The clarity of my demented mind was truly astonishing. I could see every minute detail. This was to be my last canvas, my final painting. My mind was in such a state that I believed that when I received the actual news that Mercy B. Lord was to be executed, I would take my own life.
On the extreme left and right of the painting I blocked in small frames, each about five inches square, eleven on the right, top to bottom, and on the left just four, centred. In the frames on the right I painted the portraits of the people who had played an important part, or whom I had loved or respected while I was in Singapore, and on the left those whom I had grown to loathe. Again I allowed myself one exception – Little Sparrow was the first portrait on the right, her face recalled from the ancient daguerreotype taken of Ah Koo’s family; then below her was Chairman Meow, Dansford Drocker, Elma Kelly, Mrs Sidebottom, Molly Ong, Alice Ho, Long Me Saw, Willy Wonka, Louie da Fly and finally my little Thai bar girl, Veronica. On the left of the canvas I painted the two Wing brothers full-face, Sidney and Johnny, followed by Ronnie, then finally Beatrice Fong as I had seen her, her eyes still piercing even in death. I had some trouble deciding where to put Detective Chicken Wing. Unlike Dansford, who, despite his undercover role, I had grown to love, I barely knew Chicken Wing and couldn’t decide how she fitted into the painting – she obviously didn’t belong on either side of the canvas. I solved this problem by doing a tiny miniature of her face on one of the moth’s wings as it flew towards the deadly light.
I can’t explain the weird clarity of my mind, day after day, while I painted. It has never returned to the same extent, and it was doubly weird because obviously I wasn’t thinking clearly, although I was seeing those faces down to the smallest detail and I painted them without the slightest hesitation. As it transpired, I also painted them with uncanny accuracy, right down to a dark mole on the left side of Beatrice Fong’s nose. The only other thing I managed to do while I painted was to open a can of something every once in a while and gobble it down without recalling minutes afterwards what I’d eaten, using my lone fork or spoon, and each morning I’d manage a shower. There was no shaving gear and I could feel stubble on my chin, the only place, apart from my mouth, that hadn’t received a kick.
On the fourteenth day of my incarceration – no, in fact the fifteenth – painting was completed, and I immediately began to weep, crawling into bed in the foetal position without undressing. I must have ultimately fallen asleep from utter exhaustion because I woke howling with the bedroom light still on. It was as if an invisible hand had struck me across the mouth, so that I actually cried out from the dream that had wakened me so violently. I glanced at my watch. I had been asleep for perhaps an hour.
In the dream I had been shown an alteration I was utterly compelled to make to the painting. I had not the slightest doubt that I had missed an essential component. I returned at once to the canvas and quickly removed Johnny’s face and the top half of his head from the eyebrows up, and began to paint furiously, exploding the head in a bullet-shattered mess so that blood and brains and fragments of skull flew into the air above and to the side of Mercy B. Lord’s shaven scalp, a split-second away from splattering her beautiful head and shoulders. I knew at that moment that I had gone mad. Bent over and clutching my stomach I crawled into bed and once more curled into a foetal ball. I continued to blub until I fell into what must have been a near coma.
Then a dream followed, and while it was beautiful, it was too terrible for words. A dead Mercy B. Lord was lying naked, cuddled into me. I started to bawl, really bawl, totally panic-stricken, battling to come out of the dream and seemingly unable to do so.
‘Simon, Simon! It’s me, Mercy B. Lord!’ the dead woman said, sitting up with a start. She grabbed me and smothered me with kisses. ‘Darling, I’ve come back.’ Then she started to cry and we held each other so tightly that my broken ribs finally made me realise that she was actually there. I could have happily endured ten times the pain to know she was safe. ‘Will you marry me, Simon, please?’ she whispered, and for a moment I thought I must be dreaming again.
I held her at arm’s length, still unsure that she was really there, that this wasn’t yet another dream, a pleasant one after the horror of the previous nightmare. I brought my hand up to touch her face, felt her hair – it hadn’t been hacked off. ‘It’s you, really you!’ Then I started to sob again.
‘You haven’t answered my question,’ she said gently.
‘Yes, please, today,’ I sniffed.
‘No, we have to wait until you’re beautiful again, darling. I’m going to wear your mother’s diamond pendants and we’re going to do it properly – a big white wedding!’ She threw back her beautiful head and laughed. ‘If you’ll excuse my French, I’m going to become Mercy B. Koo, thank you very much!’
I managed to stop making a fool of myself, wiping my eyes on the edge of the sheet while laughing at her corny pun, and at the same time feeling things stirring below the sheet. Then I saw that I was naked – she must have removed my painting clothes while I was asleep or comatose. No jockstrap in the world could have contained me then, and when we made love this time, I swear, I didn’t even feel my broken ribs.
Afterwards, as Mercy B. Lord lay in my arms, I said, ‘Darling, I was convinced they’d executed you.’
‘Oh, Simon, I saw the painting, the marvellous, ghastly, wonderful, frightening, beautiful painting!’
It seemed I had slept for nineteen hours and it was now just after eight at night. Mercy B. Lord had arrived at eight that morning, bringing my clothes from the flat. She made us both an omelette, and after we’d eaten she touched my face lightly. ‘Simon, you must believe I had nothing to do with this. It was Johnny who grabbed the phone and banged down the receiver. What I said, you know, about never seeing you again, was to protect you. The will stipulated that I marry Johnny to inherit. It came out later that he knew all about it. The stupid man realised that I’d never agree under normal circumstances, but thought that the money would persuade me. After he’d slammed down the receiver I went totally berserk, and those terrible men came in and restrained me and I was locked in the room with Beatrice’s body. It’s in the centre of the house and has no windows, so evil spirits can’t get in. I couldn’t see or hear a thing. I had no idea what happened to you until Dansford told me after the raid.’
‘Ah, that’s over, is it? What happened? You have a bloody lot of explaining to do, my girl.’
‘Oh, Simon, I know! All the time we’ve known each other I couldn’t breathe a word!’
‘About what – Thursdays?’
‘Yes. I believe Dansford and Hilda have briefed you on all that, but not fully on my part. For the past two and a half years I’ve been a double-agent, working with Dansford.’
‘But, but, if they’d found out – Beatrice, Sidney, Johnny – they’d have killed you.’
‘It was a terribly difficult situation. I couldn’t let you know the truth. The operation was top-secret and if there was a leak of any kind, it might have all blown up.’
‘And you could have been killed!’
‘Yes.’
‘So then why? Why did you agree? Once you knew the truth you could simply have walked away. We could have gone back to Australia.’
Mercy B. Lord ignored this. ‘It was Johnny and Beatrice more than anything who persuaded me to agree to help. Johnny, I learned, ran the sex-slave business; Beatrice, of course, ran both! The heroin was awful but I didn’t know much about drugs; the other, the trade in human flesh, was, in my eyes, far worse. I’d never liked Johnny but now I loathed him. When I heard the details of what I had been supporting I had no choice but to join Dansford.’
‘But before that, you must have realised you were carrying money to your mother every week?’
‘Yes, of course, but I guess I was naïve or I just didn’t want to know. Beatrice explained that it was to pay oil workers in Burma, that she and Sidney and Johnny owned several concessions to drill for oil, and my moth
er, Lotus Blossom, was the manager. I was so thrilled at the prospect of having her in my life, and until Dansford and Detective Sergeant Wing told me, I didn’t realise how much money was in the briefcase. And until the lawyer told me, I had no idea Beatrice was my grandmother.’ Mercy B. Lord looked down at her hands. ‘I guess I’ve got a lot to live down.’
‘Nonsense, we don’t choose out forebears. What you did was terribly brave. You’ve redeemed yourself a thousand times. The raid was obviously a success or you wouldn’t be here. Tell me what happened.’
‘Simon, I’m supposed to call Dansford and Hilda, er … Detective Sergeant Wing, but it’s too late now to find a phone, and besides, you know what Dansford’s like by this time of night. He wants to debrief you himself. In fact he insisted. While I may give you details about myself, I can’t, that is, I’m forbidden to tell you more. The raid is classified top-secret and there’s another side of Dansford Drocker you don’t want to cross. Did you know he was a major in the Second World War and promoted to lieutenant colonel in Korea? Which is about as high as it gets for an operational intelligence officer, apparently.’
I laughed. ‘I now realise I know very little about Dansford Drocker.’
‘Including how he spends his afternoons,’ Mercy B. Lord said. ‘Though he can be pretty wild, some of them were spent in a back-room communications office at Bill Bailey’s bar preparing to clean up the Asian drug cartel, while others …’ She paused. ‘No, I’m not sure I’m allowed. I’ll let him tell you himself.’
‘Well, I’ll be buggered! But if I have to wait for Dansford to debrief me, will you answer just two questions?’
‘I’ll try.’
‘Johnny, as I understand it, wasn’t involved in the drug side but ran the sex-slave business, so he can’t be indicted for drugs. Is that right?’
Mercy B. Lord looked down at her hands. ‘I really don’t know. Johnny is dead.’
It was said in such a manner that my first thought was that Mercy B. Lord had murdered him. ‘Dead! How?’
‘Shot. Dansford will tell you when he comes. Simon, I really can’t, I’m not allowed to say any more.’
‘But you were not personally responsible for —?’
‘Johnny’s death? No, no such luck.’
‘The second question is about Sidney.’
‘Arrested.’
‘And Ronnie?’
‘That’s three questions. Ronnie got off scot-free – he wasn’t involved. He owns the Nite Cap and five other girlie bars. Johnny supplied the girls, but it’s not a crime to have girls under contract. All the other bars get their girls from the same source; that business hasn’t been closed yet.’
There was a fourth obvious question, about what happened to Lotus Blossom, but I wasn’t going to ask it then. I could sense that Mercy B. Lord had had enough. ‘Darling, shall we have a shower?’ I suggested. ‘I’m afraid I’ve got nothing to wear. The duds they gave me are too small, so are the sandshoes, and my Y-fronts show through the fly and certainly need a wash, but at least I’ll be clean. Can you stay the night?’
Mercy B. Lord grinned. ‘Well, now that you ask, I can stay every night for the rest of my life, if you wish. But I’ve got a better idea. The shower is good, and I’ve brought your clothes from the flat. Detective Sergeant Wing has signed you out and you’re free to go – there’s not a policeman in sight. By the way, one of them asked me to thank you for the dog food. What did he mean by that?’
‘Pork-belly fricassee.’
‘Sounds disgusting.’
‘Not to police dogs.’
‘I don’t understand.’
I pointed to the pantry shelves, where a vast array of tinned food stood rank upon rank like the Duke of Wellington’s army facing Napoleon at Waterloo. I seemed not to have made even the smallest dent. ‘Never mind, I’ll tell you later. I never want to see anything that requires a tin opener again in my life.’
Mercy B. Lord laughed. ‘I promise, Simon. So, here’s a suggestion, but only if you feel up to it. You’ve just had nineteen hours’ sleep so you probably don’t want to go to bed for a while … even with me. While you’re still not the prettiest man in town, you’ll soon be your old self. Do you think your various bruises and bumps could handle a night out on the town, then a late dinner before we go home? I’ll organise for your painting and your gear to come home tomorrow. We can sleep in, and I’ve booked a private room at the Goodwood Park for lunch. Owen Denmeade, the maître d’, says he has a couple of French wines that will knock Dansford’s socks off. Dansford and Hilda will debrief you officially over lunch.’
I hadn’t asked her about the Beatrice Fong inheritance for two reasons. The first was that it was none of my business, and the second was that I couldn’t have cared if she’d declared herself mine in rags and tatters.
The following day I felt great. I even managed a shave, but still looked like a bit of a walking nightmare, with yellow bruises around my eyes and nose. But the swelling was all but down and the rest of my body was much the same, with yellowing patches like those on a marmalade tabby, but mostly they didn’t hurt any longer, and it was apparent when I took a cautious deep breath that my ribs were beginning to knit. By the way, I was to learn that the five thugs who had given me the beating had been arrested. And also that Beatrice Fong’s funeral, with no expense spared, went off without a hitch and she was sent to the hereafter with sufficient paper money and token goods and services to be welcomed with open arms by her waiting ancestors.
She was one of Singapore’s worst, but it’s almost as if there has to be a fixed percentage of the good and the bad in life – the evil component, the psychopaths and born wrongdoers at one extreme, and those who are born to be good, the saints of every religion, at the other. Between the two, the rest of humankind arrays itself. The gravitational pull of these two extremes is what decides whether, generally speaking, the world is in good or bad moral shape, at war or at peace with itself.
Beatrice Fong was fundamentally bad, and she used those who were willing to compromise their moral integrity for whatever reason, some simply to put food on the table, others to own mansions, yachts or, in Sidney’s case, a golf course in Florida. She came and she went unnoticed, except that she left nothing but misery and chaos as her legacy. She wouldn’t even be posthumously vilified. Winding up international drug cartels embarrasses too many governments so the aftermath is invariably silence. She simply went unpunished, unnoticed and unmourned, getting away with unmitigated evil.
Owen Denmeade greeted us, exuding the usual bonhomie. I could see he was momentarily taken aback by my face, but he was far too professional to comment. He led us through the restaurant to a small private dining room where Dansford and Detective Sergeant Hilda Wing were already ensconced, Dansford on his second martini, the empty first martini glass still on the table. He’d obviously ordered two simultaneously. Detective Chicken Wing, as she would always be to me, was drinking a bloody Mary through a straw, a fair indication that it was simply tomato juice.
Dansford jumped from his seat and embraced and kissed Mercy B. Lord, who, in turn, bent to kiss Hilda on the cheek. I didn’t respond in a similar manner, merely shaking her by the hand. I mean, can one really kiss a detective sergeant?
Dansford then turned to me. ‘Well, Simon, what can I say?’
‘As little as possible that concerns me directly over the past fortnight.’ I grinned.
‘Buddy, you’re sure looking a whole lot better than when last we parted.’
‘As I recall, it wasn’t much of a parting. Did you have to use handcuffs? I was so beaten up I could barely walk. Escape was clearly not an option unless I crawled away.’
‘That was my fault, Simon, and I apologise,’ Detective Chicken Wing said. ‘It’s standard procedure when prisoners are moved from Outram Road Hospital. You see Sister Elkington, that’s the senior sister who hustled us out on the morning of our visit —’
‘Oh, you mean hospital ship Virago?’ I interjec
ted.
This got a bit of a laugh all round, then Detective Chicken Wing continued, ‘Well, her husband, the incorruptible Georgie “Pug-face” Elkington, one of the few senior British police officers to keep his post after the Brits handed over, is an assistant commissioner of police, and if we didn’t manacle you when you left the hospital under arrest, it would have got straight back to him over his toast and marmalade next morning, whereupon disciplinary charges would have been duly laid.’ She laughed. ‘His opening address to a group of young police officers is often: “Absolute nincompoops, the lot of you!” ’
With the small talk over, we ordered lunch, and Owen Denmeade returned and extolled the virtues of the French wine. Dansford instructed him to bring three bottles and to open them, then at his suggestion we ordered both entrées and mains together, with Owen still hovering. ‘Will you kindly bring the bell on the bar as well?’ Dansford requested.
‘The bar bell?’ Owen asked, surprised.
‘Ah, Monsieur Maître d’ Denmeade, I intend to use it to summon a waiter, should we require one. After we’ve been served, would you and your staff kindly allow us a little privacy?’ The exquisitely polite Dansford was plainly preparing to get down to business, and I sensed the return of the man who had looked me in the eye, shrugged and said, ‘Sorry, Simon, that’s how the cookie crumbles.’ Now he addressed me. ‘Simon, I guess it’s largely up to me to debrief you.’ He looked first at Mercy B. Lord, then at Detective Chicken Wing, and directed his next sentence to them. ‘You may both correct me and add any details as you wish.’ Then he turned back to me. ‘Simon, I don’t have to tell you that what is said here remains in this room. This was a covert operation. While it’s all over, bar the tidying-up of bank accounts, money and formal convictions among those governments involved – America, Singapore and Thailand in the main – it remains a top-secret operation. I emphasise that none of this will ever appear in the world’s press. The DEA and the CIA are in agreement. In fact, without their help this operation would not have been possible because they were responsible for the logistics.’
FORTUNE COOKIE Page 61