right, Sheng. You are so right.’ Mann stood; Sheng got to his feet. ‘I am never going to watch your back. I don’t give a shit who sticks a knife into it. And…’ He picked Sheng up by his jacket lapels. ‘…If I do ever cross the line, Sheng, believe me I’m coming for you first.’
Chapter 22
‘Tailor, sirs? Copy watches? Copy bags?’ It was the middle of the day and the Indian touts were out in force. They swarmed around the pink-skinned tourists like flies on fresh meat.
The Mansions were at the harbour end of Nathan Road. Nathan Road was the place to get anything made or copied. It was nicknamed the Golden Mile: it glittered, it sparkled, even when it was real it looked fake. It was a great snapshot of Hong Kong. Twenty-foot-high neon signs flashed their adverts. Girls with thigh-high socks and mini skirts chased one another across the linear images. Music videos blared down next to ginseng sellers and noodle bars. The middle of the buildings bulged like saggy pot bellies over the road, weighted with fifty competing neon signs. The back streets were impassable by car.
Shrimp was waiting for him. Mann hadn’t any trouble spotting him – he had slicked his hair back Saturday Night Fever -style and was wearing a vintage black suit, purple shiny shirt, thin black tie.
‘Hello, Boss.’
Mann held him back as he went to walk up the steps. ‘Did you dress especially for this?’
‘Huh?’
‘Never mind.’ Mann smiled to himself.
Shrimp shook his head and followed Mann up the steps to the Mansions.
Within a few paces they were engulfed by the din and chaos of another world. They wound their way through making slow progress amongst the money changers and the touts for guesthouses. The place was like every type of bazaar or busy market, a snapshot of Africa, India, Asia. Together they set up their food stalls side by side blaring out their brand of music. The Mansions belonged to no country. It was its own world under the canopy of fluorescent lighting and overhead pipes. It had corridors like narrow hospital wards. By day the ground floor was crammed with shoppers and stalls selling goods from around the world, food stalls that offered goat and Halal food, all castes, all colours catered for and fed. But there was a tense, precarious harmony.
Mann steered Shrimp through and towards the second set of lifts on the left. ‘We’ll start on the third floor. I have a friend who might be able to help us narrow down the search.’
The lift coming back down was taking its time. They stared at the TV screen above the lift doors. The lift was stopping frequently; people were getting in but then getting out again and sending it on its way. Mann called the security guard over and pointed at the screen. The guard nodded, stepped forward and waited for the lift to arrive.
‘Out of the way, move.’ The security guard pushed the queue back.
The lift stopped; the door opened. A young black womanwas unconscious in the corner. The guard stopped people getting in whilst he held the door open for Mann and Shrimp. They knelt beside her. Mann pressed his fore and index finger to the side of her neck.
‘She has a pulse, just.’
Shrimp felt inside his jacket pocket and pulled out a slim plastic pouch. He unclipped the top and opened it out. It had two syringes inside. He tore the plastic off one, pulled off its protective needle cover and pulled up her sleeve.
The queue started grumbling. There were now so many people waiting that single file had become treble. The security guard held his hand up for patience. In this city time meant money, whether you were dying or not. Shrimp injected into the muscle in her upper arm, her bicep. A few minutes later the colour began coming back to her face. She breathed deeply. She opened her eyes and looked at them. She knew instantly what had happened. She tried to stand.
‘You want to wait for an ambulance?’ Mann helped her up.
She shook her head. She staggered forward,
Chapter 22
‘Tailor, sirs? Copy watches? Copy bags?’ It was the middle of the day and the Indian touts were out in force. They swarmed around the pink-skinned tourists like flies on fresh meat.
The Mansions were at the harbour end of Nathan Road. Nathan Road was the place to get anything made or copied. It was nicknamed the Golden Mile: it glittered, it sparkled, even when it was real it looked fake. It was a great snapshot of Hong Kong. Twenty-foot-high neon signs flashed their adverts. Girls with thigh-high socks and mini skirts chased one another across the linear images. Music videos blared down next to ginseng sellers and noodle bars. The middle of the buildings bulged like saggy pot bellies over the road, weighted with fifty competing neon signs. The back streets were impassable by car.
Shrimp was waiting for him. Mann hadn’t any trouble spotting him – he had slicked his hair back Saturday Night Fever -style and was wearing a vintage black suit, purple shiny shirt, thin black tie.
‘Hello, Boss.’
Mann held him back as he went to walk up the steps. ‘Did you dress especially for this?’
‘Huh?’
‘Never mind.’ Mann smiled to himself.
Shrimp shook his head and followed Mann up the steps to the Mansions.
Within a few paces they were engulfed by the din and chaos of another world. They wound their way through making slow progress amongst the money changers and the touts for guesthouses. The place was like every type of bazaar or busy market, a snapshot of Africa, India, Asia. Together they set up their food stalls side by side blaring out their brand of music. The Mansions belonged to no country. It was its own world under the canopy of fluorescent lighting and overhead pipes. It had corridors like narrow hospital wards. By day the ground floor was crammed with shoppers and stalls selling goods from around the world, food stalls that offered goat and Halal food, all castes, all colours catered for and fed. But there was a tense, precarious harmony.
Mann steered Shrimp through and towards the second set of lifts on the left. ‘We’ll start on the third floor. I have a friend who might be able to help us narrow down the search.’
The lift coming back down was taking its time. They stared at the TV screen above the lift doors. The lift was stopping frequently; people were getting in but then getting out again and sending it on its way. Mann called the security guard over and pointed at the screen. The guard nodded, stepped forward and waited for the lift to arrive.
‘Out of the way, move.’ The security guard pushed the queue back.
The lift stopped; the door opened. A young black womanwas unconscious in the corner. The guard stopped people getting in whilst he held the door open for Mann and Shrimp. They knelt beside her. Mann pressed his fore and index finger to the side of her neck.
‘She has a pulse, just.’
Shrimp felt inside his jacket pocket and pulled out a slim plastic pouch. He unclipped the top and opened it out. It had two syringes inside. He tore the plastic off one, pulled off its protective needle cover and pulled up her sleeve.
The queue started grumbling. There were now so many people waiting that single file had become treble. The security guard held his hand up for patience. In this city time meant money, whether you were dying or not. Shrimp injected into the muscle in her upper arm, her bicep. A few minutes later the colour began coming back to her face. She breathed deeply. She opened her eyes and looked at them. She knew instantly what had happened. She tried to stand.
‘You want to wait for an ambulance?’ Mann helped her up.
She shook her head. She staggered forward,
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