by Naomi Foyle
Light was pouring into the cabin. People were stirring, chatting in their long, drawn-out, sawing language. Damien groaned. His mouth was as dry as a stale Hobnob and his stomach felt like he’d swallowed a bag of cricket balls. Where was that bottle of water?
At least no one was looking at him anymore. Like happy robots, everyone was going through the routine of preparing to land: filling out boarding cards, queuing for the loo, lowering their seat-back trays, eating cardboard bread rolls and yogurt.
Landing—oh fuck, here it came: sheer terror.
He shut his eyes and returned to counting his breaths, which had no effect on his thumping pulse, but at least stopped him from attacking the emergency exit and throwing himself out of the plane. Though he willed the pilot to circle the airport forever, landing was accomplished with the usual wobbly roar. Blood slithering around like mercury in his veins, he lingered as the other passengers jostled for space in the aisle. Thinking it wouldn’t be smart to be last—and aware of Laptop Guy waiting behind him—he finally managed to push into the wake of a Korean woman dressed in long gray linen robes. This was it, possibly his last walk as a free man. And it was a knock-kneed shuffle, hemmed in by a Buddhist nun and a Starboarder zombie.
The stewardess greeted him at the doorway. “Goodbye! Thank you!” she said brightly. Then she tugged at her colleague’s sleeve, and suddenly two beautiful women were covering their mouths with their hands and tittering at him. “You be very famous in Korea, we think,” his new friend finally plucked up her courage to declare.
He gave the women a sick rictus grin. Yup, the mug shots would be in the paper tomorrow. As he disembarked into the landing tunnel, a combination of the heat and pure panic set off every last sweat gland. Christ, his face was sopping wet. Didn’t he have a Kleenex? He stuck his hand in his jacket pocket and pulled out a hanky.
A hanky? Oh, right, from Mum’s wedding—is that how long it had been since he wore this suit? She had beetled over with it at the reception, he remembered, freaking out in case he blew his nose on a grotty tissue in front of Gordon’s Tatler-editor sister. He shoved the cloth back in his pocket and wiped his face with his hand. If Mum had lent him that money instead of having a go at him about Jessica he wouldn’t now be teetering on the verge of this deep shit-filled abyss.
Stomach in spasms, legs on autopilot, he let the herd nudge him into the passport control hall. The queue of foreigners was short. Whatever happened, it would be over very soon.
Buddhist Lady was ahead of him, an American passport in her hand. His heart hurling itself at his chest now, he inched forward, compulsively flicking the edge of his landing card with his thumbnail. For Occupation, he’d wanted to put Deconstruction Worker, but had settled on IT Consultant. An IT Consultant with no laptop: what the fuck had he been thinking? Well, it was too late now. Anyway, the big test was going to be his passport. It expired in exactly six months, the precise length of the visa, not to mention the day all the most reliable websites were predicting Lucifer’s Hammer would hit.
In making his decision to leave Britain, Damien had contemplated his own petty problems in the context of the vast spiral of time. In the process he had come up with two solutions to the dilemma of his passport: a bureaucratic quick-fix, which he had found on the internet and printed off and stuck in his jacket pocket, and a long-range, eco-sustainable and cosmically attuned plan he needed to discuss with Jake. Now, though, with his damp hand clutching his battered old passport with its stamps from India, Thailand and Morocco and his hash-packed colon just a laxative away from discovery, he wasn’t sure he was ever going to see Jake again.
Buddhist Lady put her passport back in her saffron bag and an officer with a face like an Easter Island statue waved him forward. His armpits were as wet as a rainforest. His feet were dead weights, cinderblocks. His mind was back in Brighton, tearing up that letter from Jake. But as in a Francis Bacon sweatbox of a dream, the scuffed toes of his green high-top Converses were stepping over the dirty white line of tape at the head of the queue.
5 / Shiteawon
The evening sun was bulging in the sky like an egg yolk in a rock glass of Jack. Johnny pulled the Cadillac onto the greasy strip winding round the foot of Namsan. After the gasoline fumes in the tunnel, Itaewon’s brew of stale GI sweat, cheap perfume and fast food smelled like victory, all the sharper for his triumph over Kim. He took a deep whiff, as he always did when he re-entered the ’hood: Itaewon was a little chunk of America in an overcrowded land of dog-eaters and rice-lovers. The army base was right round the corner from Burger King, and up there on the mountain’s flank, just below the Hyatt Hotel and the New York Deli, the trashiest trailer-park blonde in Seoul shook her tail-feathers just for him, on the biggest, baddest bed in town.
Last night’s dip in performance had just been a blip. Could happen to any guy. Pleasantly horny now and still glowing from the OxyPops, Johnny trawled slowly through Itaewon like he was in a John Woo movie: past stores overflowing with cheap shoes, suitcases, bed linens; street stalls dripping with leather belts and wallets, knock-off watches, MoPhos, fake Chanel, and anything from mugs to teddy bears that it was possible to emblazon with the Korean national flag. There were restaurants everywhere, of course—mostly Western, thank fuck—and black market alleyways crawling 24/7 with ajummas in stained aprons ready to exchange huge wads of cash, no questions asked. At the foot of the road to Johnny’s apartment a clutch of antiques dealers lent a veneer of class to the street, selling brightly polished brass deer and turtles, and memento mori from medals to bomb casings. Not that the war was over, mind. In this churning sea of Asian tat and guile, it was good to know that Itaewon was full of US soldiers, all keeping up their strength on burgers and fries.
He parked on the main drag outside the Hamilton Hotel, a hunk of concrete clad in orange fake brick. A fat bitch at a tanning salon, Johnny always joked about the place. Sydney didn’t think it was funny, but it still made him chuckle. He slammed the car door shut, feeling good, and pushing through beer-bellied tourists, hippy English teachers and flat-topped GIs, he headed to Hollywood’s, Itaewon’s premiere “leisure lady” night spot.
Rattail was a civil servant, with access to all sorts of secret files. He had said he would be on the third barstool from the left. Could you possibly get more anal, Johnny thought as he thrust open Hollywood’s padded red door. A Korean man blowing smoke rings at the bar turned and nodded. Yup, third barstool. Sigh.
Otherwise the place was virtually empty. Ignoring the auto-smiles of bored hostesses, Johnny crossed the worn crimson carpet, negotiating the cheap Formica tables arranged haphazardly around the room. Without the late-night crowd of smokers, a sickly-sweet stink permeated the club. What did they pump the place full of, female underarm deodorant?
Johnny had pictured Rattail as a regular, squat Korean schmoe, but in fact he was tall and thin and fragile-looking, in his late thirties, with a bony jaw and bad skin. Despite the warmth he was dressed in a beige Aquascutum trench coat. At least he smelled of tobacco.
Johnny pulled up a stool.
“Please to meet you, Mis-tuh Joh-nee.” Rattail’s handshake was dry, almost scaly, and there was an affected, melancholy air about him that set Johnny’s teeth on edge. He ordered a rye and coke, sticking to a single. Hey, the Sandman had willpower.
“Let’s get to the point,” he growled in Korean. After ten years he knew enough of the language to haggle with any Seoul shyster—though of course sometimes he pretended not to speak the lingo; contacts could give away vital information thinking he didn’t understand.
Rattail’s glasses were too big for his nose and he kept pushing them back up to the bridge when he talked—or nodded, mostly. He showed no surprise or distaste when Johnny outlined what he wanted, just took another drag on his cigarette.
“Sure. Two place I can get you that,” he said in English. Koreans always liked to practice. “Accident ward, sure, sure—but has to be body no one claim. No family. No friend. Don’t co
me in every day.”
“When, then?”
“One week, one month. Molayo.”
Molayo, molayo. Who knows? The all-purpose Korean evasion phrase. Rattail tapped open a new packet of Marlboro Golds, and offered him one. Johnny shook his head. The longer it took to get the body, the better. All the more reason to keep stalling the Doc. And ConGlam. Pleased with the results of the meeting, he laid a fat white envelope on the bar. “I’m waiting for your call, Rattail,” he said in Korean. “Have a good night.”
“Ye, ye.” Rattail waved him on absently, pocketing the envelope as a hostess in a white satin blouse moved over to take Johnny’s stool.
The taxi pulled up in front of the kalbi place. Sydney checked her Gotcha. Forty-five minutes late—well, so what? The cabby handed her his Pay-dock. Nearly sa man won—fuck. She didn’t have enough cash on her, and her bank account was getting dangerously low. The lipstick company paid its pittance once a month, and OhmEgo wouldn’t make its deposit for another six weeks. In the meantime, she was stuck with Johnny and his greeby part-time work. She inserted her MoPho in the Pay-dock and entered her PIN.
Fare paid, she climbed out of the cab and eyeballed the restaurant window. The place was full of Koreans sitting cross-legged around low tables. Johnny, of course, would be in the back, at a table with chairs.
“Way-tuh!” The driver was waving a white-gloved hand.
“Sa man won—that was the fare!” she protested, but he opened his door and walked smartly round to the back of the taxi. She stood there, jostled by shoppers and soldiers, and prepared for an argument. These Korean cabbies in their blue uniforms, you’d think they were cops sometimes, the attitude they gave you.
“Anneyo, anneyo.”
No? No? What was he on about? Shaking his head the cabbie opened the trunk and took out a small Elegance Department Store bag, primrose yellow with silk handles. Bowing, he presented it to her.
“You very beautiful!” he announced. Plucking at his own buzz cut black hair, he nodded proudly. “Sun-shi-nuh. Very pre-tty.”
She peeked into the bag. Omigod—nestled inside, amongst some dainty packages, enclosed in a peach and sky-blue box of its own, was a bottle of “Summer Passion.” “Kamsahamnida, ajosshi!” she gasped.
“Los-tuh an-duh foun-duh!” His weathered face radiating self-congratulation, the ajashi marched back to his taxi and drove off. Jauntily swinging the bag, she pranced into the restaurant. Yup, there he was, the only guy in the place sitting on a chair. At least he’d ordered already: a yummy kalbi meal was sizzling on the hotplate in the center of the table.
“You call this six o’clock?” Johnny demanded as she sat down. “You couldn’t even text?”
“Don’t be such a girl, Johnny,” she retorted. “Last time we went out for dinner you spent half the time on your MoPho.”
“Yeah, and last time I was late for a date you threw a shit-fit,” he snapped.
Sydney glared at him across the table and his small, pale blue eyes narrowed into mean little slits, like his mouth. How could she ever have enjoyed kissing a guy with no lips? “So we’re even, okay?” she replied, brightly.
Johnny took a deep breath and slowly exhaled. She knew what he was doing: counting to ten. She’d timed him.
“Fine. We’re even,” he agreed, tightly. “I just wanted us to have a nice meal, that’s all. The clients are waiting. And now we’ll have to go home first so you can take that shrapnel out of your hair.”
How come he always knew what to say to cut her down? “Jeez, Johnny.” She heard her voice slide up the register again. “I just had my hair done by a top stylist. Can’t you even say it looks cool?”
Johnny rolled his eyes. But his voice softened. “Hey, babe, c’mon—you look great, okay? Your hair’s just too punky for the clients, you know that. Relax, eat something. Look—I ordered your favorite banchan.”
He pushed the dish of spicy little fishes across the table and poured her some mineral water. Okay, he was trying, at least.
“Sorry I didn’t text,” she muttered as she filled her plate from all the small banchan dishes. “I had to take my Gotcha off for the shoot and I lost track of the time.”
“Hey, whatever—I missed you, that’s all. It’s not often I spend all day without my sexy baby.”
Yeah right. He didn’t want her to have her own life, more like it. “I was just working.” She tossed her head. “Everyone’s got to work.”
“Sure, but you don’t want to overdo it. You’ve got plenty going on with the lipstick contract and the night job—plus I might have a big money number for you in a month or two. I’m driving a hard bargain with the client right now.”
“Big money?” That sounded interesting. “How big?”
He leaned over the table. “As big as that hard-on I sent you today,” he whispered. “Did you like that, huh?”
Now was her chance.
“No, it was gross!” But he was twinkling and winking at her, wagging his eyebrows, and she knew he wasn’t listening. “I’m not a porno star, Johnny,” she persisted. “I’m a fashion model—a soon-to-be top fashion model, Jin Sok said so.”
A shadow passed over his expression. “Is that right? But you’re my private turn-on, aren’t you? My little porcelain doll-face?”
“Don’t keep calling me that!” she blurted out. “I’ve told you, it bugs me!”
“No need to snap,” he said, coolly.
Neither of them spoke for a little while. Sydney picked up her chopsticks and turned over a piece of beef sizzling on the circular grill. Nearly done. Glancing enviously at Johnny’s lager, she took a sip of her water. Across the aisle, a lone goldfish was swimming aimlessly in a huge aquarium. Otherwise, the restaurant was buzzing with Koreans: big groups of office workers flashing metal chopsticks and slapping their knees; families squabbling; little kids roaming unchecked between the tables, playing “stick ’em up” and Grand Prix racing, making the Korean versions of “pow pow” and “vroom vroom” noises.
“It’s not suits tonight; it’s soldiers,” she said finally, “so what’s the rush? They always stay out ’til dawn on their nights off.”
“In fact, it’s soldiers in suits you’ll be dealing with: top brass. And they will want to get their beauty sleep.”
“Great. Leaving me fighting off the farm boys. Johnny, I am getting so tired of ass-wipes slobbering all over me at two a.m., telling me about their dead mothers and their dope-addict dads and how the army gives them self-discipline—I mean, talk about a bunch of losers. No wonder America isn’t running the world anymore.”
Johnny slammed his fork down on the table. It skittered across the laminate surface and clattered to the floor. “What the fuck has got into you tonight?” he demanded, his cheeks scarlet. “Do you want to pick the mother of all fights, or what? I’m telling you, Sydney, you don’t want to make Johnny Sandman angry!”
Her own cheeks blazed, her stomach dropped away and suddenly, scarily, she thought she might piss herself. Fuck, what was happening to her? She clenched her pelvic floor muscles and stared at Johnny over the grill. There was no way she was going to let some guy who talked about himself in the third person freak her out. Deliberately, she turned her attention to the table, picking up a piece of lettuce with her fingers and squishing a spoonful of rice into the leaf. Then, with chopsticks, she plucked a nicely curling strip of beef from the grill and thrust it into the rice. This she followed with a grilled garlic clove and a big slab of kim chi: a gorgeous hunk of pickled cabbage dripping with raw garlic, ginger and red pepper sauce. Finally she wrapped the furly lettuce leaf around the tasty bundle and popped the whole thing into her mouth. She met Johnny’s gaze again.
Now he looked a little hungry himself—and not for kalbi, either. “Look, babe,” he said in a low voice, “I don’t like getting mad at you, but believe you me, when an army of gooks from Pyongyang comes pouring over the border to shoot and rape their way across the forty miles to Seoul, you’re gonna be gl
ad of a few good old boys and dumb-luck niggers to stand between the yellow peril and your diamanté panties.”
Chewing methodically, she gave him a withering look. There was no point telling Johnny to shut his racist trap. He’d only come out with something worse next time—and if he mouthed off like that around Jin Sok or one of the designers she would just die. She had to ditch this guy, and quick.
Johnny took his bottle of OxyPops out of his pocket.
That was a relief. He was always calmer after he’d chugged a couple of those. She maintained her aloof silence as he downed his dose and the oxygen kicked in.
“Sydney, I’m sorry you’re upset with me,” he said at last. “I’m sorry I raised my voice. I just wanted us to have a nice meal, and then a fun night in the club. It’s not hard, the work, is it? And it pays good. The soldiers—they’re just kids. You deal with ’em great.”
Johnny’s apologies were as wooden as banisters. He just used them to get down into her pants. But oh—why fight? She just had to be patient until she could get more work of her own. “Forget it, Johnny. I’m tired, that’s all.”
The waiter brought another fork over and Johnny started to make himself a kalbi morsel, skipping the kim chi, the wimp. “I know, babe, but it won’t take long, I promise. The head honcho tonight, I want to know where he’s flying to next: Japan or Shanghai. Get him talking about the places you want to visit in Asia, all the knickknacks you want brought back. Might only take half an hour. And if you squeeze it out of him, I’ll buy you a brand-new MoPho, one with 3D TV and SatNav, so you won’t ever get lost again.”
Sydney rolled her eyes. Just because she had once called his Gotcha in tears from the most confusing train station ever built. Soon enough she was really going to get lost, disappear into Hongdae, maybe, like Jin Sok had suggested: get a secret launch pad of her own. But it would be nice to watch 3D-TV during the long taxi-rides to her shoots. And it didn’t sound like tonight was going to be tough—maybe it would all go down in Hollywood’s, with its cheesy Barry White soundtrack and giggling hostesses, and she wouldn’t have to wind up in King Club, with that deafening monster rap and those scary Russian hookers baring their rotting teeth at her whenever she went to the toilet.