vocabulary.’
‘It was hell, digger. You can’t imagine it.’
‘After a year he was fluent, perfect.’
‘I still am.’
‘He still is. Our Barry was then sent to Vietnam as an interpreter. He assumed he’d have an easy time, touring the camps, interrogating prisoners, slapping the odd VC around, enjoying the night life of Saigon. But that’s not how it worked out.’
‘Too fucking right,’ agreed Fender.
A small pink nose appeared from a hole at the left hand side of the stage, followed by a sleek brown body and a tail and the rat boldly walked across the metal floor to the centre, where it sat and began grooming, scratching and licking, oblivious to the chatter at the tables and the ponderous organ music.
‘Look at that wee bastard,’ said Howard. ‘He’s got balls.’
‘I can see them from here,’ said Fender. ‘Christ, now he’s licking them.’
‘I wish I could do that,’ said Howard.
‘Give him a piece of cheese and he’ll probably let you,’ laughed Fender, and the two of them fell about, the table juddering as their stomachs banged into it.
‘The old jokes are the best,’ I said, and I gestured with my empty glass at a waiter who was leaning against the wall. I pointed at it and then at the half empty glasses in front of Abbot and Costello and he nodded.
‘I’ve never seen that before,’ said Fender.
‘Maybe it’s part of the show,’ said Howard.
‘We’ll find out when the bill comes, I suppose.’
The rodent’s act came to an abrupt end then when a glass ashtray crashed to the ground six inches from its tail and slid off into the darkness. The rat leapt a full three feet into the air, twisted and landed on all four feet. Then it jumped sideways, and shot back under the stage. Howard and Fender clapped enthusiastically and cheered.
A woman in her fifties wearing a green dress a size too small appeared at my right shoulder and bent her head down so it was level with mine.
‘You want girl, sir?’ she asked. Her breath smelt of onion and garlic, so overpowering that I turned my face away. As I moved she saw Howard and squealed in a little girl voice.
‘Oh, Mr Berenger, long time no see. How are you tonight?’
‘Not so bad, mamasan. Not so bad.’
‘Do you or your friends require any company?’ she asked.
‘No thank you, mamasan, not tonight. Tonight we are here to drink and talk.’
‘And watch the show.’
‘And watch the show,’ agreed Howard.
‘Maybe next time,’ she said, and wandered over to the next table, leaving behind a lingering odour of garlic and sweat.
‘Was she offering us a girl?’ I asked Howard.
‘Just to talk to, laddie. If you want to take them out you’ll have to pay the bar fine and pay the girl on top of that. It can get a bit pricey.’
‘And most of them are slags here anyway,’ broke in Fender. ‘If it’s a girl you want I’ll take you down to the Makati later on.’
‘Makati?’
‘It’s a diso-cum-pub down the Wanch. It’s where all the Filipina maids go on their nights off.’ He looked at his watch, a rugged stainless steel job that wouldn’t have been out of place on a diver’s wrist five hundred feet below the North Sea.
‘At this time of the evening it’ll be quiet, but give it a few hours and the place will be jumping. And all it’ll cost you will be a few drinks.’
The mamasan left the table next to ours and walked across the dance floor to a tape deck behind the organ player. She slotted in a cassette and as the little guy shuffled off the stage she pressed a button and the room was filled with the driving beat of a Cantonese pop song. A spotlight flashed on and a door opened at the far end of the room. Two Asian girls in short black skirts and silver halter tops ran out, weaved between the tables and posed in the centre of the steel circle, before starting an obviously well-rehearsed and oft-performed dance routine, bodies moving in perfect unison, faces equally blank and eyes with the same bored, uninterested look, just robots going through the motions.
Fender pushed the chair back to get a better view. ‘Thais,’ he mouthed to me, and clenched his fist tightly. ‘I love Thais.’
One of the halter tops had disappeared already and then the other was removed with a flourish and thrown through the smoke-filled air to the mamasan who caught it nonchalantly with a practised wave of her arm. Her armpits were unshaven, hair sprouting from under her arms like the top of a coconut.
The girls were standing face to face, pretending to kiss, then they started to slide their left legs back, gradually dropping to the floor. One of the girls caught her high heel on a rivet and the leg locked and she pushed hard but it wouldn’t move and for a moment the spell was broken and she smiled at me and the eyes glowed, dark brown and soft under long black false lashes, as her partner continued to slide to the floor. Then she managed to free her foot and the mask covered her face again and she began moving mechanically, rolling on the floor. From a distance they could have been twins, both with shoulder length hair, about five and a half feet tall in their black high heels, almond-shaped eyes and flattish noses, their skin the colour of those envelopes they send your tax forms in. But close up and without their clothes you could spot the differences, the one who’d smiled and who was now struggling with the zip on her friend’s skirt had slightly fuller breasts and larger nipples and more cellulite at the top of her thighs. Her cheek bones were just a shade higher and her lips slightly wider, and they tightened as I watched her wrench the zip down and slide the skirt off before throwing it to the mamasan. Her partner repeated the actions with the same bored movements and soon they were both naked, except for the shoes. The music stopped abruptly and there was an awkward gap of a couple of seconds and then a slow soothing tune filled the air, all violins and woodwind, and the two girls began to stroke and caress each other as they lay side by side, with all the enthusiasm of an undertaker embalming an AIDS victim. They took it in turns to sit on each other and perform some pretty unconvincing oral sex. The whole thing was about as erotic as a St John ambulanceman demonstrating the kiss of life on a plastic dummy. Howard and Fender were entranced though, Fender was licking his lips slowly, rolling his tongue from side to side, slowly and sensuously, while Howard gently stroked his swelling stomach. Jesus, they were a couple of perverts. The girls switched positions and did a passable imitation of enjoying themselves in the old soixante neuf position and then the music stopped and they jumped up and held hands and curtsied like schoolgirls who’d just fin
ished a poetry reading and ran off, buttocks jiggling and breasts bouncing. A couple of people clapped, but the girls got less applause than the rat. The spotlight winked off again and the organ cranked into life.
‘I don’t know about you, Howard, but I’d give them one,’ said Fender, renewing his acquaintance with his beer and getting another line of froth on his moustache.
‘Aye, they’re a couple of bonnie wee lassies all right,’ agreed Howard.
They both looked at me, wanting me to agree, to join their male fraternity, all boys together, nudge, nudge, wink, wink, know what I mean. I couldn’t be bothered, I honestly couldn’t be bothered, so I just shrugged.
‘The shows aren’t up to much,’ said Fender. ‘Not compared with what you get in Bangkok or Manila.’
‘But you’ve got to take it where you can,’ said Howard and Fender nodded, and motioned the waiter to bring over another round of drinks.
Fender leant forward, putting his elbows on the table and cupping his bearded chin in his large, labourer’s hands.
‘So what happened then?’ I asked Fender.
‘Huh?’ he said, raising his refilled glass to his lips, leaving a thin film of foam on his thick black moustache.
‘After they’d taught you Vietnamese.’ This time there was something floating among the ice cubes but it wasn’t lemon, it was a slice of lime. Things were looking up.
‘They sent me to Vietnam,’ he said, as if he was patiently explaining to a child that two times three is six.
‘But he got more than he bargained for,’ chipped in Howard. ‘Instead of the easy life he was out on patrol, hunting for tunnels.’
‘Tunnels?’
‘The underground tunnels the North Vietnamese lived in. They had whole towns ten feet under the jungle floor, complete with hospitals, ammo dumps, lecture halls. Rabbit warrens where they could disappear when the going got tough.’
‘Almost impossible to find,’ agreed Fender.
‘But every now and again they’d find a way in, and that’s where Barry came into his own. Twelve months of intensive language training paid off. They’d hold him by the ankles and lower him head first into the tunnels. It was his job to shout “come out with your hands up” in fluent Vietnamese. If the little bastards were there they’d start shooting, they’d yank him back up and throw in a handful of grenades and return fire.’
The two of them started laughing together, drawing a few hostile looks from the neighbouring tables.
It was a story they’d obviously told many times before, telling and retelling until all the rough edges had been smoothed off. It was as polished as a seaside pebble. There might have been a grain of truth left in it, but I doubted that. Then realization dawned and I put my glass down on the beer-stained cloth.
‘You were helping Sally on the refugee story?’ I said.
‘Well, she sure as hell couldn’t speak to them,’ said Fender. ‘She was a smart kid and could just about handle Cantonese, but Vietnamese is a whole different ball game. As soon as Healy gave her the story she was on the phone to me, offering to split the fee. She’d write the words, I’d do the translation and take the pictures.’
‘Howard said you were a journalist.’
‘Photojournalist. I do a bit of photography on the side. More of a hobby than anything, but I’m good with a camera.’
‘Modest too,’ said Howard.
‘Come on, Howard, admit it. I’m one of the best.’
‘You’re not so bad. I’ve seen a lot worse,’ agreed Howard reluctantly.
I wanted to ask him why he wasn’t doing it full time if he was so good but there was no point in antagonizing him so instead I asked: ‘How did it go?’
‘Waste of time,’ he said, stroking his beard. ‘We spent the best part of an afternoon there but they wouldn’t say a bloody thing. I got some great pics but we couldn’t get it to stand up. Have you been round one of the refugee camps?’
I shook my head.
‘There’s a big one on Lantau Island, a ferry ride away. There are a few thousand refugees there, all Vietnamese. Some of the poor buggers have been there for six or seven years now. Hong Kong used to be a short stopover before they were taken in by Britain, Canada or the States, but they’ve virtually said that enough is enough. So they just sit there and wait.’
‘Come on, laddie, it’s not as if they’re political refugees anymore, fleeing from Communism,’ said Howard. ‘The ones that are leaving now are economic refugees, they’re just looking for a better standard of living.’
‘You can’t blame them for that.’
‘Agreed, but you can’t expect Britain to welcome them with open arms.’
‘They could do more for them.’ Fender looked at me. ‘You know what choice they’re given now? The Hong Kong government either patches up their boats and puts them back to sea with a week’s provisions, or they can sit in one of the camps, with no guarantee of a place abroad. Some choice, eh? Oh, what the hell, be still my bleeding heart,’ and he emptied his glass.
‘And the story you were on was to see if North Vietnamese agents were infiltrating the camps?’
‘It would make sense from the Communists’ point of view. South Vietnam is full of their agents, and all they’d have to do is pay for their passage on one of the boats and make their way to Hong Kong or the Philippines and from there to the West, assuming they don’t end up rotting in one of the camps. Sally and I arranged to go on a tour of the Camp in Lantau, we told GIS we were doing a colour piece for one of the Sunday supplements.’
‘GIS?’ I said.
‘Government Information Services – hear no evil, see no evil and tell them nothing. They’re fine for shoving out press releases on trade figures but bugger all use for anything that even smells of a story.’
‘And what happened?’
‘Nothing, absolutely nothing. I got some great pictures, children behind the wires, men lounging in their dormitories, a woman with all her belongings packed into a small rucksack, all of it good stuff. But no story. I must have spoken to a score of refugees, and they all said it just didn’t happen, or if it did they weren’t aware of it. Sally gave it her best shot, though.’ He guffawed, a deep-throated belly-laugh that had the table vibrating like an approaching earthquake.
‘What do you mean?’
‘She was practically pulling out their finger nails with pliers to get them to talk. She had spunk did Sally. She was a real trier. She’d ask the most goddamned impolite questions and I’d have to tone them down. Until we got to a face-to-face with one of the camp administrators, a middle-ranking gweilo civil servant called Barker. God, she went straight for the jugular, how many Special Branch officers were in the camps, how many North Korean agents had they found, how long were they going to keep the refugees behind barbed wire. The poor bastard didn’t know what had hit him.’
That sounded like the Sally I knew, push, push, push until she got what she wanted, never mind whose toes you step on or whose feelings get hurt. Sometimes it works, you go in hard, question, question, question, until they lose their temper and give you the quote you need. Usually it’s better to be more devious, to go around the houses, win their confidence and gradually pull out the information, but it’s horses for courses.
It takes quite a while to learn the techniques. Your average cub reporter sweats up on an interview in advance, reads through all the cuttings and probably draws up a list of questions to ask. You soon learn that’s not the way to do it, best to go in with an open mind, looking for the angle.
Sometimes, though, it pays to go in hard, to pretend you already know everything and antagonize them until they snap and you get lots of reaction. You can do it, but you have to know what you’re doing and Sally didn’t have the experience for that. It was just Sally being her usual impetuous self, head held high, leading with the chin. I remember her when she was six years old, riding her bicycle without holding onto the handlebars. ‘Look Dad, no hands,’ she’d yelled, until she lo
st control and grazed her knee and elbow on the ground, but she hadn’t cried as our father picked her up and hugged her, her pride had steadfastly held back the tears.
She was a girl forever acting on impulse, but usually her instincts were right. What had gone wrong this time?
Fender had gone quiet and I suppose we’d both been thinking about the Sallys we knew, and I wondered how similar they were, if the girl who’d sat with her head on my knee in London had been the same cock-sure journalist he’d taken around the refugee camp. Had she changed since she’d come out to Hong Kong, or had I only seen one facet of her. No, I shrugged that thought off, I knew Sally, she was my sister.
‘She was a good kid,’ he said, softly, and Howard nodded in agreement. ‘We could do with more like her in Hong Kong.’ Fender’s huge eyebrows knitted together as he frowned. ‘If there is anything I can do …’ he said, but he didn’t finish the sentence, instead he banged his glass on the table, hard.
‘Fuck it,’ he shouted, ‘she was so fucking young.’
Howard put his hand across Fender’s arm.
‘Relax, Barry,’ he said. Fender shuddered all over and for a brief moment a flash of jealousy sparked through my mind but I ignored it, Sally and he were friends at best, nothing more.
Fender seemed to want to talk about her, so I coaxed him a little.
‘What sort of journalist was she?’ I asked him.
He thought for a while, and I knew I’d get an honest answer from him. ‘She was a quick learner,’ he said. ‘When she first arrived she hadn’t a clue, but she’d spend all night in the FCC picking our brains and she’d keep bringing in stories she’d written and asking for our opinions. She was a real trier, and she didn’t mind being told. She just agreed with you and asked how she could improve.’
That was Sally, all right. She used people, but used them in such a way that they were grateful for being used. People got a warm feeling helping her, in the same way that you’re grateful to the cat who sits on your lap and allows its ears to be tickled.
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