She was walking alongside a short, plump girl with close-cropped brown hair and they were laughing at something. Debbie put both her hands up to cover her mouth and her eyes widened. Her nails were painted a vivid red and she had a bracelet of deep red stones which were probably rubies. Her laugh was high-pitched, like a little girl being teased by her father.
The two of them went over to a table where two girls and a young man with long hair and wire-rimmed spectacles were drinking brightly coloured cocktails through straws. Chung studied the group over the top of his drink. She’d looked older in the pictures, and less vulnerable. Though the adult dress and the high heels were obviously her own, she still looked like a schoolgirl dressed up in her mother’s clothes. Chung wondered if Debbie Fielding was a virgin.
The man got up from the table and reached out his hand to the plump girl. She took it and he led her to the dance-floor and swung her into a lazy jive. Debbie looked at the thin silver watch on her wrist and put a hand over her mouth to stifle a yawn. One of the girls leaned over and said something to her but she shook her head. The other girls sipped their drinks through their straws and then stood up and went over to the dance-floor together, leaving Debbie alone at the table.
Chung walked over to her table, his glass in his left hand.
“Hi,” he said. “Mind if I join you?”
She looked up, frowning. He saw her eyes weigh him up, checking out his Armani jacket, the white linen shirt, the black wool trousers, the Bally loafers, and the Cartier watch, then she looked at his face. She smiled, and he knew that he’d passed muster.
“Sure,” she said. “But I’m just going.”
“Husband waiting at home for you?” he asked, sitting down and straightening the creases of his trousers.
She laughed. “Hardly,” she said, fluttering her left hand in front of his face so that he could see she wasn’t wearing a ring. “I have a junk party tomorrow, and I’ve got to be at Queen’s Pier at nine o’clock.”
“But it’s not as if you need any beauty sleep,” he said, raising his glass to her.
“Why thank you, kind sir,” she said.
“Anthony,” he said. “Anthony Chung.”
“Debbie,” she replied. “Debbie Fielding.” She extended her hand and he shook it. Her skin was warm and dry and there was no strength in her grip.
“Can I buy you a drink?” he asked.
She shook her head. “No, really. I must be going.” She stood up and waved goodbye to her friends on the dance-floor. They waved back and she blew a goodbye kiss to the plump girl.
“Can I give you a lift?” asked Chung, getting to his feet.
“I have a car,” said Debbie, picking up her handbag.
“How about a race, then?” he asked.
She stopped dead. “I’m sorry?” she said.
“A race,” repeated Chung. “How about a race?”
“A race?”
“A race home. If I can’t give you a lift, the least you can do is give me a race.”
She grinned, thought about it, and then nodded. “Okay, Anthony Chung. You’ve got your race. But I warn you, I’ve got a Jaguar XJS.”
“Nice car,” said Chung. “I’ll meet you outside in five minutes. That okay with you?”
“Fine.”
“So where are we going?” She told him the address of her house on the Peak which Chung knew was her parents’ house. “I’ll see you outside, then,” he said.
When Chung went out to get his car, Debbie asked one of the waiters to arrange to have her Jaguar brought over. While she waited she lit a cigarette.
“Smoking?” said a voice. It was her friend, May. “I thought you’d given up.”
“It’s the only one I’ve had today,” said Debbie.
“Who was the Chinese guy?”
“Anthony Chung. I’ve never met him before tonight.”
“Seems cute,” said May.
“Very,” agreed Debbie.
“And you let him get away?”
“We’re about to have a race, actually,” said Debbie.
“You’re what?” exclaimed May.
“A race. You know, brum-brum, first one past the chequered flag is the winner.”
A waiter came up and told Debbie her car was outside. “Gotta go, kiddo,” said Debbie and kissed May on the cheek.
“Be careful,” May said, but Debbie was already gone.
Debbie slid into the driver’s seat and slipped off her high heels. She turned the ignition key. The Jaguar’s engine purred and she stroked its gear stick absent-mindedly as she waited for Chung to arrive. She heard his car before she saw it – a deep-throated roar that seemed to vibrate up through her seat. She looked over her shoulder as he drew up next to her Jaguar. His window slid down smoothly and he smiled across at her.
“Tell me that’s not a Ferrari F40,” she said.
Chung raised an eyebrow. “Okay, it’s not a Ferrari F40,” he said.
“Four-valve V8 engine, 478 brake horsepower at 7,000 rpm, Weber Marelli fuel injection system, carbon fibre and Kevlar body.” She rattled off the statistics like a Ferrari salesman.
“That’s the one,” he said. “But you forgot the twin turbos.” He gunned the accelerator. She could hear the whistle of the turbo and the clatter of the cams and saw that several heads turned to stare at the lipstick red car and its good-looking driver.
“That is one terrific car,” said Debbie, enviously.
“And fast,” said Chung.
Debbie slowly pushed her foot down on the clutch and put the Jaguar in first gear. “So tell me, Anthony …” she said, but roared off before she finished the sentence, leaving him fumbling for his own gear stick.
“Bitch!” he shouted, surprised by her sudden departure. He put the Ferrari into first and spun the rear wheels on the cobbled road as he accelerated after her. He had to brake to avoid a red and grey taxi which pulled out in front of him, and by the time he reached Arbuthnot Road she was out of sight. It was just after midnight so there was little traffic about. He ran a red light and headed up Robinson Road, towards Shan Teng, the Peak. She lived on Findlay Road and he was pretty sure she’d head up the narrow, winding Old Peak Road where he’d find it difficult to overtake.
He roared up Robinson Road, the noise of the engine behind his shoulder blades almost deafening him. The F40 didn’t come with a stereo system because when the car was in full flight you couldn’t hear anything above the jet engine whistle of the turbos and the whir of pumps and motors that fed the 2,936 cc of greedy piston space. The Pirelli P Zero tyres gripped the road like a limpet as he cornered, and as he entered Old Peak Road he saw the rear lights of her Jaguar about a hundred yards ahead. In its early climb up the Peak the road was a respectable size, but after it intersected with Tregunter Path it became treacherously narrow so Chung pushed his foot down on the accelerator and moved the tall, thin gear lever quickly through the kink in the gate from first to second, a manoeuvre which had taken quite a bit of getting used to. The Ferrari kicked and the turbines whistled and he hit seventy mph, still in second gear. The car seemed to hug the ground even tighter as it followed the curves and bends of the road, passing the Ladies’ Recreation Club on his left, and he smiled as he saw how quickly he was gaining on her. He wasn’t surprised; the F40 was a racing car made street legal while the XJS was a luxury executive car, albeit a stylish one. It was like putting an Olympic sprinter up against a weekend jogger.
He eased off the accelerator but he still gained on Debbie and he had to brake sharply to avoid hitting her rear bumper. She accelerated and for a second it looked as if she were going to lose control as the back wheels slid to the left but then they gripped and she increased the gap between them. Chung had wanted to make more of a race of it, but he realised that she wasn’t a particularly good driver and if he pushed her too hard it would end in disaster. He could see that she wasn’t even wearing her seat-belt whereas he was firmly strapped into his bucket seat by the Ferrari’s
six-point racing harness. He decided to end it as quickly as possible.
He nudged the F40 to within ten feet of the back of the Jaguar, checked that there was nothing coming in the opposite direction, then flicked the car to the side and forward, feeling the end slide, corrected for it and pushed the accelerator to the floor. The Jaguar dissolved into a blur on his left and then disappeared behind him. The road narrowed and bent to the left and right and he flicked the steering wheel to stay in his lane. A yellow and cream-coloured minibus flashed towards him and then was gone, leaving an image in his mind of an old driver, mouth wide open and chin forward as the Ferrari zipped by, missing it by inches.
He eased back on the accelerator and went into third gear, hearing the guttural roar of the eight cylinders relax as the speedometer touched ninety mph. He was nowhere near testing the car’s performance, and he knew it. The F40 could do nought to ninety mph in less than seven seconds on a straight run and its top speed was close to 200 mph. Put wings on it and it’d fly. He wanted to get so far ahead of Debbie that she’d give up and drive home at a sensible speed. He kept looking at the rearview mirror but he was alone on the road. The Ferrari flashed over the tunnel where the Peak tram clawed its way to the top of the highest point of Hong Kong Island and on to Barker Road, the lights of Kowloon away to his left. He put the Ferrari into a tight turn and swung into Findlay Road, scanning the numbers as they whizzed by until he saw the Fielding residence. He began braking but the F40 was still more than 200 feet past it when it came to rest. He turned the car round and stopped in front of the gates to the Fielding house, keeping the engine running at a high rpm to stop the plugs from fouling while he waited for Debbie.
It was a full thirty seconds before she turned into Findlay Road. Her brakes squealed as she stopped the XJS in front of Chung’s car. He got out and walked over, putting his hand on the roof of the Jaguar and leaning down as she lowered the window.
“Congratulations,” she said. She was smiling, but there was a hard edge to her smile as if she weren’t used to losing.
“It’s a fast car,” he said. “I’ll let you drive it some time.”
Her smile brightened. “I’d like that,” she said.
“But first, we’ve got to decide on the prize.”
“The prize?”
“For winning the race.” He tapped his fingers on the roof of the Jaguar.
“I didn’t know we were racing for a prize,” she said.
“Oh sure,” said Chung. “I won a date with you.”
“A date with me?” she said, flustered. “What would I have got if I’d won?” Chung grinned. “Don’t tell me,” she said. “A date with you.”
“Good job I won, huh?” smiled Chung. “How about next Saturday? I’ll pick you up here at eight.”
Debbie thought about it for a moment or two, then nodded. “Okay. But one condition.”
“Sure.” He already knew what it was.
“You bring the Ferrari.”
“Deal,” he said. “Till next Saturday, then.” He took his hand off the roof of her car and waved once. “Bye,” he said.
Debbie drove the car up the drive towards the house. She had been sure that Anthony Chung would try to kiss her and was vaguely disappointed that he hadn’t. She’d been annoyed that he had so easily beaten her, but she realised that there was little she could have done against a Ferrari. He hadn’t gloated, either, like so many men would have done. No, a date with him wouldn’t be a trial. In fact, she was already looking forward to it.
She parked the Jaguar next to her mother’s black convertible Saab and switched off the engine. She stroked the steering wheel and wondered what it would be like to drive Chung’s Ferrari. She jerked herself out of her daydream, locked the car and went into the house through the connecting door at the rear of the garage.
There were lights on in the lounge and Debbie pushed open the door. Her mother was sitting on the low leather sofa in front of the fireplace, a drink in her hands and a faraway look in her eyes. The fireplace was only lit during the winter months but it made a perfect focal point for the room. On top was a line of printed invitations, some embossed, most with gold around the edges. Anne and William Fielding received a constant stream of invitations to cocktail parties, dinners and junk trips. From where she stood by the door, Debbie could see her mother’s face reflected in the large gilt-framed mirror above the white marble fireplace. She looked sad and lost, like a little girl who’d mislaid her parents.
“Hi, Mum,” said Debbie.
Anne Fielding jerked as if wakening from a dream and the clear liquid in her glass slopped over the side and down her hand. “Shit,” she said. She pulled a handkerchief from the pocket of her beige Chanel dress and wiped her hand, shaking her head as if annoyed at her loss of control. The dress was one of her favourites. It showed off what she thought was her best feature – her long, shapely legs – though it was her green eyes and long lashes that men usually found most appealing. Debbie had always been grateful that she’d inherited her mother’s hair, eyes and legs, though she felt cheated when it came to her figure. At forty-five, Anne Fielding had curves that would do credit to a lingerie model, firm breasts that turned the heads of men half her age and hips that were only an inch or so wider than when she was a teenager and before she’d given birth. She knew how good she looked, too, and enjoyed showing herself off. The reason she liked the Chanel so much was because it emphasised her cleavage, though she’d never have admitted it.
Debbie’s first thought had been that her mother had been waiting up for her, but she clearly had something on her mind. She walked into the room and sat down on the grey sofa. “Are you okay, Mum?” she asked, concern in her voice. It wasn’t unusual to find her mother sitting alone in the lounge with a drink late at night, but this was different. She looked as if she were about to burst into tears.
Anne Fielding rubbed her nose with the wet handkerchief. Debbie could smell the gin. “It’s stupid really,” said Anne. “It’s nothing.”
“Is it Dad?” Relations between her mother and father had been cool since before she’d left to go to university in Britain. But when she’d got back nine months earlier with an upper second-class degree in Communications Studies she’d sensed that the twenty-four-year marriage had taken a turn for the worse and the double bed in the master bedroom had been replaced by two singles.
Anne smiled thinly and shook her head. “No, it’s not your father.” She sniffed and dabbed at her eyes. “It’s Sally Remnick. She’s leaving Hong Kong.” She brushed a lock of blonde hair from her face.
“For good?” Sally was just about Anne’s best friend and confidante, as well as her regular tennis partner at the Ladies’ Recreation Club.
Anne nodded. “She and Michael are being transferred to Singapore. Their bank is relocating its head office.” She threw the handkerchief on to the coffee table. “It’s not fair!” she said. “It’s not bloody well fair!” She picked up the glass and took a big swallow of her gin and tonic.
Over the past year at least a dozen of Anne Fielding’s close friends had left the colony, and Debbie knew that her mother was feeling increasingly isolated.
“I’m sorry, Mum,” she said helplessly, knowing there was nothing she could say that would make it better.
“Everybody’s leaving,” said Anne. “The rats are deserting the sinking ship and soon I’ll be the only one left.” Her hands were shaking. Debbie took the glass from her hands and placed it on the table next to the discarded handkerchief.
“They’re not rats, they’re just being sensible,” said Debbie. “They’re moving because they’re worried about what’ll happen after 1997, you know that. Everyone’s doing it, all the companies are moving to Singapore or Thailand. You mustn’t take it personally, Mum.”
Anne shook her head. “Oh, I know that. But they’re my friends, my last real friends in this godforsaken city. You don’t know how alone I feel, Debbie.”
“But doesn’t Dad …”
“Ha!” snorted Anne. “Your father’s only concern is the bank and his blessed racehorses. You know that.”
Debbie nodded and took her mother’s hands in her own. They felt hot and she could feel them trembling. “I know, Mum. But you know how much the bank means to him. He has to safeguard its future after 1997.”
“And what about me, Debbie? What about my future? He’s fifty-eight years old and he’s got to retire at sixty, come what may. He has the bank for two years at most, he’s got the rest of his life with me. Where do you think his priorities should lie?” She pulled her right hand away and reached for the glass again.
“Please, Mum, don’t drink so much,” pleaded Debbie.
Anne watched her daughter over the top of her glass as she drank. She drained the gin and tonic and slowly put the glass back on the table.
“I don’t think I can take much more, Debbie,” said Anne quietly. “This place is going to the dogs. The crime rate’s up, the Hong Kong Chinese hate us, the mainland Chinese just want us to get the hell out, all the good people are leaving. Somebody spat at me while I was shopping yesterday.”
“What?”
“Somebody spat at me. Down my back. I didn’t realise until I got home. They’d spat all down the back of my jacket. I tell you, Debbie, they hate us for what we’ve done to them. You can see it in their eyes. It’s going to get worse, too, as 1997 approaches. It’s a pressure cooker just waiting to explode. And I don’t want to be here when it happens.”
The Vets (Stephen Leather Thrillers) Page 8