There’s a paper tissue in his hand, and, low down on the polished wooden door, a smudge of what looks like chalk.
“Some kid must have been playing around,” Zamora says.
But what remains of the graffiti grips Danny’s attention. There are two and a half tiny rows of dots neatly done right at the base of the door. Above that they smudge into a chalky cloud.
“Think I’m only making it worse,” Zamora says, rubbing away again at the pattern.
Something familiar about the dots, Danny thinks, even as the last of them disappear. I’ve seen something like it. Recently.
He closes his eyes. Something here in Hong Kong? No, before that. How many dots in the row? Six or so? At school, after the explosion. He remembers that charred paper he stuffed into his back pocket.
“Major,” Danny says. “I saw a pattern like that at school last week. It was a square, made of dots. Seven by seven, I think. Was that the same?”
The strongman stops dead, sucking a breath in through his teeth. He feigns nonchalance—the kind of thing he forced each time he lowered himself down the barrel of the spring-loaded cannon.
“Seven by seven, you say? At school?”
“Yes. After the explosion.”
“Did you tell Miss Laura about it?”
“No. I forgot about it. Until just now.”
Zamora’s on his feet, stuffing the hankie into his pocket and striding toward the phone on the desk. “Think I’ll just give her a quick ring.”
“What does it mean?”
“Hmm,” Zamora grunts. “What?”
“That pattern.”
Zamora puffs out his cheeks, listening expectantly. He shakes his head.
“Switched off.”
“And the man in the white suit. The one following us?”
“No hay problema. But do you know what, Mister Danny? I’m not so keen on this room after all. Let’s see if we can’t get it changed.”
“Answer me!”
But Zamora just shakes his head and reaches for the phone.
There were two kinds of silence that used to fall in the circus trailer after a long day on the road, or after a performance.
There was the easy one: when Mum and Dad would potter around, removing their stage makeup, preparing a meal on the little stove. Nothing to be said, just the peace that comes after rewarding effort. A day gone well.
But then there was—occasionally—the strained one: the uncomfortable silence when something was going unsaid. A rare, unvoiced disagreement, a strain in the connection between them. Something fragile. First Dad, then Mum would glance at him, then look away again, and the air in the trailer seemed heavier. There were a lot more of those silences on that final tour as they ticked off the cities and headed toward Berlin. Destiny. Cold weather locked around the Mysterium, somehow making the unfathomable hush all the more glacial.
Now, in a new hotel room five floors higher, a silence as heavy as any of those has descended. From time to time, Zamora tries Laura’s mobile, the lines furrowing deeper on his forehead, and then goes to gaze again at the harbor, his vertigo forgotten.
Eventually after one last try he bangs the phone back on the desk. “Now it’s gone to unobtainable. What does that mean? She’s always gabbing on the thing. Or Twittering or whatever it’s called.”
He coughs and turns round, staring hard at the floor. “Well, we’ll see her soon enough.” Then he tries to lighten the mood. “Well then, Mister Danny. How’s school? Made many friends?”
“They think circuses are for little kids.”
“Goes to show how much these jossers know. Remember the Khaos Klowns, for God’s sake. They even gave me the willies. And the Aerialisques? Hot stuff, no?” He laughs, but his heart’s not in it.
Danny is fidgeting the cards between his fingers again. I always thought Zamora would tell me everything, he thinks. Never treated me like a little kid. Not even when I was tiny.
Frustrated, he picks the top card from the deck, and with a sharp snap of index and middle fingers, sends it hissing through the air. It strikes the desk lamp on the far side of the room with a clunk. Bullseye.
“Did old Blanco teach you that?” Zamora says.
“Yep.”
“Best knife thrower I ever saw.”
Danny goes over to Zamora at the window. Purple and black clouds are packing the horizon, bruising the sky. His fingers keep fiddling the deck anxiously—and suddenly it slips and he’s fumbled all the cards to the floor. He turns to face Zamora.
“Do you know what this diagram is . . . the dots?”
“Oh well,” Zamora says, flapping his arms in discomfort. “Probably nothing.”
He turns away, trying to bring the subject to a close—and silence falls again. Suddenly it’s not the reunion Danny has hoped for.
“So why change our room then? Why the rush to get Laura—”
“Blast it all, I’m sure there is nothing to worry about,” Zamora snaps, an edge to his voice that brings Danny up short.
“Sorry. Just tired,” he says, flopping back on the bed and closing his eyes. “Let’s recharge a bit before dinner.”
In seconds, just like the old days when they had arrived in some new city and finished the pitching of the encampment, he’s fast asleep, leaving Danny to stare out at the harbor.
He eyes the clouds, mulling over the day and its developments. There’s a storm gathering. You can feel it charging the air.
A few hours later they’re on the deck of the Star Ferry as it churns across the harbor toward Kowloon. Darkness has fallen but it’s still very warm, clouds pressing down on the city and the South China Sea, the sweat prickling Danny’s neck and forehead. Dazzling neon splashes on the buildings, and skyscrapers rake in vertical stripes against the night.
But Danny is looking down at the black water, his head bowed. Zamora goes to join him at the rail and stands there for a moment before putting a hand on his shoulder.
Further back in the crowd, tucked under the shadow of the wheelhouse, White Suit stands impassively, his body alert, eyes for nothing but Danny and his stocky companion. Then he reaches into his pocket, resting his hand on something hidden from sight, his face a mask.
8
HOW TO BLEND INTO A CROWD
Kowloon breaks around them. Sleek downtown gives way to the vibrant hustle of Mong Kok. The pavements are rammed, spilling over onto the street, a barrage of jostling crowds, restaurant touts. Buses shudder past trailed by the buzz of scooters. Cafés and street stalls spill aromas on the night air, competing with the punch of diesel fumes. Chinese characters pulse overhead, distant sirens and loudspeakers filling the air with Chinese pop and adverts. The energy of it all lifts Danny’s spirits.
“Hold on to your hat,” Zamora says. “Lively, no?” He unfolds a map and glances at the address on Laura’s card. “Vamos. This way.”
The major’s powerful shoulders push through the crowds, moving easily, without tension. Maybe there really is nothing to fear. Nevertheless Danny’s eyes flick across the crowds as they go. If only he knew what to look out for. At least White Suit will stick out if he’s anywhere near.
They move deeper into the frenetic night city, Zamora chatting away, ignoring the souvenir sellers trying to grab their attention.
“So I was touring with the Micro last year and guess what? I bumped into old Jimmy Torrini. Still doing his Dr. Oblivion routine, can you believe that? But he’s punked it up a bit. Didn’t seem too pleased to see me!”
There’s a flicker in a gap between the buildings and then the first long growl of thunder comes rolling down from the hills.
“Dad always said he was OK. Even when Rosa fired him.”
“Maybe so. Your dad was a good judge, after all. Picked me as a brainbox when all people ever saw were the muscles! This way.”
As Danny and Zamora turn a corner another lightning flash stutters across the sky. It freeze-frames Laura, standing in the middle of the street, her camcorder han
ging by her side with the boom mic strapped to it and a bright smile stamped on her face.
“Storm a-coming! Hurry up!”
Zamora sighs. “Your stupid phone’s not working.”
“Someone nicked it off a café table. I’ll sort it tomorrow. Hungry?”
“I could eat the whole menu. But I just need a quick word.”
“Just a minute, Major.”
Laura pulls them into the hubbub of The Golden Bat restaurant. “A bit theme park, I’m afraid, but they say the won ton here’s the real deal. Hey, you were right about Kwan, Major Zee. He was a rock. All afternoon.”
The air is laden with soy sauce and spice. Danny’s gaze takes in the red lanterns, curling dragons, explosive black calligraphy on the walls as Laura leads them to a table on a platform at the back. Nearby, tropical fish stir color into the water of a huge aquarium.
“Best table in the house, boys. Want you to meet a couple of people.”
A Chinese man in a pinstripe suit is already seated there, his face set in stone, dark and thoughtful. He nods almost imperceptibly in greeting. Not the kind of face you could ever hope to read, Danny thinks. He’s giving nothing away—except for the fact that he doesn’t want to give anything away.
Next to him is a young girl. Her almond-shaped face is framed by the long black hair that falls to the shoulders of her slim-fitting leather jacket. Thirteen, fourteen? It’s hard to tell. Something knowing in her quick, dark eyes, maybe something a little bit hard. She glances at Danny. For a second a smile lights her face, and then she looks away at the fish tank. That’s easy to read. She was trying to hide her reaction. Defensive maybe? Wants the world to see a tough-girl exterior.
“Welcome,” the man says. “I’m Charlie Chow. This is my daughter, Sing Sing.” A flash of memory. Danny recalls Mum pointing up at the starry night sky, saying that word. It means “star,” doesn’t it?
The girl’s face flashes. “Adopted!” she corrects. Her eyes flit back to Danny, seeking him out. For a moment their eyes lock again, and then her gaze slips to the Mysterium tour shirt—its bleached skull, staring vacant eye sockets, fragile butterflies, glowing letters. She nods to herself. Approval? As if she’s ticking things off from a checklist.
“I’m Danny,” he says, holding out his hand. Sing Sing looks at it, feigning a studied boredom now, then slowly reaches out to shake. When their hands make contact, he is surprised to find her palm and fingers are hard and calloused. She withdraws her hand quickly, again as if not wanting to disclose too much. She’s interesting, Danny thinks. A lot going on under the surface.
Laura’s getting to her feet.
“We’ve just got to do a quick piece in the street, before Mr. Chow has to be off.”
“Excuse us,” Chow says. “Anything you want is on the house.”
“But, Miss Laura—”
“Two shakes, Major.” Laura’s already leading Chow toward the street. “Tell you something, though, boys,” she calls over her shoulder. “Detective Tan has gone on ‘sick leave.’ No one can reach him. If you can believe that!”
“Your aunt says you do magic tricks?” Sing Sing says abruptly. “So, you any good?” There’s something challenging in her voice. Mocking even. Go on, impress me, it says, her eyes underlining that challenge.
“I’m OK,” Danny says.
“I do some tricks too.”
“Cards and stuff like that?” Danny says, intrigued.
“Bit like that.”
Her phone trills. She hesitates a moment and then looks right into his odd-colored eyes. “So. You as good as your dad then?” She holds up both hands, wrists tight together, miming the restraint of handcuffs, that same smile. Teasing. Before he can answer, she flips open her mobile and starts to talk under her breath in rapid Cantonese.
Emotion kicks through Danny’s system. Excitement at the mention of Dad, but confusion too. As if the girl has the advantage. What does she know about Dad? She glances back at Danny now, her eyes afire in the dark interior of the Bat, then gets to her feet and goes to stand on the other side of the aquarium, mobile pressed to her ear. Listening hard now.
He watches her intently, trying to read her expression, but the tank distorts everything, smudging her features. Something strained in her shoulders, as if she’s waiting for something to happen. The fish churn the water in between, blurring his view. Danny watches them for a moment, distracted—that uncomfortable memory again of Dad desperately struggling in the water torture cell.
“What do you think five-snake stew tastes like?” the major says, eyeing the menu. “And how’s your aunt doing?”
From where they sit, there’s a good view back through the open front of the restaurant to the street outside. Laura’s got Chow in her camcorder sights, her voice swallowed by the restaurant noise.
Suddenly Danny stiffens. The mention of Dad, his curiosity about Sing Sing, are forgotten. “Major!”
White Suit is going past quickly, brushing Laura’s shoulder, moving with that same long stride. Precise, controlled. Out of sight in a moment.
The thunder detonates overhead, making the diners around them jump.
“Madre mia!” Zamora says. “I’ll blend in and try and follow him.”
Danny is just thinking how hard it will be for a tattooed dwarf strongman to blend in to a Kowloon evening, when all hell breaks loose.
A motorbike comes buzzing down the street. Then another.
They skid to a stop right next to Laura and Chow, one of the riders barking out Cantonese. Simultaneously a black BMW reverses fast up the street from the other direction, gears whining in protest. Laura is surrounded by six or so young men, grabbing the camera, pushing Chow to the ground, all shouting at once.
Two of them are brandishing meat cleavers—big ones—and the light glints off their blades as the men raise them threateningly over their heads.
Zamora and Danny are already on their way to help, moving toward the door. But now two other men push back their chairs and get to their feet, blocking the way. The first of them pulls a long knife out from his sleeve.
The other is gaunt faced, sharply dressed in a well-cut suit, his hair slicked back in a ponytail. He makes a move for his jacket pocket, shouting at them.
Danny tries to dodge round them, but the first man has him by the shoulders and shoves him forcefully back against a pillar. The knife flashes wildly. Danny ducks and the blade strikes a glancing blow off the plasterwork.
From outside you can hear Laura giving as good as she gets: “Let GO of me! I have friends in the police!”
Major Zamora’s eyes have gone dark. No one messes with Mister Danny. No way.
He grabs hold of a chair and swings it hard at the knifeman, breaking it over his head with a splintering of wood, sending him slumping to the ground, blood bright on his temple. Ponytail’s jaw slackens in astonishment, but he has no time to react before Zamora is on him, swinging the remains of the chair for all he’s worth.
“Come on then, amigo!”
A loud gunshot cracks through the confusion, but the dwarf keeps going unchecked. He grabs hold of Ponytail and sends him flying full tilt, backward across the restaurant, somersaulting over a table, slamming into the aquarium with a sickening crack. His eyes close and he crumples.
Crazy-paving cracks spread across the tank’s surface—the world seems to freeze—and then the whole thing shatters, sending glass and water cascading across the floor, fish flop-flipping in the torrent, gulping at the air.
Danny scrambles between the overturned chairs and out onto the street toward where Laura is being bundled into the waiting car. She twists her head in desperation, catching one of the thugs a decent right hook, and manages to lean out.
“RED notebook, Danny! RED—”
The hoodlums pile in after her and slam the door shut, and then the BMW’s tires are burning the tarmac and it’s away down the street like a startled animal.
Danny gives chase, but then has to throw himself out of
the way as one of the motorbikes comes straight at him from behind. He jumps and rolls, coming back onto his feet in one movement.
Zamora stumbles out of the restaurant waving half a bloodied chair leg, glaring at the two remaining thugs. They both hesitate, then leap onto the second motorbike and are gone, leaving nothing but exhaust.
Of Mr. Chow there is no sign.
“Caramba!” Zamora says. “Someone call the blasted police . . .”
Danny watches the BMW cornering hard. It clips a post, striking a bright spark against the night. Laura’s face framed for a moment in its back window. Then it’s gone.
Zamora glares after them, breathing hard. “Don’t worry, Danny. It’ll be OK. The police will sort it out. At least we’ve got a couple of them here. Scumbags.”
Danny looks at him, eyes blazing, both the green and the brown dotted with fire.
“It’s my fault,” he says.
“Don’t be daft, Danny.”
But guilt is reaching surely out to tighten its grip.
“It’s my fault,” he repeats.
It starts to rain, heavy drops falling one by one at first, kicking up the dust on the street, a hesitant rhythm tapping at the car roofs. It gathers pace. And then the clouds burst apart.
The thunder keeps prowling overhead as they wait for the police, and the rain thickens. But still Danny doesn’t move.
A growing sense of desperation has taken hold of his legs, his breathing.
He recognizes that sensation. It’s the same one that set in after the fire. Instead of “running away” that night—he had got no further than the far side of the encampment and bedded down in the prop store—he should have been with Mum and Dad. Then maybe he would have smelled the smoke and woken everyone and saved the day. Or put the first flames out. Or maybe it’s just the typical guilt of a survivor: I should have been there. After Berlin—after the initial shock had subsided—it had held him tight for weeks, months. Stopped him from acting, from chasing down the truth about those last few weeks in the Mysterium. Kept him lying on his bed, worrying away at the vague emotion.
The Black Dragon Page 4