Ghostwritten Part 9

I'd followed the path down from the last peak. There'd been a brackish stream, a bush of birds, a b.u.t.terfly with zebra stripes on wings wide as side-plates. I'd lost the path once or twice, and it had come back to find me once or twice. It reminded me of the Brecon Beacons. I grew up when I realised that everywhere was basically the same, and so were the women.

This time there was no way on. A false trail. I'd have to backtrack, through the maze of thorn bushes and couch-gra.s.s. I sat down and looked at the view. Another extension to the new airport was being built out there on reclaimed land. Little bulldozers played in the glistening silt-flats. Sweat trickled down my wrists, my chest, down the crack between my b.u.t.tocks. My trousers clung to my thighs. I should be taking my medication about now, but all that was in a briefcase in the bottom of a bay somewhere.

I wondered if anyone had been sent to come and get me. Ming, probably. Avril was no doubt busy probing deeper into my hard disc, with Theo Fraser at her shoulder? Where might that lead? All those e-mails from Petersburg, all those see-no-evil-hear-no-evil seven-and eight-figure transfers of funds to out-of-the-way places?

Unless you've lived with a ghost, you can't know the truth of it. You a.s.sume that morning, noon and night, you're walking around obsessed, fearful and waiting for the exorcist to call. It's not really like that. It's more like living with a very particular cat.

For the last few months I've been living with three women. One was a ghost, who is now a woman. One was a woman, who is now a ghost. One is a ghost, and always will be. But this isn't a ghost story: the ghost is in the background, where she has to be. If she was in the foreground she'd be a person.

Katy and I had come back from some stupid Cavendish party. We'd come into the lobby together, I checked our mailbox, putting down my briefcase. There were some letters. We got in the elevator, ripping open the envelopes. Halfway up I realised I'd left my briefcase down in the lobby next to the mailbox. When we got to the fourteenth floor, Katy got out, and I went back down, got my briefcase, and returned to our floor. When the elevator doors opened I saw Katy still outside the apartment, and I knew something was very wrong.

She was white and trembling. 'It's locked. It's bolted. From the inside.'

Burglars. On the fourteenth floor? They must still be in there.

It's not burglars, and we both knew it.

She had come back.

I don't know how I knew what to do, but I took out my own keys, and rattled them a few times. Then I tried the door.

It swung open into the darkness.

Katy didn't speak to me, even though I know she was awake for most of the night. Looking back, that was the beginning of the end.

So I backtracked.

A bus full of curious people drove past, packed as usual. f.u.c.k, the way that the Chinese will just stare at you! So So rude! Have they never seen a sunburning foreigner in a suit out for a midday walk before? rude! Have they never seen a sunburning foreigner in a suit out for a midday walk before?

The sun! The smack of a boxing glove. I was parched. The helicopter came back. The sides of the valley hummed and swished. I should have come here months ago. It was waiting, and I'd done nothing but truck to and fro from the office, on that turbo ferry across the River Styx.

What kind of place did the maid live in? In Kowloon, or the New Territories somewhere? She'd get a bus or a streetcar from the port, and get off far beyond where the decent shops finished. The same sort of place Ming lives in, I suppose. Down a backstreet, its walls crowded up to fifteen floors with dirty signs for sweatshops and stripclubs and money changers and restaurants and G.o.d knows what. Nothing more than a rafter of mucky sky. The noise, of course, would never stop. The Chinese brain must be equipped with a noise-filtration device, that allows them to only listen to the one band of racket that they want to hear. Taxis, cheap little ghetto blasters, chanting from the temple, satellite TV, sales pitches floating aloft through megaphones. You'd go down an alley, there'd be the smell of grime and p.i.s.s and dim sum. dim sum. People would be hanging about in doorways needing new shirts and a shave, selling drugs. Up stairs the elevators in those kinds of places never work and into a tiny apartment where a family of seven bicker and watch TV and drink. Strange to think I work in the same city. Strange to think of the little palaces up on Victoria Peak. That's probably where the j.a.panese kid is getting over his jet lag now. His girl bringing him lemon tea on a silver tray. Or more likely, her maid bringing in the lemon tea. I wonder how they had met. I wonder. People would be hanging about in doorways needing new shirts and a shave, selling drugs. Up stairs the elevators in those kinds of places never work and into a tiny apartment where a family of seven bicker and watch TV and drink. Strange to think I work in the same city. Strange to think of the little palaces up on Victoria Peak. That's probably where the j.a.panese kid is getting over his jet lag now. His girl bringing him lemon tea on a silver tray. Or more likely, her maid bringing in the lemon tea. I wonder how they had met. I wonder.

There are so many cities in every single city.

When I first came to Hong Kong, before Katy joined me, I was given one day's holiday to get over jet lag. I felt fine, so I decided to use it exploring the city. I travelled the trams, jolted by the poverty I saw, and walked the overhead walkways, feeling safe only amongst the business suits and briefcases. I took the cablecar up to Victoria Peak, and walked around. Rich wives were strolling in groups, and maids with the children, and teenage couples walking arm-in-arm looking at all the other teenage couples. There were a couple of stalls mounted on wheels, the sort of set-up my father used to call market barrows. They sold maps, peanuts in their sh.e.l.ls, and the bland salty snack things that Chinese and Indians are so fond of. One of them sold maps in English, and postcards, so I bought a few. Suddenly a pile of cans next to the stall moved and barked something in Chinese. A face caked in grease and creased with age emerged and looked at me with loathing. I jumped out of my skin. The stall-holder laughed, and said, 'Don't worry. He's harmless.'

The garbage man growled, and repeated the same words, slowly, and louder, at me.

'What's he saying?'

'He's begging.'

'How much does he want?' A stupid question.

'He's not begging for money.'

'What's he begging for?'

'He's begging for time.'

'Why does he do that?'

'He thinks you're wasting yours, so you must have plenty to spare.'

My tongue was parched. I hadn't drunk for hours... since that bowl of water at breakfast. Usually, I only ever drank coffee and whisky. An old farmer was burning something that popped like firecrackers. Bamboo? Grainy mauve smoke drifted across the road. My eyes were watering. I was under a vast tree that fanned out across the sky and hid it incompletely as words will hide whatever is behind them.

Red roses grew wild up the brick wall crumbling back to sand. A roped-up dog went hysterical as I walked past. A flurry of fangs and barks. It thought I was a ghost. Futons, airing. A Chinese pop song. G.o.dawful and tinny. Two old people in a room devoid of furniture, steam rising from their teacups. They were motionless and expressionless. Waiting for something. I wish I could go into their room and sit down with them. I'd give them my Rolex for that. I wish they would smile, and pour me a cup of jasmine tea. I wish the world was like that.

I watched the cars, people, and stories trundle up and down the night road. In the distance a giant bicycle pump was cranking itself up and hissing itself down. I watched the neon signs intone their messages, over and over. The j.a.panese kid and his girl had disappeared f.u.c.k knows where, and Lionel Ritchie had dissolved in his own saccharine bathtub. My second burger had gone cold and greasy, I couldn't finish it. A version of 'Bohemian Rhapsody' was playing, unbelievably sung in Cantonese. I should be getting back to Mr Wae's briefings or Avril will start the Sacred Martyr Act. One more song; and one more mega-sugar coffee, then I'll go back like a good boy. It was 'Blackbird' by The Beatles. I never listened to this one properly before. It's beautiful.

'Neal Brose?'

A Welsh voice, unknown and familiar. A short, Mr Mole-ish bloke, with horn-rimmed gla.s.ses.

'Yeah?'

'My name's Huw Llewellyn. We met at Theo and Penny Fraser's New Year Party.'

'Ah, yeah, Huw... Sure, sure...' I didn't know him from Adam.

'Mind if I pull up a pew?'

'Sure... If you can say that about moulded plastic seats bolted onto cast-iron frames. You'll have to forgive my frazzled memory, Huw. Who are you with?'

'I used to be with Jardine-Pearl. Now I'm at the Capital Transfer Inspectorate.'

f.u.c.k. Now I remember. We'd talked about rugby, then business. I'd dismissed him as a born compromise candidate. 'Poacher turned gamekeeper, eh?'

Huw Llewellyn smiled as he unloaded his tray, and wriggled out of his corduroy jacket, with leather pads on the elbows. So f.u.c.king Welsh. A veggieburger and a styrofoam cup of hot water, with tea bleeding out of its bag. 'People usually say "It takes a thief to catch a thief."'

Dad used to say that. 'I've read about your raids on who was it? Silk Road Group?'

'Yep. Would you pa.s.s me a sachet of ketchup, please?'

'I've heard some interesting rumours about them money laundering for Kabul's biggest drug exporter. Is it true? Go on, I won't tell a soul.'

Huw bit into his veggieburger, chomped a few times, smiling, and swallowed. 'I've heard some interesting rumours about Account 1390931.'

f.u.c.k. I suddenly wanted to vomit my s.h.i.tburger. I laughed lightly. 'I don't know what you're talking about.'

f.u.c.k. That's exactly what liars say.

Huw squeezed the tea-bag with a plastic fork. 'Go on, I won't tell a soul.'

'Is it a bicycle combination lock?'

'No, it's a Cavendish Holdings Account that only you have the keys to.'

He had upped the stakes. 'Is this a fishing expedition, or do you have a warrant for my arrest?'

'I prefer to see this as a friendly chat.'

'Mr Llewellyn, you don't know who you're dealing with.'

'Mr Brose, I know far more about Andrei Gregorski than you. Believe me. You're being set up. I've watched him do it before. Why do you think neither his name nor Denholme Cavendish's name appears on not one single doc.u.ment, not one single computer file? Because they like you? Trust you? You are their bullet-proof vest.'

How much did he know? 'It's just a hush-hush hedge-fund for-'

'I don't want to watch you zip yourself up in lies, Mr Brose. I know your personal life is in tatters. But unless you co-operate with me, by the weekend things are going to take a sharp turn for the worse. I am your last way out.'

'I don't need a way out.'

He shrugged, and swallowed the last morsel. He'd put that away without me noticing. 'Then our friendly chat has come to an end. Here is my business card. I strongly recommend a change of mind, by tomorrow noon. Goodnight.'

The door swung. I was left looking at the wreckage of my s.h.i.tburger.

I went back into Cavendish Tower, but changed my mind in the lobby. I asked the night.w.a.tchman to wait five minutes, then tell Avril I'd gone home. I waited twenty minutes at the harbour for the next ferry, looking across the black water at all the shining skysc.r.a.pers. Back on Lantau Island just as a precaution I emptied three quarters of my account from the bank's cash machine, in case my cards got frozen. There wasn't another bus for 30 minutes, so I walked back to Phase 1 through the chilly night.

She was waiting in the apartment. The air-conditioner was belting out frigid air.

'For f.u.c.k's sake, I'm sorry! I had a lot of work!'

Resentful silence.

'I've got a lot on my mind! Okay? I'm going to bed.'

I hid the money in a s...o...b..x at the bottom of Katy's dressing table. I'd think of a better hiding place before the maid came. She might be a necessary drug, but she was still a thieving b.i.t.c.h.

I came to a shrine, and the sound of running water. There was a fountain guarded by two dragons. Hygiene be f.u.c.ked, I was thirsty. I drank until I heard the water sloshing about in my belly. At least I wasn't going to die of dehydration. I wanted to dunk my arms and face into this cool, clear water, so I unstrapped my Rolex, perched it on the nose of a dragon, stripped off my shirt, and immersed as much of my torso in the fountain as I could. I opened my eyes under the water, and saw the underbellies of wavelets, with the sun beneath.

Where now? There was an easy path and a steep path. I took the easy one, and twenty metres later arrived at the cess pit. I came back to the dragons and started climbing sharply. I was feeling much, much, better. As though my body had stopped fighting the 'flu, and was submitting to its will.

The path steepened. At times I had to use my hands to scramble up. The trees were growing dense, scaly and damp, the pinp.r.i.c.ks of light that got to the path sharp and bright as lasers. I took off my jacket and gave it to a blackberry bush. It was already ripped. Maybe a pa.s.sing monk or escaped refugee will take a shine to it. The air was busy with out-of-tune birds and their eyes.

Time lost me.

I looked at my Rolex, and remembered that I'd left it on a dragon's nose.

Grabbing a root to pull myself up, it came off in my hand and I tumbled down the path a few yards. I heard a crack, but stood up right as rain. I felt fabulous. I felt immortal.

Higher up loomed a rock as big as a house, but I scaled it like a teenager, and was soon surveying my domain from the top. A slow-moving 747 made its stately descent, skinning the afternoon with its jagged blade of noise. I waved at the people. The sun glints off the tail. She is with me, waving too, jumping up and down. It's good to make somebody feel good, even if she doesn't exactly exist.

'She likes me.'

The maid was standing in front of the mirror, naked, holding up Katy's summer frocks against her body. If she liked it she'd try it on. If it fitted, she'd put it into Katy's Louis Vuitton bag. If she didn't, it joined the others on the reject pile.

I was floating, anch.o.r.ed to the bed by the deadweight of my groin. 'Who likes you?'

'The little girl.'

'What little girl?'

'Your little girl. Who lived here. She liked me. She wanted sister to play with.'

The wind blew the curtains gently. These Chinese are f.u.c.king crazy.

The last time Katy called, she wasn't drunk. I took that as a bad sign.

'h.e.l.lo, Neal's Answerphone. This is Katy Forbes, Neal's separated wife. How are you? You must be rushed off your feet, considering how Neal has forgotten how to pick up receivers and dial. I want you to tell Neal that I am now the proud owner of a palatial residence in north-east London, that we're having the rainiest summer since a very long time ago, and all the cricket is being rained off. Tell him that I'm having sessions with Dr Clune twice a week, and that they are working wonders. Tell him that Archie Goode is going to be my lawyer, and that the divorce papers should get to him by the end of the week. Tell him I'm not going for his jugular, I just want what's rightfully mine. Lastly, tell him it would prepare the ground for an amicable settlement if he gets off his lazy a.r.s.e and ships me home my Queen Anne chair. He knows it's the one heirloom I give a d.a.m.n about. Goodnight.'

The key to understanding Neal Brose is that he is a man of departments, compartments, apartments. The maid is in one, Katy is in another, my little visitor in another, Cavendish Hong Kong in another, Account 1390931 in another. In each one lives a Neal Brose who operates quite independently of the neighbouring Neal Broses. That's how I do it. My future is in another compartment, but I'm not looking into that one. I don't think I'll like what I'll see.

Weird thing was, the maid was right. When I came back and the maid was there, the atmosphere in my apartment was palpably different. Muted Sibelius rather than Thunderous Wagner. If she'd been real, I imagined her sitting under the table, chattering away to her dolls. She'd leave us alone, and the curtains would stay where I left them. Maybe I'd hear the kiss kiss kiss of her feet running across the marble floor in the living room.

If the maid wasn't there, there'd be this air of reproachment and neglect. It was the same when I went away on business I went to Canton once, a right f.u.c.king s.h.i.thole it is too and when I got back she was so p.i.s.sed off with me that I had to stand there apologising to the thin air.

The path stopped climbing, and crested the ridge. I saw Buddha's head above the camphor trees, almost close enough to touch. That was one Big Buddha. Platinum, spun on a wheel of deep blue. The trees were dream trees, now. A shadow cat, a cat shadow.

My skin buzzed. My immortality was ebbing away. In this sun it must be turning to bacon. I think I had broken a toenail, I could feel something wet and warm in my shoe. I could feel my organs sag against each other, still functioning, but slowing like tired swimmers.

Why is the moon up there, up above you, Lord Buddha? White, blue, roaring in its silent furnace of sunlight. The moon, the moon, in the afternoon.

I stepped into a once and future century. People, coach tours, a car park, souvenir stands, advertis.e.m.e.nt h.o.a.rdings, people crowding around ticket booths only the British and the Slavs know how to queue motorbikes... Here and not here. They were on the wrong side of a wall of bright liquid. A babble of languages from the room next door.

Lord Buddha's lips were full and proud. Always on the verge of words, yet never quite speaking. His lidded eyes, hooding a secret the world needs.

The moon was in on the joke. New, old, new, old. If I met the old garbage man now, I'd say, I'm sorry, but I don't have any spare time to give you. Not even a minute. Not even a spare ten f.u.c.king seconds.

I wondered if that j.a.panese kid was playing his saxophone in a bar somewhere, over in a bar in Central or Kowloon. I would like to hear him. I'd like to watch his girl watching him. I would like that very much. I don't think it's going to happen now. I'd like to talk with them, and find out how they met. I'd like to ask him about jazz, and why John Coltrane is so famous. So many things to know. I'd like to ask him why I had married Katy, and whether I was right to sign and return those divorce papers. Was Katy happy at last, now? Had she met someone who loved her, someone with a respectable sperm-count? Would she be a tender, wise mother, or would she turn out to be a booze-soaked saggy f.u.c.k in her middle age? Would Huw Llewellyn nail Andrei Gregorski, or would Andrei Gregorski nail Huw Llewellyn? Would Mr Wae the shipping magnate take his business elsewhere? Would Manchester United win the premiership? Would the Cookie Monster's teeth fall out? Would the world be over by Christmas?

She brushed near by, and blew on the back of my neck, and a million leaves moved with the wind. My skin was so hot it no longer seemed my own. A new Neal inside the old opened his eyes. Platinum in the sun, blue in the shade. He was waiting for my old skin to flake off so he could climb out and walk abroad. My liver squirmed impatiently. My heart was going through its options. What's that organ: the one that processes the sugar?

What led me here?

My dad would describe Denholme Cavendish Sir Denholme Cavendish as a man educated beyond his intellect. 'Now, Nile.' D.C. pursed his lips together in the manner of the old general he believed himself to be. The traffic of Barbican, twenty floors below us, punctuated the pompous old f.u.c.k's dramatic pauses. 'A key question to understanding the role we're projecting for you in Hong Kong is this: What is Cavendish Holdings?'

No, D.C., the key question is: What answer do you want to hear?

Play it safe, Neal. Let him feel intellectually on top. And don't tell him he's too f.u.c.king stupid to get my name right. 'A top-line legal and investment corporation, Sir Denholme.'