FEARLESS FINN'S MURDEROUS ADVENTURE (15 page)

As I’m waiting to be served in the Hong Kong squaddie bar, I realise that I’m eavesdropping on a background conversation about a garden fête at the Fort – in the hope of hearing the date. I was concentrating so much on the soldiers’ conversation that the waitress had to nudge me to take my order.

“I’d like tea please, and a few biscuits if you have them.”

“Away now!” she snapped. “This is a pub you know, we don’t serve tea and biscuits! Try the Irish pub up the road why don’t cha!”

I got the message loud and clear – no Irish wanted here! I’d completely forgot to use my Nottingham accent. A mistake like that would’ve got me a real beating, even a bullet, back in Northern Ireland.

Feck the tea
I said to meself. I’ll take a taxi back to Central and enjoy a nice cup of tea in my five-star hotel suite. I can live without a bigoted Scots’ hen giving me grief.

I couldn’t find a taxi, so I walked up the hill to Stanley Prison. I waited beside the bus stop under massive chestnut and elm trees, probably planted as seedlings when the prison was built. The enormous deciduous trees almost hide the prison now, and they offer shelter to people visiting the poor wretches stuck behind the prison walls.

Stanley Prison is a perfect reproduction of the colossal prisons all over England and Ireland. For a moment I thought I was back in merry auld England standing outside HMP Wormwood Scrubs in London, or Maghaberry Prison in Northern Ireland, or Mountjoy Prison in Dublin. I once heard these colossal prisons described by my English tutor at Trinity College as
deliberately scary examples of Victorian architecture, and truly forbidding edifices, designed to impress the honest and depress the guilty
. Looking at Stanley Prison, I can’t disagree with the professor.

I’d read in some tourist book that a lot of the people inside Stanley Prison are debtors owing paltry sums of money. They can be kept until the money is paid, or until the person who put them here stops paying the few dollars for their daily upkeep. So, nought has changed in a far-flung British Crown Colony since Charles Dickens’s days, or so it seems.

A bus arrived within five minutes and I jumped on board with my carrier bags. I sat upstairs at the front of the bus, to get a good view of the sea. I was enjoying meself until we hit the sharp bends in the road. The driver’s taking them too fast, and the wheels on the left side of the bus are barely balancing on the edge of the road – the edge with a two hundred foot sheer drop to the sea. I desperately want to move across to the other side of the bus, in the hope of redressing the balance. No chance, physics is working against me. So I’m keeping a tight hold on the seat as the bus careens around the bends at breakneck speed.

“What’s the matter with this driver?!” I yelled at a fellow passenger.

“He’s probably off his head on tonic drinks and ephedrine!” he yelled back in an Australian accent…between roars of laughter at my obvious terror.

I never went on the scary rides at fairs, and now I wish I’d taken a hotel car after all – or waited until I found a taxi. I’m not a coward, but this is terrifying….

We finally left the twisting coast road, and the bus slowed down to what I imagine is a normal speed.

“Right pal, if you can stop laughing for a minute, tell me, what the feck was that about?!” I shouted to the Aussie.

“No prob Paddy…it’s the system here. The Hong Kong bus drivers work seventeen or eighteen hours a day. To keep awake they drink tonic drinks full of caffeine and swallow handfuls of ephedrine, a heart speeding medication. On top of that, if they’re late arriving at scheduled stops they’re fined by the bus company.”

“But don’t they have a lot of accidents?” I asked.

“Yes, loads, but blokes like us don’t usually travel on buses, so it’s mostly the poor Chinese it affects. If they’re just injured they can claim compensation from the bus company. It’s a way to get ahead, to get a deposit for a market stall or a food stand. If it’s a really serious injury they could get enough to put a deposit down on an apartment. The Chinese are fatalists. If something is going to happen, it will, and there’s nothing you can do about it. That’s another reason why the drivers go hell for leather…if they’re going to crash, they will, if not, they won’t. It’s as simple as that.”

I mentally forgave the Aussie for laughing at me, and I began to look at the Chinese in an altogether different light. But Jaysus, that was the hairiest journey I’ve ever been on…and I’ve dodged armoured cars chasing me through the streets of Belfast.

———

When I woke up this morning I realised that I’ve only another day to go before I have to start putting in time with Gerry and Earl – to earn some ‘walking-around’ money as they call it. So today is my last chance to be a tourist.

I crossed Victoria Harbour on a Star Ferry to Kowloon and walked to TST. The streets around Nathan Road are a shopper’s wonderland. The Golden Parade has every kind of electronic gadget ever made, and every second shop sells watches or cameras, or gold and jewels. There’s a lot of gold.

It’s four o’clock and I’ve been walking around for nearly two hours in temperatures of twenty-eight to thirty degrees Celsius. Like any tourist, I need to get in someplace cool.

I stepped into the lobby of the spectacular-looking Peninsula Hotel. There’s a string quartet playing a medley of Strauss waltzes on the minstrels’ balcony. Feeling like a character in a W. Somerset Maugham play, I ordered tea and crumpets – the only things missing are the monocle, blazer and Panama hat. It’s just as well Mac can’t see me relaxing in all this colonial splendour. I’d be in for a serious slagging, so I would.

After an hour of Strauss waltzes and Victoria blend tea I took the MTR to Central Hong Kong. I’ve only ever been on underground trains in London, Stockholm and Paris, and the MTR is something else. There isn’t a sweet wrapper or cigarette butt in sight, and the station concourse and platforms are spotless. The seats in the trains are clean, comfortable and covered in fabrics that coordinate with the hand rails and the non-slip floor. This public transport system certainly wouldn’t put you in mind of the bone-shaking buses in Derry or Belfast, or even London’s Tube trains. Even the Victorian trams and ferries in Hong Kong have a timeless elegance about them, and they too are spotless.

I was back in Central within minutes. I took an escalator directly from the station to the street right behind the Mandarin Oriental, Hong Kong.

Bone weary from doing nothing, I had a soak in the Jacuzzi. It did the job and gave me a second wind, so I decided to take meself over to Plume’s.

Susie’s friend Michael Harrington-Browne greeted me. He introduced me to Natasha, his much younger, and very beautiful, wife with corn coloured hair and soft grey eyes.

“So nice to meet you at last Finn. My husband has described you to me…he’s good with wine, but terrible with descriptions! Yeah, you are hairy, true, but handsome hairy…he didn’t mention handsome! Anyway, it doesn’t matter, I can see for myself. Hello,” said Natasha, with a firm handshake.

She has a hint of a European accent, similar to the one I’d heard during my first visit to the FCC. I take it that she too is originally from the Netherlands. I suppose this is as good a time as any to confirm my own origins…if not exactly my nationality.

“
Ta tú ag plamás mé a bhean dheas
,” I told her softly.

She cocked her head to one side, and with a mischievous smile she asked, “And what language is that may I ask? And what does it mean in English?”

“You are flattering me pretty woman.”

“No I am certainly not! Beneath all that hair, you probably do have a handsome face…well, craggy and mannish, anyway. But what is that language you used?”

“It’s Irish. And your accent Natasha? I imagine that English is not your native tongue, even though you speak it very well.”

“Two can play at that game.
Nu wie is vleiende wie
…now who is flattering whom?”

“OK, I surrender, you win…we’ll use English. I don’t have enough Irish to hold a conversation anyway.”

She reached across the table, took my hand, squeezed it, and nodded her head. “OK, English it is. And I am even more pleased to meet you now, because you’re not like my old man…sorry…husband…an Englishman. Although, as you can see, compared to me he is an old man, but a very nice old man, ya! Yes…Michael stole me from a pram in Amsterdam,” she laughed.

With Michael in his late forties or early fifties, and Natasha barely twenty years old, she must be used to people spotting the age gap. And clearly, she’s decided to deal with it head on. Anyway, I was right about the origin of her corn-blonde hair and sexy singsong accent.

“Will you join us Finn?” Michael asked.

“If I’m not intruding, that would be darling…yes…darling.”

My reply was directed not at Michael, but at his pretty wife. He seems to have completely missed my heavy-handed hit on Natasha, but she didn’t miss it one little bit – and she’s probably well used to it.

Our conversation soon got around to Fran and Susie Cooke. Wrongly, Michael and Natasha assume I know the Cookes well. I said nothing to contradict their opinion…I want to know the setup with the Cookes.

“I suppose you know that Fran, the bastard, has stopped screwing Susie,” said Natasha while sipping her cognac.

“Well, be reasonable love. He’s under a shitload of pressure,” Michael interjected.

“Shit…shit! Michael, when you were negotiating with Hong Kong Land to get the lease on this place, did you stop screwing me?
Fooking
sure you didn’t! Fran has written a couple of newspaper articles about something everyone guessed anyway. That’s nothing to the pressure you went through,” she replied, as she reached across and caressed his face.

I’m intrigued, and sort of excited, to hear that Susie isn’t getting any sex…at least not from her husband – a man I have yet to meet.

“So Finn, what are you intending to do in Hong Kong?” asked Michael, obviously changing the subject.

I told him the agreed party line. “I’ll be investing in the Hong Kong stock market, and looking for other interesting opportunities, Michael. You know the type of thing.”

Hearing this, Michael stood up and strode across to the bar. He practically dragged a tall guy in a chalk-striped suit back to our table. “Paul, meet Finn. Apologies…I’ve completely forgotten your surname.”

“It’s Flynn, Finn Flynn. And don’t worry about it Michael, my mother was into alliteration…with all those fecking ‘Fs’, it’s not really an easy name to recollect.”

“Paul Wills, at your service. Gentleman poacher and part-time investment manager,” Paul announced, as he reached across the table and shook my hand.

He has all the right stuff for a serious salesman – selling ice to Eskimos, and sand to Arabs kind of fellah. Mac and I could’ve used him on our sales team all those years ago when we were on the knocker, trying to sell soap door-to-door. Our soap was allegedly made by the blind, which in truth meant there was a partially sighted man in the packing room.

“Paul, Finn here is looking into buying shares,” said Michael.

Paul fished out his business card, handed it to me, and paused – expecting one in return.

“Susie Cooke is producing some new cards for him,” said Michael, coming to the rescue.

Paul excused himself after one drink. “I must be off, I have an early start. But Finn, do call me before you start throwing your money away on shares,” he said before he left.

I realise it’s time I get going as well. “Thanks for the great meal,” I smiled at the Harrington-Brownes. “I’ve had a busy day, so I’ll call it a night.”

“
Goede nacht, tot ziens
…good night, see you soon,” grinned Natasha.

“Yes, yes, Finn, cheers. Remember, do drop in anytime, anytime at all,” said Michael, with the same firm handshake I got the first time we met. His grip was possibly a little firmer this time…maybe he hadn’t missed my hit on his young wife after all.

I rambled back over the pedestrian footbridge to the hotel. As I passed through the lobby a bellboy in his funny pillbox hat handed me a large, bulky manila envelope and enquired if I need anything.

“Bed, my friend, that’s all I need.”

He smiled, bowed, turned on his heel and marched back to his post.

I waited until I was in my suite to tear open the envelope, and I dropped the contents out on the desk in the bedroom. I see documents for the bank accounts business, and a set of keys for my new offices at Tivoli Mansion in Wyndham Street. I put the keys in my pocket, but I left the documents where they are; they can stay there – untouched by me – until I meet Gerry in the morning.

HONG KONG

The Ingrid Bergman
film I watched before I fell asleep gave me a restless night, and I woke up early. I wasn’t ready for the memories and images the film conjured up…including those that didn’t really involve Anna. It’s just that Anna and Ingrid Bergman are so much alike in looks, manner and gesture….

I’d used Anna and Ingrid – two lovely young Swedish girls who deserve better. I know I’m not the only volunteer who uses girls when it suits him. We often manipulate girls to get information, or to find a safe house…and most of the time the girls don’t realise what we’re doing. Our war with the Brits has turned us into bigger bastards than they are, and I hate them for it.