The Black Dragon

by Julian Sedgwick

  “Not a word,” Zamora says again, gun hard against the man’s back. “You savvy?”

  The man nods again, ponytail twitching, taken aback by the ferocity in Zamora’s eyes. There’s no doubting he means business.

  “No problem.”

  “That’s right,” Zamora says. He shoves the man farther into the shadows, with Danny following, glancing back at the street to see if they have been spotted. No—the world goes on as if nothing untoward is happening.

  “Now, tell us, my friend, nice and quickly, where is Miss White? Where is the lady you pea-brains kidnapped yesterday?”

  Ponytail shakes his head. “Not understand.”

  “It’s Wuchung Mansions, isn’t it? Isn’t it? But which floor? Which room?”

  “No say.”

  “Ay caramba! We haven’t got time to mess about.”

  The gangster looks genuinely scared, Danny realizes. Pupils massively dilated, muscles around them tightening. Jaw rigid.

  “You’ve got three seconds,” Zamora says. “Uno, dos . . .”

  “He won’t say,” Danny whispers. “He’s more scared of them than us. Probably swore an oath to the gang, death by a thousand cuts or something like that if he tells us. Much worse than you shooting him.”

  He’s thinking fast. How to make the most of this situation? Maybe this is the moment to put training into practice. After all, the mirror force on the stewardess went well—even if Lo didn’t succumb to the technique. Perhaps I need to go for something quicker and more direct.

  “I’ve got a better idea. Let’s talk . . . much . . . more . . . calmly. Relaxed.”

  Almost as if he can hear Dad whispering instructions: That’s it, Danny, keep the eye contact, drop your voice, use your hand to work their vision . . . keep using their name and you relax and they relax and you relax and . . .

  He takes the pick set from around his neck. It flashes in the shadowy alleyway, catching Ponytail’s attention. Danny locks his gaze with the gangster.

  “Tony. I want you to listen very carefully. We can sort this out. Just have a look at this!” He holds the pick at eye level and then brings it rapidly toward the man’s eyes, crowding his vision.

  “Watch my hand, watch my hand. There you go.”

  Pressing the cold steel to the man’s forehead, he reaches around and holds the back of Tony’s head with his other hand, pushing it forward and down, taking control.

  “Sleep, Tony. Wan an.”

  The Chinese words pop into his mouth. Mum used to say that every night when he was small: good night, sleep peacefully.

  And the man does just that!

  It’s a perfect “snap induction,” textbook stuff. You’ve got the right subject up out of the crowd and they’re looking around sheepishly—or grinning at a friend—and you get their attention, invade their space, confuse them, give them the command . . . and down they go. Out cold sometimes, if you’re lucky.

  And maybe it’s helped by the fact that Zamora has knocked a concussion into the man not twelve hours before; maybe it’s the fear in the man’s mind. Conflicting interests . . . who knows? Maybe it’s just beginner’s luck, like the young Houdini fiddling the lock of the cuffs and surprising himself as much as the convict as they sprang open, and a legend was born . . . As soon as Danny touches the lockpick to the forehead, Ponytail’s under, eyes glazed, out for the count.

  “You sleep now,” Danny says, very quietly, suppressing the mixture of elation and surprise surging through him. “On min. Eyes closed, Tony. Deeeper. Just listening to my voice. Breathing in and oooouuut.”

  Ponytail’s breath is shifting into a slower gear. Head heavy in Danny’s hands. Danny feels his confidence growing, his voice calming himself as much as the man.

  Zamora is struggling to fight back a grin.

  “OK,” Danny says. “Eyes open, but still verrryyy relaxed. And then you can just start thinking about where Laura is. Where is she? No matter how hard you try you can’t help thinking about the room, the building. There she is now in your mind. You try not to, but it’s as clear as day.”

  He nods to the major, who now slips the gun into his jacket pocket. The barrel juts against the fabric, keeping Ponytail covered, just in case.

  “It’s all fine, Major,” Danny says. “We can relax. Like Tony here. He doesn’t have to tell us anything.”

  As long as Ponytail doesn’t think he’s betraying the gang it should be possible to get him to reveal what they need by slight movements from his body, subconscious signals. Danny shakes his fingers loose and then places both hands lightly on the man’s shoulders.

  “Just keep thinking—really seeing in your mind—how you would go to find your friends . . . forward or back. Left or right. How would you start?”

  And then, as if sleepwalking, the man twitches. Danny reads the impulse and guides Ponytail back out of the alley, slow step by slow step, toward the pavement.

  “That’s it,” Danny says. “Just keep that picture in your head . . . We’ll go this way, shall we? Left, isn’t it?”

  Ponytail’s muscles move under Danny’s fingers. Yes.

  Zamora whistles under his breath. “No way, Mister Danny. Hellstromism!”

  Danny doesn’t answer—he’s focusing carefully, keeping the lightest touch he can on the man’s shoulders, sensing every resistance, every slight change of body angle. Dad used to play it with him as a kind of game—and it used to be a big part of Harry’s routine. But this is going better than any of those tries he had at muscle reading—hellstromism—at the Mysterium. Maybe Ponytail’s so jumpy that the movements are easy to read? Who cares? It’s working.

  They’re out of the stinking alleyway and passing unnoticed in the hustle and bustle. Danny tries not to second-guess any movement of his mesmerized subject. But Ponytail transmits each change of direction as clearly as if he’s telling them which way to go.

  They turn left, back in through the doorway of the Mansions. Back into the labyrinth, past the little shops on the ground floor, past Heart and Sole, past the bedlam of the elevators with their blinking security cameras, the mobile phone shops, the tailors . . . All the while Ponytail’s movements are talking to Danny’s fingertips as if saying, “Yes, this way, over here, no, not that way, to the back here.”

  They come to a fire door at the back of the ground floor. Danny nods to Zamora, who darts forward, holding it open, and they edge through. The door springs shut behind them, and cuts the noise of the Mansions to a distant hum.

  In this sudden silence there’s just the sound of their footsteps on the bare concrete and Danny’s voice reassuring Ponytail. “Just keep seeing it in your head. Up the stairs? OK.”

  They climb two flights of stairs and find themselves in a grubby but empty corridor. A handwritten sign on a door says DELUXE DELIGHTFUL ROOMS. It looks as far from deluxe as you could get. Ponytail is moving more quickly now, urgency transmitting up through Danny’s fingers, into his arms. They pass a takeaway curry place, pans bubbling on dodgy-looking gas burners, and, beyond that, a room crammed with women bent over chattering sewing machines. Then down a long, echoing service corridor back into silence.

  Ponytail’s feet stutter and he comes to a stop in front of the door of an ancient elevator. A sign taped to it: OUT OF ORDER.

  “Try it anyway,” Danny says. “He wants to use it, I’m sure.”

  Zamora punches the call button and, somewhere far overhead, a grinding starts to shake the elevator shaft. The major wrinkles his moustache.

  “Needs some oil, wouldn’t you say? Is Old Ugly here still under?”

  “Really deep.”

  The lift door judders open. As they step in, the whole thing swings perceptibly, and Zamora casts wary eyes at the floor.

  Danny looks at the control panel. Twenty-four numbered buttons as well as G for ground floor and B for basement. The alarm button is plastered over with red insulation tape. Not very reassuring.

  Careful not to break all contact with Ponytail, Dan
ny moves his fingertips to the back of the gangster’s right hand.

  “OK, just think about the floor number. The floor where you want to go. You don’t have to move your arm, just say it over and over in your head.”

  Ponytail’s hand jerks up like an automaton, his finger extending, hovering near the 17.

  Zamora presses it and the elevator jerks skyward. Grinding metallic sounds reverberate from overhead, as the compartment groans and bumps against its shaft. The major starts to whistle softly under his breath, eyes glued to the display ticking up the numbers.

  “No hay problema, no hay problema,” he mutters to himself.

  “No problema,” Ponytail parrots from deep in his hypnotic state.

  And then the elevator comes to a stop at 17. Zamora grips the pistol tighter.

  The doors open to reveal a dingy corridor, its walls running with damp. Deathly silence and no air. From somewhere a long way off comes the sound of hysterical laughter. It stops abruptly as they step out of the lift.

  Danny steadies his own breathing again.

  “Just keep that image strong,” he says to Ponytail, but the man needs no encouragement. He’s transmitting again. A sensation of rush, a determination to get to wherever they’re going. Muscles tensing.

  “Easy now,” Danny says. “No rush. Relaxed.”

  Past a string of unmarked doors, up half a flight of steps, down another moldering corridor, through a kind of interior bridge to another block, through a door, another dark passageway . . .

  “Madre mia,” Zamora mutters. “Hope we can find our way back out of this.”

  Ponytail is hesitating now. Maybe the fear of revealing the hideout is starting to override everything else. The sensation of movement is dying under Danny’s fingertips. It feels like he wants to stop . . . here.

  “OK,” Danny says. “Nothing to worry about. Shall we go on?”

  But the man has come to a resolute halt outside an opaque glass door.

  A plaque on the outside: BLACK DRAGON KUNG FU CLUB. And two characters under the words Black Dragon:

  Danny raises his eyebrows. Same characters, surely. He takes Ponytail’s lighter from his pocket, studies it for a second and hands it to Zamora. “Don’t think Lo translated things properly for us. Do you?”

  The major shakes his head. “Scumbag.”

  They listen hard at the door. Not a sound from inside.

  “Laura’s here?” Danny asks quietly.

  And Tony nods, as if lost somewhere very, very far away.

  14

  HOW TO WRITE WITHOUT A PEN

  Zamora tries the handle, but it’s locked.

  There’s a security code pad on the door frame, and Danny’s just considering whether he can get Ponytail to reveal the number when the major takes matters into his own hands. He charges the door, his left shoulder crunching into it just above the lock. It gives slightly. Zamora furrows his brow, takes another run up and the door wrenches loose, the frame splintering. It swings on one hinge and then crashes to the floor in a cloud of dust.

  The noise reverberates in the corridor like a bomb going off—and snaps Ponytail from his trance. He opens his eyes, blinking rapidly as he takes in the situation. Then he’s off at speed, around the corner and gone. “Forget him,” Danny says. “Let’s see what we’ve got here.”

  They dash through an office and, beyond that, find themselves in a large echoing gymnasium. A row of dusty windows spill opaque light onto the wooden floor. Arrayed along the opposite wall is an arsenal of clubs, sticks, and barbells. In front of those a wooden army of dummy fighting figures stands ready for sparring, stocky arms held up stiffly, while black and white photos of stern kung fu masters stare down at them from the walk.

  “Laura?” Zamora calls.

  A punching bag twists very slowly on its rope, groaning. Not a soul to be seen, and the silence sings in their ears.

  At the far end of the gym there are two frosted glass doors. And one of them is ajar.

  Watched by the life-sized dummies, they move across the wooden floor, senses straining. Still not a sound to be heard. Weird when you think how loud the rest of the city has been, Danny thinks. He reaches the half-open door—listens hard—then shoves it with his foot.

  Inside there are ten or so camp beds crammed together, covered with a tangle of sleeping bags, blankets, and kit bags, unwashed rice bowls, cups, teapots, overflowing ashtrays. Smoke and sweat hangs heavy on the air.

  “Smells like the Khaos Klowns trailer after a show, no?” Zamora wrinkles his nose. “Think they were too macho to use deodorant or something.”

  Danny picks up a half-emptied cup. The coffee is scummed over, but still lukewarm.

  “Can’t be long gone. Let’s try the other room.”

  The second door squeals appallingly on its dry hinges, loud against the silent gym beyond, making them pause and listen. But there’s no answering sound.

  This room is smaller, almost empty. It contains a single camp bed and—thrust in a corner—Laura’s leather shoulder bag! Danny’s heart thumps hard in his ears as he goes to pick it up.

  “She must be close,” he says. “She’s here somewhere!”

  “Or was here.”

  Something crunches under Danny’s foot and he looks down to see the guts of what looks like a laptop. Chips, keys, black casing hacked to bits. Laura’s is black.

  “She’s going to be mad about that,” Zamora says.

  “But where is she?” Danny moans. She must be here. It’s gone so well, following the clues, reading Ponytail, penetrating this labyrinth. There must be some reward! But apart from the bag and the wreckage of the laptop, there’s nothing else to see. Three acupuncture charts in frames hang at uncertain angles on the grubby wall, their bodies pierced by hundreds of black dots.

  “Miss Laura!” Zamora shouts suddenly. “Miss Laura, can you hear us?”

  His voice booms out into the gym beyond.

  Any thrill Danny has felt about the success of the hellstromism is fading—replaced by a growing sense of failure. He bites his lip, thinking hard, the bag still in his hands. It feels lighter than normal, and he peers in. Virtually empty: the usual jumble of reporter pads, cough sweets, pens all gone—along with her wallet. He shakes it upside down, and a packet of tissue and a lipstick go rattling out across the floor. The top’s missing from the stick and it leaves a red gash on the boards.

  That’s unusual. For one thing Laura seldom wears the stuff, and—if she does—she always takes special care of it. “After all,” she would say, “it’s only once in a blue moon that I slap it on.” She’d have hardly paused to put on makeup in the midst of being kidnapped, would she?

  Zamora has wandered back into the gym and is still bellowing, “Laura! Laura!” Not the best of ideas, Danny thinks. But you can’t hold a strongman back forever. He looks at the lipstick mark on the floor and a thought strikes him. Quickly he unzips the bag wide and turns it inside out, but there’s nothing to see. No messages. The packet of tissues is still sealed. He glances around the room.

  The acupuncture charts stare back at him. One of them shows a narrow slice of clean wall between its frame and the pervading grime. Must have been moved recently. Danny goes over and shoves it with his finger, revealing more clean white wall underneath. A bit more . . .

  And there’s the message he’s looking for. In chunky lipsticked writing, it says:

  CHEUNG CHAU

  And, under it, scribbled in haste,

  LOOK FOR WHITE SUIT

  BE CAREFUL

  He looks down again at the gouge of lipstick on the floorboards. For some reason it holds his attention and makes him think of the dead fish on the floor of the Bat. And that should link to something else, he thinks. Something important that I can’t grasp. But what?

  It’ll have to wait. Right now we need to get to this Cheung Chau place.

  From outside comes the sound of footsteps pounding the wooden floor of the gym, and Zamora’s shouting at the top of h
is lungs: “Mister Danny! Gran problema!”

  15

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  The major is waving his pistol to and fro, confronting a semicircle of thugs. They’re a mix of builds and ages, but all look like they’ve come through a lot of bad living to find themselves in the Black Dragon—their eyes are hard, glittering, glaring intently at Zamora and Danny. Ponytail’s tucked amongst them, shaking his head as if clearing a bad dream.

  “Keep back,” Zamora shouts, “or I’ll drop you where you stand.”

  The men edge closer, not convinced.

  “Mister Danny,” the major whispers, “this pop gun’s not loaded. I took the bullets out—to be on the safe side. Make a run for that fire door. I’ll hold them off.”

  “But—”

  “Stay back!” Zamora thunders, backing around the wall with Danny close beside. “Unless you want bullet acupuncture!”

  Suddenly he drops the gun, grabbing a huge barbell off the wall. He hurls himself at the gang members, spinning the barbell hard, his tattoos and muscles twitching, flexing.

  Danny goes scrambling for the fire door, glancing back over his shoulder. Zamora has already knocked two triads to the floor, and the others are momentarily taken aback by the force of his attack. One of them pulls a gun from his baggy pocket, but Zamora spots it and brings one end of the barbell smacking down on the thug’s hand. The man howls, wrist cranked at a horrible angle, and the gun clatters to the floor. Gang members peel off, grabbing sticks and cudgels from the walls.

  Danny pushes at the fire door, but it won’t budge. Glancing over his shoulder, he sees Zamora retreating slowly, blocking blow after blow, edging toward him. A wooden sword shatters against the barbell.

  “Vamos!” Zamora grunts, shoving the barbell into a thug’s stomach. The man collapses, all the wind driven from his lungs.

  Danny takes a deep breath and kicks the bar hard. It still doesn’t budge. Refocus, Danny. Need to imagine the strength. Imagine energy building in your belly, legs like metal. Take a deep breath and then release down through the leg, the foot, through the door right to the other side. Now!