Hungry Ghost by Stephen Leather Page B

there was a lounge area with seats either side that pulled out to form two more beds. A galley kitchen lay to the left of the wooden stairway that led down from the main deck and at the rear was the engine-room.
    By the look of the state of the engine it had hardly been used; the banker had probably only bought it for show. The upper deck at the back was perfect for a drinks party, and Howells could imagine a gathering of beautiful people out in the moonlight, drinking pink gins and making small talk.
    The boy said that for a price he could arrange a place in one of the typhoon shelters, or even a berth at one of the yacht clubs, but Howells said no, where it was was just fine.
    ‘You sleep here?’ the boy asked.
    Howells nodded. ‘Sometimes.’
    ‘You cannot sail, you must have boatboy to sail. Understand?’
    Howells said yes, he understood. He paid a month’s charter and a deposit, in cash. Then the boy climbed down to his black and red speedboat and roared off, the boat rocking in his wake. There was a small white glass-fibre dinghy tethered to the back of the junk so that Howells could row himself to the shore. The main landing-place was a large, L-shaped concrete pier that jutted into the water but to either side of it were ungainly, rickety old wooden jetties to which were moored lines of small boats waiting for their owners. Most of them were probably weekend sailors – and by the weekend it should all be over, thought Howells. Bar the shouting.

    Dugan’s head was starting to hurt, a dull thudding pain behind his left eye. Maybe he needed glasses. Sometimes he had to squint a little when watching television and he had trouble reading the signs down in the MTR stations, but he had no trouble reading, no trouble at all. He rubbed his temples, making small circles with his fingertips, and closed his eyes.
    ‘Sleeping, huh?’ said a laconic voice at the door. It was Burr. Dugan kept his eyes closed.
    ‘I’m not sleeping, you wanker. I’ve just got the mother and father of all headaches.’
    ‘Just behind the eyes, is it?’ asked Burr, sympathetically.
    ‘Yes,’ growled Dugan.
    ‘A sort of sharp, searing pain, like a nerve pain?’
    ‘Yes.’
    ‘First symptom of a brain tumour,’ laughed Burr. ‘You’re fucked.’
    Dugan opened his eyes, but continued to massage the sides of his aching head. ‘Can I help you, Colin?’ he asked.
    ‘Just popped in to see if you’d heard about Holt.’
    ‘What happened?’
    ‘Stupid bastard got mugged. After you left. In the toilets. They found him sitting on the pan with his trousers round his ankles. They had to break the door down. He reckons somebody walloped him from behind. They took his wallet.’
    ‘He’s OK, though?’ Dugan was genuinely worried; Holt was a friend.
    ‘Yeah, he’s all right. They took him to casualty for a checkup and they gave him the all clear. He’ll probably be in Hot Gossip tonight as usual. Are you on for a bevy tonight?’
    ‘I suppose I could be persuaded to force down a pint or two.’
    The phone rang and Burr waved goodbye as Dugan picked it up.
    ‘Hi,’ said Petal. ‘How’s your day going so far?’
    ‘It was OK,’ lied Dugan. His head was still throbbing. ‘Yours?’
    ‘ Ma ma, fu fu ,’ she said, Mandarin Chinese for horse horse, tiger tiger – not so good, not so bad. ‘Same as usual.’
    Dugan realized he didn’t even know what she did. But then again, she hadn’t asked too many questions about what his job involved. He’d spent what, nine hours in her company, four of them in bed, and yet he knew next to nothing about her. But at the same time he seemed to know everything, a sort of empathy, knowledge by osmosis.
    ‘Are you doing anything tonight?’ he asked.
    ‘Nothing planned.’
    Dugan cleared his throat. ‘Do you fancy going out?’
    ‘With you, you mean?’
    Dugan laughed. ‘That’s what I had in mind.’
    ‘Well . . .’ she sighed, but Dugan knew he was being teased.
    ‘Of course, if